“I thought you said you were on your way to a medical conference,” the cop replied, barely lifting his eyes.

“Yes, I did, after . . . Look, Officer, I acknowledge I may have sped up through the light. And I’m really sorry. But please, can’t you cut me a little slack on the ‘one-way street’ thing? You’ve already checked out my record, so you know I don’t have a history of this sort of thing. And, look, regarding the insurance . . .”

“This is now the second time I’ve had to give you a warning,” Martinez said, finding my eyes, his voice taking on that I’m-the-one-wearing-the-uniform here tone. “Don’t make me ask you again. If you do, I promise it will not go well . . .”

I sat back and blew out a long exhale, knowing I had taken it about as far as I could. It was true, if there was one thing that did irk me, it was the arbitrary use of authority, just because someone had a uniform on. I’d seen that kind of thing enough in Central America, governmentales and useless bureaucrats, and usually for no one’s good but their own.

“Go ahead,” I said, sinking back into the seat, “write me up if you have to. But I didn’t drive down a one-way street. And I do have a right to state my innocence. It’s not fair to just keep telling me—”

“That’s it! I warned you!” Martinez took a step back. “Get out of the car!”

“What?” I looked at him in disbelief.

“I said get out of the car, sir! Now!” There was no negotiation in his hard, gray eyes. It all just escalated in seconds. Later, I couldn’t even recall who had actually opened the door, him or me. But the next thing I knew I was out on the street, spun face-first against my car and roughly, with my hands twisted behind me.

“Hey . . .”

“Sir, you are under arrest, and your vehicle is being impounded,” Martinez barked from behind me.

“Under arrest?” I twisted around, jerking my arm back. “Under arrest for what?”

“For obstructing an officer in the act of performing his job,” he said, yanking back my arm and squeezing the cuffs tightly over my wrists. “And now for resisting arrest!”

“Resisting arrest?” I spun again. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “Officer, please, this is crazy!” I pleaded. “Can’t we take a step back here? I’m not some thug. I’m a respected surgeon. I’m speaking at a medical conference in a couple of hours . . .”

He turned me back around, shooting me an indifferent smirk. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to work out that little detail from jail.”

The next thing I knew, I was thrown into the back of Martinez’s police car, my knees squeezed at a sharp angle against the front, unable to comprehend how this had happened. Maybe the cop had told me to shut up, but I was only protesting my innocence. I was never threatening. I wasn’t sure what I should do, or whom I should call. They were expecting me to give a speech at the conference. I’d have to let them know. My stomach sank. And Mike—I looked at my watch. I was supposed to meet him at Atlantic Pines in an hour! I needed a lawyer. I didn’t even have a fucking lawyer! Not that kind of lawyer. There was Sy, who looked over my business stuff. Or Mitch Sperling, who had handled my divorce. Oh God, I could only imagine Liz’s reaction when she found out. “You always think you know all the answers, don’t you, Henry . . . ?” she would say, smirking with that gloating eye roll of hers.

Not to mention how she would play this out with Hallie.

As if in seconds, several other police cars showed up on the scene, their lights flashing. Six or so cops jumped out, diverting traffic at the intersection behind me, conferring with Martinez, radioing in. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

Who the hell did they think they actually had here—Timothy McVeigh?

As I watched, Martinez and several cops talked outside their vehicles. I twisted against my restraints for a little legroom, which, like I’d always heard, only tightened them further. I sucked in a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself and figure out what I was going to say: that this was all just some crazy misunderstanding. That I was a doctor, on my way to a medical conference. To be honored tonight. That I didn’t have as much as a parking ticket on my record. Things had simply escalated out of control. For my contribution to which, I was truly sorry.

But nothing I had done merited being cuffed and carted off to jail!

A second cop—this one muscular and bald, with a thick mustache and his short sleeves rolled up—came over and opened the rear door.

“Sir, we have a couple of questions to ask you. And as you’re already in enough trouble as it is, my advice is to be very careful how you answer.”

Already in enough trouble? This was growing crazier by the second. But I wasn’t about to exacerbate it further now.

“Okay.” I nodded back to him.

He knelt so that his eyes were level with me. “Where is your wife?”

“My wife?” It took me a second to respond, blinking back in total surprise. “You mean my ex-wife? I’m divorced. And I don’t know where she is. And what the hell does she have to do with this anyway?”

“I’m talking about the woman you were seen driving around with earlier this morning.” His iron-like gaze never wavered from me.

“What woman? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, almost stammering. “There was no other woman with me. I just flew in to the airport. I drove straight here until the officer over there stopped me.”

“Sir . . .” The officer’s look had the kind of intensity he might use on a felon or something. “I’m going to repeat my instructions, about answering carefully . . . You say you didn’t have a woman in your car? Approximately one hour ago? Downtown?” The question was starting to make me just a little afraid. And it seemed he already knew the answer he was looking for.

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about!” I shook my head. “And I appreciate it, but I don’t need to be cautioned on how to reply. I haven’t done anything wrong, other than to go through a yellow light.”

The cop blew out a snort, with a thin smirk that was quickly followed by a cynical glare. Then he slowly stood up, shut the door, and went back over to his crew. A group of seven or eight of them conferred again for some time. Traffic was stopped in both directions; six or seven officers standing around, looking my way. I felt my heart race and I realized I may need someone to get me out of this situation. Who the hell could I call?

A few minutes passed, and Martinez and the bald cop came back over. They slid into the front seat and looked at me through the glass.

The next question got a lot more serious.

“Sir, when was the last time you were stopped by the Jacksonville police?” Martinez asked, staring into my eyes.

Huh? I laughed a nervous, back-of-the-throat chortle. “Stopped by the police?” I uttered, my mouth completely dry. “I’ve never been stopped by the police. Listen, I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but—”

“You’re saying you weren’t pulled over in downtown Jacksonville earlier this morning?” Martinez asked me again. “Around nine A.M. With a woman in this car?”

I was shaken by the total seriousness in his eyes.

“No. No! I have no idea what you’re talking about. Nine A.M. I had just gotten off a plane! You can check my itinerary. I think it’s in my briefcase in the car. Or in the rental agreement. Look, I don’t know who the hell you guys think I am, but you’ve obviously mixed me up with . . .”

Martinez removed his sunglasses. “Sir, what were you doing in a federal office building in downtown Jacksonville an hour ago?”

My heart stopped. As did just about everything inside me. I just sat, with my hands bound, realizing just how serious this was. Being stopped for a traffic violation was one thing . . . But having 9/11-like kinds of questions thrown at you—in cuffs; in the back of a police car . . .