In law school.
In courtrooms.
In expensive restaurants.
In professional meetings.
You don't look like an attorney.
Are you sure you're in the right room?
Are you someone's assistant?
And now, beside her own car, someone had transformed the same assumption into a police call.
Naomi looked at Brooks.
“Find out who made the call.”
“We're working on it.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“Find out.”
Brooks nodded.
Naomi stood.
“And preserve every piece of evidence.”
“Of course.”
“The dispatch recording. Security footage. Officer Rourke's body camera.”
Brooks hesitated.
Naomi noticed.
“What?”
“Rourke's body camera wasn't activated.”
Naomi stared at him.
“During the arrest?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
Naomi slowly sat back down.
Now the situation had changed.
This was no longer simply an officer making a bad judgment.
Someone had called police.
Rourke had ignored her ownership documents.
His camera had not been recording.
And his written report contradicted what had actually happened.
Naomi looked through the conference-room window.
Rourke was still sitting at the desk.
He looked angry.
Not embarrassed.
Not confused.
Angry.
As if she had done something to him.
That was when Naomi realized something.
Her arrest had not frightened her.
It had taught her something.
She had spent years studying cases from the other side.
Now she understood how vulnerable an innocent person could become when an authority figure decided the facts didn't matter.
And she knew exactly what she was going to do next.
She wasn't going to use her title to make the problem disappear.
She was going to make sure the truth became impossible to bury.
By Saturday morning, Naomi's name was already circulating through the state attorney's office.
The first message arrived at 7:14 a.m.
URGENT: Deputy AG detained in suspected vehicle theft incident.
Naomi stared at the subject line.
She opened the email.
The message described her as having been “detained after allegedly attempting to enter a vehicle reported as stolen.”
There was no mention that she owned the vehicle.
No mention of the registration.
No mention of the anonymous caller.
No mention of Rourke's failure to activate his camera.
No mention of the fact that the charges had already been dropped.
It was written to create one impression.
Naomi had done something wrong.
Her colleague, Marcus Reed, entered her office.
“Did you see it?”
“Yes.”
“It's already been sent to several department heads.”
“Who wrote it?”
“We don't know.”
Naomi looked at him.
“Find out.”
Marcus sat down.
“You're really going after this?”
“No.”
Marcus looked surprised.
“I'm going after the truth.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“It isn't.”
Naomi opened her laptop.
“Bring me everything on Officer Rourke.”
Marcus hesitated.
“Everything?”
“Every complaint. Every disciplinary review. Every use-of-force report. Every body-camera issue. Every internal investigation.”
He nodded.
Then he stopped.
“There are seven complaints.”
Naomi looked up.
“Seven?”
“Over the past three years.”
“What kind?”
“Improper stops. Aggressive questioning. Unnecessary searches.”
“Any racial profiling?”
Marcus nodded.
“Three.”
Naomi leaned back.
“Why hasn't anything happened?”
“Most were classified as inconclusive.”
“Why?”
“No video.”
Naomi closed her eyes.
There it was.
The perfect system for protecting bad behavior.
If nobody recorded what happened, there was no evidence.
If there was no evidence, there was no misconduct.
If there was no misconduct, there was no pattern.
And if there was no pattern, nobody had to act.
But Naomi had evidence.
She just needed to find it.
That afternoon, she returned to the shopping center.
The same pharmacy.
The same grocery store.
The same parking lot.
The same black sedan.
Except now she saw the cameras.
One above the pharmacy entrance.
Another above the loading area.
Two facing the parking lanes.
Naomi entered the pharmacy.
A manager named Rosa Martinez recognized her.
“You're the woman from yesterday.”
“Yes.”
Rosa looked uncomfortable.
“I saw what happened.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see me arrive?”
“Yes.”
“Did I break into the car?”
“No.”
“Did I damage it?”
“No.”
“Did I look like I was trying to steal it?”
Rosa shook her head.
“No.”
Naomi took a breath.
“Then why didn't you say anything?”
Rosa looked down.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“The officer.”
Naomi didn't blame her.
That was part of the problem.
People saw something wrong and remained silent because they were afraid that becoming involved would make their lives harder.
Rosa suddenly remembered something.
“There was a man.”
“What man?”
“He was watching you.”
“Describe him.”
“Mid-forties. Gray jacket. Baseball cap.”
“Did you see him call the police?”
Rosa nodded slowly.
“I think so.”
Naomi's heart beat faster.
“Where was he standing?”
Rosa pointed toward the window.
“Over there.”
Naomi looked across the street.
A furniture store.
Luxury showroom.
Glass windows.
And a security camera pointed directly toward the parking lot.
She thanked Rosa and walked outside.
Detective Brooks was waiting near his car.
“You're becoming predictable,” he said.
“So are you.”
He smiled.
Then handed her a folder.
“We got the parking-lot photographs.”
Naomi opened it.
The first image showed her beside the sedan.
The second showed Rourke approaching.
The third showed the driver's door open.
The fourth showed Rourke opening the glove compartment.
Naomi stopped.
A timestamp appeared at the bottom.
She zoomed in.
Rourke was holding her registration.
Her name was clearly visible.
Brooks watched her expression.