you just promised, and you lose the phone, and I book you for the maximum.”
I didn’t acknowledge the threat.
I didn’t massage my bruised wrist.
I reached into the bin, picked up the cold, heavy device, and pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner.
The screen flared to life, casting a sharp bluish glow across the sterile white walls of the interrogation room.
“Your crash occurred at exactly 9:14 p.m.,” I stated, my voice slipping into the clinical, frictionless cadence I used when presenting quarterly risk assessments
