Years later, Sarah would remember that moment more painfully than anything else that happened.
Not because she did not recognize the wrong.
Because she did.
And stayed quiet anyway.
Derek drove toward Westbrook Police Headquarters.
Halfway there, Sam noticed the red light on Derek’s body camera go dark.
He looked at the cruiser’s clock.
3:52.
Another entry in the mental list.
At the station, Sergeant Malcolm Mitchell sat behind the booking desk with reading glasses balanced low on his nose.
Thirty years in uniform had taught him not to become excited by ordinary arrests.
Derek entered with Sam.
“What have we got?”
“Possible stolen vehicle. Resisting.”
Mitchell looked at Sam.
“Name?”
“Samuel J. Owens.”
Mitchell typed.
The internal system returned the driver information first.
Then an identity flag from a government-security database.
Mitchell sat straighter.
A small notation appeared.
JUDICIAL SECURITY CONTACT REQUIRED.
He clicked.
Then froze.
Photograph.
Name.
STATE SUPREME COURT.
Mitchell looked at Sam.
Then Derek.
Then back at the monitor.
“Derek.”
“What?”
Mitchell lowered his voice.
“Come here.”
“I need to finish the booking.”
“Come here.”
Derek approached.