over high-stakes criminal trials, you learn to read bullies from fifty paces. Voss was not an officer of the peace attempting to de-escalate a perceived threat; he was a petty tyrant putting on a public performance for his frightened constituents, demonstrating who owned the sidewalk, the diner, and the air everyone breathed. "Caleb!" Voss barked over his shoulder. A young man in a spotless tan uniform hurried through the glass front door of the diner. He couldn't have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five, with a high-and-tight haircut, pale freckled skin, and an Adam’s apple that bobbed uncontrollably against the stiff collar of his departmental shirt. The gold nametag pinned to his chest read: C.
MILLER. "S-sir?" Caleb Miller stammered, stopping dead in his tracks three feet from our booth. His eyes darted from the heavy iron handcuffs to my calm face, and then down to the spilled coffee spreading across the vinyl. "Bag her personal effects," Voss ordered, hauling me roughly to