"When? Maybe an hour?"
"An hour?" Malcolm slammed his hand on the table. "I've been here almost an hour already! You just admitted I'm innocent!"
"I understand you're frustrated."
"Frustrated?" Malcolm laughed bitterly. "I got thrown to the ground in front of 50 people! Your partner called me a criminal! He knelt on my back while I couldn't breathe! My MIT letter is scattered across a parking lot! And you want me to wait another hour?"
Reed looked pained. "I'm sorry. Just be patient, please." He left.
Malcolm stood shaking. He wanted to scream, to flip the table, but he couldn't because that would make him the angry black man they expected. That would end up on camera used as evidence against him. So, he sat back down, forced himself to breathe.
In Graham's office, Blake stood at attention. "This doesn't look good, Blake."
"We responded to a call. The description matched: black male, hoodie, backpack."
Graham looked up. "Dude, that matches half the teenagers in this county."
Blake bristled. "I made a judgment call."
"Your judgment call is all over social media." Graham turned his monitor around. The screen showed multiple posts—Twitter, Instagram, TikTok—all showing Blake's knee on Malcolm's back, the crowd yelling, the scattered papers. #RiversideMall was trending. #JusticeForMalcolm had over 10,000 tweets.
Blake's jaw tightened. "So what? We did our job."
"Did we?" Graham closed his laptop. "The kid had a receipt. The clerk vouched for him. Security footage confirms his story, and you still brought him in."
"Better safe than sorry."
"Or better scared than accountable." Graham leaned forward. "You drew your weapon on an unarmed teenager."
"Dispatch said he might be armed."
"Based on what? A security guard who pointed at the first black kid he saw?"
Blake's face reddened. "I don't appreciate—"
"I don't care what you appreciate." Graham stood. "You know what this looks like."
"The optics are fine."
Graham stared at him. "Fine. I'm finishing this report, releasing the kid with an apology, and hoping this doesn't become a lawsuit."
Blake scoffed. "The kid will be fine, Sarge. Dude's got MIT. This will just be his wild college story."
Graham's voice went cold. "Get out of my office."
"Sir—"
"Get out."
Blake left. Graham sat alone, staring at his screen, at the video of Malcolm's face pressed against asphalt, at the boy's terrified eyes.
Outside, Collins whispered into her earpiece: "Director's en route. He's seen the body cam. It's damning."
Phillips nodded. "How long?"
"6 minutes. He's furious."
Graham's phone rang. "Sergeant Graham." He listened. His face changed. "What? When?" He glanced at the door. "How many?" A pause. "Understood. I'll be right there."
He hung up slowly. FBI in his lobby. Right now, for a shoplifting case. What the hell was going on?
In the interrogation room, Malcolm had his head on the table. The metal was cold against his forehead. He was exhausted. So tired of fighting. So tired of proving himself. The clock ticked to 4:59 p.m.
Outside, the SUV's doors opened. 10 figures in tactical gear stepped out, moving toward the entrance.
Inside, Malcolm didn't move. He had no idea everything was about to change. No idea that FBI was about to become the most important acronym of his life. His door remained closed, but in the lobby, the front doors were opening. And what happened next would flip everything upside down.
The front doors burst open. 10 agents in navy FBI windbreakers flooded the lobby. Tactical gear, weapons visible.
Officer Harris stood. "Can I help you?"
Agent Victoria Collins stepped forward. "FBI. We're here for Malcolm White."
Harris blinked. "On what grounds?"
"We don't need grounds. Where is he?"
Sergeant Graham rushed out. "What's going on?"
Collins showed her badge. "Special Agent Collins, FBI. This facility is under federal observation. Where is Malcolm Alexander White?"
"He's a suspect in a shoplifting case."
"He's not a suspect. He's a minor under federal protection. You're holding him illegally."
Blake stepped forward. "Federal protection for a shoplifter?"
Collins locked eyes with him. "You're Officer Blake, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"We'll talk, but first, where is Malcolm White?"
Graham swallowed. "Holding room, north corridor."
Collins signaled two agents: "Phillips, Stewart, get him."
They moved immediately.
Blake tried again: "This is local jurisdiction."
"Was," Collins corrected. "When you detained a minor without cause and denied him counsel, this became federal. Your jurisdiction ended." She pulled out a tablet. "This is mall footage. Want to watch?"
The video played: Blake slamming Malcolm down, knee on his back, Malcolm gasping, the ignored receipt, Amanda dismissed, MIT papers scattering.
Graham went pale. Blake went red.
"We responded to a call."