He kicked her ankles apart, causing her to stumble forward slightly. He aggressively patted down her sides, his hands lingering just a second too long near her hips. Finding nothing, he clicked his tongue in frustration. "You got a smart mouth on you. Law student, huh?
Think you know the streets better than I do? " "I know the Fourth Amendment, " Maya replied, her cheek pressed against the wet roof of her car. "That was the tipping point. " The fragile glass of Perry's ego shattered. He unclipped his handcuffs.
You're under arrest, " he growled, grabbing her wrists and wrenching them violently behind her back. The metal cuffs ratcheted tightly, biting painfully into her skin. "On what charge, " Maya demanded. "The first hint of anger finally bleeding into her voice, resisting arrest, failure to comply, and disorderly conduct, " Perry said, his voice dripping with triumphant malice. Let's see how much that smart mouth helps you in holding.
The ride to the fourth precinct was suffocating. Maya was wedged into the hard plastic back seat of the cruiser, her shoulders aching from the tight handcuffs. The rain battered against the windows, blurring the neon lights of the city into a smear of colors. In the front seat, Perry was putting on a show for his rookie partner. See, Harrison, this is what you got to watch out for.
These entitled types. They read a book or two, watched some TV shows, and think they can tell us how to do our jobs. You give them an inch, they'll take a mile. You got to establish dominance early. Harrison, looking pale and deeply uncomfortable in the glow of the dashboard computer, just offered a non-committal grunt.
He had seen the stop. He knew Maya hadn't swerved. He knew the arrest was garbage. But Perry was his training officer, a man who could make or break his probationary period with a single stroke of a pen. Harrison stared out the window, choosing silence over integrity.
Maya remained absolutely silent in the back. She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She simply cataloged everything. The time of the stop, the badge number she had memorized off his chest. badge 4492, the exact phrasing of his threats.
She knew that any reaction would be used to justify his fabricated, disorderly conduct, charge. The cruiser pulled into the sallyport of the fourth precinct. The heavy concrete walls seemed to swallow them whole as the steel doors rolled shut behind them. Perry dragged her out of the car by her bicep, marching her through the heavy double doors into the booking area. The precinct smelled of floor wax, stale sweat, and cheap industrial coffee.
It was 3:10 a. m. at the dead zone of the graveyard shift. A few officers were slumped at their desks, typing out reports with two fingers. Behind the elevated booking desk sat Sergeant Thomas Miller. Miller was a 20-year veteran, counting down the days until his pension kicked in. He was a decent man, but worn down by the system, often turning a blind eye to the aggressive tactics of the patrolman just to keep the peace in the house.