Briscoe stepped out of the cruiser before anyone had approached the Volvo. His expression had the rigid satisfaction of a man determined to call his own violence a solution. He walked to the driver's side, opened the door without permission, and reached toward Adrienne before she had finished checking whether her neck and shoulders would move. She told him she was injured and asked him to call medical assistance. He ignored both statements.
"You're getting out now," he said.
"My head struck the seat. I need a medic," she replied. "I have not resisted you."
He caught her by the arm and pulled. She stumbled as her feet found the pavement, and the sudden change in position sent a wave of dizziness through her. She tried to keep her balance, but Briscoe forced her down toward the shoulder and pinned her arms behind her. The handcuffs closed tightly around her wrists. She heard him say she was under arrest, although she still had not heard a lawful reason for the original stop.
The road smelled of hot engine metal and gasoline from the nearby pumps. Adrienne could feel grit through the knees of her jeans and the uneven asphalt beneath one cheek. Her first thought was not that she was a general or that the deputy would eventually discover it. Her first thought was that her mother had spent a lifetime telling her to come home safely, and that none of her medals could make this moment less dangerous. She focused on keeping her breathing regular while Briscoe hauled her upright.
"Don't move," he told her.
"I'm not resisting," she said. "Please loosen the cuffs. My wrists are hurting."
He gave no sign that he had heard. He marched her to the back of his cruiser while witnesses watched from less than fifty yards away. A woman shouted that he had deliberately hit the other car, and a man near the store asked whether an ambulance had been called. Briscoe glared in their direction, then pushed Adrienne into the rear seat and closed the door. He stood outside for a moment, visibly enjoying the fact that the confrontation was no longer happening in her vehicle.
Foster had stopped thinking in complete sentences. She saw the rear of the Volvo crushed inward, the open driver's door, the broken plastic scattered on the shoulder, and the woman now locked in Briscoe's cruiser. None of those images fit the report of a possible stolen vehicle. Foster knew that a collision caused by an officer required emergency notification and an independent investigation. Briscoe had not called either one.
"Cody," she said, approaching carefully, "we need medical and a supervisor here. You hit her vehicle."
"She wouldn't comply. I had to stop her from driving away."
Foster stared at the Volvo. It was still in park, with its hazard lights flashing after the impact. "She was stationary," she replied. "I saw it."
"Then write down what I tell you happened," Briscoe said. "Unless you want to explain to Greer why you couldn't back up your partner."
The warning was familiar enough that Foster knew exactly how to understand it. She had watched experienced deputies trade favors, shape reports, and treat disagreement as a betrayal of the group. Until that morning, she had told herself she could work within the system without becoming part of its worst habits. Now a woman was sitting injured in a cruiser because Foster had kept silent while a man hurt her. There was no way to make that fact disappear by choosing careful words later.