Camera shutters clicked. Someone was testing a microphone. "Unit 217, proceed to rear entrance," dispatch instructed. "Security team will escort prisoner."
The van rolled to a stop. Through the windows, Immani saw the Morgan Event Center rising above them, all glass and polished stone. Television vans clustered in one corner, their satellite dishes raised like mechanical flowers. Campaign banners draped the entrance.
Safety. Family. Faith. Somewhere inside, Sheriff Van would be straightening his tie, rehearsing his speech about law and order, about making examples of those who threatened his community's peace.
He wanted his victory lap, complete with a handcuffed prisoner as his prop. Martinez opened the van's rear doors. Sunlight flooded in along with the buzz of gathering crowds. Camera flashes sparked like lightning.
Reporters jostled for position behind hastily erected barriers. Immani rose slowly, the chain between her ankles clinking against the van's floor. She stepped down into the light, squinting at the sudden brightness but keeping her spine straight. No stumbling.
No hesitation. She faced the cameras with the same calm she'd carried through firefights and ambushes. The event-center doors stood open, spilling out the sound of gospel music and measured applause. Security teams formed a corridor through the crowd, their earpieces gleaming.
Above them all, Van's campaign banner rippled in the morning breeze. Its words now read less like a promise and more like a challenge. Fluorescent lights hummed in the event center's back hallway, casting harsh shadows across the faces of deputies flanking Immani. The air smelled of fresh paint and floor wax.
Everything was polished for the cameras waiting beyond the double doors. Sheriff Hollis Van stood before a mirror mounted on the cream-colored wall, adjusting his silk tie with practiced precision. His reflection showed a man comfortable in expensive clothes, someone who'd mastered the art of looking trustworthy. He smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from his jacket lapels, then turned to face Immani with a pastor's practiced smile.
"Quite a morning for prayer and reflection, wouldn't you say?" His voice carried that same manufactured warmth. "Though some of us have more to reflect on than others." Deputy Ror, sporting a theatrical wrist bandage, sneered and jerked the cuffs.
"Keep moving, troublemaker." Through the walls, they could hear the growing murmur of the crowd. Local media, church groups, politicians, all gathering to witness Van's carefully orchestrated message about law and order in Pine Hollow County. Mina's live-stream counter ticked steadily upward.
Viewers poured in, sharing screen recordings and clips. Someone posted an old video of Ror at a police fundraiser bragging about "cleaning up the county roads." Another viewer matched Brener's badge number to three separate missing-driver reports filed in neighboring jurisdictions. "Look at this pattern," one comment read, linking timestamps.
"Same stretch of road. Same deputies. Same reports of evidence found during searches." The stream chat erupted with fresh discoveries.
Photos of Van's expanding property holdings. Screenshots of county-budget irregularities. Links to complaint forms that mysteriously vanished from official websites. A side door opened, bringing a burst of morning air.
Judge Lorraine Kitage entered, her face drawn tight as a bowstring. Her clerk trailed behind, clutching a leather portfolio and looking like he wanted to disappear into the wallpaper. The judge's eyes swept the hallway, taking in the deputies' posturing, Van's calculated calm, Immani's restraints. Van's smile widened.