Elena sets the drive down on the table. “We’re not taking action without corroboration,” she says. “But I’m not writing ‘no violation’ on the strength of an affidavit and a smile. I’ll take the video, the logs, guest names, staff names, and we’ll compare timestamps with your raw device data.”
Roberto taps the printed map on the wall. “And when the comparison shows your clean little red dot ‘leaving the city’while the foyer camera shows my client walking past a grandfather clock, you’re going to write a note that says what this is: system anomaly, no action, no violation.”
“You’ll get ‘no action based on anomaly verified by independent evidence,’” she says, even. “I’m not pretending the ping didn’t happen.”
“You’re not pretending your toy is faulty,” he fires back.
The tech clears his throat. “It’s not a glitch. It’s a conflict of inputs. The algorithm weights GPS. If you want me to change the weighting for this unit at night, I can—”
“You’ll do nothing unilaterally,” Elena says without looking at him.
“And while we’re on ‘unilateral,’” Roberto says, “I want it in your notes that Pretrial dragged my client out of his house at 2:00 in the morning based on a dot. You want cooperation, you get cooperation. You want compliance, you get compliance. What you don’t get is to pin this on my client when there’s reasonable doubt.”
The tech keeps talking, filling the room with numbers that none of us can understand. “I can pull satellite counts and tower IDs for that window,” he says. “We’ll see if it was a handoff on the edge. We can also add a home base—an overnight beacon that tethers the strap to a fixed point. If he’s inside, the base confirms and reduces acceptance of a GPS bounce.”
Elena turns to him. “Schedule the base for today.”
He nods quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Roberto tips his chin at the drive. “Chain of custody?”
Elena looks to the closer marshal. “Log it and walk it up to evidence. I want a copy pulling in ten.”
The marshal steps in, gloved, takes the drive. The tech disconnects the puck from my transmitter and clicks the unit back into place around my ankle. The ring warms against my skin.
“We’re done with the physical,” the tech says. “I’ll go upstairs and start the pull on the raw. You’ll get the report and the beacon install order by email.” He hesitates, then adds, “There’s a consent form for placing the base at your residence. Someone needs to sign.”
Roberto stands and smooths his tie. “I’ll sign it.”
They both move toward the door. The marshal with the drive steps out first. The other stays posted in the hall, shoulder to the frame.
Roberto glances back at me. “Two minutes,” he says, then to Elena, “You’ll write clean.”
“I always do,” she says.
They disappear into the hall.
The door doesn’t quite close on the way out. It swings lazily and stops short of latching. A soft gap, an inch of hallway, a sliver of their boots.
The second marshal takes two steps away to answer a radio squawk. The room goes quiet, and the air thickens.
It’s just us.
Elena’s eyes go to the map on the monitor as if she can will the dot to behave. For a breath, she doesn’t acknowledge it. Then she does, a half-turn, the file still open in her hand, tabs like little flags.
“You’re going to get the base,” she says, matter-of-fact. Not a question.
“I am.”
“It will help.”
“It will make your dot lie less,” I say.
A corner of her mouth twitches, like she’s going to say something, then settles.
“How was dinner?” I ask, like I’m asking about the weather.
Her eyes flick to the green camera light and back to me. That one glance says what she won’t: not for the record.
