The rage, the arrogance. It was like watching someone else. His phone buzzed non-stop. Reporters, union reps, old partners. But he ignored them all.
When he finally answered one, his voice was barely a whisper. "Tell them tell them I didn't mean it." But no one cared about his excuses anymore. Meanwhile, in a dimly lit law office downtown, Jaylen Brooks sat at his desk surrounded by glowing monitors. He'd pulled up the drone footage, synced it with precinct timestamps, and found something everyone else had missed.
A second camera, one of the traffic feeds near Piedmont Park, had caught the moment Travis reached up and turned off his body cam. That clip alone proved intent. Jaylen felt the old fury rise in him, the kind that never faded since his mother's killing by police when he was 10. "Not this time," he muttered, "not again." His phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown ProtonMail address popped up. "Backup drive in my house, desk drawer. Password Mac2006. Don't let my dad hurt anyone else." Jaylen's pulse quickened.
The email was signed simply, Marcus. He didn't know it yet, but that message, sent from a 19-year-old disowning his father, was the key to everything. Inside the jail, a guard unlocked Ava's cell. "You got visitors," he said curtly. She expected Jaylen or a DOJ rep, but instead two FBI agents in dark suits stepped in.
"Ms. Richardson," one said, voice low but firm. "We're aware of your detainment and the missing case file. We're investigating an internal breach tied to Officer Callahan." Ava straightened her back, eyes sharp. "Then you already know what's missing."
"We do," the agent replied, "and we intend to find it." "Start with his house," she said without hesitation. "He took it." They exchanged a glance. You're certain?
I prosecuted men like him for years. She replied, He fits the pattern. Rage, pride, cover-up. Check his drawers. He keeps his secrets close.
Outside, the protesters chants shook the city awake. Students from Spelman and Morehouse flooded the streets, joined by community leaders, lawyers, and even off-duty firefighters. News drones circled overhead like hawks. One shot captured the image that would define the movement. A line of young black women standing shoulder to shoulder, fists raised, chanting Ava's name.
It was raw. It was loud, and it was unstoppable. By late afternoon, the FBI had quietly begun their parallel investigation. Agents intercepted traffic feeds, subpoenaed radio logs, and traced data from the precinct servers. What they found shocked even seasoned investigators.