“Battery issue.”
Miller stared.
“You’re kidding.”
“It died during the stop.”
Doyle looked away.
Cynthia’s anger sharpened.
Miller rubbed his forehead.
“Then your paperwork better be perfect.”
“It is.”
“No gaps.”
“I’ve got it.”
The captain turned toward the booking sergeant.
“Process her.”
Then to O’Grady:
“Good work.”
Two words.
Good work.
Cynthia watched Miller return to his office.
Maybe he did not know.
Maybe he had simply failed to care enough to know.
There was a difference legally.
There was less of one institutionally.
Cynthia was processed.
Personal items inventoried.
Shoes temporarily removed.
Belt.
Phone.
Civilian identification.
She was searched again.
Then placed in a holding cell.
The steel door closed.
The cell contained a metal bench, a stainless-steel toilet, and nothing else.
Cynthia sat.
Only then, for the first time in hours, did she allow herself to feel the full weight of what had happened.
If she had been who O’Grady believed she was, what would she have had?
No hidden recording system.
No federal team capable of securing the rental immediately.
No deputy director three hours away.
Perhaps a public defender by morning.
Maybe family able to post bail.
Maybe not.
A false arrest could cost employment.
Housing.
Custody.
Reputation.
Months.
Years.
Even if the case eventually collapsed, the arrest itself might remain.
Cynthia leaned back against the concrete wall.
She thought about how practiced O’Grady had been.
No hesitation when planting the bag.
No visible panic.
No improvisation.
That frightened her more than the act itself.
First attempts are clumsy.
O’Grady had not looked like a beginner.
At 1:07 a.m., footsteps approached.
O’Grady appeared.
He struck the cell door lightly with his knuckles.
“Rise and shine.”
Cynthia stood.
“You get your phone call.”
He escorted her toward a wall-mounted telephone.
“Make it useful.”
Cynthia picked up the receiver.
Dialed a secure Washington number from memory.
James Carter answered after two rings.
“Carter.”
“Jim.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
“Director?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“42nd District precinct in Oakland.”
Another pause.
Her security team had undoubtedly discovered the loss of her routine contact by now.
Carter said:
“Your detail reported a gap in direct communication.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“I’ve been arrested.”
Silence.
Then:
“For what?”
“Possession with intent.”
Carter did not respond for almost two seconds.
Cynthia continued.
“The arresting officer planted the evidence.”
His voice dropped.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“Thomas O’Grady.”
“Precinct?”