Cleary turned around slowly, his chest expanding as he took two heavy steps toward the intake bench. "Did anyone give you permission to open your mouth?"
"Deputy Miller asked an administrative question regarding the charging basis," I replied, holding Cleary’s glare without blinking. "Under Title Twelve of the Vermont State Criminal Procedure Code, an arresting officer must state the specific mechanical calibration log number and radar lock reading on the initial intake docket prior to booking."
Miller’s face went slightly pale. He looked down at the computerized booking terminal, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Boyd, the state portal requires the unit serial number and the Doppler lock timestamp for any charge over ten miles an hour."
"Then type in the lock from Car Three," Cleary snapped, waving his hand dismissively. "Write what I told you to write. She’s an outside agitator passing through to Burlington with an attitude problem. We’ll let her sit in Cell Two until she remembers how to address a sworn officer."
"Deputy Miller," I said, pitching my voice to carry over the rattling fan of the air conditioner. "Look at the terminal’s automated dispatch sync. The time stamp on Sheriff Cleary’s radio call requesting my license check was 2:11 PM. If he clocked my vehicle at fifty-eight miles per hour at Mile Forty, the transit time between that billboard and the stop location at Mile Thirty-Nine means the radar lock had to occur at 2:07 PM. But your CAD system logs the active Doppler ping from Car Three as idle between 1:45 PM and 2:15 PM."
Miller froze. He looked at the bottom corner of his monitor, where a green line of real-time telemetry pulsed beside the patrol unit’s identifier.
"Shut your mouth," Cleary barked, stepping directly into my space. The smell of cheap aftershave and stale coffee washed over my face. He leaned down until his nose was four inches from mine. "You think you’re in a courtroom in Washington, lady? You’re in Oak Haven. Out here, what goes on that screen is what I say goes on that screen. You don't have an audience. You don't have a stenographer. And you don't have a defense."
He reached out, grabbed my chin in his thumb and forefinger, and twisted my face toward the wall. "Now take your shoes off and face the cinderblock."
I did not flinch, and I did not pull back. I held myself rigid until he released his grip, his thick fingers leaving an oily smear against my jawline.
"Deputy Miller," I said, keeping my gaze locked straight ahead on the grease-stained wall. "I am requesting my statutory phone call under Title Thirteen, Section 5551. I am requesting an itemized property seizure receipt for the government-issued hardware currently sitting on your counter. And I am advising you, on official record, that the failure to log that hardware constitutes a federal breach of custody under Title 18 of the United States Code."
Cleary let out another harsh laugh, but it was shorter this time, clipped at the edges by the uneasy silence from his deputy.
"She thinks she's a lawyer, Toby," Cleary mocked, walking back over to the counter. He picked up the satellite transceiver and shoved it into the bottom drawer of his personal metal desk, slamming the drawer shut with his hip. "Property stays right there until Monday. No calls until she’s printed, mugged, and cleared by the state magistrate."
"Boyd," Miller whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at the screen. "Look at the terminal. The automated ping on Car Three's radar isn't showing a lock. It's showing an error code. It says the front antenna hasn't been calibrated since last November."
Cleary didn't look at the screen. He reached across the desk, tapped the power switch on Miller's monitor, and plunged the display into blackness.
"The computer's down," Cleary said, his voice dropping into a hard, dangerous register. "Write it on the manual clipboard. And put her in the back."
At that moment, the red digital clock on the wall shifted to 2:24 PM.
Fifteen minutes had passed.
The passive handshake between the transceiver in Cleary's bottom drawer and the Northern Command ground station in Colorado had officially failed.
I looked down at the cuff chain biting into my skin, then up at the locked steel door leading to the holding cells. There would be no citation written in good faith, no polite clarification of an administrative error, and no appeal to Cleary’s sense of duty. The man had already stepped across the line into deliberate falsification, and he intended to use the four walls of his small county house to hide the crime.
Waiting for him to realize his mistake was no longer an option. Silence would only let him bury the record until the evidence was cold and the device was dismantled.
"Give me the telephone, Deputy," I said, and this time, the quiet weight in my voice made Miller take a step back from his own counter. "Because in five minutes, you won't be taking orders from Sheriff Cleary."
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED