Manning sets his gold detective’s shield in its black leather case in his left hand, badge exposed. In his right appears his service weapon. I ape him. So do the beat cops. My heart is starting to fibrillate. Manning turns toward us displaying his weapon with its three safeties on—slide, grip, and trigger. We juniors follow.

“You,” he whispers to the beat cops. “Disarm and cuff whoever is behind this door.”

The next thing I know, all four of us are through the door, past a snoozing, shaved-skull bruiser packing a shotgun, and striding—Manning and me—holding badges high, down the central walkway of an abandoned factory, made over into a Tech Age sweatshop.

MANNING

(shouts to all)

Police officers! Everyone remain calm!

Stay where you are!

The work floor is wall-to-wall with cramped, doorless cubicles, each manned by an Asian or African female. The women are rebuilding and recharging throwaway phones. In the center of the floor, on a platform raised several feet above the ladies’ carrels, squats a boss’s station. Manning stalks straight to it.

A white man in shirtsleeves wearing a yarmulke springs to his feet. He holds up both hands, calling out something to the factory women in a language I don’t recognize. Half of the ladies had bolted upright as well, wild-eyed, two seconds away from stampeding for the exits.

They calm down.

Manning has holstered his weapon. I can’t hear what he’s saying to the sweatshop boss. (He has motioned me to cover a side door.) Plainly the workspace is unlicensed, uninsured, in violation no doubt of scores of fire and safety regs.

Manning without a word has communicated to the yarmulke-wearing owner or manager or whatever he is that he, Manning, doesn’t give a shit about any of this.

He’s asking questions.

The boss is answering.

The boss calls again to the women on the floor. Again I have no idea what language he’s speaking.

In response, one of the ladies raises her hand.

Manning and the boss cross immediately to this female.

I can’t stand to stay in the dark any longer. I step to the cubicle too.

The factory woman is Laotian or Cambodian, I can’t tell which. She wears a smock and a hairnet. Her workstation holds a dozen disassembled burner phones, with SIM cards, screens, memory units, and lithium-ion batteries spread across an assembly table. She wears magnifying lenses. Atop her work surface is an additional lighted magnifier. Two computer consoles flank the workspace.

MANNING

(to boss and factory woman)

Eleven thirty-six oh six oh nine.

The woman looks scared to death. She glances helplessly to the boss, but cannot make her eyes rise to look at Manning. For some reason I find myself putting a hand gently on her shoulder. She peers up into my face. She can’t believe an Asian female is a cop.

SWEATSHOP BOSS

(to Manning)