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 6 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 plea it down to a misdemeanor. I'll lose my pension, sure, but I won't do hard time. He was relying on the thin blue line, the historical precedent of cops getting away with bad behavior. He had no idea how deep the hole he dug actually was.
The heavy door clicked and swung open. Agents Jonathan Paul and Samuel Hayes walked in. They had showered and changed into sharp, immaculately tailored dark suits. They looked like the apex predators of the justice system. Behind them walked a tall, severe looking man holding a thick manila folder.
Assistant United States Attorney Robert Kavanaugh. The three men sat down across from Jenkins. The silence stretched for a full minute. Jenkins's shifted uncomfortably, the steel handcuffs clinking against the table ring he was tethered to. Where is my union rep?
Jenkins demanded, trying to summon a fraction of his former bravado. I know my guaranteed rights. I ain't saying a damn word until Frank Hodges gets in here. AUSA Kavanaugh opened the folder, his face devoid of any emotion. Mr. Hodges was turned away at the lobby three hours ago, Mr. Jenkins.