Tagert violently grabbed the older man by the shoulder. "John, I need a union rep right now!" Tagert hissed, his voice trembling despite his desperate attempt to maintain his tough exterior.
Smith looked up, his face pale and drawn. He slowly put his phone away and shook his head, refusing to meet Tagert's panicked gaze.
"I cannot help you, Derek," Smith whispered, taking a deliberate step back from him.
"What are you talking about? You are the union rep! I pay my dues!" Tagert snapped.
"The new chief just sent a directive to my phone," Smith replied quietly. "She wants you in her office right now. On this very day."
Tagert felt the floor completely drop out from beneath him. The blood rushing in his ears sounded like a freight train. He turned around and saw Wyatt Miller standing a few feet away, looking like he was about to face a firing squad. Without another word, Smith walked away, abandoning Tagert to his fate.
The walk to the chief's office on the fourth floor felt like a funeral march. Every step echoed loudly in the sterile, brightly lit hallway. Tagert tried to convince himself that he could talk his way out of this; he was a veteran cop, after all.
When they reached the heavy oak door of the chief's office, Tagert hesitated. His hand shook violently as he reached for the brass handle. He swallowed hard, pushing the door open.
Josephine Reynolds was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk. She was no longer wearing her uniform jacket, but the gold stars on her collar still gleamed with ruthless authority. The files from her trunk that Tagert had carelessly tossed aside were neatly stacked in front of her. To her right stood two men in sharp black suits: internal affairs investigators from the state capital.
Tagert stopped breathing right there.
"Close the door, Officer Tagert," Josephine instructed, her voice deceptively soft.
Tagert obeyed, his legs feeling like lead. Wyatt stood frozen next to him, staring intently at the floor.
"Take a seat," she commanded.
They both sat down in the stiff leather chairs facing her desk. Josephine opened a silver laptop, tapped a few keys, and turned the screen toward them.
His stomach dropped.
Playing on the screen was crystal-clear footage of the traffic stop from the night before, but it was not from the cruiser's dash camera. The angle was different; it was actually from her car.
"My vehicle is equipped with a full military-grade surveillance system," Josephine explained, folding her hands neatly on the desk. "It records audio and video, uploading it directly to a secure cloud server in real time. I watched you manufacture probable cause, physically assault my property, and perform an illegal frisk without the presence of a female officer. You violated four separate department protocols and three constitutional amendments in the span of seven minutes."
Tagert opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was bone-dry. No words came out. He was completely trapped in a dark, deep corner.
"Chief, I can explain," Tagert stammered, his tough facade shattering into pathetic pieces. "It was dark. There have been many drug runners on that stretch of the highway lately. I was just being thorough. I made a judgment call based on my experience in the field."
Josephine let out a short, humorless laugh that sent a fresh wave of terror through his veins. She leaned forward, her dark eyes piercing straight through his pathetic excuses.