Following a week of solid rainfall, many Sacramento area homes in low-lying areas sustained flood damage from overrun creeks and broken levees. The storms were hitting on a rotation basis: one came through and did its damage, while the next was approaching, much in the way an airplane departs the runway while several stacked planes behind it await their turn. With the sun fighting its way through the stratus clouds, the unexpected break in the weather gave homeowners and businesses time to clean up, sandbag, and prepare for the next deluge.
Bill Jennings chuckled as he and Angela Moreno drove toward Brittany Harding’s house, arrest warrant in hand. “This is truly the calm before the storm,” he quipped. “If this lady is as volatile as we’ve been hearing, she could bring the next storm on prematurely.”
“She seemed pretty meek when we were there for her DNA.”
“Shock of the situation. Plus, she wasn’t threatened with anything then, except the loss of a few skin cells and a vial of blood. Now we’re coming to take her to jail.”
They turned into her driveway and radioed their arrival to dispatch; behind them, a sheriff’s department cruiser pulled in front of the house and parked at the curb. They would transport Harding to the station with Moreno for booking while Jennings searched her home and confiscated evidence listed on the more expansive warrant than they’d served previously, to include all pairs of shoes and any materials, binders, or notes she kept during her employment at the Consortium.
The front door opened and revealed Harding, dressed in a smart, tightly tailored suit and ready to walk out the door. “What do you want now?” she asked, an air of defensiveness hardening her face. “I’m on my way to a job interview.”
“Miss Brittany Harding,” Jennings said, stepping through the open front door, “we have a warrant for your arrest in the murders of Otis Silvers and Imogene Pringle.”
“Like hell you do!” she shouted, backpedaling. Jennings reached for her wrist, but she yanked it back. “Get your goddamn hands off me. How dare you come in here and accuse me of murder?”
Moreno rested a hand on her baton.
“Miss Harding, I’m sure you don’t want to make this more difficult than it already is,” Jennings said as he advanced on her. “Come peacefully and it’ll be easier. For all of us.”
She backed against the entryway wall; as Jennings took another step toward her, she kicked him in the groin, doubling him over. Moreno leaped forward and pinned Harding back with the baton shoved beneath her chin. She then spun her around and took her suspect down, face first, onto the tile floor.
Jennings stood up slowly, his brow crumpled in pain. He pulled out his handcuffs and leaned over the suspect’s prone body, fastening the restraints to her forearms with a swift flick of his wrist. He made them exceptionally tight.
“I think,” he said through clenched teeth, “we’ll add resisting arrest to the charges against you.”
He proceeded to Mirandize her, and while still somewhat stooped over, led her outside where the uniformed deputy took her to the waiting patrol car.