I'll have the mayor and the police commissioner on the phone in 2 minutes. You're out of your jurisdiction. The Department of Justice has authorized a complete takeover of Zone 5 under the federal racketeering statute, Cole replied, stepping closer until he was inches from the captain. And you aren't calling anyone. We have sworn testimony, GPS, tracking data, and physical evidence that a robbery ring is being operated out of this building using city resources.
Five of your officers are currently being handcuffed in the bullpen. Your patrol commander is being pulled over on Interstate 75 as we speak. Harrison's bravado completely evaporated. Robbery ring? Who?
Who gave you this? Officer Brian Jenkins, Cole said smoothly, watching the blood drain from the captain's face. He had a very talkative afternoon. Turn around and put your hands behind your back, Thomas. You're going to federal holding.
As the precinct was systematically dismantled, Jonathan Paul and Samuel Hayes were back at the FBI field office, sitting in a secure evidence processing room. The chaos of the botched sting at Centennial Olympic Park still stung. But the adrenaline of Jenkins's arrest had sharpened their focus. Spread out across a massive aluminum table were the contents of the hidden compartment in Jenkins's patrol car. The brick of cash, the heroin, the unregistered Glocks, and most importantly, a small black Moleskine notebook Jenkins had kept meticulously updated.
I can't believe this guy, Sam muttered, wearing blue latex gloves as he carefully turned the pages of the notebook. He actually kept a ledger of his own crimes, dates, addresses, estimated cash seized. It's like a how to go to prison for dummies guide book. Jonathan was staring at a digital map projected onto a large monitor, cross-referencing the addresses from Jenkins's notebook with the FBI's existing surveillance files on the Navarro cartel. He typed furiously on his keyboard, pulling up utility records and property deeds.
Suddenly, Jonathan stopped. He leaned closer to the monitor, his eyes widening. Sam, Jonathan said, his voice dropping to a whisper. Read off the address for the stash house Jenkins and his crew robbed on June 12th. Sam flipped back a few pages.
Uh 144 Highland Avenue, apartment 4B. Why? Jonathan typed the address into the cartel database. A glowing red pin dropped onto the map directly overlapping with a known cartel subsidiary front. Now read the one from July 2. 899 Ponce de Leon.