Jimmy found a food truck, sorted out his lunch, and with a corn wrap and a burger in hand, found a secluded path to park his patrol car in the shade and start his meal.

Today was really distressful. It had been bad starting from yesterday, first with not finding the murderer, then the person he had painstakingly pursued being taken away, and his new patrol area had so many minor issues that it was frustrating.

That Cadillac jerk was definitely a big fish. Not interrogating him overnight yesterday was a huge loss. Not everyone could handle two passports; there must be big issues to unearth with him.

With the DEA involved, it meant that the individual was either a drug lord or, possibly, an undercover agent; in any case, he was definitely a big fish.

Having been a policeman for so long, Jimmy had never handled a major case; they were all trivial matters, except for killing three people, of course.

Looking at the movies, those policemen dealt with gangs, drug lords, murders, and other major cases. They not only received promotions and pay raises but at least stirred people's blood. But look at himself, patrolling in a car, catching things like speeding, car accidents, fake licenses—it was such a huge gap. He initially thought it was because he was just a patrol officer intern, but even after getting promoted, he was still doing these things.

Cage had been working in the police department for over 20 years and still had to drive around patrolling. Thinking of Cage's corpulent figure, Jimmy felt as if he was seeing himself in 20 years.

It was too terrifying, Jimmy quickly dismissed the thought. He couldn't dare to imagine what a future of patrolling for 20 years would be like.

Jimmy discarded those previous thoughts and returned to the patrol car to rest after finishing his lunch. The reinforcement between the back seat and front seat of the patrol car meant that the driver's seat could not recline like in a personal car; he could only lean against the backrest for a nap. He couldn't lay down to sleep, so sleeping in the car was extremely uncomfortable, but given the short rest the night before, he had to make do.

In the afternoon, after waking up, Jimmy spaced out in the car for a while before he started it up and went back to patrolling on the highway.

Jimmy went from the highway to the country lanes, aimlessly roving around, then spotted his first target of the afternoon.

A speeding Harley motorcycle, distinct with its crooked handlebars, the rider a white, middle-aged man with a big beard, wearing studded leather jacket, pointed leather shoes—these features almost certainly identified him as a member of some bike gang. The lack of a logo on the back of his jacket meant that he couldn't determine which gang it belonged to, and it was possible he was just a low-level gang member who had not yet earned a badge on his attire.

Just to add, there are many motorcycle gangs in the United States; decades of evolution have carved out their respective territories to avoid the conflicts of the '60s and '70s. Each gang has specific boundaries they don't violate. Within the gang, ranks are clear, distinguished by tattoos and the badges on their clothes.

Jimmy switched on his police lights and siren and charged forward, sticking close behind the motorcycle. As the POST committee strictly prohibits police from performing PIT maneuvers on motorcycles, Jimmy had no choice but to follow.

The rider, noticing the police car with lights flashing behind him, immediately turned at the next corner and sped away. Jimmy followed closely, accelerating, maintaining a distance of several meters—he couldn't get too close in case of an accident, even a slight scrape could make him unable to escape a lawsuit.

Today was not Jimmy's lucky day; after several twists and turns, the motorcycle disappeared from sight. In Arkansas, especially in areas with lots of small woods, chasing a motorcycle proved exceedingly difficult, as they could always weave through the most intricate spaces.

Jimmy had no choice but to turn off his police lights and siren and slowly drift back to the highway. At an intersection, he encountered the motorcycle again. As soon as he turned on his police lights and siren, the motorcycle, possibly startled, suddenly turned and crashed on the roadside.

Unexpectedly elated, Jimmy immediately stopped the car, drew his gun, and shouted at the rider, "Don't move! Let me see your hands!"

The rider raised his hands to show he had no weapons, then walked to the side of the road, lay down, and crossed his hands behind his back. He didn't need Jimmy to give any instructions; he did it so skillfully it was heartbreaking—how many times had he been arrested before?

Jimmy was a bit stunned himself; he went over, handcuffed him, then pulled him up to search him and put him in the back of the patrol car. The whole process went so smoothly it almost felt like a pre-arranged training exercise.

Jimmy returned to the driver's seat and contacted the dispatch center via radio, requesting a tow truck, then he waited at the scene. It wasn't time for interrogation yet, so there was no need to give the Miranda warning.

If it had been just for speeding, a ticket would have sufficed, but since the motorcycle rider had not stopped and had instead sped away, it was a serious crime of fleeing from the police. In such cases, it was better to take him back to the station for interrogation and then hand the case over to the Prosecutor's Office following due process. Detention was inevitable, and the Miranda warning could be given during the interrogation.

After waiting for about fifteen minutes, the tow truck arrived, hoisted the motorcycle up, and then Jimmy took the rider back to the station.

In the detention room, Jimmy unlocked the handcuffs from behind the rider's back and asked him to extend his arms forward to re-cuff them. After completing these steps, Jimmy began to recite the Miranda warning.

"I am Deputy Sheriff Jimmy Yang, and I am in charge of your case. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"

"Yes, can I contact my lawyer now? I won't talk until my lawyer arrives."

Jimmy was somewhat helpless; the rider had been an old pro, not uttering a word the entire ride, but now suddenly he spoke, clearly no stranger to being arrested by the police.

Jimmy fetched a phone from outside and let the rider make a call, then he walked out. Anything he said now would be pointless, and eavesdropping on the call wouldn't be effective, so he didn't waste any more time.

After waiting for half an hour, a lawyer entered the station, impeccably dressed in shiny shoes, a suit, and a vest complete with a shirt and tie, his hair meticulously styled, carrying a briefcase.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. I am Shaun White, an attorney, looking for Officer Jimmy Yang."

"Hi, I'm Jimmy Yang."

"Officer, I am Shaun White, attorney for Alexander Djerentyev. Could you take me to see him?" asked Shaun White with a smile.

"He's in the detention room; come with me."

Jimmy led the lawyer to the detention room, then left. Police are not allowed to interfere while the lawyer communicates with the suspect, and their conversation cannot be directly submitted as evidence; recording devices also had to be turned off.