Shoppers began gathering at a respectful distance. Several phones appeared, their cameras pointed toward the scene. What's going on, Roark? Mercer asked. Got ourselves a car thief.
Roark jerked his thumb toward the Ferrari. Claims this SF90 belongs to her. Mercer glanced at Marissa, then at the luxury vehicle. Did you check her papers? Don't need to.
Look at her, then look at this ride. Something ain't adding up. Marissa felt heat rise in her chest, but she kept her voice steady. Am I being detained, officer? Roark's face darkened.
You getting smart with me now? Asking lawyer questions? I'm asking a legal question that requires a clear answer. Here's your clear answer, lady. You don't ask the questions here.
I do. Roark stepped closer, forcing Marissa back against the Ferrari's door frame. And right now, I'm asking how a woman like you ended up behind the wheel of a quarter-million-dollar sports car. The crowd grew larger. Whispers rippled through the gathering choppers as more cameras captured the confrontation.
Marissa noticed a mother pulling her young daughter closer while keeping her phone steady. Step away from the vehicle, Roark commanded. Mercer, run this plate. Let's see what comes back. While Roark focused on positioning Marissa away from the Ferrari, she lowered her right hand toward her phone.
Her fingers found the device's side buttons through her jacket pocket. Three quick presses in sequence activated the emergency alert linked to her federal judicial security detail. The signal transmitted silently. Hands where I can see them, Roark barked. Marissa raised both hands again, her emergency alert already sent.
Somewhere across the city, Deputy U. S. Marshal Elias Grant was receiving notification that a federal judge required immediate assistance. Roark had no idea what was coming. Mercer stood beside his patrol car, one hand pressed to his earpiece as the radio crackled with dispatch communications.
The license plate number rolled across his notepad in careful block letters while he waited for the system to process the Ferrari's information. Rourke maintained his grip on Marissa's shoulder, his knuckles white against the denim fabric of her jacket. What's taking so long, Mercer? How hard is it to run a stolen vehicle? System's working on it.
Mercer replied, his voice tight with concentration. The crowd of shoppers pressed closer, their phones creating a semicircle of recording devices. A teenage boy held his phone high above the heads in front of him while his girlfriend whispered commentary. An elderly man in a golf shirt shook his head and muttered something about police procedure to his wife. Marissa kept her hands visible and her posture straight despite Rourke's restraining grip.