Judge Vance banged her gavel, her face a mask of fury. "Order! Order in this court!" Bryce felt the blood drain from his face. It wasn't just a bad stop anymore.
It was a conspiracy. It was a hate crime. It was systematic corruption. Mr. Finch, Bryce's lawyer, looked at Bryce with disgust. He didn't even bother to cross-examine Langley.
He knew the ship had sunk. Then came the coup de grace. Ross cued up the video again on the giant monitors. "We would like to play the moment of the arrest one more time, specifically focusing on the defendant's reaction to the badges." The video played.
The sound of Bryce screaming "Gun!" filled the room. Then the silence. Then Kendrick's voice, calm and commanding. And finally, Bryce's face zoomed in and enhanced when he saw the FBI credentials. The fear in his eyes wasn't the fear of a man in danger.
It was the fear of a bully who had picked a fight with a lion. "Mr. Callahan," Judge Vance said, looking directly at Bryce. "I have seen enough. The motion to suppress is denied. The evidence stands, and frankly, if I were you, I would start praying for a plea deal because a jury is going to bury you."
Bryce looked at Kendrick. Kendrick offered a small, polite nod. It was the ultimate power move. He wasn't angry anymore. He was just efficient.
The sentencing hearing weeks later was a formality. The jury had deliberated for less than 3 hours. Guilty on all counts. Deprivation of rights under color of law. Conspiracy to commit extortion.
Filing false police reports. Assault on a federal officer. Judge Vance didn't hold back. "Bryce Callahan, you have disgraced the uniform you wore. You used the power of the state as a weapon of terror against innocent citizens.
You didn't just break the law, you broke the public trust. I sentence you to 25 years in a federal correctional institution without the possibility of parole." 25 years. Bryce would be 70 when he got out, if he got out. He was processed out of the county jail and put on a bus, the Con Air transport.
He was shackled hand and foot, chained to the seat. The other prisoners on the bus eyed him. They saw the soft hands, the terrified eyes. They smelled the cop on him, fresh meat. A tattooed man two rows back whispered.
They arrived at FCI Talladega, a medium-security federal prison. It wasn't the Club Fed white-collar camp Bryce had fantasized about because of the violence charges and the use of a weapon, he was placed in general population. The intake process was a nightmare. He was stripped naked, ironically, the very thing he had tried to do to Serena. He was sprayed for lice.
He was given a uniform that smelled like industrial detergent and old sweat. "Name," the guard barked. He was a young Black man, no older than Deputy Ellis back in Pine Creek. "Bryce Callahan," Bryce mumbled. "I was a cop.
I need protective custody. You can't put me in gen pop." The guard looked up. He recognized the name. Everyone did.
"Protective custody is full," the guard said, his face impassive. "Besides, PC is for people in danger. You're a tough guy, right? The Hammer." Bryce flinched.