He looked at the FBI tactical vests, the unmarked SUVs, and finally at Jenkins, who looked like he was about to vomit on his own boots.
"What in the hell is going on here?" sergeant Griggs demanded, looking at Cole.
"Who's in charge? Why is my officer surrounded?"
"I am," Cole said, flashing his credentials.
"Supervisory Special Agent Cole, FBI Organized Crime Task Force. And your officer isn't surrounded, Sergeant. He's in federal custody."
Griggs blinked, completely taken aback.
"Custody for what? Now hold on, Agent Cole. Let's not get hotheaded. If my guy overstepped on a stop, we handle that internally. Professional courtesy. We'll write him up. Send it to internal affairs. You don't need to make a scene. Professional courtesy, Jonathan repeated, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping his lips."
He walked right up to Sergeant Griggs, pointing a finger at Jenkins.
"Your guy didn't overstep. He blew a two-year federal wiretap operation. He physically assaulted two on-duty federal agents. He deprived us of our civil rights under color of law. That's Title 18, United States Code, Section 242. And assaulting a federal officer. That's section 111. Both are federal felonies. So, no, Sergeant, internal affairs doesn't get this one."
We do. Griggs looked at Jenkins, his expression shifting from defensive to disgusted.
"Jesus Christ, Brian, what did you do?" Griggs demanded.
"They looked like street criminals, Sarge," Jenkins pleaded. "Look at how they're dressed. They were casing the park. I was being proactive."
"Disarm him," Cole ordered smoothly.
Two FBI tactical agents stepped forward.
"Wait, wait, Sarge."
Jenkins panicked, looking to his supervisor for salvation.
"You can't let them do this. I'm a local cop."
Sergeant Griggs looked at the furious federal agents, then at the red welts on Jonathan and Sam's wrists. He slowly raised his hands and took a step back, abandoning Jenkins entirely.
"You're on your own, Brad."
I'm not catching a federal obstruction charge for your stupid mistakes. The absolute terror in Jenkins's eyes was a picture of perfect karma. The man who thrived on stripping citizens of their dignity, who used his badge as a weapon of humiliation, was now on the receiving end.
"Agent Paul," Cole said, nodding to Jonathan.
"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.