“Officer Boyd, I'm asking because I saw you drinking inside.”
Kyle glanced toward Rick.
Then he said, “I had a beer earlier.”
Rick frowned.
“Kyle.”
The younger officer stopped speaking.
Dominique looked toward the street.
“Is there a sober on-duty officer available to transport us?”
Rick laughed bitterly.
“Now you're making demands?”
“No,” she replied. “We're asking for a safe ride.”
Mark opened the rear door.
I didn't move.
“Sergeant,” I said, “please call an on-duty supervisor.”
Rick looked furious.
For a moment, I thought he might refuse.
Then Kyle stepped aside and took out his radio.
Rick turned toward him.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling dispatch.”
“I didn't tell you to.”
Kyle swallowed.
“Sir, I think we need another unit.”
There was a long silence.
Then Rick stepped back.
“Fine.”
Kyle made the call.
It was the first sensible decision anyone in Rick's group had made since approaching our table.
We waited beside the vehicle.
Rick paced near the sidewalk.
Mark kept looking toward the bar.
Dominique stood close enough that our shoulders nearly touched.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Your wrists?”
“Uncomfortable.”
“Mine too.”
I looked at her.
“Mom's going to be furious.”
Dominique gave a small, humorless laugh.
“Mom's going to ask why we didn't just go home and eat leftovers.”
“She'll have a point.”
We fell silent.
I thought about our mother sitting in her kitchen outside Richmond.
She'd probably be watching television.
She had no idea where we were.
No idea that her daughters had been handcuffed during an evening out.
I wanted to call her.
But I knew that hearing the news without a clear explanation would frighten her.
First, we needed to get through the night.
The responding patrol officer arrived twelve minutes later.
Her name was Officer Elena Morris.
She was in her late thirties, with short brown hair and the tired expression of someone working the final hours of a long shift.
She stepped out of her cruiser and looked at the scene.
Two women in restraints.
Three off-duty officers.
Several customers watching from the bar's entrance.
A bartender standing beside the door with his arms crossed.
Morris approached Rick.
“What happened?”
“Disorderly conduct,” he said.
She looked at us.
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“Any injuries?”
“No.”
“Any weapons involved?”
“No.”
She looked toward the bar.
“Did somebody call for police?”
Rick hesitated.
“I was already here.”
Morris frowned.
“On duty?”
“No.”
She looked at his uniform.
Then at Kyle.
Then at Mark.
“Have you been drinking?”
Rick's expression hardened.
“That's not relevant.”
Morris didn't answer immediately.
She took a step back.
“Sergeant, I'm going to contact the watch commander before transporting anyone.”
Rick stared at her.
“You're kidding.”
“No, sir.”
She walked toward her cruiser.
Rick followed.
I couldn't hear everything they said, but I heard enough.
“This is unnecessary.”
“Sir, I'm not comfortable proceeding without guidance.”
“I'm your superior.”
“Not my on-duty supervisor tonight.”
Dominique looked at me.
That was the second sensible decision of the evening.
Officer Morris returned several minutes later.
“Ladies, I'm going to transport you to the station so we can sort this out.”
I nodded.
“Thank you for explaining.”
She looked at our wrists.
“Are those restraints comfortable?”
“No,” I said.
She checked them and adjusted the fit.
Then she examined Dominique's.
“I'm sorry you've been standing here so long.”
Neither of us responded.
She opened the rear door.
We got inside.
Rick approached.
“I'll follow.”
Morris nodded.
“That's fine.”
Then she closed the door.
As the cruiser pulled away, I looked through the rear window.
Luis stood outside Pine Hollow.
Aaron was beside him.
The bar's sign glowed above the entrance.
I wondered how many people had watched something similar happen there before.
And how many had decided it was safer to remain silent.
The station was quieter than I expected.
A television played in the waiting area.
A vending machine hummed near the hallway.
Behind the front desk, Sergeant Patricia Owens was reviewing paperwork.
She looked up as Morris escorted us inside.
“What have we got?”
Morris explained that an off-duty sergeant had detained two women at Pine Hollow Bar following a dispute.
Owens looked toward us.
“Names?”
“Danielle Carter.”
“Dominique Carter,” my sister answered.
Owens began entering information.
Then Rick arrived.
He walked through the entrance with Mark and Kyle behind him.
“Patricia,” he said, “I've got this.”
She looked up.
“I'm processing the situation.”
“They were disorderly.”
“Okay.”
“And they threatened officers.”
Owens stopped typing.
“What threats?”
Rick gestured toward us.
“They were running their mouths.”
Owens looked at him.
“That's not what I asked.”
He frowned.
I watched her carefully.
She wasn't impressed by his rank.
But she wasn't assuming we were innocent either.
She wanted facts.
That was all we'd asked for from the beginning.
Dominique spoke.
“Sergeant Owens, our credentials are in our belongings. We're both FBI special agents.”
Owens looked at her.
Then at Rick.
“Is that true?”
Rick's jaw tightened.
“They claim they are.”
Mark placed Dominique's credential case on the desk.
Owens opened it.
She examined the identification.
Then she looked at my sister.
“Where's your other identification?”
“In my purse.”
Owens turned toward Mark.
“Where is it?”
He handed over the bag.
She retrieved the second credential case and examined it.
Then she reached for the telephone.
Rick stepped forward.
“Patricia, hold on.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“You don't need to turn this into a federal incident.”
Owens stared at him.
“Rick, you brought two federal agents into my station in handcuffs.”
“They were causing trouble.”
“Then we'll document exactly what happened.”
He lowered his voice.
“You know me.”
Owens didn't look away.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
She picked up the telephone.
“Lieutenant Grant needs to come down here.”
Lieutenant Michael Grant arrived nineteen minutes later.
He was a broad-shouldered man in his early fifties, wearing a white command shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He listened to Owens's summary without interrupting.
Then he asked to speak with us separately.
I went first.
He led me into a small interview room and sat across from me.
My restraints had been removed by then.
I placed my hands on the table.
Grant looked at the marks around my wrists.
“Do you need medical attention?”
“I'd like to be examined after we're released.”
He nodded.
“I can arrange that.”
I studied him.
“Lieutenant, before we discuss anything else, I want to make clear that my sister and I are not conducting an FBI investigation here.”
“I understand.”
“We were off duty.”
“Understood.”
“And we didn't identify ourselves until after the detention had begun.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
I continued.
“We're witnesses to what happened. We shouldn't be directing your department's investigation.”
Grant looked at me.
“I appreciate that.”