"Because earlier, you said you found them under the driver's seat."
O'Grady's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second. "You're confused, sweetheart. The report says passenger seat. That's what I'll testify to under oath. That's what the DA will read. That's what a jury will believe. Who do you think they're going to trust? A decorated Oakland police officer with twelve years on the job, or a woman from out of town caught with a bag of meth?"
Cynthia let silence fill the room. She was letting him dig. Every word he spoke off-camera in this room was a confirmation of his intent to commit perjury, to maliciously prosecute, and to abuse his power under the color of law.
"I want to make sure I understand," Cynthia said, her voice trembling just enough to sound defeated. "If I confess to a crime I didn't commit and give you a random name, you'll falsify your report again to say I was cooperative?"
"I don't falsify reports," O'Grady snapped, his face flushing red. "I'm offering you a lifeline. Take it or drown."
"I think I'll wait for my lawyer," Cynthia whispered.
O'Grady slammed his hand on the table, the metallic bang echoing off the concrete walls. "You're making a massive mistake, Holloway." He stood up, kicking his chair back. "We're done here. Let her rot in the cell until her fancy out-of-town lawyer gets here."
Just as Doyle reached for the doorknob to escort her out, the heavy steel door swung open from the outside.
Standing in the doorway was a man who instantly commanded the space. James Carter was six-foot-two with a sharp, salt-and-pepper beard and eyes like flint. He was wearing a meticulously tailored charcoal gray Tom Ford suit that probably cost more than O'Grady made in a month. Flanking him were two men in dark suits, their posture rigid, earpieces discreetly coiled behind their ears.
O'Grady frowned, stepping in front of Cynthia. "Who the hell are you? You can't just barge in here."
Carter didn't look at O'Grady. His eyes bypassed the dirty cop entirely and landed on Cynthia, who was sitting at the table, still in her wrinkled blazer, an unreadable expression on her face.
"Are you all right?" Carter asked her, his voice a deep, resonant baritone.
"I'm perfectly fine, Jim," Cynthia replied.
"Hey!" O'Grady shouted, stepping into Carter's personal space. "I asked you a question, pal. Who are you?"
Carter slowly turned his gaze to O'Grady. He looked at the officer with the kind of disdain usually reserved for something scraped off the bottom of a shoe.
"I am her legal counsel," Carter said smoothly. "And as of this moment, this interrogation is over."
"Oh, it's over, all right," O'Grady sneered. "Your client just refused to cooperate. She's getting booked into county lockup. She's looking at a ten-year mandatory minimum."
"Is that so?" Carter asked, pulling a sleek leather briefcase from one of the men flanking him. He set it on the steel table next to Cynthia and snapped the latches open.