"Step away from the weapon," Lucas ordered, his gun still trained on his father.
Thomas took three awkward steps backward, his head bowed, his hands hanging limp at his sides like useless weights. He looked as though he had aged twenty years in twenty seconds.
Lucas kicked his father’s weapon away into the grass on the shoulder. He then quickly holstered his own firearm, knelt down next to Marcus Vance, and helped the older man to his feet. Lucas retrieved Marcus’s glasses from the dust, wiped them gently with his silk tie, and handed them back to the attorney.
"Are you alright, Mr. Vance?" Lucas asked softly, his hands trembling as he checked Marcus’s wrists for injuries.
"I'm alive, Agent Miller," Marcus said, putting his glasses back on and looking deeply into the young man's eyes. "Thanks to you."
Before another word could be spoken, the air was filled with the screaming wail of multiple sirens. Three unmarked black suburban SUVs and two Georgia State Patrol cruisers tore around the bend of Highway 17, screeching to a halt in a tactical semi-circle around the scene. Armed federal agents in green tactical vests bearing "FBI" across the chest spilled out, weapons drawn, taking command of the roadway.
A senior agent, a woman with graying hair and a sharp, authoritative demeanor, rushed up to Lucas. "Lucas! Are you okay? We heard your radio call."
"I'm fine, Supervisory Agent Chen," Lucas said, his voice flat, emotionless now, the professional mask snapping back into place. "Deputy Thomas Miller is secured. He executed an unlawful stop, used excessive force, and drew a lethal weapon on a federal witness, Attorney Marcus Vance."
Agent Chen looked at Thomas Miller, who was standing near the fender of his Crown Victoria, staring blankly at the red dirt. She then looked at Lucas. "Do you want someone else to handle the processing, Agent Miller?"
Lucas took a deep, shuddering breath. He pulled a pair of heavy steel federal handcuffs from his back belt loop. "No," he said quiet, steady voice. "It’s my case. I'll do it."
Lucas walked over to his father. The older man did not move. He did not offer any resistance as Lucas took his wrists and pulled them behind his back. The cold steel cuffs clicked shut—three distinct, mechanical clicks that echoed like finality.
"Lucas..." Thomas whispered as his son read him his constitutional rights from memory.
"'You have the right to remain silent,'" Lucas recited, his voice tight, refusing to look his father in the eyes. "'Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law...'"
"Lucas, please," Thomas choked out, a tear finally cutting a clean streak through the dust on his sunbaked cheek. "I'm your father."
Lucas paused for a fraction of a second, his hands resting on the cold steel of the handcuffs pinned against his father's back. He leaned in close to the old man's ear.
"I know you are, Dad," Lucas whispered, his voice breaking with a devastating sorrow. "And that's why I couldn't let you become a murderer today."
Six months later.
The Federal District Courthouse in Savannah was quiet. The marble floors reflected the cool, indirect light of a cloudy winter morning. Inside Courtroom 3B, the jury had just returned after four days of deliberation.
Deputy Chief Thomas Miller sat at the defense table, dressed in a muted gray suit that hung loosely on his diminished frame. Beside him sat his defense attorneys. Across the aisle sat the prosecution team from the Department of Justice, flanked by Marcus Vance, who served as a special consultant to the federal grand jury.