Griggs seized her wrist when she asked Holt to identify the supposed fugitive. His fingers pressed hard against the tender tendons near her watch, and he turned her arm until pain ran through her shoulder. Angela instinctively shifted her weight to protect the joint, then stopped. She knew how easily an officer could describe the smallest defensive movement as resistance.
"You are hurting me," she stated clearly. "I am not resisting you."
"Then quit making this difficult."
Holt pointed toward her front porch. Two officers moved up the walkway, shining flashlights into windows that still glowed with the last light of evening. Angela watched them approach the door, watched one test the handle, and understood that the captain intended to enter her home whether she consented or not. She could feel anger rising, but anger would not make those men retreat.
"I don't consent to a search," she said. "I want your names and badge numbers recorded, and I want an attorney."
Holt came close enough that she could smell the sharp scent of his cologne. "You are in no position to give me instructions, Mrs. Brooks."
Angela looked beyond him at the people recording. Mrs. Martinez was standing with both feet planted on her steps, her phone held steady despite her trembling hands. Mr. Wilson had joined her, and teenage Jimmy Parker was visible at an upstairs window. Angela hoped someone had already backed up the recordings somewhere Holt could not reach.
"I'm going to make a phone call," she announced. "My phone is in my right pocket. I will move slowly."
An officer objected, but Holt lifted a hand, evidently amused by the idea. Griggs made a mocking comment about a husband arriving to rescue her, and several men laughed. Angela waited until the tension around the drawn weapons eased enough for a deliberate movement, then retrieved her phone and selected Marcus's number from her favorites.
He answered after the second ring. "Angie? What's wrong?"
"Ten cruisers," she said, her voice even. "Weapons out. Captain Holt is here. They say they're looking for a fugitive, but they won't tell me who. No warrant has been shown. They're at our front door."
The change in Marcus's breathing was almost imperceptible. Angela recognized it anyway, the precise silence that followed when he stopped reacting as a husband and began processing a problem as an operational emergency. "Are you injured?" he asked.
"Griggs has my arm. I'm standing. The neighbors are filming."
"Keep your hands visible and don't argue with anyone holding a weapon. Tell them you want counsel. Keep the line open if they permit it. I'm getting help."
"I know," she said. "I love you."
"I love you too."