No one spoke.
The video continued.
“Well, well.”
Recorded O’Grady displayed the bag.
“What do we have here?”
Doyle looked physically ill.
Miller turned slowly toward O’Grady.
O’Grady pointed at the screen.
“That’s fake.”
Elena paused the image.
“What?”
“That’s manipulated.”
Carter spoke for the first time in several minutes.
“The footage was captured on a secure federal protective vehicle system and mirrored in real time to remote storage.”
O’Grady stared at him.
“Protective vehicle?”
Carter did not answer.
Elena displayed a second sequence.
Audio from the roadside.
Then the patrol cruiser.
Passenger seat.
Captain’s going to love it.
Detective promotion.
Make sure the lane violation is solid.
Then the booking-room footage from the precinct’s own cameras.
O’Grady claiming Cynthia was nervous.
Claiming she avoided eye contact.
Claiming the narcotics were found in plain view.
Miller looked stunned.
“You told me your body cam failed.”
O’Grady turned.
“It did.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Carter asked:
“Where is it?”
O’Grady said nothing.
A federal agent entered quietly and handed Carter a note.
He read it.
Then looked at O’Grady.
“The body camera was recovered from your locker.”
O’Grady’s face drained.
“Battery is functional.”
Silence.
Doyle stepped backward.
“I didn’t know he planted it.”
O’Grady spun.
“Shut up.”
Doyle ignored him.
“I got there afterward.”
“I swear.”
“I thought he found it.”
Carter looked at him.
“You repeated the passenger-seat version.”
“Because that’s what he told me.”
“You discussed narcotics numbers.”
“Captain Miller’s been pushing statistics.”
Miller exploded.
“I never told anyone to plant evidence.”
O’Grady laughed bitterly.
“You said you didn’t care about excuses anymore.”
“I said make legitimate arrests.”
“You wanted numbers.”
“That is not authorization to frame people.”
Cynthia finally stood.
The room quieted.
She was still wearing a wrinkled blazer.
Her hair had begun to dry unevenly from the rain.
There was nothing theatrical about her appearance.
Yet the attention in the room shifted toward her immediately.
O’Grady looked at Cynthia.
Something about Carter’s behavior had finally made him suspicious.
“Who are you?”
Cynthia met his eyes.
“My name is Cynthia Holloway.”
“I know your name.”
“No.”
“You know the name on a civilian driver’s license.”
Carter placed a federal identification folder on the table.
O’Grady stared at it.
Cynthia continued.
“I am the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Nobody moved.
Doyle sat down abruptly.
Miller’s face lost color.
O’Grady stared.
Then laughed once.
A short, disbelieving sound.
“No.”
Cynthia said nothing.
Carter opened the credential folder.
Miller looked.
Read.
Closed it.
His hands were shaking.