“My office.”
“What happened?”
“Now.”
Briggs hung up.
Daniel arrived four minutes later.
Briggs had shut the door and drawn the blinds.
“What?”
Briggs stared at him.
“Holloway arrested Samuel Owens.”
Daniel’s face went still.
“The justice?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Stolen car.”
“Whose?”
Briggs looked away.
“Owens’s.”
Daniel said nothing for several seconds.
Then:
“Tell me there is more.”
Briggs rubbed his face.
“Derek says suspicious circumstances.”
“Meaning?”
“Black male. High-value car. Whitmore address.”
Daniel stared at him.
“You just said that out loud.”
“I know what I said.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
Briggs slammed one palm onto the desk.
“Do not start.”
“Eight complaints, Richard.”
“This is not the time.”
“This is exactly the time.”
Briggs looked toward the closed blinds.
For three years, he had treated Derek’s complaints as manageable administrative noise.
He reassigned reviewers.
Encouraged informal resolutions.
Approved findings that favored ambiguity.