Kowalsski came around behind her. The cuffs went on fast, tighter than necessary. She felt the metal bite into her wrists, sharp and immediate. She did not cry out. She straightened her spine instead.
Kraug Renee Caldwell. Kowalsski said a smirk in his voice. You're under arrest for obstruction of justice and resisting a lawful checkpoint inspection. I did not resist, she said clearly loudly for the phone still recording in her pocket. I am complying under protest.
I am invoking my right to counsel and I am noting that this arrest is being conducted without probable cause. Puit leaned down and picked up her satchel. He unzipped it again, found her badge, looked at it properly this time, and for just a fraction of a second something flickered across his face. something that might have been uncertainty. Then he rezipped the bag and handed it to Kowalsski, put it in evidence. They walked her to the cruiser.
Kowalsski pressed her head down as she got in. The door slammed through the rain streaked window. She watched Puit walk back toward the command van already on his radio. She sat straight in the back seat, wrists aching, rain on the glass. She had 47 names in a folder at home.
Tonight, she had become number 48, and her phone was still recording. The Dalton Police Department's central booking room smelled of floor wax and cold coffee, and something underneath both of those things, something older and harder to name. Renee had been in this room before, not as a defendant, as a public defender 26 years ago, standing next to a 19-year-old kid from Milbrook who had been stopped three blocks from his own house and charged with possession of a quantity of marijuana that the arresting officer had somehow failed to log correctly. She had gotten the charges dropped in 4 days. She still remembered his name, Marcus.
He was a paramedic now. She stood at the booking counter and let the process move around her. Mugsh shot, fingerprints, the ink cold and thick against her skin. The booking officer, a heavy set man in his 50s, who had not looked up from his computer since she arrived, typed without expression. Occupation, he said.
Attorney Renee said. He typed it, didn't look up. Behind her, near the water cooler at the far end of the room, Kowalsski and Puit had positioned themselves with the specific casualness of men who wanted to be seen, not caring. They were talking loudly enough to be heard. "That's another one from Milbrook with a law degree she printed off the internet," Kowalsski said.
He laughed at his own joke. Puit kept his voice lower, but not low enough. They all think knowing a few case names makes them special. Looked her up on the way over. Nothing.
Nobody. Probably a parillegal somewhere acting like she passed the bar. Kowalsski said the booking officer's typing slowed almost imperceptibly. He still didn't look up. Renee said nothing.
She pressed her thumb against the scanner a second time when it asked her to. She looked straight ahead. Her satchel sat in a clear evidence bag on the counter beside her. Through the plastic, she could see the corner of her federal court ID badge. It was facing down.
Puit had put it back in the bag facing down, which meant he had looked at it properly, read what it said, and made a deliberate choice about what to do with that information. That choice was itself a piece of evidence. She was allowed one phone call. The booking officer pointed to a wall-mounted phone at the end of the counter without speaking. Renee walked to it.
She dialed from memory not her personal attorney, not her husband, not the courthouse's main line. She called Sandra Obie's cell phone. Sandra picked up on the second ring. It was 10:38 p.m. Shandi Renee said her voice was completely level.
I need you to write some things down. A pause. Then Sandra's voice, careful and steady, I'm writing. I'm at Dalton PD Central Booking. I was arrested at the Boundary Avenue checkpoint at approximately 9:52 p.m.
Arresting officers are Kowalsski badge number I need you to get. And Sergeant Dana Puit. Charges are obstruction and checkpoint interference. My phone recorded from the time I exited the vehicle until they put me in the cruiser. It is currently in the evidence bag with my satchel.
She paused. Call James Ror at the marshall's office. Personal cell, not the office line. Tell him what I just told you. Another pause.
Longer this time. Renee. Sandre's voice was barely above a whisper. Are you all right? I'm fine, Renee said.
Write everything down," she hung up. They walked her to a holding cell at 11:04 p.m. The door was metal painted gray over older paint of a different gray. It clanged shut with the particular resonance of things designed to be final. She sat on the metal bench along the wall, backstraight, feet flat on the floor, hands folded in her lap over her aching wrists.
The fluorescent light above her flickered once twice, then held. At 11:17 p.m., she heard a new voice in the booking area. Male, clipped, impatient. Where is she? A pause.
Then the booking officer's voice lower answering. T holding cell three. Good footsteps. Then quieter, but still audible through the cell blocks thin walls. Process her quickly.