“You had a lot of questions back there,” Vance said.
“I still have them,” Victoria said, shifting her weight to ease the pressure on her wrists.
Miller got into the passenger side, pulling his clipboard onto his lap.
“She was doing forty-two in a thirty-five, Vance,” Miller said, his pen hovering over the top sheet of paper.
“We have the speed on the radar,” Vance said, though Victoria had checked her speedometer at thirty-four.
“A seven-mile-per-hour variance does not justify physical restraint,” Victoria said.
Vance let out a low, dry chuckle that sounded like stones rolling in a tin cup.
“Down here, we decide what justifies what,” Vance said.
“This is an undocumented detention on a state highway,” Victoria said.
“You are a long way from Columbus, lady,” Vance said, putting the cruiser into gear.
The patrol car pulled onto the asphalt of Route Nine, the tires hummed against the blacktop.
Victoria watched the pine trees slip past the window, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the road.
She felt the silver pin on her collar pressing against her neck as she leaned her head back.
The silence inside the cruiser lasted for three miles.
Miller kept his eyes on the side mirror, his fingers tapping a fast rhythm against the plastic clipboard.
“Where are we going?” Victoria asked.
“The county station,” Vance said, without looking back.
“The nearest magistrate is in Oakhaven,” Victoria said.
“The magistrate is busy until tomorrow morning,” Vance said.
“That is over fifteen hours,” Victoria said.
“Then you have plenty of time to think about your driving,” Vance said.
Victoria closed her eyes for a moment, calculating the risk of waiting until they reached the station.
The county court hearing was scheduled for the morning of October twelfth, which was only three weeks away.
