Higgins stared at him.
“What do I do?”
Rizzo opened his briefcase.
“You stop apologizing.”
He leaned forward.
“We're going to argue that the mayor provoked you.”
Higgins hesitated.
“That sounds crazy.”
“People believe what they're told often enough.”
Rizzo smiled.
“We're going to make you the victim.”
And Higgins, desperate to believe someone else was responsible, accepted the plan.
Over the next two weeks, Oak Creek became divided.
Rizzo leaked statements to sympathetic media outlets.
According to the new narrative, Higgins had simply been doing his job.
Beatatrice had supposedly behaved aggressively.
He had allegedly refused to identify himself.
Some claimed he had reached toward his waistband.
Others suggested he had deliberately provoked Higgins.
None of those claims were supported by the clearest footage.
But repetition created confusion.
And confusion created doubt.
Higgins began believing his own story.
He appeared at public events wearing expensive suits.
He sat beside police supporters.
He insisted that he had feared for his safety.
“I believed the suspect might be armed,” he said.
“I reacted according to my training.”
Meanwhile, Beatatrice refused to attack the entire police department.
That surprised people.
“We should not judge every officer by the actions of one officer,” he said.
His approach frustrated some supporters.
They wanted anger.
They wanted revenge.
Beatatrice wanted accountability.
Finally, the city announced a public town hall.
Thousands of people attended.
The auditorium was packed.
Supporters of Higgins carried signs defending the police.
Others carried signs demanding justice for Beatatrice.
Television cameras filled the room.
Higgins sat near the front with Rizzo.
He felt confident.
Rizzo whispered:
“Stay calm. Tonight we win.”
Beatatrice entered the stage.
His ribs were still injured.
He moved carefully.
But his expression remained composed.
He stood behind the microphone.
“Our city is hurting,” he said.
“And tonight, we are going to let the truth speak.”
Rizzo stood immediately.
“The truth,” he shouted, “is that Officer Higgins was simply doing his duty!”
The crowd erupted.
Beatatrice waited.
Then he turned toward Higgins.
“Officer Higgins,” he said.
“Did you fear for your life that morning?”
Higgins stood.
“Yes.”
“Did you believe I was reaching for a weapon?”
“Yes.”
“And you used force because you believed there was no other option?”
“Yes.”
Beatatrice nodded.
“Thank you.”
Then he turned toward the technician.
“Play the audio.”
The auditorium fell silent.
The giant screen remained dark.
Then speakers crackled.
A police cruiser door slammed.
Higgins's voice filled the room.
“Got another one.”
People looked at each other.
Then came his laughter.
The recording continued.
He mocked the man in the back seat.
He discussed writing the arrest report.
He talked about keeping Beatatrice in custody.
Most damaging of all, he spoke casually about using his authority to intimidate people.
The room became completely silent.
Higgins's face went white.
Rizzo stopped moving.
The recording continued.
Higgins's earlier claim that he had feared for his life now sounded hollow.
He hadn't sounded frightened.
He had sounded amused.
When the recording ended, nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then the auditorium erupted.
People shouted.
Some demanded his arrest.
Others lowered the signs they had been carrying.
A woman near the front began crying.
“I believed him,” she whispered.
Higgins stood frozen.
“That isn't—”
He looked at Rizzo.
“Frank?”
Rizzo didn't answer.
The room suddenly became even quieter.
Six federal agents entered through the side doors.
Their leader walked directly toward Higgins.
“Brad Higgins?”
Higgins stared at him.
“Yes.”
“You are under arrest.”
Higgins's face collapsed.
“For what?”
The agent read the charges.
Civil rights violations.
Deprivation of rights under color of law.
False reporting.
Perjury.
Higgins looked desperately toward Rizzo.
“Frank!”
Rizzo stepped backward.
“I can't help you.”
The handcuffs closed around Higgins's wrists.
He began crying.
“I didn't mean it.”
But nobody believed that anymore.
Beatatrice watched silently.
When Higgins was led away, the mayor approached the microphone.
“There is no victory here,” he said.
“A man lost his career.”
“A family lost someone.”
“And a community lost trust.”
He paused.
“But no badge should ever become a shield for cruelty.”