Grease And Gavel

The hash browns were halfway gone when the sheriff’s hand came down on the table.

Sloane had just lifted her fork for another bite. She kept it there, looked at the man in the tan uniform, and finished chewing before she moved. The plate sat on Verna Sue’s counter under a buzzing light, grease shining on the edges. Nine tables, all empty but one. The ceiling fan dragged the hot air around without helping.

“Ma’am, you need to stand up,” Sheriff Thurl Gaddy said.

He was broad through the chest, sweat at his temples, his jaw set so hard it looked painful. Two deputies had come in behind him and stopped by the door, watching the room like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Sloane set down her fork and reached for her napkin. “On what charge?”

“Don’t get cute.”

She dabbed her mouth once. Her hands stayed still. “I asked a question.”

Verna Sue Pickard came out from behind the grill with a coffee pot clutched in both hands, white-knuckled around the handle. “Sheriff, she’s not caused any trouble. She paid cash. Ate two eggs, too.”

Gaddy didn’t look at her. “You stay out of this, Verna Sue.”

“She’s a customer.”

“She’s what I say she is.”

The words landed flat and hard. Verna Sue took one step closer anyway, the pot still in her grip. “You don’t get to drag people out of my place for nothing.”

Gaddy finally turned his head. “I can close your doors before supper if I want.”

That shut the room down. Verna Sue’s mouth pressed thin. Her knuckles went pale on the coffee pot.

Sloane looked at the sheriff, then at the deputies, then back to her plate. The bill sat beside the napkin holder. Her tote was hooked over the booth rail, the leather strap twisted around the chair leg. Nine inches from her elbow, her wallet and federal credentials rested in the bag where she’d left them.

Gaddy saw the tote. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t touch it. He didn’t have to. “Hands on the table.”

She put both hands flat.

One deputy stepped in and read her wrist, then the other. Gaddy took the cuffs from his belt, snapped one end over her left wrist, and yanked her arm across the table. The metal bit skin. He had her second wrist before the fork had even clinked against the plate.

Verna Sue made a small sound. “Sheriff—”

“Back up.”

Sloane stood slowly, cuffs cold on her wrists, and looked past Gaddy to the street outside, where her silver Chevy Malibu waited in the glare.

Then she looked at the tote.

Gaddy yanked her out of the booth so hard the vinyl back squealed.

Sloane’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She set it down, chewed, and swallowed the last bite of hash browns before she looked up. The diner had gone still except for the ceiling fan and the oil popping on the grill.

“Sheriff,” Verna Sue said from behind the counter. Her hand was white on the coffee pot. “That woman didn’t do nothing.”

Gaddy planted one palm on the Formica table. Sweat had already gathered at his hairline. “She matched a report. That’s all you need to know.”

Verna Sue took one step forward. “She ate two eggs and paid cash. She’s passing through.”

Gaddy turned on her. “You keep talking, I’ll find a reason to write you up for something.”

Verna Sue’s mouth pinched shut. She looked at Sloane, then away.

Sloane kept her hands where he could see them. Her tote sat by the booth leg, brown canvas with the zipper half open, wallet inside, credentials tucked under a folder of papers. Nine inches away, maybe less. Gaddy hadn’t looked at the bag yet. He was too busy enjoying the room.

“You got ID?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sloane said.

“Then let’s see it.”

She wiped her mouth with the paper napkin and folded it once. “I’m not reaching for anything while you’re standing over me with cuffs.”

His jaw worked. “You got a smart mouth for somebody in my county.”

“I’m sure I do.”

One deputy came in through the door and stopped near the soda cooler. Young, skinny, boots dusty. Tunstall, according to the badge. He looked at Gaddy, then at Sloane, then down at the floor.

“Bag,” Gaddy said.

Tunstall stepped to the booth and picked it up like it might bite. The tote swung once against his knee.

Verna Sue said, “Sheriff, if you lay hands on her, I’m calling Montgomery.”

Gaddy laughed once, short and flat. “Ma’am, you do what you want.”

He snapped the cuffs open. The metal clicked in the quiet room.

Sloane held his eyes. “You’re making a mistake.”

“No,” he said. “I’m making sure.”

He took her wrist. Cold steel closed around it. Then the other. The cuffs bit through the skin at the bone.

Nobody spoke.

Gaddy leaned in close enough that she could smell tobacco on his breath. “You got nobody coming, lady.”

Sloane looked past him, past the counter, to where Verna Sue stood rigid with the coffee pot. Then she looked back at the sheriff and said nothing at all.

Tunstall shifted his weight. The tote bag hung from his hand, and the zipper had slid farther open.