organizations so important they didn’t even have a name.
And normally, since the local cops really want to be in charge of something that happens on their turf, the first responders would probably wait for a superior officer to arrive before calling the feds. Of course, this can waste precious time and even allow a suspect to get away, but at least it does preserve our local rights, possibly preventing another civil war.
Officer Poux had not waited. She had taken initiative and done the smart thing. And just incidentally, it was the thing that was going to save me from another stretch of sitting in the pokey with no paperwork and no hope of getting out. When the feds arrived, any suspect taken into custody—in this case, Me—would be turned over to them. And since the feds were generally a little more careful about forging documents merely because they didn’t like somebody, and since they did not, as yet, actually dislike me, I would almost certainly be turned loose, and rather quickly.
And all because Officer Poux did the right thing. It was a wonder, a rare marvel, and I decided on the spot that if I was ever police commissioner I would promote her first thing. She had gone far beyond the call of duty and actually done her job.
I watched Officer Poux as she walked away and went back to work, thinking kindly thoughts about her. As I said, every now and then, you really do have to give the cops credit for a job well done.
I sat there unmolested for quite a while—nearly an hour and a half, according to my watch, which I could now see quite easily, thanks to Officer Poux. The whole time no one beat me, or threatened me, or called me unpleasant names. On the other hand, nobody brought me coffee and a cruller either. I was left entirely alone, free to do absolutely anything I wanted to do, as long as it could be done wearing handcuffs while locked in the backseat of a car. It’s not a long list of activities. Happily for me, though, the list included something I wanted to do very much: sleep.
So I did. I dropped off almost immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep, and didn’t wake up at all until I heard somebody opening the door of the car I was in.
I opened my eyes, expecting to see Officer Poux again, and I was not disappointed. But standing directly behind her were two new faces. I did not know either one of them, but when the door opened and Poux helped me out, turning me to face the strangers, it took only a glance to know exactly who they were.
They were a matched set, one man and one woman, in their thirties, fit-looking, and wearing expressions that were as serious as their nearly matching suits, and so it was kind of anticlimactic when the woman held up a badge and said, “FBI. Special Agent Revis.” She nodded at her male clone. “This is Special Agent Blanton. We’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
I smiled at them pleasantly. “Pleased to meet you. But I’m afraid I can’t answer any questions while my rights are being violated.” Just to make sure my point got across, I held up my manacled wrists.
The feds glanced at each other, and then the man—Special Agent Blanton—looked quizzically at Poux. “Officer, is this man under arrest?”
“No, sir, not to my knowledge,” Poux said.
“Is he a danger to himself or others?” Revis asked.
“I don’t believe he is,” Poux said very carefully. “He has shown no sign of it.”
The two feds glanced at each other again, and Blanton frowned and looked back at Poux. “Then why is he cuffed?”
With one of the straightest faces I have ever seen, Poux said, “Sir. The detective in charge ordered me to cuff this man. I asked him the charge, and he told me it was a charge of”—she cleared her throat, and made a very clear effort to keep her face blank—“a charge of ‘Because I Said So.’?”
“He said that?” Blanton said mildly.
“And then you cuffed him?” Revis said.
“No, ma’am,” Poux said. “Then the detective in charge grabbed my handcuffs and did it himself.” She hesitated, and then added, “I recuffed him later.”
“Why?” Revis said.
“The detective in charge had done it in a manner I deemed to be injurious, with this man’s hands behind his back, and much too tight, with a resulting loss of circulation.”
They all turned and looked at me, and Blanton frowned. He stepped forward and looked hard at my face where Anderson had slapped me. “Did the loss of circulation result in a contusion to this man’s face?” he said.
Poux went absolutely rigid in face and body and looked straight ahead. “No, sir,” she said.
“Do you have certain knowledge of what did cause this contusion?” Revis demanded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Blanton sighed and faced Poux. “Are you inclined to share that information, Officer—” He frowned and looked at Poux’s name tag. “Officer…Powks?”
“Pronounced ‘Pooh,’ sir,” she said, unmoving.
“Your first name isn’t Winnie, is it?” Revis said wryly.
“Melanie,” she said.
“Too bad,” Revis muttered.