The teenager who'd filmed it had posted it with the caption, "Cops harass black female trucker for no reason. Spread this." Back at the station, Faulner methodically searched through Trina's confiscated belongings. His movements were unhurried, practiced. When he got to her socks, his fingers found something hard.
He pulled out a slim black phone, different from the basic burner they'd already logged into evidence. Turning it on, his face hardened as he saw the encrypted screen. Satellite uplink active. The wallpaper was the FBI seal. Without a word, he walked to the front of the station and quietly locked the main doors.
No one in, no one out. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the holding cell window as Trina sat perfectly still, mentally mapping the building's layout, counting guard rotations, noting every detail. Her training hadn't failed her yet. She just had to stay alive long enough to use it. The evidence room's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Faulner circled Trina like a shark.
She sat handcuffed to a metal chair, her dark skin glistening with sweat in the stuffy room. He held up her two confiscated devices, turning them over in his hands with exaggerated care. You know what I think? Faulner's voice was soft. Dangerous.
I think you're not some truck driver at all. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her face. I think you're a fed [ __ ] who stuck her nose where it doesn't belong. Trina kept her expression blank, staring straight ahead. Her split lip throbbed, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain.
Nothing to say. He slammed both devices onto the metal table, making her flinch despite herself. That's fine. I made some calls. Just waiting to hear back about what to do with you.
He pulled out his phone, dialing a number while maintaining eye contact with her. Yeah, it's me. Got something you need to know about. He stepped just outside the door, but his voice carried clearly. Found FBI gear on her.
No, nobody knows she's here. What do you want me to do with her? Trina's ears strained to hear the response, but the voice on the other end was too muffled. Faulner's face darkened as he listened. Meanwhile, in the dispatch room, officer Miguel Diaz pretended to file paperwork while watching the scene unfold through the glass partition.
His hands shook slightly as he watched Faulner returned to the evidence room. This wasn't right. None of this was right. Faulner stalked over to the room's thermostat, cranking it up. Gets mighty hot in here without AC, he drawled. especially in summer, especially when the ventilation's bad.
He flicked off the lights, leaving only the dim glow from the hallway. And it's amazing how many equipment malfunctions we have. Cameras, air conditioning, lights. Anything could happen and nobody would know. Sweat rolled down Trina's back, but she kept her breathing steady.
She'd endured worse in Ranger training. The darkness didn't scare her. It was an advantage if she could get free. Down the hall, Deputy Rusk sat at a computer terminal, methodically deleting security footage. His pudgy fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, erasing every trace of their encounter with Trina at the rest stop.