She slid a single sheet of paper across the table. It was a transcript printout.
"Read the second paragraph."
Pruitt picked it up. His hands were shaking. He read it.
His face went through several changes. Confusion, then incredulity, then a color that wasn't quite anger and wasn't quite humiliation, but lived somewhere between them.
The message, sent from Beaumont's intermediary to Beaumont himself, read:
Federal agent incoming. Female, DAD level, DOJ task force lead. Black. She'll be in the lobby by 10. Pruitt comes off shift around that time. You know how he gets with suits. Stall her and he'll create a scene. Buys you at least an hour to sanitize the second floor.
Beneath that, Beaumont's reply:
Understood. Give Pruitt the lobby post. He won't need instructions.
Pruitt set the paper down. He was breathing harder.
"He knew you were coming," Pruitt said slowly. The words came out like they cost him something.
"He knew I was coming," Josephine confirmed. "He knew who I was. And he knew what you would do if a Black woman in an expensive suit sat in your lobby and didn't behave the way you expected her to."
She let that settle for a moment.
"You weren't protecting the department, Officer Pruitt. You were a distraction. A disposable one. Clovis Beaumont handed you a felony charge to buy himself 60 minutes. He gave you up without a second thought."
The silence in the room was absolute.
Pruitt stared at the transcript for a long time. 30 years of loyalty to the badge, to the brotherhood, to the particular culture of Harwick County law enforcement, compressing themselves in real time into something small and worthless and hollow.
"The second floor," he said finally, his voice rough. "He keeps the real ledgers in the wall behind the gun rack. There's a panel. I saw him put something there the night the Henderson complaint came in."
He swallowed. "I can show your people exactly where."
Josephine did not reach for her pen immediately. She looked at him for a moment, the way a doctor looks at a patient who has finally admitted something true.
Then she picked up her pen, set a cooperation agreement on the table between them, and said, "Start from the beginning, Officer Pruitt. Tell me everything."
The panel behind the gun rack held a fireproof lockbox.
Inside the lockbox was a handwritten ledger going back 11 years, documenting every payoff, every buried complaint, every case that had been quietly redirected away from the department's friends and toward its enemies.