"Do the honors."
Jonathan walked up to Jenkins. Jenkins flinched, expecting to be shoved or struck. Instead, Jonathan reached out with cold clinical precision. He unsnapped the retention strap on Jenkins's holster and pulled the APD's Glock 22 from the cop's hip, handing it to a tactical agent.
Then Jonathan unclipped Jenkins's radio, his taser, and his spare magazines. Finally, he unbuckled the heavy leather duty belt entirely, letting it drop to the concrete with a heavy thud. Jenkins was left standing there in his sweat-soaked uniform, completely stripped of the tools he used to terrorize his precinct. He looked small, weak.
"Turn around," Jonathan said softly.
"Please," Jenkins whispered, a tear of sheer humiliation breaking loose and tracking through the sweat on his cheek.
"I'll quit. I'll hand in my badge today. Just don't put the cuffs on me in front of everyone."
Jonathan leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper, meant only for Jenkins.
"Think about how many innocent kids you've said those exact words to. Think about how many lives you ruined because you didn't like the way someone looked. You didn't care about their dignity. I don't care about yours."
Jonathan grabbed Jenkins by the shoulder, spun him around, and slammed the heavy federal steel handcuffs onto Jenkins's wrists. He ratcheted them tight. Not enough to cause permanent injury, but enough for Jenkins to feel the inescapable grip of federal justice.
"Brian Jenkins, you are under arrest for assault on a federal officer and deprivation of rights under color of law."
Jonathan recited, his voice echoing across the park for the gathered crowd of tourists and APD officers to hear.
"You have the right to remain silent. I strongly suggest you use it."
Jonathan and Sam grabbed Jenkins by the biceps and frog-marched him past the silent APD officers, shoving his head down as they threw him into the back of the black FBI SUV. As the door slammed shut, sealing Jenkins in the dark, the real nightmare was only just beginning. The holding cell at the Atlanta FBI field office was intentionally designed to be psychologically crushing. It was entirely gray, freezing cold, and stripped of any identifying features.
There were no windows, no clocks, just a steel table bolted to the floor and a heavy steel ring on the wall. Brian Jenkins sat shivering in an orange Bureau of Prisons jumpsuit, his APD uniform having been seized as evidence. He had been sitting in the freezing room for six hours. No water, no phone call.
Every time he asked for his union representative, Frank Hodges, the federal guards just stared at him blankly and closed the heavy steel door. Jenkins was slowly spiraling. In his mind, he was trying to calculate his odds. It was a mistake, he kept telling himself.
A misunderstanding. A good lawyer will plead it down to a misdemeanor. I'll lose my pension, sure, but I won't do serious time. He was relying on the thin blue line, the historical precedent of cops getting away with bad behavior.
He had no idea how deep the hole he dug actually was. The heavy door clicked and swung open. Agents Jonathan Paul and Samuel Hayes walked in. They had showered and changed into sharp, immaculately tailored dark suits.
They looked like the apex predators of the justice system.
Behind them walked a tall, severe looking man holding a thick manila folder. Assistant United States Attorney Robert Kavanaugh followed them. The three men sat down across from Jenkins. The silence stretched for a full minute.
Jenkins shifted uncomfortably, the steel handcuffs clinking against the table ring he was tethered to.
"Where is my union rep?" Jenkins demanded, trying to summon a fraction of his former bravado.
"I know my guaranteed rights. I am not saying another word until Frank Hodges gets in here."
AUSA Kavanaugh opened the folder, his face devoid of any emotion.
"Mr. Hodges was turned away at the lobby three hours ago, Mr. Jenkins. He handles administrative disciplinary hearings for the Atlanta Police Department. You are currently facing a federal grand-jury indictment. Your union cannot help you here."
Jenkins swallowed hard. "I want a lawyer."
"You'll get a public defender assigned at your arraignment tomorrow morning," Kavanaugh replied smoothly.
"Before we officially book you into federal detention for pretrial holding, Agents Paul and Hayes wanted to show you what our evidence response team found."
"Found?"
Jenkins frowned, his heart rate suddenly spiking.
"Found where?"
Jonathan leaned forward, intertwining his fingers on the metal table.
"While you were sitting in here shivering, Brian, our tech team executed a federal search warrant on your APD cruiser. Standard protocol for a bad stop usually involves pulling the dash-camera and body-camera footage to establish civil-rights violations. We did that, and it is damning. You did not activate your lights. You did not run our descriptions. And you texted another officer on your personal phone three minutes before approaching us." Sam slid an 8x10 glossy photograph across the table. It was a screenshot of a text-message thread.
Jenkins: "Got two suspects casing Olympic Park."
Officer Vance: "You call it in?"
Jenkins: "Nah. Going to shake them down. They look like they're holding."
Jenkins closed his eyes. The text message destroyed any defense of proactive policing. It proved premeditated harassment. But Jonathan wasn't done.