Dalton shouted for the benefit of the imaginary jury, though Zeke hadn't moved a muscle to fight back. "I am compliant," Zeke stated clearly, his voice muffled against the counter.
"I'm not resisting. You are applying excessive force." "Shut up!" Carver barked, grabbing Zeke's other arm.
"He's got a knife, Sarge. He's got a clip on his pocket." Dalton ripped the object from Zeke's pocket. It was a Leatherman multi-tool, standard issue for anyone who worked with their hands.
But in Dalton's narrative, it was a deadly weapon. "Carrying a concealed weapon," Dalton announced triumphantly. "Assaulting an officer, resisting arrest. You're looking at a long vacation in the county jail, Isaiah."
They hauled him up and dragged him toward the door. Zeke didn't stumble.
He walked with dignity even as they shoved him. As they passed Beverly, Zeke caught her eye. She was crying. "Put the pie on my tab, Beverly," he said.
"Move." Dalton shoved him through the door, out into the biting wind.
They slammed him against the hood of the patrol car, the heat from the engine radiating through the metal. The flashing blue and red lights painted the scene in a chaotic strobe. "Empty his pockets," Dalton ordered Carver. "Let's see what Mr.
DC is hiding." Carver patted him down with trembling hands. He pulled out a phone, a sleek black smartphone with no brand markings on the case.
He pulled out a pack of gum. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Phone's locked," Carver said, tapping the screen. "Biometric."
"Well, get a warrant for it," Dalton said, spitting on the ground. "Or maybe he'll unlock it for us if he wants to make things easier." He leaned into Zeke's ear.
"What's on the phone, Isaiah? Your supplier's number? Pictures of little kids?" Zeke turned his head, staring straight into the cruiser's dash cam.
He wanted this recorded. "That is a government-issued device.
Accessing it is a federal felony." Dalton threw his head back and laughed, a harsh barking sound. "Government-issued? Who do you work for?
The post office? You think I'm scared of a mailman?" "I'm asking you one time," Zeke said, his voice cutting through Dalton's laughter like a razor blade.
"Let me make a call. One call. It will clear this whole thing up." "You get your phone call at the station," Dalton sneered.
"If you take me to the station, sergeant, you end your career. If you let me make a call now, you might just get away with a suspension." Dalton's eyes narrowed.
He was a bully, but he possessed a rat's cunning. There was something in Zeke's voice, a total lack of fear that unnerved him. Most guys, even the tough ones, started bargaining or begging by now. Zeke sounded like he was the one in charge.
"Give him the phone," Dalton said suddenly.
Carver looked shocked. "Sarge, procedure says" "I said give him the damn phone, Lane. Let's see who his big bad friend is. Probably his parole officer."
Dalton smirked. "Speakerphone.
I want to hear this." Carver held the phone up to Zeke's face. Zeke leaned in. The iris scanner flashed and the phone unlocked.
Carver held it, his thumb hovering over the end call button. Zeke didn't scroll through contacts.