She hesitated.
"Some recordings were missing."
I looked toward her.
"Which recordings?"
She swallowed.
"The ones from the raid."
For several seconds, I said nothing.
Then asked, "How do you know they were there?"
"Because I recorded them."
She leaned forward.
"And because one of the officers watched me do it."
I made a note.
Elena continued.
"He took my phone out of my hand. Said I was interfering."
"Do you remember which officer?"
She nodded.
"Blond. Tall. Young-looking. Maybe thirty-five."
I looked at her.
"Anything distinctive?"
She thought.
"Neat haircut. Blue eyes. He smiled when he was angry."
I wrote that down.
At the time, I did not know whether the officer was Evan Rourke.
I would learn soon enough.
Elena continued.
"My father kept saying we had receipts for the money."
Her voice trembled.
"They didn't care."
I looked up.
"Where is your father now?"
"At home."
"Has he been charged?"
"The charges were dropped."
"What happened to the business?"
She looked down.
For the first time during the interview, her expression crumpled.
"We're trying to keep it open."
She swallowed.
"The bank froze our credit line after the arrest. Customers stopped coming. We had to let six people go."
Her voice broke.
"My father worked thirty-five years to build that place."
She wiped her eyes.
"And now everybody talks about it like we did something wrong."
I leaned forward.
"Elena, I need you to tell me everything you remember."
She nodded.
I continued.
"Even details that seem unimportant."
She took a breath.
Then began describing the night.
The officers entering.
Her father being handcuffed.
The mechanic kneeling beside a toolbox.
The cash count.
The two evidence bags.
The officer who removed her phone.
And the supervisor who arrived near the end of the search wearing a heavy dark coat over his uniform.
I asked her to describe him.
She hesitated.
"Older white man. Maybe fifty-five. Gray hair. Very calm."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Only once."
"What did he say?"
Elena looked directly at me.
"He told me I should consider whether protecting my father's business was more important than proving a point."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"Do you remember his name?"
She nodded.
I looked at my notes.
Deputy Chief Harold Mercer.
A senior commander overseeing several precincts.
An officer with almost three decades of service.
A man whose official biography described his commitment to transparency, professional standards, and community trust.
Elena watched my expression.
"You know him?"
"I know who he is."
She nodded slowly.
Then opened the final section of her folder.
Inside was a small photograph of her son.
A smiling seven-year-old boy wearing a red sweater, standing beside a school science project.