"We believe so. We don't have direct contact yet."
The governor stood. "Then find out, and keep me updated. I want the complete incident preserved. Don't let this turn into a fight over titles. I want to know why a security assessment became an arrest."
For a brief interval, Pennington remained in his office while his staff worked through the proper channels. He had learned that arriving in anger could overwhelm the very processes needed to establish facts. But after another report indicated that the arresting chief had dismissed multiple verified calls, the situation changed. The governor spoke to the city manager and police commissioner, both of whom promised immediate intervention. He then asked Sullivan to prepare a vehicle.
"Sir, you don't need to attend personally," Patterson said.
Pennington looked down at the printed transcript of Lydia's name being challenged. "No. I don't need to. But I appointed her because I expected her to take responsibility when things went wrong. I'm not asking her to face a departmental failure alone."
At Felicia Drummond's law office downtown, a junior associate interrupted a meeting to show her the video from Magnolia Drive. Felicia had built a civil rights practice over nearly two decades, taking cases that required exhausting records searches and long arguments against institutions far better financed than her clients. She watched the entire clip twice, once with the sound up and once focusing on the actions rather than the words.
"Find the original uploader," she told the associate. "Ask whether the video is complete and whether he'll preserve the original. Do not ask him to edit it for us."
"Do we know who the woman is?"
"Not yet. We can find out."
She started making calls to colleagues who worked with public employees, then requested that her office prepare a preservation letter. She did not know Lydia Monroe personally. She knew what an unsupported arrest could do to a person even when the charges were dropped: the lost time, the public suspicion, the ordinary humiliation of being made to prove one's innocence in front of strangers. She also knew that if the detainee held a government position, the story would soon become much bigger than it appeared on a neighborhood video.
By three thirty, Natalie Cruz had reached the public sidewalk outside the station. A camera crew was setting up near the entrance, and a small group of residents were arriving with hand-lettered signs. Some wanted Lydia released; others said the police should be allowed to do their jobs. Natalie interviewed both without pretending that opposing opinions carried the same evidentiary weight.
"We have independently confirmed that the property is government-owned," she told the camera. "The police chief called the detainee a burglar, but the basis for that accusation remains unclear. Our attempts to obtain a statement from the department have not yet received a response."