TITLE: DIRECTOR
NAME: PENDLETON, ROLAND
O'Malley's face drained of all color. His ruddy complexion turned the shade of wet ash. His eyes darted from the glaring red screen to the calm man standing in front of him.
"Jenkins," O'Malley whispered, his voice trembling so violently it cracked.
"What?" Jenkins asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Has he got warrants? I knew it."
"Jenkins," O'Malley said again, standing slowly, his hands shaking as he reached for the keys to the handcuffs. "You didn't arrest a prowler." He swallowed hard, looking Roland dead in the eyes, terror settling into his voice. "You arrested the Director of the FBI."
The silence that fell over the booking room was absolute. The ringing phones seemed to fade into the background. The chaotic shuffling of officers and suspects came to a dead halt. Every eye turned first to the glaring red screen, then to the older Black man handcuffed to the rail.
Jenkins let out a nervous, dismissive chuckle. His mind violently rejected what stood in front of him. "Tommy, come on. The machine's glitching, or he stole someone's identity. You think the Director of the FBI is wearing dirty sweatpants on Foxhall Crescent?"
O'Malley did not answer. His hands shook so badly he dropped his key ring twice before finally fitting the small silver key into the lock on Roland's wrist. The heavy cuffs clicked open.
"Director Pendleton," O'Malley stammered, his voice stripped of its usual gruff authority. "Sir, I apologize. I had no idea."