Outside, the sound begins. Low at first, a rumble, then louder, deeper: the unmistakable roar of thirty motorcycles.
The building vibrates. People turn toward windows. The roar grows, fills the street, drowns Castellano's voice.
Then abruptly, silence. Thirty engines cut at once. The silence is louder than the noise.
Castellano stops mid-sentence. His mouth goes dry.
The auditorium doors open. Thirty Hells Angels walk in—full colors, leather vests with patches that announce their club, their rank, their defiance. They move in formation: disciplined, silent.
Security moves to intercept, but Reaper raises his hands, shows they're empty. "We're not here to threaten anyone. We're here to present evidence of police corruption. We have a constitutional right to address public officials in a public forum."
Attorney Jamal Richards steps forward in his gray suit. "I'm their legal counsel. My clients are exercising First Amendment rights. Any attempt to remove them will be recorded and challenged."
The chief of police stands uncertain. Cameras are rolling. This is live. Removing them by force will look like suppression.
"You have two minutes," the chief says.
"We'll need five."
Between the wall of bikers, a small figure emerges: Zara Williams, 10 years old, wearing a white dress her mother pressed this morning. She looks impossibly small walking down the center aisle. Kesha walks beside her, one hand on her daughter's shoulder.
The room goes silent. A child.
Zara reaches the front, climbs the steps to the stage, stands at the podium. She has to rise on her toes to reach the microphone. Castellano stares at her; his face drains of color.
Zara pulls a laptop from a bag Kesha hands her. Richards connects it to the building's projection system. The screen behind Castellano flickers to life.
"My name is Zara Williams. I'm ten years old. Three weeks ago, I saved thirty people from dying. I'm going to show you how. And I'm going to show you who tried to kill them."
She clicks a button. The video plays on the massive screen: dark parking lot, white van, four men exiting, tools, wires, crawling under motorcycles. The video zooms, shakes, but it's clear: one man's jacket rides up; the badge on his belt catches streetlight, gleams like evidence.