"Justice Whitaker," Chief Cross said, his voice thick with a mixture of profound apology and suppressed rage. "Sir, I... there are no words. I am so deeply sorry."
Elias looked up at the chief, his expression remaining unreadable. "Good evening, Chief Cross. I wish the circumstances of our reunion were more favorable, though I suppose they are highly illuminating."
"Captain Ford, get those cuffs off him right this second," Cross bellowed, turning his head but keeping his eyes on Elias. "And get a medical kit now."
Captain Ford scrambled forward, his hands shaking as he produced a small universal handcuff key. He leaned into the cruiser, apologizing profusely under his breath as he carefully unlocked the restraints. The heavy metal clicked and fell away.
Elias brought his arms forward slowly, wincing as the blood rushed back into his hands. Deep, angry red indents circled his wrists, the skin scraped raw where Langford had squeezed the ratchets too tightly.
"Sir, do you need an ambulance? We can have paramedics here in moments," Captain Ford offered, hovering anxiously.
"That will not be necessary, Captain," Elias replied, rubbing his wrists gently. He slowly stepped out of the claustrophobic confines of the cruiser, standing tall in the cool night air. He smoothed the front of his tailored suit, restoring his dignity with a few sharp, precise movements.
"But I do require you to retrieve a camera from your vehicle and document these lacerations immediately. They are evidence of battery under color of law."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," Ford said, practically sprinting back to his SUV to retrieve an evidence camera.
Chief Cross stood before the justice, looking like a man watching his entire career burn to the ground. "Justice Whitaker, I assure you this is not reflective of the Fairhaven Police Department. We will handle this internally with the utmost severity."
Elias stopped rubbing his wrists and fixed Cross with a stare that could freeze boiling water. "Vincent, you and I both know that this is exactly reflective of a specific rot within your department. It is a rot I have read about in appellate briefs, a rot that civil-rights attorneys have complained about in my chambers for years. Tonight, I did not read about it in a file. I experienced it. And let me assure you, there will be nothing internal about how this is handled."
While Captain Ford photographed Elias's bruised wrists under the harsh glare of the cruiser's headlights, Chief Cross finally turned his attention to the front seat of the squad car. Bryce Langford was still sitting behind the wheel, staring straight ahead, his chest heaving with shallow, panicked breaths. He looked like a man standing on the gallows, listening to the lever being pulled.
"Langford," Cross's voice was dangerously quiet, a stark contrast to his earlier shouting. It was the tone of a man who had moved past anger into absolute, clinical execution. "Get out of the car."
Langford fumbled with the door handle, his legs feeling like lead as he stepped out onto the gravel. He could not meet the chief's eyes. He stared at the brass buttons on Cross's uniform jacket.
"Chief, I did not know," Langford pleaded, his voice a pathetic, high-pitched whine. "He was driving through the north side. I thought I was just being proactive. I was protecting the neighborhood. I did not know who he was."