Chapter 5: What Toby Remembered
The federal investigator arrived at seven forty-five the next morning, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.
Her name was Agent Carla Simmons, and she set her bag on the booking desk, accepted a cup of coffee from Toby Miller, and declined the offer of Boyd's office.
"I'll work out here," she said.
"I prefer to see the whole room."
Boyd arrived at eight-oh-two.
He stopped when he saw her already seated at the booking desk with a laptop open and the sealed evidence envelope in front of her.
"Sheriff Cleary." She did not stand.
"Sit down, please."
Boyd looked at Toby.
Toby looked at his own desk.
Boyd sat.
"I'm going to review the footage first," Simmons said.
"Then we'll talk.
You're welcome to have your attorney present for the interview portion.
If you'd like to call them now, this would be the time."
Boyd had called his attorney the night before.
His attorney had told him to say as little as possible and to under no circumstances touch the footage.
Boyd had not told his attorney about the moment, at eleven-fifteen the previous night, when he had walked back to the department, stood outside the evidence room door for six minutes, and then gone home without going in.
He had told himself it was because he'd made the right choice.
He was less certain of that now, watching Simmons load the dashcam file onto her screen.
The footage was clear.
The road was straight and dry.
Sarah's Malibu held its lane with the precision of someone who drove for a living.
The radar display was visible in the lower corner of the frame: 44 mph.
Simmons watched without expression.
She made a note.
The booking room footage was worse.
Boyd could see himself on the screen — his posture, his smirk, the casual way he had tossed the communications device into the evidence tray.
He watched himself do it and felt something cold move through his chest.
"Deputy Miller," Simmons said, without looking up from the screen.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions while the Sheriff's attorney is in transit.
You're not required to answer, but anything you share voluntarily will be part of the official record."
Toby straightened in his chair.
"Yes, ma'am."
"How long have you worked under Sheriff Cleary?"
"Seven years."
"In those seven years, have you witnessed other traffic stops that followed a similar pattern to yesterday's?"
The room was very quiet.
Boyd turned his head slowly toward Toby.
Toby looked at the floor.
Then he looked at Simmons.
"Yes," he said.
"I have."
Boyd's chair scraped back an inch.
"Toby —"
"Sheriff Cleary." Simmons's voice did not rise.
"Please do not speak to the deputy while he is answering my questions."
Boyd's mouth closed.
"Can you describe what you observed in those instances?" Simmons asked.
Toby took a breath.
"Vehicles with out-of-county plates.
Mostly.
Drivers who were — who looked a certain way.
Boyd would run the radar and if the number was legal he'd find something else.
Crossed the line.
Failure to signal.
Something." He paused.
"It didn't always end in an arrest.
Usually it was just a citation.
Or a warning that felt more like a threat."
"How many times, approximately, over seven years?"
Toby was quiet for a moment.
"More than I should have let go without saying something."
Boyd stood up.
"I want my attorney here before this goes any further."
"That is absolutely your right," Simmons said.
She looked at him steadily.
"Please wait outside."
Boyd looked at Toby one more time.
Toby did not look back.
Boyd walked out of his own department and stood in the parking lot in the morning heat, in the same spot where the helicopters had been, and called his attorney with hands that were not quite steady.
Inside, Simmons turned back to Toby.
"Thank you," she said.
"I know that wasn't easy."
"No," Toby said.
"It wasn't." He looked at the door Boyd had walked through.
"But I kept thinking about her.
Standing there at the booking desk.
Hands on the counter.
Not scared.
Just — waiting.
Like she'd done it before.
Like she knew how to survive it." He shook his head.
"Nobody should have to know how to survive that."
Simmons looked at him for a moment.
Then she made another note.
"I'm going to need a formal written statement," she said.
"Everything you just told me, and anything else you remember.
Take your time.
Be specific."
Toby pulled a legal pad from his drawer.
He uncapped a pen.
May you like
"I've been thinking about what to write since last night," he said.
"I've got a lot to say."
