He saw Jonathan and Sam, two black men in hoodies and flannel, on an 85-degree day, sitting perfectly still, staring intently toward the pedestrian walkways. Jenkins didn't see two federal agents executing a highly coordinated sting operation. He saw an excuse. He saw two suspects who didn't belong in his patrol sector.
His prejudiced mind instantly drafted a narrative. They were dealing drugs, casing a tourist to mug, or looking for trouble. Without calling it into his precinct dispatch, Jenkins sharply turned the steering wheel, hopping the curb slightly as he parked his cruiser aggressively on the pedestrian walkway, blocking the entrance to the fountain area.
"Look at these two," Jenkins muttered to himself, turning off the ignition and unclipping the retention strap on his duty holster.
It was a habit he used to intimidate people from the moment he stepped out of his car. He slammed the car door shut, the metallic thud echoing across the quiet park. Back on the bench, Sam's peripheral vision caught the flashing light bar of the cruiser reflecting off the water of the fountain.
"Paul," Sam whispered, keeping his head perfectly still.
"We have a local at three o'clock, and he's making a beeline right for us," Sam whispered. Jonathan cursed softly under his breath.
"Cole, you got eyes on this APD cruiser?"
"I see him on the traffic cams," Cole replied, his voice tense.
"He's not responding to our local liaison. He's gone rogue. Do not blow your cover. Penhaligan is less than 60 seconds away. Play it cool. Brush the cop off. We cannot lose this drop," Cole replied, his voice tense.
"Easier said than done," Jonathan muttered, watching out of the corner of his eye as Jenkins strutted towards them, his hand resting arrogantly on his gun belt, his chest puffed out, seeking a confrontation.
Officer Jenkins stopped about 10 feet from the bench, planting his boots wide. He adjusted his aviator sunglasses and stared down at Jonathan and Sam with a look of absolute contempt.
"Park's closed for maintenance in this section," Jenkins barked, his voice dripping with unearned authority. It was a blatant lie. A family of four was literally feeding pigeons 50 yards away, and a jogger had just passed behind the bench. Jonathan leaned back slightly, adopting a relaxed, non-threatening posture.
He knew how to play this game. He had dealt with cops like Jenkins before he ever earned his FBI shield.
"Just taking a load off, officer," Jonathan said calmly, his voice smooth and respectful.
"It's hot out here. We're just catching some shade. We'll be out of your hair in five minutes."
Sam kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending to watch the water fountain. In reality, he was scanning the northern entrance of the park. There, a tall, gaunt white man in a sharp gray suit carrying a brushed steel briefcase. Arthur Penhaligan—the target—had arrived.