"Lydia has been detained by local police," the chief of staff said. "We are verifying the circumstances, but the address is Willow Creek." The governor's first question was whether she was hurt. His second was whether anyone had reached the chief who arrested her. When told that Hawkins had dismissed the initial inquiry, Pennington stood and instructed his staff to contact the police commissioner, the city administrator, and the state's legal office, making clear that he wanted identification verified immediately and all recordings preserved.
"No favors," he told James when they connected by phone. "No special rules because she works for me. Find out why an officer thought he could ignore a woman's explanation, and make sure she receives the same protection the law owes everybody." James said he understood and began assembling the documents establishing Lydia's authority to enter the residence. For the first time that afternoon, the state's response was beginning to move faster than Hawkins's assumptions.
Hawkins reached the station twenty minutes later, already annoyed by repeated messages from dispatch. He had been told twice that a state official wanted to speak with him, and he interpreted the calls as proof that his prisoner had influential accomplices. As he drove into the rear lot, he saw reporters gathered on the sidewalk beyond the building and felt a perverse satisfaction that his arrest was receiving attention. He assumed the cameras would show the public how quickly he had acted to protect a wealthy neighborhood.
Lydia stepped out of the cruiser carefully, her hands still secured behind her back. The short walk from the rear entrance to the booking area should have been unremarkable, but Hawkins turned it into another public performance. He told the officers near the counter that he had caught a burglar at the Pemberton mansion, then joked about how inventive criminals had become now that they could obtain keys rather than break windows. A younger officer, James Rodriguez, looked from Lydia's professional clothes to the cuffs and asked whether anyone had confirmed her identity.
"Identity is exactly what she's trying to hide," Hawkins replied. "I caught her in the act, Rodriguez." The younger officer tried a different question: had the property owner reported an unlawful entry? Hawkins said that such details would come later and ordered him to prepare the booking desk. The answer worried Rodriguez because, without a complaint, signs of forced entry, or evidence that the key was stolen, the alleged crime rested almost entirely on Hawkins's suspicion.
Sergeant David Kim, who supervised the desk that afternoon, had been taking urgent calls for several minutes. One caller claimed to represent the governor's security office; another wanted to know whether a woman named Lydia Monroe had been arrested at Willow Creek Residence Seven. Kim had verified the callback numbers independently rather than relying on the callers' assertions, and both connections led to real government offices. He approached Hawkins with a note containing the verified contact information, but Hawkins waved him away before looking at it.
"I don't need a politician telling me how to do my job," he said. Kim answered that the calls were not asking for an exception to procedure; they were requesting an immediate verification of the detainee's authority. The distinction made no impression on Hawkins. He took Lydia farther into the station, pausing long enough to tell two uniformed officers that she had resisted arrest, a statement Rodriguez silently compared with her unhurried, compliant movements.