Griggs blinked, completely taken aback.
"Custody for what? Now hold on, Agent Cole. Let's not get hotheaded. If my guy overstepped on a stop, we handle that internally. Professional courtesy. We'll write him up. Send it to internal affairs. You don't need to make a scene. Professional courtesy, Jonathan repeated, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping his lips."
He walked right up to Sergeant Griggs, pointing a finger at Jenkins.
"Your guy didn't overstep. He blew a two-year federal wiretap operation. He physically assaulted two on-duty federal agents. He deprived us of our civil rights under color of law. That's Title 18, United States Code, Section 242. And assaulting a federal officer. That's section 111. Both are federal felonies. So, no, Sergeant, internal affairs doesn't get this one."
We do. Griggs looked at Jenkins, his expression shifting from defensive to disgusted.
"Jesus Christ, Brian, what did you do?" Griggs demanded.
"They looked like street criminals, Sarge," Jenkins pleaded. "Look at how they're dressed. They were casing the park. I was being proactive."
"Disarm him," Cole ordered smoothly.
Two FBI tactical agents stepped forward.
"Wait, wait, Sarge."
Jenkins panicked, looking to his supervisor for salvation.
"You can't let them do this. I'm a local cop."
Sergeant Griggs looked at the furious federal agents, then at the red welts on Jonathan and Sam's wrists. He slowly raised his hands and took a step back, abandoning Jenkins entirely.
"You're on your own, Brad."
I'm not catching a federal obstruction charge for your stupid mistakes. The absolute terror in Jenkins's eyes was a picture of perfect karma. The man who thrived on stripping citizens of their dignity, who used his badge as a weapon of humiliation, was now on the receiving end.
"Agent Paul," Cole said, nodding to Jonathan.