That morning, Brennan had been looking for a man described in a theft report.
The description was vague.
Black male.
Medium build.
Dark clothing.
Traveling alone.
Possibly carrying a valuable bag.
There were hundreds of people who could fit that description.
Maybe thousands.
But Brennan believed he knew what he was looking for.
He saw Warren.
Then he stepped into his path.
“Sir. Stop for a second.”
Warren stopped.
He looked at Brennan's badge.
Then at his face.
“Is there a problem, Officer?”
“Can I see your identification?”
Warren reached toward his pocket.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Warren stopped.
“Certainly.”
Brennan stepped closer.
“You match a description.”
“What description?”
“Black male. Medium build.”
Warren looked around the terminal.
There were several Black men nearby.
He looked back at Brennan.
“That description seems fairly broad.”
Brennan didn't smile.
“Step over there.”
Warren hesitated.
His flight was boarding soon.
“Am I being detained?”
Brennan's expression hardened.
“Do you want to make this difficult?”
“No.”
“Then move.”
Warren moved toward the pillar.
Holloway followed.
Brennan stood in front of him.
“Empty your pockets.”
Warren looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because I told you to.”
Warren slowly removed his wallet.
His phone.
His glasses.
A small notebook.
He placed them on the ledge.
Brennan picked up the wallet.
He opened it.
Inside were several cards.
A driver's license.
Credit cards.
A library card.
An insurance card.
Nothing unusual.
Brennan looked at the driver's license.
“Where are you going?”
“Chicago.”
“Why?”
“I'm attending a legal conference.”
“What conference?”
Warren told him.
Brennan looked at him.
“What do you do?”
“I'm an attorney.”
“What kind?”
“Federal appellate judge.”
Warren said it quietly.
Brennan seemed not to hear him.
Or perhaps he didn't care.
“Open your bag.”
Warren looked at the carry-on.
“Do you have a reason to search it?”
Brennan's face changed.
“Open it.”
“I'll cooperate with a lawful search, but I don't consent to a search without a basis.”
Brennan stared at him.
“Open the bag.”
Warren didn't move.
Brennan unzipped it himself.
He began pulling things out.
A shirt.
A folder.
A book.
A lunch container.
Several printed pages.
A wooden gavel-shaped paperweight.
Brennan held it up.
“What is this?”
“A paperweight.”
“Why do you have a gavel?”
“Because I'm a judge.”
Brennan looked at him again.
The answer seemed to irritate him.
He tossed the paperweight onto the ledge.
A few sheets of Warren's speech fell to the floor.
Warren bent slightly.
“Please don't damage those.”
“Stand back.”
Warren straightened.
He watched Brennan go through the bag.
People walked around them.
Some glanced over.
Most kept going.
An airport has a strange ability to make everything feel temporary.
Arguments.
Delays.
Announcements.
Even police activity.
Unless you're the person being stopped.
Then every second becomes painfully clear.
Brennan held out his hand.
“Unlock your phone.”
“No.”
“You have something to hide?”
“No.”
“Then unlock it.”
“I don't consent to that.”
“You're being difficult again.”
“I've answered your questions.”
“You're refusing instructions.”
“I'm refusing to unlock a personal device.”
Brennan stepped closer.
“Captain.”
Holloway looked over.
Doyle, the shift captain, had arrived.
He listened for a moment.
Brennan spoke first.
“He's been argumentative.”
Warren immediately said:
“I've asked what crime I'm suspected of committing.”
Doyle looked at him.
“You need to cooperate.”
“I am cooperating.”
“Then answer the officer's questions.”
“I have.”
“Then we're done here.”
Warren looked at Brennan.
“Am I free to go?”
Doyle didn't answer immediately.
That hesitation told Warren everything he needed to know.
He wasn't free to go.
Brennan began another pat-down.
Warren raised his arms.
He had been in enough encounters with law enforcement to understand how quickly a disagreement could become something else.
He wanted to leave.
He wanted to catch his flight.
He wanted to call Denise.
He didn't want a confrontation.
Brennan moved his hands down Warren's sides.
Then toward the inside of his jacket.
He stopped.
“What is that?”
“My identification.”
“Take it out.”
Warren nodded.
Slowly, he lowered one hand.
Two fingers entered the inside pocket.
He touched the leather holder.
And then everything changed.
“Gun!”
Brennan's voice exploded through the terminal.
Warren didn't even have time to turn.
The officer grabbed him.
His shoulder twisted.
His face struck the floor.
The impact was so hard that for a second Warren saw nothing.
Then came the weight on his back.
The pressure.
The pain.
His arms were pulled behind him.
A handcuff snapped shut.
Then the other.
People screamed.
A woman nearby shouted, “He's not doing anything!”
Another person started filming.
Warren tasted blood.
He heard Brennan breathing heavily.
“You reached for your weapon!”
“I don't have a weapon.”
“Don't move!”
“I don't have a gun.”
The words came out against the floor.
Then Holloway's voice.
“Brennan.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
“He reached into his jacket.”
“I know.”
“I thought he had a weapon.”
“I know.”
Holloway crouched down.
Something lay several feet away.
She picked it up.
The leather holder opened in her hand.
She glanced at the first card.
Then again.
Her expression changed.
“Captain.”
Doyle approached.
“What?”
Holloway handed him the credential.
Doyle read it.
He looked at Warren.
Then back at the card.
His face lost its confidence.
“Get him up.”
Brennan hesitated.
“Captain—”
“Get him up.”
Warren was pulled upright.