When they squeezed him, he panicked. He didn't just give us the money laundering operation, Thomas. He gave us the Cayman accounts. He gave us the names of the shell companies. He gave us Captain Dempsey.
And he gave us Senator Hayes. Your own brother-in-law wore a wire to family barbecues. He copied your ledgers while you were drinking beer on his patio. The psychological weight of the revelation crashed down upon Briggs like a collapsing building. The paranoia he had fostered in others had secretly infected his own home.
He had spent 3 years sitting across dining room tables, sharing meals, bragging about his untouchable empire to the very man who was methodically handing the FBI the rope to hang him. Why do you think I was driving a brand new, fully loaded black Suburban on Route 9? Fletcher asked softly. Paul procured that vehicle for the Bureau. He knew exactly what kind of car you couldn't resist pulling over.
He knew exactly what time you patrolled that stretch of highway. He set the bait, Thomas. I just drove the car. Briggs let out a sound that was half sob, half gasp. He buried his face in his large, trembling hands.
The betrayal was total. There was no one left. His deputy was a ghost. His captain was in handcuffs. His political shield was shattered.
And his own family had dug his grave. Mr. Walsh, Croft said, closing the massive binder with a sharp snap that made Briggs flinch. We are not here to negotiate a plea. We are here to offer an ultimatum. Your client will plead guilty to every single count on the indictment.
He will waive his right to an appeal. He will forfeit the three million dollars in cash, his estate, and his pension, which will be placed into a restitution fund for the innocent motorists he terrorized. In exchange, we will not seek the death penalty for the attempted murder conspiracy involving the witnesses he tried to silence in 2021. Walsh swallowed hard, turning to look at his broken client. Thomas, you have to take this.
They have you. Briggs slowly lowered his hands. Tears were streaming down his flushed cheeks, pooling in the deep wrinkles of his face. He looked at Director Fletcher, the man who had effortlessly dismantled his life without ever raising his voice. I'm a dead man in a federal prison, Briggs whispered.
A cop in gen pop, I won't last a year. Then I suggest you request protective custody, Fletcher replied, standing up and straightening his jacket. Though I imagine the isolation of a supermax cell will give you plenty of time to reflect on the people you put in cages for your own profit. We need a signature by 5:00, Mr. Walsh. Otherwise, we go to trial, and we will make sure the world sees every second of it.