Jonathan rolled his shoulders, massaging the deep, angry red indentations pressed into his skin. He stood up slowly, picking up his fallen gold shield from the concrete. He dusted it off and clipped it securely to his belt. Sam did the same, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his face ticked.
"Listen, I... I didn't know," Jenkins stammered, his eyes darting between the dozen federal weapons, casually resting in the hands of the tactical team.
He took a nervous step back until his hips hit his cruiser.
"They weren't wearing identification. They were loitering. It was a standard Terry stop—suspicious behavior in a high-crime transient area. I was doing my job."
"Your job?"
Jonathan stepped forward. The calm, deferential man from five minutes ago was gone. In his place was a furious federal investigator.
"Your job is to run a standard patrol, call in your stops to dispatch, and uphold the Constitution. You didn't run our descriptions. You didn't notify dispatch until you had already initiated the confrontation. You bypassed three other groups of people violating park ordinances to target us. And when I told you to back off, you assaulted my partner."
"I had probable cause," Jenkins protested, though his voice cracked.
"You had prejudice," Sam corrected, stepping up beside Jonathan.
"And because of your fragile racist ego, a primary target in a multi-agency RICO investigation just walked away with $3 million of Navarro cartel money."
Before Jenkins could formulate another pathetic defense, the wail of Atlanta Police Department sirens finally reached a crescendo. Two APD cruisers skidded to a halt on the grass, boxing in the FBI vehicles. Four uniformed officers jumped out, hands on their holsters, anticipating a shootout with armed suspects. Instead, they found a wall of heavily armed federal agents surrounding one of their own. Sergeant Thomas Griggs, a gray-haired APD veteran and Jenkins's shift supervisor, pushed his way to the front.
He looked at the FBI tactical vests, the unmarked SUVs, and finally at Jenkins, who looked like he was about to vomit on his own boots.
"What in the hell is going on here?" sergeant Griggs demanded, looking at Cole.
"Who's in charge? Why is my officer surrounded?"
"I am," Cole said, flashing his credentials.
"Supervisory Special Agent Cole, FBI Organized Crime Task Force. And your officer isn't surrounded, Sergeant. He's in federal custody."