Two female officers searched her and removed her jewelry, her shoelaces, and the elastic band from her hair. One was brisk but not cruel; the other avoided looking at Angela's injured wrists while photographing them. Angela asked whether the photographs would be included in her booking file. Neither woman answered directly.
The holding area smelled of disinfectant, cold coffee, and the stale air of a building that had been occupied too long without proper ventilation. Metal benches were bolted against walls painted a sickly green. A television hung high in one corner with the sound turned off, showing cheerful commercials that looked grotesquely out of place. Angela sat upright and tried to slow the ache in her shoulder by keeping her back straight.
Her hair had fallen across her face, and her cheek had begun to swell. A medic would have recognized the pattern of abrasions and asked about chest discomfort after someone had been pinned to the pavement. Angela could perform that assessment for another person without hesitation. Doing it for herself was more difficult, especially when she could not move without the guards treating movement as a challenge.
Officer Griggs stopped outside the bars just before ten. He smiled at the sight of her sitting alone. "Not much of an audience now, is there?"
Angela said nothing.
"Your husband's probably still trying to find somebody important to call. You military people always think everybody should salute when you walk into a room."
She kept her eyes on the far wall. She had learned during captivity-avoidance training that people seeking a reaction often escalated when they received one, and that the safest available response sometimes consisted of refusing to offer emotional fuel. What frightened her was not what Griggs said. It was how comfortable he appeared saying it inside a building full of other officers.
When he walked away, Angela heard him discussing the videos with Holt. The captain wanted every recording from the scene collected, officially to preserve evidence and unofficially, Angela suspected, to control how the story reached the public. She wondered whether his officers would pressure neighbors into surrendering their phones or whether the files had already been shared widely enough to survive. For the first time since leaving her driveway, she wished she could see Mrs. Martinez's face.
A detective named Phillips took Angela into interview room 2B. He was young, clean-cut, and determined to sound sympathetic. Another detective, Martinez, entered a moment later carrying a thick folder he placed on the table with a performative thud. Angela noticed the coffee stain on Phillips's tie and the wall clock showing 10:47.
"Let's get you out of this mess," Phillips said. "Tell us who came through your house tonight. We know somebody was there."
"I want a lawyer," Angela replied.
"We're trying to give you a chance."
"I understand. I want a lawyer before answering questions."
Martinez leaned forward. "A lot of trouble could have been avoided if you'd listened to officers. Your husband doesn't have jurisdiction here, and neither does the Army."