I brought the cart to a smooth halt, engaging the manual wheel brake with the toe of my shoe.
“Good morning, Officer Miller,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly even and professional.
“You can’t take that cart through here,” he declared, resting his right hand casually near his utility belt.
“The east elevator is currently out of service,” I explained gently.
“I am authorized to use the secondary route to deliver these materials to Judge Sullivan’s chambers.”
“Not today, you aren’t,” Miller replied, taking a slow step closer.
He pointed his thumb aggressively back toward the elevators.
“Turn it around and take it back to the basement.”
I did not move.
I noticed that the small, square light on Miller’s shoulder-mounted radio was completely unlit.
He was entirely disconnected from the central dispatch network.
“I cannot do that, Officer,” I told him respectfully.
“This is a scheduled, secure delivery. If you have concerns, I suggest you contact Judge Sullivan’s clerk directly.”
Miller’s jaw tightened.
He closed the remaining distance between us, grabbing the heavy metal handle of the cart just inches from my own hands.
“Please take your hands off my cart,” I said firmly, locking my eyes onto his.
“You don’t give the orders here, old man,” Miller warned, his voice dropping into a harsh, threatening whisper.
He leaned in, and I could smell the stale scent of peppermint gum on his breath.
“I’m telling you to walk away from this cart right now, or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing security.”
“I suggest you verify my credentials and check the manifest before you make a severe professional mistake,” I advised him.
Instead of backing down, Miller reached down and clamped his hand violently over the thick steel handle of Box 814.
He gave it a vicious tug, testing the lock.
He wasn't doing a security check.
He was trying to figure out how to take the box.
He unclipped the heavy black baton from his belt, letting it hang loosely in his hand as he stepped around the side of the cart, forcing me backward into a shallow, blind alcove near the restrooms.
“I’m not asking for the box, Harris,” Miller whispered, his eyes scanning the empty hallway to make sure we were completely alone.
“I’m taking it. And if you make a single sound, I’ll tell the marshals you reached for my service weapon.”
The cold marble wall pressed uncomfortably against my shoulder blades as Miller forced me deeper into the recessed alcove.
I kept my hands visibly wrapped around the handle of my cart, refusing to surrender the physical connection to the evidence.
“You are making a terrible mistake, Officer Miller,” I said, keeping my voice low and steady.
“Shut your mouth,” he hissed, stepping so close that his tactical vest brushed against my gray uniform shirt.
He grabbed the front of my cart and violently shoved it forward.
The heavy brass wheels squealed against the polished floor.
He wasn't just pushing me into the alcove; he was steering the cart directly toward the heavy wooden door of Witness Holding Room B, which sat perfectly hidden in the shadow of the hallway’s blind spot.
He kicked the door open, grabbed my shoulder, and shoved me inside.
I stumbled over the threshold, barely keeping my footing as I dragged the cart in with me.
The holding room was small, windowless, and illuminated by a single, buzzing fluorescent tube that cast a sickly green tint over the cinderblock walls.
Miller stepped inside and immediately pulled the heavy door shut until the deadbolt clicked into place.
We were completely isolated from the rest of the building.
My breathing grew shallow, but I forced myself to stand tall, gripping the cart tightly as I assessed the tiny room.