Harlan shoved Dez toward the cruiser. This time, Dez allowed himself to be moved.
He had seen the neighbor across the street. He saw another neighbor, a teenager two houses down, holding up an iPhone.
The audience was assembling.
Dez ducked his head, a reflex of habit, and slid into the cramped back seat of the cruiser. The hard plastic seat was uncomfortable, smelling of stale vomit and industrial cleaner.
Harlan slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood.
As Harlan stomped around to the driver's seat, Dez shifted his weight. His hands were numb, but his mind was racing.
He needed to make a call, but his phone was in his front pocket, currently inaccessible.
Harlan got in the front, breathing heavily. He keyed the radio.
"Dispatch, I have one in custody, uncooperative. Transporting to station for processing.
Possible forgery and possession of forged government documents."
Dez closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. Forged government documents.
The kid had no idea.
The cruiser pulled away, leaving the Charger abandoned in the driveway with the tools still laid out.
As they drove, Harlan kept glancing in the rearview mirror, trying to catch Dez looking fearful. He wanted to see the panic setting in.
"You know," Harlan said, his eyes meeting Dez's in the mirror, "we get guys like you all the time. Think you can move into a nice town, flash some cash, and do whatever you want.
We check everyone here. Keeps the riffraff out."
"Is that what I am?" Dez asked.
"Riffraff?"
"You don't belong here, Kane. I don't care what the deed says.
I know a drug dealer's front when I see one."
Dez actually laughed. It was a dry, sharp sound.
"Drug dealer? That's the box you put me in?"
"Where else does a guy like you get the cash for a place like that? Rap music?
Basketball?" Harlan smirked.
"I'm going to tear that truck of yours apart. I guarantee I find something.
A roach, an unregistered piece, something."
"Officer Harlan," Dez said, reading the nameplate on the dashboard, "I served 22 years in the United States military. I trained the men who killed terrorists you haven't even heard of.
The money for that house came from a settlement after an IED took the hearing in my right ear and half the sensation in my left leg."
"If you tear my truck apart, the only thing you're going to find is a tire iron and a copy of the Constitution, which you clearly haven't read."
Harlan slammed on the brakes at a stop sign, the sudden jolt throwing Dez forward against the cage.
"Shut up!" Harlan yelled.
"Not another word!"
"Just remember," Dez whispered, his voice dangerously low, "you started this."
They arrived at the precinct minutes later. It was a squat brick building that looked like it hadn't been renovated since the '70s.
Harlan dragged Dez out of the car and marched him through the back entrance. The booking area was busy.
A few other officers looked up.
"What you got, Royce?" asked the desk sergeant, a heavy-set man named Marcus Kowalski. Kowalski was eating a sandwich, crumbs dusting his uniform.