Aaron repeated softly. Care to elaborate on what you mean by that, officer? Brandon's face flushed with rage. That's it. Put your hands behind your back.
You're going in. On what charge? Aaron asked, not resisting as Brandon yanked his left arm behind his back. Failure to comply, resisting arrest, suspicion of prowling. Take your pick, buddy.
We'll figure it out when we get to the precinct. The cold steel of the handcuffs clicked shut, biting mercilessly into the wrists of Aaron Miles. Brandon tightened them an extra notch, ensuring the metal dug painfully into Aaron's skin. It was a petty, vindictive tactic meant to cause physical pain without leaving major bruising. You are making a profound mistake, Officer Brandon.
Aaron said quietly. One that you will not be able to undo. Brandon laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. Save it for the public defender, pal. Brandon grabbed Aaron by the collar of his hoodie and shoved him toward the rear of the patrol cruiser.
Aaron stumbled, but caught his balance, refusing to let the officer see him fall. He ducked his head and slid into the cramped, hard plastic back seat of the police car. The air inside smelled of stale sweat, cheap institutional cleaner, and the lingering despair of a thousand prior arrests. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing Aaron inside the cage. Brandon climbed into the driver's seat, panting slightly from the adrenaline of the exertion.
He looked at Aaron through the thick Plexiglas partition in the rearview mirror. "Comfortable back there, Aaron? " Brandon mocked. Mitchell slid into the passenger seat, his face pale. He looked sick to his stomach. He didn't look back at Aaron.
Instead, he stared straight ahead at the rain pounding against the windshield. "You didn't read me my Miranda rights. " Aaron stated from the darkness of the back seat. "I don't have to unless I'm interrogating you. " Brandon fired back, putting the cruiser into drive. "Looks like you've been through the system before, knowing all the buzzwords. Don't worry, we'll give you plenty of time to talk at the station. " Aaron leaned back against the hard plastic, the cuffs digging painfully into his spine.
"I would like to make a phone call. " "You get a phone call when you're booked in the system. Sit back and enjoy the ride. " Brandon keyed his radio. "Dispatch, car 44. Show me en route to the fourth precinct with one adult male in custody. " "Copy 44. " Dispatcher Brenda's tired voice crackled over the radio. "Need a tow for the vehicle?
Brandon glanced in his rearview mirror at the Taurus. Negative, dispatch. Leave it on the curb. City impound can grab it tomorrow. The cruiser accelerated away from Cedar Ridge, the flashing lights casting eerie shadows across the wet trees.
Aaron Miles sat in the dark, feeling the vibrations of the road beneath him. He wasn't thinking about the pain in his wrists or the humiliation of being pressed against the hood of a car. He was thinking about the fourth precinct. He knew the commander of the fourth precinct well. Captain Alaric Patterson was an old-school cop, but he was a fair man.
Aaron had met with Alaric extensively during the transition period. Aaron also knew the city's police chief, Robert Hayes, was currently asleep in his bed across town. Aaron made a promise to himself in the back of that cruiser. He was going to let Brandon carry this charade all the way to the end. He was going to let Brandon walk him into the bullpen, parade him past the desk sergeant, and put him in a holding cell.
He was going to let the officer dig his own grave so deep that no union lawyer, no fraternal order, and no corrupt arbitration board could ever pull him out. The cruiser turned off the highway and pulled into the gritty industrial zone of the East Side. Up ahead, the glowing blue lights of the fourth precinct station house cut through the fog. The building was a brutalist concrete structure, intimidating and uninviting. Brandon steered the cruiser down the ramp and into the secure underground sally port.
The heavy steel garage doors rolled down behind them with a loud, final crash, locking them in. Brandon threw the car in park and turned off the engine. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to look through the plexiglass at Aaron. End of the line, Aaron. Brandon sneered, grabbing his clipboard.
Welcome to my house. Aaron looked back at him, his eyes calm, dark, and utterly unbothered. Lead the way, officer. Aaron replied. Brandon opened the rear door, grabbed Aaron by the arm, and yanked him out into the harsh fluorescent light of the garage.
Mitchell followed silently behind them, his head down. As they walked toward the heavy steel doors leading to the booking area, Aaron prepared himself for the performance of a lifetime. The stage was set, and the curtain was about to rise on Officer Thiago Brandon's final act as a police officer. The heavy steel doors of the Fourth Precinct swung open, and the overwhelming scent of industrial bleach, stale coffee, and unwashed bodies hit Aaron Miles like a physical wall. The bullpen was a chaotic theater of municipal despair. telephones rang incessantly, their shrill tones cutting through the cacophony of shouting suspects, clicking keyboards, and the static hiss of police radios.
Under the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights, the peeling seafoam green paint of the walls looked sickly, reflecting decades of wear and tear. Officer Thiago Brandon gripped Aaron's bicep tightly, marching him past a line of battered metal desks where exhausted detectives typed up reports with two fingers. Aaron's hands were still locked tightly behind his back, the metal cuffs digging a red, raw ring into his skin, but his posture remained perfectly straight. He walked with a quiet, deliberate dignity that seemed entirely out of place in the grim surroundings. Officer Evan Mitchell trailed a few paces behind, his eyes darting around the room.
The young rookie felt a knot tightening in his stomach that he couldn't quite explain. Most suspects brought in on resisting arrest or prowling charges were belligerent, loud, or visibly terrified. The man in the gray hoodie was none of those things. Instead, he was observing the room with the analytical eye of a building inspector, taking in the locations of the security cameras, the layout of the desks, and the faces of the personnel. Brandon shoved Aaron toward the high, elevated counter of the booking desk.
Sitting behind the reinforced glass was desk sergeant Gregory Gable, a 30-year veteran with a graying mustache, heavy bags under his eyes, and the exhausted demeanor of a man who had seen every flavor of human stupidity. Got a live one for you, Greg. Brandon announced loudly, slapping his clipboard down on the counter. He wanted the rest of the room to hear him. It was a performance.
Sergeant Gable didn't look up from his computer monitor right away. He finished typing a sentence, hit enter with a heavy sigh, and finally peered down through the scratched Plexiglas at Aaron. What's the charge, Brandon? Gable asked, his voice a gravelly monotone. Take your pick.
Brandon smirked, leaning against the counter. Failure to comply with a lawful order, resisting arrest, suspicion of prowling in Cedar Ridge. Guy was creeping around Elmwood Drive in a beat-up Ford looking at houses, refused to step out of his vehicle when ordered. Gable reached out a thick, calloused hand. ID Brandon fished Aaron's driver's license out of his uniform pocket and tossed it into the metal tray beneath the glass.
Gable picked it up, adjusting his reading glasses. Aaron Miles, Gable read aloud. The name barely registering in his fatigued brain. To a desk sergeant working the graveyard shift, names were just data points to be fed into the machine. Address on the south side.
You're a long way from home, Mr. Miles. I was driving on public roads, Sergeant. Aaron replied, his voice calm and carrying a natural, unforced authority. I complied with every command given to me.