You still became aggressive. We still had to subdue you. Is that the story you're going with? Andrew's voice is steady despite the blood. That's what happened.
Wilson moves to her bag near the door. She pulls out a preprinted arrest form, the kind of form that suggests this isn't her first time falsifying a report. She fills in the blanks with practiced efficiency. Andrew watches her right. You've done this before.
Every day, Wilson says without looking up. Part of the job. It's not part of the job. It's a crime. Mitchell kneels down in front of Andrew, eye level.
His voice drops to something almost conversational. Let me explain how this works. You came in here making threats. You assaulted me when I tried to detain you. I had no choice but to defend myself.
Sergeant Wilson witnessed everything. Officer Brooks will confirm the timeline. That's three sworn officers against one troublemaker with a history. I don't have a history. You do now.
Mitchell stands. Wilson, book him. Assault on an officer. Resisting arrest. Trespassing.
You can't do this. I just did. Mitchell moves to the door. His hand is on the knob. When Andrew speaks again.
Your career ends tomorrow morning, 8:00 a.m. when I walk into that ceremony and take my oath. Mitchell turns back. What are you talking about? I'm talking about the fact that you just assaulted your new commanding officer in front of witnesses with cameras in the hallway during shift change when half the department can verify I entered this building peacefully. Wilson stops writing.
He's bluffing. But Mitchell isn't sure anymore. The ceremony is real. Brooks confirmed it. And this man speaks with too much certainty, too much specific knowledge.
Who are you? Mitchell asks. My name is Andrew Harris. Tomorrow morning, I become chief of police. And the first thing I'm going to do is open an investigation into what happened to my brother Brandon Harris 3 years ago in this exact room.
Mitchell's face goes from red to white. All the blood drains out like someone opened a valve. Brandon Harris, he whispers. That was your brother? He called 911 because he was having a mental health crisis.
He needed help. You beat him to death instead. Then you wrote it up as a medical emergency. Then you had Sergeant Wilson alter the evidence logs. Wilson's pen stops moving.
Then you had Deputy Chief Walsh sign off on a falsified autopsy report. Andrew continues, his voice never rises, never breaks, just states facts like he's reading from a case file. 43 violations of department protocol, 18 civil rights violations, three felonies, all covered up by this station. Mitchell backs against the wall. His breathing is shallow, fast.
You came here on purpose, he says. You wanted this to happen. I came here for a meeting. You chose to assault me. That's on you.
This is a setup. You're wearing a wire. I'm not wearing anything. I didn't need to. Your own officer is documenting everything.
Mitchell's eyes go to the door. Brooks, he's a marine like me. We recognize each other. We recognize when orders violate the oath we took. Wilson moves toward the door.
We need to call Walsh now. Walsh can't help you. Andrew says he's part of this. He's been taking money from Vincent Taylor for 3 years. $340,000 in payments. All traced, all documented, all waiting for tomorrow morning.
Mitchell slides down the wall, sits on the floor. His hands are shaking. My face went white, he says to no one. He said, "My face went white. " Wilson makes the call. Her voice is urgent but controlled as she speaks into her radio.
Deputy Chief Walsh to IR3. Immediate. Andrew sits at the table with blood drying on his face. He doesn't ask for medical attention. Doesn't demand a lawyer.
Just sits there with his hands folded like he's waiting for a bus. Mitchell paces the small room. Three steps turn. Three steps turn. His mind is racing through scenarios, timelines, evidence. every conversation he's had over the past 3 years.
"You can't prove any of that," Mitchell says finally. "I don't have to prove it. Federal investigators already did. " "Federal, FBI, DOJ, Inspector General's office. They've been building a case for 18 months. Tonight was the final test. " Wilson's radio crackles.
Walsh's voice comes through. On my way. The door opens. Two minutes later. Deputy Chief Raymond Walsh fills the doorway.
He's 56, 6'2", 230 lb, custom boots, expensive watch, the kind of accessories that don't match a civil servant's salary. He takes in the scene. Blood on the table, Mitchell against the wall, Wilson by the door, and Andrew Harris sitting calmly in the middle of it all. "Someone want to tell me what's happening here? " "He's claiming to be the new chief," Mitchell says. His voice is shaking.
"Claims there's a ceremony tomorrow. " Walsh's face doesn't change. is there. Brooks confirmed it. 8:00 a.m. Mayor's office sent out the notice. Walsh walks slowly into the room.
He studies Andrew like he's looking at a puzzle, trying to figure out which piece doesn't fit. Mr. Harris, Walsh says. His tone is measured. Careful.
You're bleeding. Would you like medical attention? After I speak with my lawyer. Of course. But first, help me understand what happened here.
Officer Mitchell says you became aggressive during a routine ID check. Officer Mitchell is lying. That's a serious accusation. It's the truth. He assaulted me the moment I entered this building, called me a black thug, slammed me against the wall hard enough to crack plaster, then brought me here, and beat me with Sergeant Wilson as a witness.
Walsh looks at Wilson. She meets his gaze without blinking. Years of practice. Sergeant Wilson, is that accurate? No, sir.
Subject became combative when Officer Mitchell requested identification. I see. Walsh turns back to Andrew. It's your word against two sworn officers. Is it?