Toby watched the scene from behind the cruiser's scratched glass. There was no pleasure in seeing Kirby restrained by instructions he could not dismiss, and the presence of armed agents made Toby more concerned about the officer's unpredictability, not less. He wanted the situation to end before any frightened movement turned an avoidable mistake into an injury. He kept his shoulders still and waited for the person assigned to address the cruiser.
A federal agent opened the rear door. "Mr. Martin, we've verified your identity. Are you injured?"
"Pressure from the restraints. No other injuries I'm aware of," Toby said. "The tow driver is over by the curb. Make sure somebody checks on him."
"He has assistance. I'm going to remove the cuffs now."
Toby nodded and shifted his hands carefully. When the restraints came away, the skin around his wrists was reddened and tender, and he resisted an impulse to rub it immediately. He had learned to assess his own condition before moving on, no matter how badly he wanted to pretend nothing had happened. He flexed his fingers once, stood from the cramped compartment, and felt the strange relief of being able to breathe without the partition inches from his face.
The agent asked whether he wanted a medical evaluation. Toby said yes, because he knew that refusing one out of pride would erase information that might matter to an impartial review. He also asked that the detention times, his confiscated credential, and the handling of his authorized sidearm be documented. The agent told him those matters were already being assigned to the investigative side of the response.
Toby looked toward the intersection. Kirby was standing where the agents had instructed him to stand, no longer speaking loudly, his face pale beneath the afternoon sun. For the first time, Toby saw not the officer who had mocked him but a man beginning to understand that he might have put many other people in danger. He felt no sudden urge to forgive Kirby, and he did not need to. Compassion, he believed, did not require pretending consequences were unnecessary.
"Do not put me back into the operational position until the vehicle is inspected," Toby told his colleague. "I want a clean check before any movement resumes."
"That's already underway. Command is reviewing the route."
"Good."
The answer was brief because there was no need for anything else. Toby had spent years learning how to assess a complicated situation without turning himself into the center of it, and he intended to keep doing that now. The fact that he had been wronged did not make him the most important element of the protective operation.
Special Agent in Charge Marcus Webb stepped out of a dark sedan at the edge of the scene a few minutes later. He wore a charcoal suit and a white shirt, and the silver at his temples caught the low sun as he approached. Toby had worked for Webb long enough to know that a long pause before a question usually meant the older man was checking the facts he already had against the facts he could see. Webb took in the disabled truck, the protective vehicle, and Kirby's position before addressing anyone.
He went first to Toby. "You all right?"
"Yes, sir. Wrists need documenting. Vehicle needs inspection. Civilian driver was warned before the tow."
"I've heard. Anything else I need immediately?"
"The officer displayed the federal plate query but refused the liaison process. The timing matters. Dispatch should have the exchange."