"Do the honors."
Jonathan walked up to Jenkins. Jenkins flinched, expecting to be shoved or struck. Instead, Jonathan reached out with cold clinical precision. He unsnapped the retention strap on Jenkins's holster and pulled the APD's Glock 22 from the cop's hip, handing it to a tactical agent.
Then Jonathan unclipped Jenkins's radio, his taser, and his spare magazines. Finally, he unbuckled the heavy leather duty belt entirely, letting it drop to the concrete with a heavy thud. Jenkins was left standing there in his sweat-soaked uniform, completely stripped of the tools he used to terrorize his precinct. He looked small, weak.
"Turn around," Jonathan said softly.
"Please," Jenkins whispered, a tear of sheer humiliation breaking loose and tracking through the sweat on his cheek.
"I'll quit. I'll hand in my badge today. Just don't put the cuffs on me in front of everyone."
Jonathan leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper, meant only for Jenkins.
"Think about how many innocent kids you've said those exact words to. Think about how many lives you ruined because you didn't like the way someone looked. You didn't care about their dignity. I don't care about yours."
Jonathan grabbed Jenkins by the shoulder, spun him around, and slammed the heavy federal steel handcuffs onto Jenkins's wrists. He ratcheted them tight. Not enough to cause permanent injury, but enough for Jenkins to feel the inescapable grip of federal justice.
"Brian Jenkins, you are under arrest for assault on a federal officer and deprivation of rights under color of law."
Jonathan recited, his voice echoing across the park for the gathered crowd of tourists and APD officers to hear.
"You have the right to remain silent. I strongly suggest you use it."
Jonathan and Sam grabbed Jenkins by the biceps and frog-marched him past the silent APD officers, shoving his head down as they threw him into the back of the black FBI SUV. As the door slammed shut, sealing Jenkins in the dark, the real nightmare was only just beginning. The holding cell at the Atlanta FBI field office was intentionally designed to be psychologically crushing. It was entirely gray, freezing cold, and stripped of any identifying features.
There were no windows, no clocks, just a steel table bolted to the floor and a heavy steel ring on the wall. Brian Jenkins sat shivering in an orange Bureau of Prisons jumpsuit, his APD uniform having been seized as evidence. He had been sitting in the freezing room for six hours. No water, no phone call.
Every time he asked for his union representative, Frank Hodges, the federal guards just stared at him blankly and closed the heavy steel door. Jenkins was slowly spiraling. In his mind, he was trying to calculate his odds. It was a mistake, he kept telling himself.
A misunderstanding. A good lawyer will plead it down to a misdemeanor. I'll lose my pension, sure, but I won't do serious time. He was relying on the thin blue line, the historical precedent of cops getting away with bad behavior.