Chief Deputy Evelyn Tran knew something was wrong when Camille called from her personal phone and asked whether anyone else was in the room. Usually Camille began with the work, assuming privacy until a practical reason required it. This time she waited until Evelyn closed the door.
“I was detained this afternoon,” she said. “An officer accused me of stealing my own vehicle. I’ve been released.”
Evelyn said nothing for two seconds. Then she asked whether Camille was hurt.
“Some wrist symptoms. I’m being followed up. I need you to listen before you do anything.”
The instruction cost her. She wanted anger on her behalf. She also knew what anger could do when it arrived in an office with authority over prosecutions.
Camille described what she remembered, distinguishing what Harlan said from what she inferred. She gave Evelyn the incident number and asked that any official communication about the matter be preserved. She would retain independent counsel. She would not direct a criminal investigation concerning her own encounter.
“We should notify the appropriate state authorities and arrange an independent process,” Evelyn said.
“Yes. Through the proper channels. I want a written boundary around my role.”
“You don’t have to decide every detail tonight.”
“If I don’t decide the boundary now, people will decide it around me.”
She thought of a prosecutor she knew years earlier who treated criticism of his family as a reason to involve investigators. She had despised the assumption that office and person were interchangeable. Being wronged did not make that assumption acceptable when it served her.
Evelyn agreed to handle immediate operational continuity and seek advice on the formal arrangements. Camille would not access the department’s evidence through privileged shortcuts. Her representative could request records as appropriate. Any separate criminal inquiry would be assigned outside her direction.
After the call, Camille sat at Naomi’s kitchen table while her sister opened takeaway containers neither had remembered ordering. She had been state attorney for twelve days and already needed to explain why she could not make one phone call and have the officer arrested.
Later, she noticed a smear of sauce near the handle of the takeaway bag and concentrated on wiping it away. Something ordinary could still respond to an ordinary action. Her sister watched without asking why she had chosen that task, then handed her a clean cloth instead of another question.
“You know that’s what people will say,” Naomi told her.
“Some will.”
“Some will say you should have told him sooner.”
“I did tell him.”
Naomi pushed a container toward her. “I know. I’m angry at people who haven’t spoken yet.”
Camille almost smiled. “You can save yourself some time. They’ll probably repeat each other.”
Her phone vibrated. Captain Shaw had left a message offering an update through whatever contact Camille preferred. Police Chief Leonard Ames had been informed and wanted to speak with her.
She did not return the call immediately. She called Ruth Delgado instead.
Ruth had practiced civil rights law long enough to know Camille before either of them had an impressive title. She answered from a grocery aisle. When Camille finished the first sentence, the sound of a cart stopped.
“Are you safe now?”
“At Naomi’s.”
“Good. Tell me what you need tonight. We can plan tomorrow without doing all of tomorrow right now.”
Camille looked at the red marks above her palms. “I need somebody else to know what questions to ask.”
“I do. And you get to stop being the person who holds the whole procedure in her head for a while.”
The relief was so sudden that Camille had to set the phone down and breathe.
Ruth arranged to meet her the next morning, requested the information needed for immediate preservation notices, and reminded her to retain contemporaneous notes, receipts, photographs, and medical documents without trying to make them into a polished account. Memory did not become more reliable because it sounded professional.
Afterward, Naomi placed the birthday cake on the table. It was the wrong flavor, and one corner had collapsed during the drive. She lit no candles.
“We’re not celebrating the day,” she said. “We’re eating the cake.”
They ate from mismatched plates. Camille’s hands still shook when she lifted the fork. Naomi pretended not to notice until Camille looked at them herself.
“You don’t have to hide that from me,” her sister said.
Camille put the fork down.