He glanced toward the front office.
“The sheriff said you couldn't make calls until booking was finished.”
“Then please ask him whether he intends to delay a formal security notification after being advised of the nature of the device.”
The deputy looked alarmed.
“Could you just explain what this is about?”
“I can explain that the notification is required. I cannot discuss the underlying assignment in an unsecured corridor.”
He hesitated.
Then he turned and walked back toward the booking area.
I heard his voice before I saw him.
“Sheriff, she is asking again about an emergency notification.”
Harlan's answer came immediately.
“Tell her no.”
“She says it's related to the phone.”
“Then tell her she can explain it to the judge.”
“But—”
“Deputy, are you having trouble understanding English tonight?”
Silence.
Then footsteps.
The deputy returned.
“He said no.”
I nodded.
“Thank you for asking.”
He lingered by the cell door.
“Is this something serious?”
“Yes.”
“Are we in trouble?”
“That depends on what happens next.”
He looked as though he wanted to ask more, but he did not.
I sat down again.
For the first time since my arrest, I allowed myself a moment of frustration.
Not because Harlan had handcuffed me. Not because he had humiliated me in front of his subordinates. Not even because he had taken my phone.
I was frustrated because the situation was entirely avoidable.
A routine traffic stop had become a test of ego. A simple question had been treated as an act of rebellion. A valid request to document the handling of personal property had been turned into an excuse for further punishment.
And now, an official who had been warned about a security concern was deliberately preventing the person affected from making the required notification.
The danger was not that Harlan was powerful.
The danger was that he believed power meant he did not have to listen.
I closed my eyes briefly and took a slow breath.
When I opened them, I saw a shadow moving across the corridor wall.
Harlan appeared at the cell door, carrying my phone.
He held it up.
“Still want to tell me how important this is?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Then tell me.”
“I have already explained what I can explain in this setting.”
“That's not good enough.”
“Then please consult your legal counsel.”
He leaned toward the bars.
“Do you know what I think? I think you are trying to scare my people. You want us to believe you have some secret authority so we'll let you walk out of here.”
“I have not asked you to release me because of my position.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you to follow the law, document your actions accurately, and allow the required notification to be made.”
He shook his head.
“Same thing. You think you can order me around.”
“No, Sheriff. I think you can choose to act correctly.”
For a moment, he stared at me as though he could not decide whether to be furious or amused.
Then he made his choice.
He tapped the phone against the bars.
“You know what? Maybe we'll see what this thing has on it.”
“Do not attempt to access the device.”
He laughed.
“You don't get to tell me what to do.”
He walked away.
I remained standing until he disappeared around the corner.
Then I sat down.
The phone had not been unlocked. I knew that. Harlan did not have the credentials necessary to access the secure environment, and even if he managed to activate the device, he would not be able to enter the protected communications system without completing several independent authentication steps.
But that was not the point.
The point was that he had been warned.
He had been told that the device contained restricted communications. He had been told that the handling procedure mattered. He had been told that an emergency notification was required.
He had chosen to ignore every warning.
That choice would become part of the record.
At 11:27 p.m., the front office grew louder.
I heard a door open, followed by hurried footsteps. Someone asked where the sheriff was. Another voice replied that he was in the booking area. A phone rang twice and stopped.
Then I heard Harlan's voice, sharper than before.
“Who authorized this?”
No one answered immediately.
I stood and moved closer to the cell door.
A moment later, the booking deputy appeared, followed by a woman in a dark blazer. She carried a leather folder and wore a badge clipped to her belt. I recognized her as Chief Deputy Elena Brooks from the department's public staff directory.
She was in her early forties, with dark hair pulled back and a controlled expression that suggested she was accustomed to dealing with emergencies without adding unnecessary drama.
She looked toward my cell.
“General Hayes?”
I did not answer immediately.
The title was not something I had provided to the sheriff. If Brooks knew it, she had learned it through a channel outside the ordinary booking process.
“Who is asking?” I said.
“Elena Brooks, chief deputy. I need to verify your identity and understand the circumstances of your detention.”
“That is appropriate.”
She looked at the deputy.
“Open the cell.”
He glanced down the corridor.
“The sheriff said—”
“I am the chief deputy. Open it.”
The deputy unlocked the door.
Brooks stepped inside the threshold but did not approach me.
“General Hayes, I need to ask you a few questions.”
“You may ask questions that are relevant to the immediate situation.”
She nodded.
“Are you a member of the United States Army?”
“Yes.”
“What is your rank?”
“Brigadier general.”
Her expression remained controlled, but her eyes changed.