"Yes, sir," I said, keeping my boots flat on the concrete.
"Mr. Pendergast logged an incoming complaint regarding an improper roadside seizure of private agricultural funds on Route 9," Reid said. He didn't look at Miller; he kept his eyes on me, his tone carrying the sterile weight of an official interview. "Are you prepared to make a formal evidentiary surrender of the recording hardware installed in your vehicle to federal authorities under Title 18, Section 242?"
"I am," I told him.
"You understand that once this chain of custody is established, the media storage unit cannot be returned to your possession until the conclusion of grand jury proceedings?"
"Take it," I said. "My boy built it so it wouldn't lie. That's what it's for."
Reid nodded once, turned to the open tailgate of my truck, and unscrewed the secondary mounting bracket that held David's aluminum junction box to the chassis frame. He didn't rush. He slipped an orange evidence sleeve over the aluminum housing, threaded a serialized steel aircraft cable through the four corner eyelets, and squeezed the lead seal shut with a heavy hand crimper.
Across the fence, Miller’s face tightened. He took half a step forward, his boot sole scuffing the yellow paint. "That's township property being removed from a suspect vehicle, Reid. We have prior claim on the proceeds of a municipal infraction."
Reid turned slowly, his face expressionless under the sodium vapor lights. "Deputy, you have approximately twelve seconds to get back behind the wheel of your cruiser before I ask the state trooper behind me to take your duty belt for impeding a federal civil rights inquiry. If you think the Mercer County magistrate can shield you from a federal obstruction charge, you should call your union representative right now and ask him what the retainers run in district court."
Miller stared at Reid for five long seconds. The wind rattled the loose links of the perimeter fence, carrying the smell of wet limestone and diesel exhaust. Finally, Miller spat onto the dirt, turned on his heel, and walked back to his cruiser. He didn't leave, but he killed the spotlight and slid behind the steering wheel, his cabin remaining dark against the trees.
"Come inside, Walter," Pendergast said, placing a hand against my good shoulder to steady me as we crossed the apron. "Let's put your arm in a sling and run the numbers before their dispatch realizes what's sitting on that drive."
Inside the small scale office, the heat from the baseboard radiator smelled of burned dust. Reid cleared the paperwork from the center desk, plugged the sealed reader directly into an encrypted satellite transmitter, and began running the digital verification hash.
On the secondary monitor, the playback began to loop. It wasn't just the two minutes on the shoulder. Because David had set the system to buffer continuous four-hour cycles on the auxiliary battery, the file had captured the half-hour before the stop as well.
The screen showed the rear view through my back window as I pulled out of the First National Bank branch in Mercer at 4:18 PM.
Pendergast leaned closer to the monitor, his glasses pushed up onto his forehead. "Slow that frame down, Reid. Right at the intersection of Market and Pine."
Reid tapped the keyboard. The image paused, then stepped forward frame by frame.
Parked in the loading zone directly opposite the bank’s side entrance was a gray unmarked municipal sedan. On the driver side, leaning against the fender with a paper coffee cup in his hand, was Mercer Township Supervisor Harold Miller—Lyle Miller’s uncle. On the screen, Harold Miller pulled an old-style two-way radio from his belt, keyed the side button, and looked directly across the street at my truck as I turned onto Route 9.
"That's how they knew," I said, the words coming out rough. "Harold saw me walk out with the teller envelope. He knew I cleared the timber sale check this morning."
"It wasn't a random patrol stop," Reid said, his pen moving across his yellow pad with steady, rhythmic scratching. "It was targeted interception. Harold Miller sits on the township finance board. The township ran a four-hundred-thousand-dollar deficit on the sewer expansion project last year, and the state comptroller froze their municipal credit line in June. They’ve been using asset forfeiture along the county artery to meet payroll for three months."
Reid hit another key, bringing up the audio stream from the moment Vance had shoved me against the cruiser's hood.
The computer speakers crackled with the dry wind of the shoulder, then Vance’s voice cut through the room:
"You carrying drug money through our township, Mr. Vance?"