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out,” Branen barked.
    Cherabino glanced at me, then away. She was very aware of Branen’s body language right now, and I didn’t blame her. It wasn’t a good situation for her boss to be dragged out to another precinct to pick us up. I didn’t know what to do, frankly. I hoped she did.
    Outside, street taxis whirred by in front of the Fulton County Police Building, the dirty road with puddles of unnamed substances. The skyscrapers towered overhead with shining glory of anti-grav-assisted supermaterials, pristine and beautiful above, the dirt and disuse below beneath their notice. The police building seemed an angry troll in comparison, dirty and old, squatting on land that it jealously guarded. The air was warming up a little, at least, and the pollution didn’t seem too bad today.
    Branen moved to a police car with the DeKalb County logo, currently parked illegally in a loading zone near a neighboring building. He pointed to the back, where I went with a sigh. I didn’t like being treated like a criminal.
    â€œYou too, Cherabino,” he said.
    A spike of anger from her, but she complied. I watched the thoughts bubble up in her head like a lava lamp roiling, but none stuck. None turned into words; the car was oddly, starkly silent.
    Branen drove in silence, pulling out onto the busy street cautiously, working his way through the one-way streets and limited skylane on-ramps with concentration until he settled on the Freedom Parkway airlanes. Behind us, the early-morning commuters in their flyers stretched out likeribbons above the major interstate, ribbons between skyscrapers on all sides. Ahead, the early-morning sun edged above the horizon, soft, beautiful light that promised a new day. It was lying, of course. The vision—and the treatment from the Fulton County cops—still lingered. “They have witnesses that saw you beating up both citizens,” Branen said finally, voice dangerously low.
    â€œThey started the fight,” I said.
    â€œNot you, Ward. I don’t want to hear from you at all if I can help it. You were down on the ground according to witnesses. I’m talking about Cherabino. They said she flashed her badge, apparently, then said some very harsh threats. Threw more than one punch—a few kicks—started the fight and then ended it with excessive force. One of the guys ran away, the other she knocked out and kicked. Then, maybe fifteen minutes later, you both find a body of the same man. On the two-year anniversary of the Neil Bennett beating. Your timing could not have been worse if you’d planned it.” That was right; Bennett had been beaten by three officers in one of the southern metro counties after he talked back to one of them. He’d lost the use of a lung and nearly his life. I’d completely forgotten about it; it hadn’t been my county. Branen had to know, though. Branen was political.
    He added, “Did you plan it?”
    Cherabino protested, “No, sir. And I didn’t—”
    Branen cut her off. “This is a political time bomb. On the two-year anniversary of the Bennett beating. With officer brutality already on every media channel in the city.”
    Wow. That sounded terrible. But she hadn’t done anything wrong. The witnesses had clearly screwed up their memories of who had done what.
    I told him, “Sir, that wasn’t what—”
    Cherabino protested, “I didn’t—”
    â€œI have your side of the story in copious notes from Fulton County,” Branen said. “I’m not interested in hearing it again. I’m interested in handling this time bomb.”
    â€œSeriously, I was with her the whole time. She threw a couple punches and a kick after they started it, and then they continued after she told them she was police. It was—”
    â€œWard, if I hear one more word from you I will fire you,” Branen said. “You can’t testify in court and