How's Eleanor taking it? She's ready to burn this building down. I told her to wait. Caldwell opened his briefcase. So, let's hear it.
Did you develop a sudden coke habit in your 50s? Nathaniel smiled, a cold, dangerous smile. “Officer Reynolds planted it, left hand.” He blocked the body cam with his torso, but he forgot about the mirror angles. “Mirror angles.”
The side view mirror of the Mercedes, Nathaniel explained. The door was open. The mirror was angled inward for parking. If you look at the body cam footage and you catch the reflection in the side mirror, you will see him pull the bag from his vest, not from under the seat. Caldwell's eyes widened.
“You saw that?” I was watching, Nathaniel said. But that's not all. My car, it has sentry mode. It records 360° video when the alarm is triggered or when it senses proximity intrusion.
It has internal cameras, too. Caldwell started to laugh. It was a low rumble of a laugh. “You have him on 4K video planting the drugs.” I believe I do, Nathaniel said.
“But don't release it yet.” “Let him write his report.” “Let him sign the sworn affidavit.” “Let him perjure himself on official federal documents.” I want him to bury himself so deep that no shovel on earth can dig him out.
Caldwell slammed his hand on the table, grinning. “This is going to be fun.” Meanwhile, in the squad room, Reynolds was typing up his report. He felt the eyes of every other cop on him. They knew the blue wall of silence was a real thing.
Cops protecting cops, but there were limits. Arresting a federal judge was way past the limit. It was radioactive. Reynolds's partner, a rookie named Jenkins, walked by. “Hey, Brock.”
“Chief wants to see you.” Yeah. Yeah. “Just finishing up the narrative.” Reynolds typed the final sentence.
“Suspect appeared nervous and erratic.” “Officer observed contraband in plain view.” He hit submit. The system logged the report. The time stamp was locked.
The lie was official. Reynolds stood up, stretched, and walked toward the chief's office. He convinced himself he could brazen it out. It was his word against the judges. And he had the baggie.
Physical evidence didn't lie. He knocked on the chief's door. “Enter.” Reynolds walked in. Chief Harrison was there.
So was DA Samantha Cole. And two men in suits Reynolds didn't recognize. They had earpieces. FBI. “Sit down, Reynolds,” the chief said.
His voice wasn't angry. It was defeated. “What's going on, Chief? Is the DA here to charge him?” Reynolds asked, sitting confidently.
One of the FBI agents stepped forward. “Officer Reynolds, my name is Special Agent Miller.” “We are taking jurisdiction over this case.” “Jurisdiction? It's a traffic stop, local PD.”
“Not when the victim is a federal official,” Agent Miller said. “And not when there are allegations of civil rights violations under color of law.” “Victim?” Reynolds scoffed. “He's the perp.” “We'll see.”
The DA said, “Did you submit your report?” “Just did.” “And you swear everything in it is the truth? The whole truth and nothing but?” The DA looked at the chief.
The chief looked away. “Badge and gun on the desk, Reynolds,” the chief whispered. “Excuse me?” “Administrative leave. Pending investigation.”
“Standard procedure,” the chief said, but he wouldn't meet Reynolds's eyes. Reynolds felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach. He slowly unholstered his weapon and placed it on the mahogany desk. He unclipped his badge.
It clattered loudly in the silence. “You guys are making a mistake,” Reynolds said, his voice rising. “I'm a good cop. I took a criminal off the street.” “Get out,” the chief said.
Reynolds stormed out. He thought he was being persecuted. He didn't know that Arthur Caldwell was currently walking into the FBI field office with a USB drive containing the internal cabin footage from the Mercedes-Benz. The trap was set and Reynolds had just walked right into the middle of it.
October 17th, the Blue Haven Bar. suspended with pay. That was the official status. But to officer Brock Reynolds, it felt like a paid vacation to prepare for war. He sat in a dark corner booth of the Blue Haven, a dive bar frequented exclusively by cops who thought the rules were merely suggestions. Across from him sat Frank O'Connor, the Union representative known as the fixer.
O'Connor was a man made of cigarette smoke and cheap suits with a reputation for burying scandals that would make politicians blush. “You're in a tight spot, kid.” O'Connor grunted, nursing a whiskey. “The feds are sniffing around.” They took the dash cam footage.
The dash cam shows nothing, Reynolds insisted, leaning in. It shows me pulling him over. It shows me searching the car. It doesn't show the plant. I told you I blocked the angle.
And the judge Rivers. He's bluffing, Reynolds said, though his voice lacked the conviction it had two days ago. He's trying to scare the department into dropping the charges. If we fold now, I look like a liar, and he walks away laughing. “We have to double down.”