Thirty.
Finally Doyle said:
“What?”
The Black Man spoke politely.
“I need to submit a civilian complaint.”
Doyle stopped typing.
His eyes lifted.
“Against?”
“I’d prefer to provide the written statement first.”
Doyle leaned back.
“Against who?”
“I have the officer’s name in the complaint.”
Doyle looked at the backpack.
Then the hoodie.
Then the man’s face.
“Were you involved?”
“I’m delivering the signed complaint.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The Black Man remained calm.
“I’m here to make sure it’s received.”
Doyle’s jaw tightened.
“Who are you?”
“My name is on the cover letter.”
“I asked you a question.”
“And I answered.”
A woman waiting behind the Black Man looked up from her phone.
Something about Doyle’s tone made the room quieter.
The Black Man noticed.
He also noticed camera number four above the service counter.
Tiny indicator.
Solid green.
Streaming.
Good.
Doyle pointed toward the doors.
“If the complainant isn’t here, tell him to come himself.”
“The department’s written procedure allows third-party delivery of signed complaints.”
Doyle stared.
“You telling me my procedure?”
“No.”
“I’m reading what your public website says.”
Doyle’s face changed.
A small thing.
But the Black Man knew the expression.
Authority challenged.
Not loudly.
Not disrespectfully.
Simply contradicted.
For certain people, that was enough.
Doyle stood.
“Take your paperwork and leave.”
The Black Man did not move.
“I need a receipt confirming delivery.”
“You need to leave.”
“I have a lawful reason to be in a public lobby.”
Doyle stepped around the counter.
People began watching openly now.
One teenager raised his phone slightly.
Doyle stopped less than two feet from the Black Man.
“Listen carefully.”
The Black Man held the envelope at his side.
“I am.”
Doyle pointed toward the entrance.
“Get out.”
“Sergeant, I’m asking you to accept a complaint.”
“I don’t care what you’re asking.”
The Black Man glanced at the clock.
10:30.
Almost 10:31.
Doyle saw the glance.
“You looking for somebody?”
“No.”
“Then stop looking around.”
The Black Man looked back at him.
Doyle moved closer.
So close their shoes nearly touched.
A woman by the wall whispered:
“Oh, God.”
The Black Man did not step backward.
Not because he wanted confrontation.
Because a counter edge was directly behind him.
Doyle said:
“You people come in here thinking you can tell us how to run this place.”
The Black Man’s expression changed.
“What people?”
Doyle realized the words had escaped.
He tried to repair them.
“People who come in here making trouble.”
The Black Man nodded slowly.
“Accept the envelope.”
“No.”
“Give me the refusal in writing.”
Doyle laughed.
“You’re not getting anything.”
The second sergeant heard the raised voices from behind the counter.
Troy Brener.
Forty-six.
Stockier than Doyle.
Dark hair beginning to gray.
Sixteen years in the department.
Brener emerged from a side office already irritated.
“What’s going on?”
Doyle never looked away from the Black Man.