Emma memorized every word. She memorized the route he took, noting that he deliberately bypassed the standard booking entrance, instead pulling into a secluded alleyway behind the precinct used for trash collection. This wasn't standard operating procedure. This was a man who operated entirely in the shadows.
Travis dragged her out of the car by her upper arm. "Move it," he grunted, pushing her toward the heavy steel door. They stepped into the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights of the District 9 precinct. The air smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and sweat.
It was 2:00 a.m., but the night shift was active. Several officers were lounging around desks, laughing at a video on a computer screen. When Travis walked in with a soaking wet handcuffed Emma, a few of them looked up.
"Look what the cat dragged in," called out Officer Ray Mitchell, a burly man with a thick mustache. "Good catch, Holt. What did she do?" "Caught her riding dirty on Route 114," Travis boasted loudly, parading Emma toward the booking desk.
"Two ounces of snow in the trunk. Thought she was smart. Never smart enough for the Oak Haven PD." Desk Sergeant Greg Harrison chuckled from behind the high counter.
Harrison was a veteran, a man with a bloated face and eyes that had seen decades of corruption and actively chose to ignore it. He didn't even look at Emma as a human being. He looked at her like paperwork.
"Name?" Harrison asked, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. "Emma Grace," she replied quietly. "Speak up," Harrison barked.
"Emma, Grace, address." "I don't have a permanent address in Oak Haven yet. I'm staying at the Marriott downtown." Travis scoffed.
"Probably dealing out of the hotel. Put her down as a flight risk, Greg." "Already on it," Harrison said, typing lazily.
"Empty your pockets. Take off the shoelaces. You know the drill." Emma was uncuffed just long enough to surrender her personal items.
She placed her phone, her keys, and her wallet on the counter. Travis snatched the wallet. "Let's see how much cash you're carrying," Travis said, pulling out her bills. "300 bucks. Probably drug money. We're seizing this under civil asset forfeiture."
Emma's eyes narrowed. "That is my personal money. Furthermore, I have a right to a phone call." "You'll get a call when we feel like giving you a call," Harrison said without looking up.
"Holt, take her back to cell 3. It's the cold one. Let her chill out for a few hours. I'll process this evidence."
Travis grabbed her arm again, resecuring the handcuffs. As he led her down the narrow, sterile corridor toward the holding cells, Emma took careful note of the environment. The security cameras in the hallway had their red lights off, either unplugged or broken. The protocol sheet on the wall was five years out of date.