"It's airtight, Captain." O'Grady smiled.
Miller finally looked at Cynthia. He saw a Black woman in a damp, wrinkled blazer, standing in socks, looking exhausted. He saw a statistic.
"Get her in a holding cell. I want her processed and ready for arraignment by morning."
O'Grady grabbed Cynthia by the bicep. "Come on, Holloway. Your new home awaits."
She was placed in a cold concrete cell smelling faintly of urine and bleach. The iron door clanged shut.
For the next two hours, Cynthia sat on the metal bench, her mind working like a supercomputer. She wasn't just dealing with a bad cop; she was looking at a systemic failure. O'Grady was confident because he was protected. Doyle was complicit. The desk sergeant was indifferent. Captain Miller was results-oriented, turning a blind eye to how those results were obtained. If this is what they did to a woman who remained completely compliant and calm, she shuddered to think what they did to kids on the street who argued back.
At 1:15 a.m., O'Grady returned to the cell door. He smacked the bars with his nightstick. "Wake up, Holloway. You get your one phone call, then we're going to have a little chat."
He escorted her to a wall-mounted phone at the end of the corridor. "Make it quick, and make it a lawyer. You're going to need one."
Cynthia picked up the receiver. She dialed a Washington, D.C. area code. The number bypassed standard switchboards and connected directly to a secure line in the home of James Carter, the deputy director of the FBI. It rang twice.
"Carter." A gravelly voice answered.
"Jim, it's Cynthia."
There was a fraction of a second of silence as Carter's brain shifted from sleep to high alert. "Director, where are you? Your security detail has been tearing the city apart for three hours."
"I'm at the 42nd District Precinct in Oakland," Cynthia said, keeping her voice low, her eyes fixed on O'Grady, who was leaning against a wall ten feet away, smirking. "I've been arrested."
"Arrested? Under what charge?"
"Possession with intent to distribute. The arresting officer planted the narcotics in my rental car."
Silence on the line. Then, a cold, terrifying fury entered Carter's voice. "Do you want me to send a tactical team through the front door?"
"No," Cynthia said, a sharp smile touching the corners of her mouth for the first time that night. "I want to see how deep this rot goes. Send a discreet team to extract the dash and cabin footage from my rental car. It was impounded by the 42nd. Then, I need you to fly to Oakland immediately. You're going to act as my attorney."
"Understood, Director. I'll be on the Bureau's Gulfstream in twenty minutes. ETA to your location is three hours. Do not let them interrogate you."