A black duffel bag containing four unserialized Glock handguns, 50 bundles of heroin wrapped in electrical tape, and a vacuum-sealed brick of $100 bills totaling nearly $80,000. We pulled your GPS logs for the last 18 months. A USA, Kavanaugh stated, his voice clinical and lethal. They perfectly match the dates and locations of 12 unsolved stash house robberies in APD Zone 5. Robberies where the dealers claimed the assailants wore police tactical gear and used APD issued flashbangs.
You weren't coming over to us because you thought we were casing the park, Sam realized aloud, leaning back in his chair, looking at Jenkins with pure disgust. You saw two black men you assumed were street level dealers. You thought we had cash on us. You didn't call dispatch because you wanted to steal our money, beat us down, and throw us in the system knowing nobody would believe a couple of thugs over a decorated APD officer. It's—it's not what it looks like, Jenkins whispered, his voice trembling so violently he could barely speak.
The reality of his situation had just crushed him. He wasn't just a racist cop who made a bad stop anymore. He was a corrupt officer running a robbery crew. It looks exactly like what it is, Jonathan said, his voice hard as iron. A corrupt, prejudiced coward who used his badge as a license to rob and abuse the citizens he swore to protect.
You thought you were preying on the weak today, Brian, but you walked into the middle of an active FBI RICO investigation, and you exposed yourself. Kavanaugh closed the folder with a sharp snap. Possession of narcotics with intent to distribute. Possession of unserialized firearms, armed robbery, deprivation of rights under color of law, assault on a federal officer, Kavanaugh listed, looking Jenkins dead in the eye. And since you derailed a federal cartel sting, I am invoking the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act against you.
You are looking at a mandatory minimum of 45 years in federal prison. There is no parole in the federal system. You will die in a concrete box. Jenkins began to hyperventilate. Tears streamed down his face, dropping onto the steel table.
Please, I can help you. I know guys in the department. I know who's moving the drugs in Zone 5. I can give you names. I can give you my captain.
Oh, we already have your captain, Sam said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. The DOJ Civil Rights Division just raided your precinct 20 minutes ago. The FBI is taking over APD Zone 5. Your little gang is finished. Jonathan stood up, looking down at the broken, sobbing man tethered to the table.
There was no pity in his eyes, only the cold, satisfying finality of a predator being caught in its own trap. Enjoy the pen, Brian, Jonathan said softly. I hear former cops are real popular in federal lockup. The three men turned and walked out of the interrogation room. The heavy steel door slammed shut, the heavy deadbolt sliding into place with a definitive clack, leaving Brian Jenkins alone in the dark with nothing but the ghosts of the people he had rocked and the crushing weight of his inescapable karma.