"I am."
"We have confirmation of your identity. Thank you for directing us to the specific observation. We need to document the circumstances of the call and your treatment aboard the flight."
Trent stared at him. "Confirmation of what identity?"
The investigator did not answer Trent first. He asked whether Miles needed medical attention and whether someone could remove the remaining restraint without further injury. When that was done, Miles stood carefully, feeling a dull ache in his knee and shoulder. His clothes were creased and the front of his sweatshirt bore a dark mark from the carpet. He had never felt less interested in looking important.
"Miles Sloan," the investigator said, checking his credentials through a secure process. "Executive Director, Flight Standards. FAA."
The words seemed to move through the cabin in waves. Molly raised one hand to her mouth. Eleanor Price closed her notebook, then opened it again because she suspected the most revealing statements were still ahead. Preston Vance lifted his head from his phone with an expression of profound confusion, as though someone had announced that the airplane itself belonged to the passenger he had mocked.
"Director?" Trent said faintly. "Director of what?"
"Flight Standards," Miles answered. "The safety office whose emergency process helped get this aircraft to the ground."
He did not smile when he said it. For a man who had spent years asking airlines to build systems that worked regardless of the importance of individual passengers, there was nothing satisfying about watching staff change their tone after discovering his position. The whole incident had demonstrated why he insisted on systems that did not require a powerful person to be harmed before they functioned.
Trent's face went pale. "Sir, I didn't know. I swear to God, I didn't know."
"The alert never mentioned my color," Miles said. "You added that. It never said the traveler was alone, wearing a sweatshirt, or using earned miles. You added those things, too."
He looked toward Crane, now secured under guard. "The real threat sat one foot away from people you called respectable. You decided he belonged, and you decided I didn't. Because of that, you spent time examining my bag instead of investigating the warning."
Preston cleared his throat. "We were all under stress, Director. Nobody could have known."
"Someone could have asked a question," Miles said. "Someone could have checked the alert before acting as though appearance were evidence. Somebody could have treated every passenger as a person."
Molly stepped forward holding the small cloth pouch. She had retrieved it from the galley drawer once investigators asked her to preserve the property Miles said had been removed from his possession. "I believe this belongs to you, Director," she said. Her hands were steady now, although tears stood at the edges of her eyes.
Miles opened the pouch, examined the old railroad badge, and felt the familiar worn edges with his thumb. Nothing appeared damaged. He looked at Molly and remembered the way she had chosen to speak despite knowing that Trent could punish her for it. "Thank you," he said. "For this, and for telling the truth when it was difficult."