"Captain Grace," Mitchell finally said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "The police union is dedicated to defending officers who act within the scope of their duties and the confines of the law. Planting evidence on a superior officer does not fall within those parameters. The union will not be providing legal counsel for Officer Holt in this matter. He is entirely on his own."
Click. The dial tone echoed in the small room.
Travis stared at the phone, his jaw slacking. The color completely drained from his face. The invisible shield he had worn for 12 years. The shield that had let him terrorize innocent people, the shield of the brotherhood, had just shattered into a million pieces.
"No," Travis whispered. "He can't do that. He can't." "You are a liability, Travis," Emma said coldly, picking up her phone.
"And cowards always abandon a sinking ship. But your nightmare is just starting because I'm not just going to fire you. I'm going to find out exactly where you got those drugs." She turned and walked out of the room, leaving Travis alone in the suffocating silence.
The walls were rapidly closing in.
Panic is a contagious disease, and by noon, it had infected every dirty cop in District 9. Sergeant Greg Harrison was sweating profusely behind the booking desk. He was frantically trying to reconcile the physical ledger of the evidence lockup with the digital database before the IA investigators reached his station. His hands shook as he scribbled out numbers, his mind racing.
Travis Holt had begged him for a favor three weeks ago. "Just a pinch, Greg. Just enough to use as a prop. I'll bring it right back."
Harrison had skimmed two ounces of a massive cartel bust that had rolled through the county, altering the intake weight from 4.2 lb to 4.0 lb. It was supposed to be easy. Nobody ever checked.
"Sergeant Harrison." Harrison jumped out of his skin, dropping his pen. Special agent Pendleton stood on the other side of the high desk, holding a printed spreadsheet. Pendleton didn't look angry.
He looked like a butcher examining a cut of meat. "We're doing a physical inventory of lockbox 4B," Pendleton said, his voice smooth and professional. "Case number 88-104, the Ramirez seizure. We need you to unlock it."
Harrison's throat went dry. "Right now, sir, I'm right in the middle of shift change paperwork." "Right now, Sergeant," Pendleton said, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Unless you've lost the key."
10 minutes later, Harrison was in handcuffs, sobbing openly in the hallway as IA agents tore through the evidence room. Meanwhile, Travis Holt had been temporarily released from the interrogation room to use the restroom, escorted by a silent IA agent who waited outside the door. Travis splashed freezing water on his face, staring at his haggard reflection in the dirty mirror. He was looking at 20 years in a federal penitentiary. His life was over unless he could introduce reasonable doubt. Unless he could get Ben to take the fall.