Marcus almost laughed.
The absurdity would have been funny if his shoulder hadn't felt like it was on fire.
Reeves crouched beside him.
“What is your name?”
Marcus remained silent.
“Identification?”
Nothing.
He heard officers searching his car.
His briefcase was opened.
His overnight bag was searched.
Minutes later, Harris called out.
“No weapons. No drugs.”
Reeves looked toward Morrison.
“What was the reason for the stop?”
“Weaving.”
“You saw him weaving?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
Marcus could not see Reeves's face, but he sensed hesitation.
For one brief moment, doubt entered the scene.
Then it disappeared.
“Take him to the station,” Reeves ordered.
Marcus was lifted to his feet.
His expensive suit was torn.
Blood stained his shirt collar.
As he was pushed toward the patrol car, he saw the man with the dog still standing on the sidewalk.
The man looked frightened.
Marcus met his eyes.
The man lowered his phone.
Not because he wanted to stop recording.
Because he had already recorded enough.
Twelve Hours
The interrogation room was cold.
Marcus sat handcuffed to a metal table beneath fluorescent lights that hummed without mercy.
Thirty minutes passed.
Then an hour.
Nobody spoke to him.
That was part of the process, he realized.
Isolation.
Uncertainty.
The slow destruction of confidence.
Finally, Captain Reeves entered.
He carried a clipboard.
“Name. Address. Phone number.”
Marcus looked at the paper.
“Am I under arrest?”
“You're being detained.”
“On what charge?”
Reeves sighed.
“You want to make this difficult?”
Marcus looked directly at him.
“No, Captain. I think you've already done that.”
Reeves's eyes narrowed.
“Obstruction. Resisting arrest. We can find more.”
Marcus said nothing.
The captain stood.
“You've got twelve hours before we decide what happens next.”
The door closed.
Marcus leaned back.
For the first time since the operation began, fear crept through him.
Not fear for himself.
Not entirely.
He thought about the people who had sat in this same room.
People without hidden cameras.
Without federal agents.
Without Keller.
How many had signed false confessions just to go home?
How many had apologized for things they hadn't done?
Marcus closed his eyes.
The pain in his shoulder was getting worse.
But the recorder was still running.
And somewhere outside the station, Keller was listening.
The Doors Open
At 11:47 p.m., the front doors of the Deerfield Police Department burst open.
Eight agents entered.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then the lead agent raised her badge.
“FBI. Hands where we can see them.”
Captain Reeves rose from his desk.
“What is this?”
Evelyn Keller stepped forward.
“A federal investigation.”
Morrison appeared from the hallway.
“This is our station. You can't just—”