A woman sat across the corridor in a second holding cell with her arms crossed against the chill. She looked to be in her early thirties and had a faded flower tattoo behind one wrist, the kind that might have been drawn with determination and later forgotten. She watched Angela for several minutes before asking why the police had brought her in. When Angela answered that she'd been accused of hiding a fugitive in her own home, the woman let out a quiet, bitter laugh.
"They said I was loitering outside my apartment," she replied. "I had groceries in my hands and my own key. They were asking who else lives in our building, and I told them they could talk to the manager. Next thing I knew, I was here."
Her name was Nadine Fields, and she rented a small apartment in a building whose owner had recently received a purchase offer from Vision Heights. Nadine described city inspectors, police patrols, and men in polo shirts taking photographs of the property from across the street. She was afraid her landlord would sell and that new owners would raise rents beyond what she could pay at the pharmacy where she worked. Angela listened without promising a quick solution, because the first duty she owed someone else's story was not to turn it into the evidence she wanted.
"Would you be willing to tell that to a lawyer?" Angela asked.
Nadine studied her. "If I tell them, are they going to come after me again?"
"I can't promise they won't try," Angela said. "But there are people who can help us record what happened properly. You get to decide whether you're comfortable talking."
Nadine nodded, not because her fear was gone, but because Angela had offered her a choice rather than another instruction. A guard passed and told them to stop talking, so Angela sat back on the bench and silently organized the facts she knew. At 10:47 p.m., two detectives escorted her to a small interview room with a stained table and an analog clock above the door. She memorized the room number, the time, and the names introduced to her before she asked again to contact Diana Washington.
Detective Phillips, younger and visibly uncomfortable, began with a conciliatory smile. "Mrs. Brooks, we just need a little background. If you can explain who's been staying at your address, we might be able to sort this out."
"My husband and I live there," Angela said. "No one else has stayed overnight in weeks. I want my attorney before any further interview."
The older detective, Martinez, pushed a folder onto the table. "You keep saying that as if it clears everything up. Captain Holt says you interfered with an active fugitive operation and incited the neighborhood against law enforcement."