Jennifer nearly laughed.
“The manager who called police because I was sitting here?”
Bartlett guided her toward the door.
The cuffs pulled against her wrists.
Customers moved aside.
Phones followed.
A woman near the entrance said:
“This is insane.”
Another said:
“She showed you a badge.”
Bartlett ignored everyone.
Outside, cold March rain had turned into a fine mist.
The patrol car sat at the curb.
Jennifer saw Bartlett’s body camera.
Saw the patrol vehicle.
Saw storefront cameras.
Traffic cameras.
Cell phones.
Evidence.
She shifted into the mental mode that had carried her through hostile interviews.
Remember everything.
8:29 approximately.
Officer Bartlett.
Seattle Police Department.
Cuff pressure.
No warning from manager before police contact.
Credentials displayed.
Verification requested.
Verification refused.
Witnesses.
Multiple cameras.
At the patrol car, Jennifer stopped before entering.
“Officer Bartlett.”
“What?”
“I want your badge number and the name of your supervisor.”
“You’ll get it at the station.”
“You are arresting a federal agent without verifying her credentials.”
“Get in.”
“You have been warned.”
Bartlett opened the door.
Jennifer looked directly at him.
“This will end very badly for you.”
He interpreted the sentence as arrogance.
Later, he would say it sounded like a threat.
Jennifer intended it as prediction.
She got into the back seat.
The door closed.
Through the rain-streaked window, she could see people gathering outside Peak Street.
One woman still held her phone high.
Dylan stood inside near the register.
For the first time, his face did not look confident.
The drive took twelve minutes.
Jennifer used every one.
She reconstructed the encounter chronologically.
She flexed her fingers as much as the cuffs allowed.
Tingling had started along the edge of her left hand.
Bartlett said nothing.
At one red light, he looked at her through the rearview mirror.
Jennifer looked back.
Neither spoke.
At the precinct, Bartlett opened the rear door and escorted her inside.
The front desk sergeant, Martin Ellis, looked up from a computer.
“Bartlett, what do you have?”
“Trespassing arrest.”
Jennifer scanned the room.
Cameras.
Officers.
Civilian staff.
Another controlled environment full of potential evidence.
Bartlett continued.
“Subject refused to leave a private business and resisted lawful orders.”
Sergeant Ellis looked at Jennifer.
Professional clothes.
No obvious intoxication.
No agitation.
Hands cuffed tightly behind her.
“Name?”
Before Bartlett answered, Jennifer did.
“Special Agent Jennifer Monroe, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Ellis’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
Bartlett said:
“She claims.”
Jennifer looked at him.
“You have my credentials in your pocket.”
Ellis turned.