I had not seen whether the waitress had actually recorded the arrest, but Voss believed she might have. Instead of preserving any potentially relevant recording through a lawful process, he was trying to seize the phone before it could leave his control.
That instruction was more revealing than any insult he had directed at me.
He was not simply angry about a woman who had challenged him.
He was afraid of what someone else might have seen.
I opened my eyes and looked toward the narrow window in the cell door.
The corridor beyond it was empty.
I began reconstructing the afternoon in my mind, starting from the moment Voss entered the diner. I recalled where each person had been standing, which witnesses had spoken, the precise order in which the sheriff had given instructions, and the charges he had announced before any formal investigation had taken place.
Then I remembered the deputy.
The young man who had hesitated when Voss ordered him to fetch the cuffs.
Deputy Reed had not stopped the arrest. He had not openly challenged the sheriff after the first question. But he had asked whether there was a confirmed identification, and he had looked uncomfortable when the sheriff ordered him to seize my property.
He might be useful.
He might also be frightened enough to deny everything.
I would not ask him to take risks for me. I would not ask him to break rules or secretly hand me a phone. If the system was going to expose its own misconduct, the evidence had to be preserved through legitimate channels.
For now, I had to wait.
The minutes passed slowly.
At 2:05, I heard footsteps approaching the cell.
Deputy Reed appeared at the door with a paper cup of water.
He unlocked the small hatch and pushed it through.
“Here.”
“Thank you.”
He kept his eyes on the corridor.
“Are you really a judge?”
“I have told you who I am.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“Federal?”
“Yes.”
He took a breath, then glanced over his shoulder.
“Sheriff says you're lying.”
“Then he should have no objection to verifying my identity.”
Reed gave a brief, humorless smile.
“He doesn't like being asked to verify things.”
“I noticed.”
The deputy's expression tightened.
“Look, I don't know what's going on here. I was told there was a robbery, but dispatch didn't send out a suspect bulletin that I saw. When the sheriff said you matched the description, I figured there might be something I hadn't heard.”
“Did you see a report identifying me?”
“No.”
“Did you see a witness identify me?”
“No.”
“Did you observe me resisting?”
He hesitated.
“I saw him pull you up from the booth. You didn't hit him or try to run.”
“Did you see me assault him?”
“No.”
He said it quietly, but clearly.
I let the silence remain for a moment.
“Deputy, I am not asking you to agree with me. I am asking you to remember what you personally observed and to document it accurately.”
He looked at me for the first time without immediately looking away.
“That's not easy around here.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don't think you do.”
His voice carried a bitterness that had been buried beneath his nervousness.
“I've worked here three years. I have a mortgage, a daughter, and a mother who needs help with her medication. My wife works at the school. Sheriff Voss knows all of that. He knows where everybody lives. He knows who needs the job and who can't afford to lose it.”
He stopped, apparently surprised by how much he had said.
I did not interrupt him.
“Last year, a man complained that the sheriff had searched his truck without a reason,” Reed continued. “The sheriff told everyone the man was a drug dealer. He wasn't charged with anything. But after that, nobody wanted to be seen talking to him.”
“Did you review the incident report?”
“I wasn't assigned to the case.”
“Did you see it?”
Reed shook his head.
“I saw the sheriff bring a folder into his office. I don't know what was in it.”
“Then don't say more than you know.”
He stared at me.
“You really are a judge.”
“I am a person asking you not to confuse suspicion with evidence.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he leaned slightly closer to the hatch.
“The sheriff told somebody to get the waitress's phone.”
“I heard him.”
Reed's face changed.
“You heard that?”
“The walls are not particularly thick.”
He glanced toward the corridor again.
“He said the same thing to Deputy Colson. Told him to find her and bring the phone back here. No warrant, no paperwork. Just bring it to his office.”
“Did Colson agree?”
“I don't know. He left about five minutes ago.”
“Did you record the instruction?”
“No.”
“Then you should not claim that you have a recording. If you heard the instruction, write down what you remember, including the time and who was present. Do not alter anything or create a record after the fact that pretends to have been made earlier.”
Reed looked down at his shoes.
“Are you going to get me fired?”
“No.”
“You can't promise that.”
“No, I can't promise what other people will do. But I am not asking you to protect me from embarrassment. I am asking you to tell the truth.”
He looked back at me.
“What happens if the sheriff finds out I talked to you?”
“Then the circumstances of that conversation should be documented as well.”
Reed let out a breath.
“You make it sound so simple.”
“Doing the right thing is not always simple. Recording what you actually saw is.”
He stood up.
“I have to go.”
“Deputy Reed.”
He stopped.
“Do not take any evidence, interfere with anyone's phone, or put yourself in danger on my behalf. If you have information about possible misconduct, report it through an appropriate channel.”
He nodded, though I could tell he was still weighing the risks.
Then he closed the hatch and walked away.
I drank the water slowly.
At 2:22, the sheriff came to the cell.