"Orders do not erase judgment," Nyla answered. "You observed the scene. You know we were not fighting. You saw the documents. Whatever happens at the station, you still have choices."
Walsh wanted to respond angrily. Instead he stared through the windshield. He remembered his first shift with Maddox, years earlier, when he had watched an officer shove a teenager against a fence because the boy laughed at a joke somebody else had made. Walsh had been uncomfortable then. Maddox had told him that hesitation got police killed. Walsh had learned to conceal discomfort until he no longer noticed it reliably.
From the rear seat, Dominic spoke again, his tone unchanged. "Ask your dispatcher to notify a supervisor that we have asserted federal credentials. Preserve the vehicle and body-camera recordings. Do not change the stop description after the fact."
"You threatening me?"
"I'm telling you how to avoid making a bad day much worse."
At the station, the sallyport gate rattled open. Walsh drove inside, waited for the outer door to close, and turned off the engine. The concrete enclosure trapped engine heat. He looked at the two prisoners in the mirror and seemed unable to find a way to meet their eyes.
Maddox's cruiser was already parked beyond the inner gate. He had taken a different route and arrived first, precisely so he could explain the arrest before anyone else had a chance.
Dominic watched the building's security camera rotate over the doorway.
"Nyla," he said quietly, "remember every person who offers to verify and every person who refuses."
She gave a faint, humorless smile. "I'm already keeping score."
The interior door opened. Deputy Ellis stood on the other side, looking as though he had been standing there for an hour.
"Come on," Walsh said, unlocking the rear doors. "Both of you."
Dominic stepped into the station's dim fluorescent light. He could smell stale coffee, industrial cleaner, and paper. The room ahead contained four desks, a booking counter, a row of mismatched chairs, and men and women who had not yet learned they were about to become witnesses to an important federal case.
Sergeant Elias Nash had been counting property tags when Maddox burst into the booking area. Nash was sixty, close to retirement, and had spent years developing the expression of a man too tired to be surprised by anything. That expression failed as Maddox began describing the stop.
"Professional traffickers," Maddox said. "Out-of-state rental, loaded gun, fake federal badges. They're probably using the IDs to get through checkpoints. I want them separated and processed."
Nash removed his reading glasses. "What makes the IDs fake?"
"They're too good."
"That's not an answer."