Now. You don't get a phone call until you're booked at the station, kid. Ford sneered. Actually, Mitch, Jenkins interjected, his voice trembling slightly. Department policy says if a juvenile or dependent requests to contact a guardian during an extended roadside detainment, we have to accommodate if the scene is secure.
The scene is secure. Ford spun on Jenkins, looking like he wanted to punch his partner. But Jenkins held his ground, terrified, but knowing that if this went sideways, his badge was on the line, too. Ford gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles popping. Fine, Ford spat.
You want to call Daddy? Let's call Daddy. Let's see what the leader of the cartel has to say. Ford reached into his tactical vest and pulled out his department-issued smartphone. He didn't uncuff Devon.
Instead, he hit the dialer and held the phone up aggressively. What's the number? Ford demanded. Devon rattled off a number with a 310 area code. It wasn't his father's personal cell phone.
It was the direct priority line to the District Attorney's executive office, a number unlisted to the public, guarded by two layers of receptionists, and reserved strictly for high-level government officials, judges, and family emergencies. Ford punched in the numbers, put the phone on speaker, and held it near Devon's face. "Make it quick, tough guy." The phone rang once, twice, then a crisp, professional woman's voice echoed through the speaker, amplified in the quiet, tense air of the cruiser. "District Attorney Lawrence Whitfield's office."
"Executive Assistant Sarah speaking." "This is a priority line. State your emergency." The blood drained entirely from Officer Toby Jenkins's face. He took a stumbling step backward, feeling as though the ground had just opened up beneath him.
Officer Ford froze. His arrogant sneer vanished, replaced instantly by a look of sheer, unadulterated confusion. His brain struggled to process the words he had just heard. "District Attorney Lawrence Whitfield?" He looked at the phone.
He looked at the teenager in handcuffs. He looked at the driver's license still sitting on the trunk of the McLaren. "Devon Whitfield." Before Ford could hit the end button, Devon leaned forward toward the speaker. "Hi Sarah.
It's Devon." The teenager said, his voice steady, cutting through the heavy, suffocating silence of the police officers. "Can you patch me through to my father, please? I'm currently being detained in handcuffs on Ocean View Drive by an Officer Mitchell Ford of the Oakwood Hills Police Department. He has illegally searched my vehicle and is preparing to impound it.