Mitchell closed the wallet and tossed it toward the ruined cake. It landed in chocolate frosting beside a crushed paper plate. James watched the leather case fall and felt an old, cold anger settle beneath the hotter emotion of seeing Marcus afraid. A badge had a practical purpose, but it did not make its holder more human than the people beside him. He knew the physical object would matter for the case. He also knew Mitchell's contempt would have been just as wrong if the wallet had contained only a driver's license.
"That's where fake authority belongs," she said. Then she pressed the toe of her boot into the case, grinding frosting and grit against the leather. "Right with the mess you made."
"Lieutenant," James said quietly, "you need to stop. That credential can be verified, and there are cameras recording what you're doing."
"Then let them record," she answered. "I want everybody to see a fraud get handled."
Cruz looked toward the growing ring of phones and seemed uncertain for the first time. He told Mitchell that maybe they should check the identification before proceeding. She turned on him so sharply that he stopped speaking halfway through his sentence. Barnes filled the silence with a joke about television detectives. The other officers nearby said nothing.
"What's the penalty for carrying a fake federal badge?" Mitchell asked James, apparently expecting him to stumble.
"That depends on the facts and applicable law," he replied. "Which is why you should confirm the facts before announcing charges."
"You think you're going to lecture me from down there?"
She seized his shoulder and pushed him lower. He caught himself on one hand to avoid falling forward, then returned it to his side. The scrape against the concrete stung. He kept his breathing even, aware that the boys near the picnic tables were staring at him. He hated that their afternoon had become another lesson in how much humiliation an adult might have to endure to avoid making a dangerous situation worse.
Marcus pulled free of his mother's grip. "Leave my daddy alone!" he shouted.
He ran several steps before Maya caught him around the waist. The boy struggled hard enough that one of his sneakers came loose. "He didn't do anything! It's my birthday! Please make them stop!"
Mitchell turned with an expression that frightened Maya more than the earlier insults. "Control that child," she snapped. "Another outburst and I can request a welfare assessment. Maybe somebody needs to check what kind of environment he's growing up in."
"He's eight years old," Maya said. Her voice shook, but she did not lower it. "He just watched you destroy his party and threaten his father. He's scared."
"Then teach him to respect police officers."
"Respect isn't something you get by making children cry."
Barnes stepped toward Maya, but James spoke before he reached her. "Do not touch my wife."
The sentence was quieter than anything else he had said. It carried no threat of physical violence, but Barnes stopped all the same. James's posture had changed. He was no longer simply waiting for Mitchell to exhaust her performance. He was measuring the danger to his family against the evidence already preserved elsewhere and the time his team would need to arrive.