Chapter 2 - The Booking Desk
The booking room smelled of bleach, floor wax, and decades of stale sweat. Voss shoved me roughly through the double doors, using his forearm against my spine to propel me toward the high wooden booking desk that dominated the center of the squad room. Three other deputies were lounging against the desks, nursing cups of coffee and laughing over a sports broadcast playing on a small television mounted in the corner. As we entered, the laughter died down, replaced by that sickening, practiced indifference officers adopt when an arrest is treated as mundane sport.
""Got us another live one, Dalton?"" asked a lanky sergeant with a tobacco-stained mustache, pushing aside a stack of paperwork. He looked down at me from behind the raised counter, his eyes cataloging my braided hair, my denim jacket, and the dust on my sneakers. ""What’s the charge this evening?""
""Disorderly, public nuisance, resisting with violence, and matching the profile of that armed robbery suspect down on Route 9,"" Voss announced grandly, projecting his voice so every soul in the bullpen could hear his dominance. He pushed me down onto a backless wooden stool bolted directly to the linoleum floor. ""Thinks she’s a smooth talker. Refused to show identification at Betty’s Diner and tried to pull away when I took her into custody.""
""That is a sworn statement you will eventually have to affirm under oath, Sheriff,"" I remarked calmly, turning my head to look him straight in the eyes. ""I suggest you consider the precise wording of your official narrative before you write it down.""
The room went dead quiet. The lanky sergeant paused with his pen suspended above an intake form, blinking in genuine astonishment that a handcuffed woman in their basement dared to speak with the cadence of an authority figure. Voss’s face turned an ugly shade of dark crimson, the veins along his thick neck pulsing visibly against his collar.
He leaned down until his face was inches from mine, his tobacco breath washing over my cheek. ""You don't lecture me about oaths in my precinct, you arrogant little nobody. In this county, my word is the law, my signature is the warrant, and your guilt is whatever I say it is on this intake sheet. You don't have rights until I decide you earn them.""
He straightened up and barked at the young deputy hovering nervously near the entryway. ""Price! Empty that bag on the counter! Let’s see what kind of contraband this criminal is hauling around. Check for cash, jewelry, and narcotics. Anything over two hundred dollars gets logged into the county seizure ledger immediately under the civil forfeiture statute.""
""Right away, Sheriff,"" Deputy Price muttered, his voice trembling as he stepped up to the intake counter.
I watched the young man carefully. Caleb Price had the hands of a working boy from a farm, raw and calloused, completely unsuited for the corrupt choreography being demanded of him. He unzipped the main compartment of my handbag and carefully began removing items: a leather-bound day planner, a tube of lip balm, a silver pen engraved with the seal of Emory University Law School, and my car keys.
Then his hand reached into the interior zippered pouch and pulled out a heavy, dark-blue bi-fold leather case.
""What is that, her wallet?"" Voss sneered, not even turning his head as he filled out an intake ledger. ""Open it up. Pull the cash out. Count it out loud so she knows we're documenting every dime.""
""Sheriff..."" Price's voice suddenly lost all its volume. It was barely a whisper, thin and choked with something that sounded remarkably like sheer panic.
""Speak up, boy! You're a lawman, not a choirboy. How much is in there?"" Voss demanded, scribbling furiously on the carbon-copy form.
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Price didn't answer. He stood frozen over the counter, the bi-fold leather wallet flipped open in his trembling palms. The bright fluorescent light overhead bounced off the heavy, gold-enameled federal shield embedded in the leather, illuminating the crisp, official engraving underneath: UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE NORTHERN DISTRICT OF GEORGIA. Directly opposite the gold seal was my official identification card, bearing the Great Seal of the United States, my official portrait, and the bold black lettering that read: HON. AMARA WHITLOCK, UNITED STATES DISTRICT JUDGE.
""Sheriff Voss..."" Price tried again, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edges of the desk to steady his shaking legs. His eyes were wide, the pupils dilated in utter terror as he looked from the gold badge to my face, and then toward his commanding officer. ""You... you need to look at this right now.""
