Cole slowly turned his gaze to Jenkins. Jenkins was frozen in place, holding two FBI badges in his trembling hands, staring at the dozen federal agents who now had their hands resting on their sidearms, watching him with hard, focused attention. The consequences were only beginning. Supervisory Special Agent Richard Cole did not yell.
He didn't have to. The terrifying quiet authority radiating from him was enough to suck the remaining oxygen out of the humid Atlanta air. He stepped right into Officer Brian Jenkins's personal space, staring down at the trembling cop.
"The keys, Cole demanded, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. Now Jenkins, his face entirely drained of its former arrogant flush, fumbled blindly at his heavy-duty belt, his fingers, suddenly devoid of fine motor skills, slipped over the metal clasp twice before he managed to unhook his keyring."
He handed them over to Cole like a terrified child handing a switch to a disciplinarian. Cole didn't even look at him. He tossed the keys to another tactical agent who swiftly stepped around the bench, unlocking the handcuffs, biting into Jonathan's wrists. Then Sam's.
Jonathan rolled his shoulders, massaging the deep, angry red indentations pressed into his skin. He stood up slowly, picking up his fallen gold shield from the concrete. He dusted it off and clipped it securely to his belt. Sam did the same, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his face ticked.
"Listen, I... I didn't know," Jenkins stammered, his eyes darting between the dozen federal weapons, casually resting in the hands of the tactical team.
He took a nervous step back until his hips hit his cruiser.
"They weren't wearing identification. They were loitering. It was a standard Terry stop—suspicious behavior in a high-crime transient area. I was doing my job."
"Your job?"
Jonathan stepped forward. The calm, deferential man from five minutes ago was gone. In his place was a furious federal investigator.
"Your job is to run a standard patrol, call in your stops to dispatch, and uphold the Constitution. You didn't run our descriptions. You didn't notify dispatch until you had already initiated the confrontation. You bypassed three other groups of people violating park ordinances to target us. And when I told you to back off, you assaulted my partner."
"I had probable cause," Jenkins protested, though his voice cracked.
"You had prejudice," Sam corrected, stepping up beside Jonathan.
"And because of your fragile racist ego, a primary target in a multi-agency RICO investigation just walked away with $3 million of Navarro cartel money."
Before Jenkins could formulate another pathetic defense, the wail of Atlanta Police Department sirens finally reached a crescendo. Two APD cruisers skidded to a halt on the grass, boxing in the FBI vehicles. Four uniformed officers jumped out, hands on their holsters, anticipating a shootout with armed suspects. Instead, they found a wall of heavily armed federal agents surrounding one of their own. Sergeant Thomas Griggs, a gray-haired APD veteran and Jenkins's shift supervisor, pushed his way to the front.
He looked at the FBI tactical vests, the unmarked SUVs, and finally at Jenkins, who looked like he was about to vomit on his own boots.
"What in the hell is going on here?" sergeant Griggs demanded, looking at Cole.
"Who's in charge? Why is my officer surrounded?"
"I am," Cole said, flashing his credentials.
"Supervisory Special Agent Cole, FBI Organized Crime Task Force. And your officer isn't surrounded, Sergeant. He's in federal custody."
Griggs blinked, completely taken aback.
"Custody for what? Now hold on, Agent Cole. Let's not get hotheaded. If my guy overstepped on a stop, we handle that internally. Professional courtesy. We'll write him up. Send it to internal affairs. You don't need to make a scene. Professional courtesy, Jonathan repeated, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping his lips."
He walked right up to Sergeant Griggs, pointing a finger at Jenkins.
"Your guy didn't overstep. He blew a two-year federal wiretap operation. He physically assaulted two on-duty federal agents. He deprived us of our civil rights under color of law. That's Title 18, United States Code, Section 242. And assaulting a federal officer. That's section 111. Both are federal felonies. So, no, Sergeant, internal affairs doesn't get this one."
We do. Griggs looked at Jenkins, his expression shifting from defensive to disgusted.
"Jesus Christ, Brian, what did you do?" Griggs demanded.
"They looked like street criminals, Sarge," Jenkins pleaded. "Look at how they're dressed. They were casing the park. I was being proactive."
"Disarm him," Cole ordered smoothly.
Two FBI tactical agents stepped forward.
"Wait, wait, Sarge."
Jenkins panicked, looking to his supervisor for salvation.
"You can't let them do this. I'm a local cop."
Sergeant Griggs looked at the furious federal agents, then at the red welts on Jonathan and Sam's wrists. He slowly raised his hands and took a step back, abandoning Jenkins entirely.
"You're on your own, Brad."
I'm not catching a federal obstruction charge for your stupid mistakes. The absolute terror in Jenkins's eyes was a picture of perfect karma. The man who thrived on stripping citizens of their dignity, who used his badge as a weapon of humiliation, was now on the receiving end.
"Agent Paul," Cole said, nodding to Jonathan.