"They're lying, Marcus. And you're standing there watching them build the box around me."
"I have a mortgage, David! I have two kids in state college!" Marcus stepped closer to the bars, his hands gripping the painted steel, his face pale under the cold fluorescent strip. "If I file a supervisor grievance against an active felony arrest report, the city attorney's office pulls my name into the investigative deposition. They suspend my departmental authority during the inquiry. I lose my supervisory stipend, and the police fraternal lodge blacklists our entire depot from overnight parking escorts. You're asking me to throw my whole life on the track to stop a train that's already rolling over you."
"I'm not asking you to swear to what happened on the sidewalk," I said, leaning forward until my face was inches from the metal barrier, letting him see the split skin along my cheek. "I’m asking you to look at the trolley line."
Marcus narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"Pole 14," I said, keeping my words razor-sharp. "Directly across from the precinct entrance. Three weeks ago, the signal crew installed an automated optical sensor for the express bus schedule. It records thirty frames a second straight down onto the sally port gate. It sees the blind spot between the pillar and the revolving doors."
Marcus stared at me, his knuckles turning white on the cold iron bars. "Those sensors are closed-circuit. They don't upload to the central network."
"The cache box is mounted five feet off the pavement on the signal post," I said. "It runs on an automated twenty-four-hour roll. At 7:42 tomorrow morning, the memory bank formats itself. But right now, Elena Ruiz is running the morning board at the Fourth Street depot. Her maintenance terminal has the diagnostic bypass key for the Pole 14 loop."
Marcus let out a slow, trembling breath. "Elena can't pull an optical buffer without a signed incident manifest from a field supervisor. If I sign that manifest without a written request from the transit director, I’m violating internal protocol. They can fire me for gross misconduct."
"If you don't sign it, Cole walks into court on Monday with a manufactured felony that puts me in state prison for four years," I replied, holding his gaze until he looked away. "You know who I am, Marcus. I worked sixty straight shifts during the winter freeze so your district wouldn't miss a commuter run. I never lied on a maintenance manifest in nine years. Are you really going to walk out that door and let them put a collar on me because you're afraid of a paperwork reprimand?"
The corridor buzzer sounded twice from the top of the stairs, signaling the end of the administrative visitor window. The lockup deputy started down the catwalk, his heavy keyring jingling against his utility belt.
Marcus looked back down the hall, then turned to me, his jaw clenched tight. "The booking desk is syncing with the city server at eleven. Once your transit profile freezes, Elena can't accept an order under your name."
"Then don't use my name," I told him, pressing the yellow intake receipt Arthur had given me through the steel bars. "Use the fleet timing variance code. Tell Elena there was a headway dispute on the Eighth Avenue run at 7:40 AM. She doesn't need to know it’s an arrest. She just needs to pull the cache file onto a secure field drive before the midday sync."
Marcus took the yellow slip between two trembling fingers. He didn't promise anything. He folded the paper once, buried it deep in his trousers pocket, and turned around just as the floor deputy reached the cell.
"Time's up, Supervisor," the deputy said, resting his hand on his baton. "Let's clear the catwalk."
Marcus walked toward the stairs without looking back, his shoes squeaking against the wet linoleum. The heavy iron door at the head of the staircase slammed shut, the hydraulic latch locking with a final, hollow thud that left me alone in the basement silence.
I sat back down on the steel bench, closing my eyes against the stinging heat of the burn. The concrete wall was freezing against my shoulder blades, but beneath the pain, the cold reality of the clock was ticking. In less than three hours, the city mainframe would lock my life into an intake docket. Everything depended on whether Marcus Vance had the spine to open that signal box before the street went dark.
CHAPTER 3: The Lens Above The Sally Port