of the jaw, a slight tremor in the voice, a desperate need to overexplain.
I wasn’t giving him a defense.
I was giving him a hostile takeover.
“You think I’m going to hand a felony suspect their unsecured, unwarranted personal device in the middle of a homicide-adjacent interrogation?” Vance asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register.
He set the coffee down.
“I think you are a pragmatist, Detective,” I replied, the fluorescent light buzzing angrily above us, casting sharp, clinical shadows across the steel table.
“And you have
