Clayton watched the badge strike the shallow water and disappear beneath the reflection of the red sign. For a moment he was less concerned about the growing crowd than the small gold sticker his daughter had placed there. Hope had told him that all good bosses deserved a gold star. He had worn it because it made her happy.
"My daughter made that badge special," he said. "She's ten. She was proud of it."
"Anybody can print a badge," Lel replied.
"Then read the one I printed," Clayton said. "It told you exactly who I am."
By then, Jaylen had come running from the bay. He stopped a few feet away when he saw Hagen grip Clayton's right wrist and force his arm back against the wet grille. "That's the boss," Jaylen called. "He signs my checks. Officer, he really owns this place."
"Back up," Hagen snapped. "Unless you want to come with him."
An older couple stood outside the showroom. Margaret and Howard Ellis had bought two cars from Clayton over the years, and Howard still brought his truck in for service. Margaret stepped forward and told the officers that Clayton had kept the shop open on Christmas Eve to repair their heater. Howard confirmed the man kneeling in front of them was the owner. Neither officer asked for a name or wrote down the statement.
At the edge of the lot, another witness stopped to observe. He was an elderly Black man, perhaps seventy-five, wearing a tan corduroy jacket and a brown flat cap. His white beard was neatly trimmed. He carried a little black notebook, and the way he held it suggested he was more interested in details than in making a scene.
"Read the badge again, Officer," the old man said. His voice was neither loud nor pleading. Lel told him to move along, and the man wrote something in his notebook before walking slowly toward the road.
Clayton saw the man leave but had no time to wonder who he was. Lel pulled Clayton's left arm forward and closed the first handcuff, then locked the second around his other wrist. The steel pressed hard into the tender bones. Clayton told Lel it was too tight and asked for it to be checked. Lel said the pain would stop when Clayton stopped moving, though Clayton had not resisted.
"Officer, I am complying with your instructions," Clayton said for the people watching. "Please remember that. My license is in your pocket, my badge is in that puddle, and five people have told you who I am."
Hagen leaned toward his radio. "Fourteen to dispatch. Subject secured. Caller appears to have been right." His words carried across the open lot and into the doorway where Sherman had just appeared. Behind the bakery across Route 9, a charcoal-gray sedan eased away from the shoulder and headed east at an unusually slow speed.
"Who called?" Clayton asked. "Who said I was stealing cars on my own lot?"
"You'll get a report number," Hagen said. "The desk sergeant can listen to your story."