He didn't have the twitchy adrenaline-fueled panic of a criminal. He was perfectly still exuding a quiet, terrifying patience. Reed, move. Mitchell barked, pulling David's arms back and holding them in a painful grip. Reed quickly ducked into the driver's side of the Audi.
He opened the center console and retrieved a worn, dark brown leather wallet. He hurried back around the front of the car, flipping the wallet open. I got it. Reed said, pulling out the New York State driver's license. He looked at the name, then at the photo, then at the man pinned against the car.
Name is David L. Thompson. Address is out in Westlake. Mitchell scoffed again. Westlake was an affluent area, but not quite Oakridge Estates. Westlake, huh?
That's a long way from here, David. What, the pickings weren't good enough in your own neighborhood? David didn't answer. He was carefully memorizing Mitchell's badge number, his nameplate, the unit number on the cruiser, and the exact timestamp on the Audi's dashboard clock. He was building a mental docket.
Run him. Mitchell ordered, maintaining his grip on David's wrists. Run for wants and warrants. See if our guy has a parole officer he forgot to mention. Reed unclipped the microphone attached to his shoulder epaulette.
He depressed the button, the radio emitting a sharp static click. Dispatch, this is Unit Four Bravo, requesting a 10-29 on a David L. Thompson. Date of birth, August 14th, 1969. New York license number. Reed rattled off the alphanumeric sequence.
Copy that. Four Bravo. Stand by. The female dispatcher's voice crackled back through the speaker. For two agonizing minutes, the street was filled only with the sound of Chloe's frantic crying and the harsh, heavy breathing of Officer Mitchell.
David remained perfectly still against the car. He wasn't just angry anymore. He was deeply sorrowful. He thought of all the young men who stood in his courtroom, men who didn't know the law, men who panicked in situations exactly like this, and men who ended up dead or incarcerated because of officers just like Brian Mitchell. The radio crackled back to life, but it wasn't the standard automated rundown of a clean record.
The dispatcher's voice had dropped its usual monotone cadence. She sounded tense, urgent. Four Bravo, this is dispatch. Confirming that name. Did you say David L. Thompson?
Middle initial? Reed frowned, looking at the license again. Affirmative, dispatch. Middle name Lawrence. Why, what do we have?
There was a five-second pause. When the dispatcher spoke again, her voice carried a clear, frantic warning. Unit four, Bravo, be advised. You need to immediately verify the individual's identity. The information attached to that driver's license flags the individual as a high-level county official.
That is the Honorable David L. Thompson. He is the presiding chief judge of the county family court and a sitting superior court magistrate. The words echoed out of the radio speaker attached to Reed's chest. They hung in the crisp autumn air like a physical weight. Sitting superior court magistrate.
For a second, the universe seemed to stop spinning. The wind died down. Even Chloe's crying seemed to momentarily fade into the background. Officer Mitchell's hands, which had been gripping David's wrists with the force of iron vices, suddenly went limp. It was as if he had grabbed a live power line and the shock had paralyzed his motor functions.
He stumbled backward, his polarized sunglasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. Officer Reed looked like he was going to vomit. The blood drained from the rookie's face so fast, he looked practically translucent. He looked down at the driver's license in his trembling hand, staring at the small printed photo of the man they had just manhandled. Slowly, deliberately, David Thompson pushed himself off the side of the Audi.
He didn't rush. He didn't make any sudden movements. He casually reached up and adjusted the collar of his faded Georgetown hoodie. He dusted off the sleeves. Then he turned around to face the two officers.
The transformation was absolute. He was still wearing sweatpants and sneakers, but the aura radiating from him was pure, unadulterated authority. He stood up to his full 6-foot-2 height, his shoulders squared, his dark eyes locking onto Mitchell with the kind of intense piercing judgment that had made hardened defense attorneys stutter in his courtroom. Officer Mitchell, David said. His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be. It cut through the silence like a scalpel. My wrists are free. Am I still being detained? Mitchell opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing erratically. He looked at David, then down at his own hands, realizing the monumental career-ending magnitude of what he had just done. He had just assaulted, falsely detained, and racially profiled the highest-ranking judge in the district, a man who had the ear of the mayor, the chief of police, and the district attorney. No, sir. Mitchell finally stammered, his tough-guy facade shattering into a million pathetic pieces.
No, Your Honor. There has been a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding? David repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue, slowly tasting the absurdity of it. He took a slow, measured step toward Mitchell.