Jenkins leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Here is where the math stops working, Officer Miller," Jenkins said. "According to the property-room logs, Rollins seized more than $200,000 in cash over the last three years. But our forensic accountants audited the precinct's forfeiture accounts. Only $40,000 was ever deposited."
Miller's eyes widened in genuine shock. "Wait, what are you saying?" "I am saying," Jenkins corrected sharply, "that Derek Rollins was not merely an overzealous officer. He was a thief." He was using his badge to systematically extort innocent citizens, fabricating probable cause, stealing their money, and pocketing the difference. And Sergeant Omali was signing off on the heavily redacted property reports. The twist hit the precinct like a secondary explosion. The bad arrest of the FBI director wasn't just a catastrophic mistake.
It had been an attempted robbery. Rollins had seen a black man at a $6 million estate and assumed he was either a criminal carrying illicit cash or a wealthy target who could be easily intimidated and shaken down. He had tried his usual extortion playbook on the absolute worst possible target on the planet. Down in the federal detention center in Alexandria, Virginia, where Rollins had been transferred, the walls were rapidly closing in. Agent Jenkins walked into the bleak, windowless interview room, carrying a fresh stack of indictments.
Rollins was wearing a bright orange federal jumpsuit, his face pale, dark circles, bruising the skin under his eyes. He looked completely broken. "Agent Jenkins," Rollins croaked, his voice hoarse. "My lawyer said we might be able to work out a plea for the civil rights charge. I'll resign. I'll never work in law enforcement again. I just want to avoid federal prison. Jenkins didn't smile. She pulled out the chair and sat down, placing the thick stack of documents on the metal table. "Mr. Rollins, the civil rights charge regarding Director Pendleton is the least of your problems right now." Rollins frowned, confusion washing over his exhausted face. "What do you mean?" "We audited your forfeiture logs," Jenkins stated, her voice as cold as ice. We found the offshore accounts you opened in the Cayman Islands. We found the $75,000 hidden in the drywall of your garage. We have sworn statements from fourteen different victims who you illegally detained and robbed under the threat of fabricated felony charges. Rollins stopped breathing. The color drained from his face so fast. Jenkins thought he might pass out. "You thought you were untouchable because you hid behind a badge," Jenkins continued, leaning across the table to ensure he heard every single word. "You targeted marginalized people because you thought they didn't have the power to fight back.
But then you got greedy. You got arrogant. You walked up a driveway in Elmwood Estates and tried to run your extortion game on Arthur Pendleton. "I did not know," Rollins stammered, his mind short-circuiting, as the sheer magnitude of his crimes was laid out before him. "I know you did not," Jenkins said coldly.