Ryker understood that before anyone else in his office seemed to.
At 7:40 Monday morning, he called Brenda Lawson into his office.
She sat in the chair opposite his desk.
He closed the door.
“You talk to anybody about Friday?”
“State police?”
“Federal people?”
“Media?”
Ryker studied her.
Brenda had worked in Oak Haven longer than he had. Her husband had been a volunteer firefighter until his death seven years earlier. She knew every road, every deputy family, every local judge’s temperament, and exactly which county commissioners returned calls only when elections approached.
Ryker had once described her as “the wiring inside the walls.”
Now he distrusted her because she had heard too much.
“The call from Washington,” he said. “What exactly did you tell them before I got on?”
“That you had a Sarah Reynolds in custody.”
“You tell them charges?”
“You tell them she asked for a lawyer?”
He leaned back.
“Did she ask you for anything?”
“Did she make some kind of statement?”
“Not to me.”
Ryker drummed two fingers on the desk.
Brenda waited.
Finally he said, “Body-camera upload had a corruption error.”
Her face remained still.
“Whose?”
“Miller’s.”
“Whole file?”
“Part.”
“What part?”
Ryker looked at her carefully.
“The roadside segment.”
Brenda knew this was false.
She had seen the file duration.
“Backup?”
“We’re checking.”
She nodded.
“Anything federal comes in, it comes to me first.”
“Policy says legal requests get logged.”
“Log them. Then bring them to me.”
“All right.”
“And Brenda?”
She stood.
“Yes?”
“You’ve been here long enough to know outsiders don’t care what happens to this department after they’re done making a point.”
Brenda held his gaze.
“Neither do people inside it sometimes.”
Ryker’s expression flattened.
Brenda opened the door.
Behind her, he said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She looked back.
“Means I’ll log the requests.”
Then she left.
At 9:12, Sarah joined a secure video conference from Fort Stewart.
She wore uniform for the first time since the arrest.
Three stars sat on each shoulder.
The sight of them in the monitor irritated her.
Not because she was ashamed of the rank.
Because she knew how quickly visible authority changed the behavior of people who had treated her differently without it.
Lieutenant Colonel Shaw appeared on one screen from Washington.
Colonel Hart occupied another.
A civilian Department of Defense attorney named Marcus Bell joined from the Office of General Counsel.
Bell was careful and precise, with the permanent tiredness of someone who spent his life explaining why possible and wise were not synonyms.
“We received partial records,” he said.
“What’s missing?” Sarah asked.
“Miller bodycam, sheriff vehicle camera, holding-cell interior video, and full CAD audio.”
“Reason?”
“Bodycam is listed as corrupted. Sheriff vehicle apparently has no camera. Holding-cell system was undergoing storage maintenance. CAD audio is pending.”
Sarah’s face did not change.
Hart said, “That’s convenient.”
He immediately corrected himself.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
Bell continued.
“We do have booking footage.”
“Does it have audio?”
“Play the relevant section.”
The screen changed.
Sarah watched herself from three days earlier.
Jeans.
White blouse.
Hair slightly disordered from heat.
Wrists behind her.
Ryker stood at the counter.
The audio was tinny but clear.
Sarah heard herself say:
“I want to call an attorney.”
Then Ryker:
Sarah watched without expression.
Next came her request:
Bell paused the footage.
“No ambiguity there.”
Sarah nodded.
“Continue.”
The video showed Ryker dictate the charges.