"This video is heavily encrypted with a rolling cryptographic hash to prevent tampering," Carter explained, his tone conversational, as if he were lecturing a dim-witted law student. "Furthermore, it was not recorded onto a local hard drive. It was broadcast via a secure satellite uplink in real time directly to a server. Specifically, a server located in the sub-basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C."
Captain Miller's face drained of all color. He looked at Carter, then at the two silent men in dark suits standing by the door, and finally at Cynthia Holloway.
"Who are you people?" Miller whispered, the authority completely stripped from his voice.
Carter reached into his breast pocket and produced a sleek leather wallet. He flipped it open, revealing a gleaming gold shield and a federal identification card.
"I am James Carter, deputy director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said.
Officer Doyle, who had been leaning against the doorframe trying to look tough, suddenly stumbled backward as if he had been physically struck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Miller took the leather wallet with shaking hands. He read the credentials. He read the seal of the Department of Justice. He looked up, his eyes wide with a terror that only a career bureaucrat could truly feel when realizing his pension and freedom were simultaneously evaporating.
"Deputy Director," Miller choked out. "I—I had no idea."
"I am well aware of what you don't know, Captain," Carter said, snatching the badge back. "But my identity is the least of your concerns tonight, because I am not the ranking federal officer in this room."
Carter took a deliberate step back, turning his body slightly to yield the floor to the woman sitting at the steel table.
For the first time in hours, Cynthia Holloway stood up.
She was still wearing the damp, wrinkled blazer. She was still in her socks, her shoes having been confiscated at booking. But as she squared her shoulders and looked dead into O'Grady's eyes, the room seemed to shrink around her. She radiated an absolute, terrifying authority.
"My name is Cynthia Holloway," she said, her voice echoing with lethal precision. "Three weeks ago, I was confirmed by the United States Senate as the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And you, Officer O'Grady, have had a very, very busy night."
O'Grady's legs finally gave out. He collapsed backward into his metal chair, his chest heaving, his eyes darting frantically around the windowless room like a trapped animal looking for a way out. There was none.
"Director," Miller stammered, taking a step toward her with his hands raised in surrender. "Director Holloway, please. We didn't know. If we had known who you were—"
"If you had known who I was, you would have treated me with respect," Cynthia interrupted, her voice slicing through his excuses like a scalpel. "But because you thought I was a civilian—a Black woman driving alone at night in a rental car—you assumed I was prey. You assumed I was voiceless. You assumed your badge gave you immunity to destroy my life to pad your precinct's narcotics statistics."
"It was just him!" Doyle suddenly shrieked from the corner, pointing a frantic finger at his partner. "It was all O'Grady! I didn't see him plant the drugs. I was in the secondary unit. I just towed the car. I swear to God! I'll testify!"
"Shut up, Kev!" O'Grady roared, panic finally breaking his composure. He looked at Miller. "Captain, you've got to help me. You told us to get the numbers up! You said you didn't care how we did it!"