Lang is early 40s, lean with a broad smile he uses the way some men use a firm handshake. “Amnesty,” Lang says, spinning a chair and sitting backward, trying to look like an ally. “I heard you've been giving my colleagues a workout.” “Are you here to facilitate my release?” “I'm here to talk through what happened, help everyone understand.”
“Are you here to facilitate my release?” The smile adjusts. “That's ultimately Sergeant Brooks' call.” “The allowed period is approaching. I'd like to be released or told the specific legal basis for extending my detention.” Brooks opens his folder and slides a single sheet across the table.
“There is one outstanding matter, the learner's permit violation. We can issue a citation and release you once a parent or guardian physically collects you. Until then, we are authorized to maintain detention under the citation.” “Show me that provision.” She reads it twice.
“This provision applies only to serious traffic offenses listed in Appendix C. A learner's permit supervision violation is in Appendix D. Different category. This does not apply.” The room goes very quiet.
Lang is no longer smiling. He looks at her the way someone looks at a lock that refuse to open. Brooks takes the paper back, reads the section she cited, checks both appendices. His shoulder shifts slightly. “Give us a moment,” he says to Lang.
Lang rises and passes close to her shoulder on the way out. Deliberate proximity, the learned technique of making someone feel small without touching them. In the doorway, he turns. The friendliness is gone. “You're a smart kid, but smart and right aren't the same thing.”
“And in this building, the difference matters more than you think.” She looks at him without expression. “Thank you for that.” He lets the door fall. Brooks studies her across the table for a long moment.
“Where did you learn all this?” “The notice on the wall, the handbook was on the table in processing. I read it while I was being processed.” He is quiet. Whatever he expected from this night, it was not this. “We're going to reach your father,” he says.
“My phone is in an evidence bag Officer Selden took without logging it. My father's number is in that phone.” Brooks meets her gaze. “I'll address that.” “I'd like it returned.”
“I'll address it.” He moves to the door, pauses with his hand on the frame. The weight of the pause is different now. “Amina, I want you to understand something. Whatever happens tonight, there are people in this building trying to manage this the right way.”
“The right way,” she says, “was not bringing me in.” He leaves. The lock does not click. Just before the statutory window would have closed, the door opens. Tate holds out her phone in a clear bag, unlogged.
She takes it. Multiple missed calls from the same number. She calls it. It answers on the first ring. The voice on the other end is not panicked.