"That's better," she announced. "Now everybody knows where we stand."
Maya turned away for a heartbeat. She had married a man whose strength came from restraint, but the sight of him kneeling before someone who delighted in the spectacle made her feel physically ill. She wanted to reach him, to shield him with her own body, to carry Marcus someplace he would never have to remember. Instead she stood still because James had asked her to protect their son, and the child needed her arms more than the husband did.
Mitchell began a rough search of James's jacket. He objected clearly and calmly, saying he did not consent and asking what lawful basis she believed justified it. She ignored the questions. When her hand reached the inside pocket, her fingers closed around the leather credential case he had been careful not to display. His breath caught. The case was official, worn smooth at the edges by years of use, and he knew exactly what she would find when she opened it.
"What's this?" Mitchell asked, pulling it free.
She flipped the case open. The gold FBI shield gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Beside it was a photograph and official identification naming him Special Agent James Thompson. Mitchell stared for a moment, then turned the case so Barnes could see it. James watched her expression shift from recognition to something almost delighted. She had found an object that fit the story she already believed about him.
"Look what our construction worker has," she said loudly. "A federal badge. You bought yourself a costume, too?"
Barnes laughed. Cruz leaned closer, then stepped back without offering an opinion. James could not tell whether either officer recognized the credential as genuine. He could tell that neither was asking the questions a prudent officer should have asked before deciding it was fake.
"It's authentic," James said. "I can provide a verification contact. Do not damage it."
"Oh, now you're an FBI agent?" Mitchell demanded. "In those boots, at a birthday party? Do you think I'm stupid?"
"My occupation doesn't depend on my clothing. Verify the number through official channels."
Mitchell looked toward the parents. "Everybody hear that? He wants us to call the FBI about his little toy."
Her officers joined the laughter, but it did not spread through the crowd. Kesha remained behind her tripod, the camera steady enough to capture the raised credential and the expressions around it. Mrs. Washington, who had sat on the sidelines of enough school disciplinary meetings to recognize when someone was committed to a mistake, closed her eyes briefly. Robert Johnson whispered to his wife that the officer needed to stop now.