As we passed through it, the warm afternoon air struck my face. A black-and-white patrol cruiser waited near the curb, its engine running. The sheriff's vehicle was parked at an angle that blocked part of the entrance, as if even the parking space had been arranged to announce his authority.
He opened the rear door and pushed me toward the seat.
I turned slightly.
“Sheriff, before you put me in that vehicle, I want your name and badge number recorded by the witness who spoke to you.”
He stared at me.
“You think you're in a position to make demands?”
“I am requesting identifying information from the officer detaining me.”
He leaned closer.
“Listen carefully. Nobody in this town is going to save you. Not the waitress, not the people in that diner, and certainly not some lawyer you call from the jail. You are going to learn that there are consequences for making trouble.”
He shoved me into the back seat.
The door slammed.
Through the tinted glass, I watched Deputy Reed walk around the vehicle with my purse over his shoulder.
I had not handed it to him.
I had not consented to a search.
But he had taken it from the booth when the sheriff ordered him to collect my belongings, and he was now carrying it as though the distinction did not matter.
The cruiser pulled away from the curb.
I sat upright, my cuffed hands resting against my lower back, and looked out the window.
The town slid past in fragments: a hardware store with peeling blue paint, a feed shop, a church with a crooked steeple, a gas station where two men stopped talking as the cruiser passed.
The sheriff drove with one hand on the steering wheel. His other rested near the shotgun rack between the front seats.
He checked the rearview mirror.
“You always this quiet?”
“Yes.”
“Not going to cry?”
“No.”
“Not going to tell me you know somebody important?”
“I have already told you that I would like you to explain the basis for my detention.”
He shook his head.
“People like you never know when to quit.”
I turned my attention back to the window.
I had no interest in arguing with him. Every additional word was an opportunity for him to misrepresent my response, provoke me, or claim that my tone constituted resistance.
The most useful thing I could do was remain calm and observe.
The drive to the sheriff's office took less than ten minutes.
Randolph County was the sort of place where the courthouse, municipal offices, and sheriff's department stood within a few blocks of one another. The buildings were old but well maintained, and the American flag outside the courthouse moved lazily in the afternoon breeze.
The sheriff's office was a squat brick building with narrow windows and a sign announcing its commitment to protecting and serving the community.
I wondered how many people had read those words while walking through the back door in handcuffs.
Voss parked beside a dumpster and opened my door.
“Out.”
I moved carefully.
He grabbed my upper arm and pulled me upright.
“I can stand on my own.”
“Then prove it.”
I planted my feet and stepped onto the pavement.
Deputy Reed followed us, still carrying my purse.
The back entrance led into a narrow corridor that smelled of cleaning chemicals, old paper, and burnt coffee. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere beyond a closed door, a telephone rang several times before someone answered it.
At the intake desk, a young deputy rose from his chair.
His nameplate read M. REED, but that was the same deputy who had accompanied us. I realized the desk officer must have a different nameplate, one partly hidden by a stack of forms.
The man behind the desk looked up.
“Sheriff.”
“Got a booking for you.”
“What are the charges?”
“Armed robbery. Resisting arrest. Assault on an officer.”
The desk officer looked at me.
Then he looked at the sheriff.
“Assault on an officer?”
“She fought me.”
“I did not,” I said.
Voss slammed a hand onto the counter.
“Did I ask you to speak?”
“No,” I replied. “But I am entitled to dispute an allegation made against me.”
The sheriff turned toward the desk officer.
“Put down whatever she says, but don't waste time debating it. I want her processed.”
The desk officer hesitated.
“Do we have a case number for the robbery?”
“It's coming.”
“Dispatch record?”
“It's coming.”
“Victim identification?”
Voss's eyes narrowed.
“Do you need me to explain your job to you?”
“No, Sheriff.”
“Then do it.”
The desk officer reached for a form.
Deputy Reed remained near the doorway, his gaze fixed on the purse.
The sheriff took it from him and dropped it onto the counter. The contents shifted inside, and my phone vibrated against a metal key ring.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
The screen illuminated through the partly open zipper.
Voss looked down.
“What's that?”
“My phone.”
“I can see that.”
He picked it up and pressed the side button.
The display showed several notifications from a secure communications application. The content remained hidden behind a lock screen, but the alert banner was enough to make him pause.
A message from the chief judge's chambers had arrived.
Then another.
Then a call notification appeared from a number he would not have recognized.
He turned the phone toward me.
“Who's trying to reach you?”
“I would prefer to answer that question after you return my property.”
He gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
“Not how this works.”
“Then I would like the legal basis for taking my phone.”
“Evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Whatever we find.”
“That is not a legal basis by itself.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he put the phone facedown on the counter.
“Bag the whole thing. Her phone, her wallet, everything. No calls until I say so.”
The desk officer looked uncertain.
“Sheriff, we normally let arrestees make a call after processing.”
“Normally, you do what I tell you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Voss turned back to me.
“You'll get your call when I'm ready.”
He seemed pleased with the sentence, as though he had just demonstrated a cleverness that no one else could match.
I said nothing.