October 14th, 11:15 p.m. Fairview Precinct. The ride to the station was silent. Reynolds tried to goad Nathaniel into saying something incriminatory, playing loud rock music and making snide comments about affirmative action cars. But Nathaniel sat in the back of the cage like a statue.
He was meditating on case law, specifically Brady v. Maryland and Giglio v. United States. He was mentally drafting the subpoena for the officer's disciplinary records. When they arrived at the precinct, Reynolds dragged Nathaniel out of the car, parading him through the booking area.
The station was buzzing with the usual late night activity. Drunks, petty thieves, and exhausted officers. “Got a big one tonight, boys.” Reynolds announced to the room, shoving Nathaniel toward the booking desk. “Possession with intent.”
“Maybe driving under the influence.” “Found him rolling in a Mercedes S-Class.” The booking sergeant, an older man named Desk Sergeant Miller, looked up from his computer. He adjusted his glasses, squinting at the tall man in the pristine suit. Miller had been on the force for 30 years.
He knew the faces of the regulars. He also knew the faces of the city's elite. He frowned. The man in cuffs looked familiar. “Name?”
Reynolds barked at Nathaniel. “Nathaniel. Augustus. Rivers,” Nathaniel enunciated clearly. Miller stopped typing.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He looked at Nathaniel, then at the TV screen in the corner of the room that was playing the late night news recap. The news was covering the RICO trial that had just ended. There was a sketch of the judge on the screen. Miller's blood ran cold.
“Reynolds,” Miller said, his voice trembling slightly. “Can I see you in the back for a second?” “Book him first, Sarge. I want this locked in,” Reynolds said, pumping with adrenaline.
“I want to weigh that powder.” “Reynolds, now.” Miller stood up. The room went quiet. It wasn't often a desk sergeant barked at a patrol officer like that.
Reynolds rolled his eyes, leaving Nathaniel standing by the counter, handcuffed to the bench rail. He followed Miller into the breakroom. “What's the problem, Sarge? I caught a guy riding dirty, open and shut.” Miller turned on him, his face pale.
“Do you know who that is out there?” “Yeah, Nathaniel Rivers. Some rich guy who thinks he's above the law.” “That is the Honorable Nathaniel Rivers,” Miller hissed, leaning in close.
“He's a United States district judge. He was appointed by the president. He just put the entire Salato crime family away for life last week.” Reynolds blinked. A flicker of doubt crossed his face, but his ego stomped it out immediately.
“So judges can be junkies, too. I found coke in his car, Sarge, under the seat. He's dirty.” Miller stared at him. He knew Reynolds.
He knew the rumors. He knew about the complaints regarding planted evidence that always seemed to disappear. “Are you sure, Brock?” Are you 100% sure that drugs were his? Because if you are wrong, if you messed with a federal judge, God help us all.
Reynolds crossed his arms. He was committed now. There was no going back. If he admitted he planted it, he was done. If he stuck to the lie, it was his word against the drivers.
Cops usually won that fight, even against judges. Or so he thought. I found what I found, Reynolds said, his jaw tight. “Book him.” Miller shook his head slowly.
“You're digging your own grave, son.” Back out at the desk, Nathaniel watched the interaction. He saw the color drain from Miller's face. He saw the stubborn set of Reynolds jaw. When Reynolds came back out, he grabbed Nathaniel's arm.
Fingerprints. Let's go. “Officer Reynolds,” Nathaniel said calmly, “I would like to make my phone call now.” You can make it after you're processed. “I am asserting my right to counsel, and I suggest you call your union representative.”
“You are going to need him.” Reynolds shoved him toward the scanner. SHUt up.
October 15th, 8:00 a.m. The interrogation room. Nathaniel had spent the night in a holding cell. He hadn't slept. He sat on the concrete bench, his suit jacket folded neatly beside him, staring at the wall.
He had refused to answer any questions. He simply stated his name and his title, then invoked the fifth. By 8:00 a.m., the station was in chaos. Sergeant Miller had made a phone call at 4:00 a.m. to the chief of police, Chief Harrison. Chief Harrison had driven to the station in his pajamas.
When he saw the arrest report, he nearly threw up. Now Chief Harrison stood in the observation room, looking through the one-way glass at Judge Rivers. Standing next to him was the district attorney, District Attorney Samantha Cole. Tell me this is a joke, Harrison, Samantha said, her voice like ice. Tell me your officer didn't arrest a federal judge for possession of a dime bag of cocaine.
The officer swears he found it, Harrison said, sweating. Body cam footage shows him pulling it from under the seat. And what does the judge say? He hasn't said a word since he asked for his lawyer. “Who's his lawyer?”
At that moment, the heavy steel door of the interrogation room opened. A man walked in. He wasn't a public defender. He was Arthur Caldwell, the most expensive, vicious criminal defense attorney in the state. He was also Nathaniel Rivers's college roommate.
Caldwell sat down opposite Nathaniel. He didn't look at the mirror. He looked at his friend. “You okay, Nate?” “I'm fine, Arty.”