"Yes or no, Ms. Rivera. Did you check the registration?"
Jessica's silence was damning. Officer Martinez had been watching this exchange with growing discomfort. As security, he was supposed to maintain order, but it was becoming clear that the real threat to order was the crew's behavior, not the passenger's presence.
"Dr. Brooks," Martinez said diplomatically, "how would you like to proceed?"
Before Naomi could answer, another voice joined the conversation from an unexpected direction. "Excuse me," came a crisp British accent from behind the group. "I couldn't help but overhear."
Everyone turned to see William Thompson, 49, airport operations manager, striding across the tarmac with the confidence of someone who owned the ground they walked on. Thompson had been monitoring the situation from his office, watching through security cameras as it escalated beyond his staff's control. Thompson represented old-money authority, the kind of institutional power that rarely questioned itself. He wore his position like armor, convinced that his title made him right regardless of circumstances.
"I'm William Thompson, airport operations manager," he announced as if his position should end all discussion. "There seems to be some confusion here about access protocols."
Naomi turned to face Thompson with the same calm attention she'd given the crew. "No confusion, Mr. Thompson. Your ground supervisor and this aircraft crew denied me boarding of my own plane based on my appearance."
Thompson's smile was condescending, practiced, designed to make difficult people feel small. "Ms... I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"
"Dr. Naomi Brooks. Owner of this aircraft."
Thompson's smile faltered slightly, but his institutional arrogance held firm. "Dr. Brooks, I'm sure there's been a misunderstanding. Our crew members are highly trained professionals. If they had concerns about identification—"
"They never asked for identification."