Holloway holstered his pistol only after removing Jamal’s concealed weapon.
He held it away from him.
“Nice gun.”
Jamal said nothing.
“Serial come back stolen too?”
“It will come back to the federal government.”
“We’ll see.”
The first handcuff snapped around Jamal’s wrist.
The sound was small.
Metallic.
Final.
The second followed.
Holloway pulled Jamal toward the cruiser.
The teenage boy near the elevator said, “He said he’s DEA.”
Holloway turned.
“Back away.”
The teenager took two steps back but continued recording.
Jamal said, “Do not seize their phones.”
Holloway looked at him.
“You don’t give instructions here.”
“I am advising you not to create another problem.”
“You really don’t know when to stop.”
That sentence stayed with Jamal.
Later, it would bother him more than the cuffs.
Because Jamal had stopped.
He had complied.
He had gone to his knees.
He had allowed his weapon to be removed.
He had done everything needed to lower risk.
And Holloway still interpreted speech itself as defiance.
The rear cruiser door opened.
Jamal was placed inside.
The plastic seat forced his cuffed arms into an awkward angle.
The door shut.
For the first time, physical separation gave him room to think.
He watched Holloway through the glass.
The officer stood near the hood with Jamal’s pistol.
Then he spoke into his radio.
“Twenty-four to dispatch.”
“Go ahead.”
“One detained, possible auto theft. Subject armed. Claims federal law enforcement.”
The dispatcher paused.
“Copy. Name?”
Holloway opened the driver’s-side door and retrieved Jamal’s wallet from where it had been placed during the search.
“Jamal Aaron Reynolds.”
The dispatch channel went silent.
Jamal listened.
His heart rate was elevated but controlled.
The undercover phone remained in his front pocket.
It buzzed again.
He could not reach it.
He could only imagine the messages.
Where are you?
Tonight still good?
You being followed?
Anything could be happening.
Holloway leaned against his cruiser.
His posture suggested satisfaction.
He believed the situation was under control.
Jamal looked toward the garage entrance.
A second cruiser appeared.
Then a third.
He closed his eyes for one second.
Wonderful.
More uniforms.
More radios.
More people.
More chances somebody connected to Bellamy’s organization would see.
An older officer stepped out of the second cruiser.
Sergeant Melissa Grant.
She was forty-eight and had the look of somebody who had spent too many years resolving other people’s poor decisions.
She approached Holloway.
“What’ve you got?”
“Possible auto thief.”
“Armed?”
“Yeah.”
“Weapon recovered?”
Holloway held it up.
“Claims DEA.”
Grant stopped.
“He what?”
“Says he’s federal.”
“Credentials?”
“Says he has them.”
“Did you check?”
“He could have fake paper.”
Grant stared at him.
“Did you check?”
Holloway hesitated.
“Not yet.”
Grant looked toward the rear of the cruiser.
Through the glass, she saw Jamal sitting upright.
Not kicking.
Not shouting.
Not visibly intoxicated.
Not panicked.
She turned back to Holloway.
“What started this?”
“Suspicious-person call. Black male pulling vehicle handles.”
Jamal heard none of that from inside.
But the body camera did.
Grant asked, “You see him pulling handles?”
“I saw him at the BMW.”
“Trying multiple cars?”
“He was looking around.”