He thought about Isabella at the venue, probably getting her hair and makeup done, excited and nervous, checking the time. He thought about her father, Senator Castellano, who'd flown in from Washington two days ago and had spent last night giving Marcus fatherly advice over expensive whiskey. He thought about his mother, who traveled from Philadelphia and was probably already at the venue in her new dress.
"Please listen to me," Marcus said, forcing himself to stay calm. "My wedding starts at noon. It's at the Historic Academy of Medicine. There are going to be 200 people there. My fiancée is Isabella Castellano. Her father is Senator Richard Castellano. You can Google him right now. You can call the venue and verify, please."
Fontaine walked back over, putting his phone in his pocket. "You know what I think? I think you saw some rich white girl, decided you wanted that life, and now you're spinning this whole story to talk your way out of trouble." He leaned in close, his breath hot on Marcus' face. "But I've been doing this job for 17 years, and I can spot a liar from a mile away. You're illegal. You don't belong here. And in a few hours, you're going to be sitting in a cell waiting for deportation."
"I was born in Philadelphia!" Marcus shouted, his composure finally breaking. "I went to Howard University! I went to Columbia Law! I pay taxes! I vote! I'm as American as you are!"
"Don't you raise your voice at me!" Fontaine snarled. He grabbed Marcus by the front of his suit jacket and slammed him back against the vehicle again.
Marcus' head snapped back and hit the metal. Stars exploded in his vision. A car honked as it passed. Someone yelled out their window, "Leave him alone!"
Fontaine glanced at the growing number of phones pointed in their direction, but he didn't seem concerned. He had a badge. He had authority. As far as he was concerned, he could do whatever he wanted.
"You're bleeding," Fontaine said, almost amused. He touched Marcus' forehead, and his finger came away red. "Must have bumped your head."
Marcus could feel the warm trickle of blood running down his temple. His vision was still blurry from the impact. He tasted copper in his mouth where he bit his tongue. "I need medical attention," Marcus said.
"You'll get it at the facility," Fontaine replied. He opened the back door of the vehicle again. "Now get in, or I'm going to make you get in. And trust me, you don't want that."
Marcus looked at the open door, then at Fontaine, then at his BMW sitting behind them with the driver's door still open. His phone was in there. His whole life was in there. And in 37 minutes, he was supposed to be standing at an altar.
"I'm not resisting," Marcus said quietly. "But I'm telling you right now, you're making the biggest mistake of your life."
Fontaine smirked. "Get in the vehicle."
That's when Marcus heard the sound of multiple engines approaching fast. He turned his head and saw three black SUVs racing down Peachtree Road, their lights flashing, but no sirens. They weren't police vehicles. They were unmarked. The kind federal agents used—the kind that belonged to Secret Service.
Fontaine heard them, too. He turned, his hand instinctively going to his weapon.
The SUVs screeched to a halt, forming a semicircle around the ICE vehicle and Marcus' BMW. Doors flew open, and men and women in dark suits poured out. All of them wearing earpieces. All of them moving with the precision of trained security personnel.
And from the middle vehicle stepped a man Marcus recognized immediately: tall, silver-haired, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. Senator Richard Castellano, his future father-in-law, the White House Chief of Staff.
Fontaine's face went pale.
Senator Richard Castellano walked toward them like a man who owned the ground he stepped on. Behind him, eight Secret Service agents fanned out, their hands near their weapons, their eyes scanning everything. Two more vehicles pulled up—one with "FBI" printed on the side, the other unmarked but clearly law enforcement. Agents spilled out, all of them focused on the scene in front of them.
Fontaine's hand dropped from his weapon. He straightened up, trying to pull himself together, but his face had gone from pale to gray. He just realized something was very wrong.
"Release him," Senator Castellano said. His voice was quiet, but it carried absolute authority. He wasn't asking; he was giving an order.
Fontaine's mouth opened and closed. "Sir, I don't know who you are, but this is a federal immigration enforcement action, and you need to—"
"I know exactly what this is," Castellano cut him off. "This is a racist federal agent racially profiling my daughter's fiancé on his wedding day. Now, take the handcuffs off him before I have these FBI agents arrest you for civil rights violations."
The word fiancé hit Fontaine like a physical blow. His eyes went wide. He looked at Marcus, then at the senator, then back at Marcus. "Your daughter's—"
"Take the cuffs off. Now."
Fontaine fumbled for his keys, his hands shaking as he unlocked the handcuffs. They fell away from Marcus' wrists, leaving deep red marks in his skin. Marcus stumbled forward, and Senator Castellano caught him by the shoulders, steadying him.
"Are you all right?" Castellano asked, his voice softer now. He saw the blood on Marcus' forehead, and his jaw tightened. "Did he do that to you?"
Marcus nodded, unable to speak. The adrenaline that had been holding him together was draining away, leaving him shaky and dizzy.
Castellano turned to one of the Secret Service agents. "Get the medic." Then he looked at the FBI agents who'd arrived. "I want this man arrested. Battery, false imprisonment, civil rights violations, abuse of authority, everything."
Two FBI agents moved toward Fontaine, pulling out handcuffs. Fontaine backed up against his vehicle, his face a mixture of panic and disbelief. "Wait, you can't just... I was doing my job! He looked suspicious! I had reasonable cause to—"
"Reasonable cause?" Castellano's voice turned ice-cold. "What was your reasonable cause? That he's Black? That he was driving a nice car in a wealthy neighborhood? That you decided someone who looks like him doesn't belong here?"
Fontaine's mouth worked, but nothing came out.
One of the FBI agents took Fontaine's arm. "Agent Derek Fontaine, you're under arrest for deprivation of rights under color of law, assault and battery, and false imprisonment. You have the right to remain silent."
"This is insane!" Fontaine said, his voice rising. "I'm a federal agent! You can't arrest me for doing my job!"
"Your job isn't to brutalize American citizens," one of the FBI agents said flatly. He pulled Fontaine's arms behind his back and cuffed him, using the same rough motion Fontaine had used on Marcus. "Your job isn't to decide who belongs in this country based on the color of their skin."