"Please," he whispered, a pathetic croak of a man who suddenly understood what it felt like to have his life destroyed by a higher power. "Please, Director. I have a family. I have kids."
Cynthia did not flinch. She had heard that plea before, in other rooms, from other men, and she had learned long ago that a family does not excuse a crime, it only makes the crime sadder for the people who did not commit it.
"So do the men and women currently sitting in federal and state prisons because you decided to play God with their lives," Cynthia replied, devoid of an ounce of sympathy, her voice steady as a line drawn with a ruler. "Agent, cuff him."
An FBI agent grabbed O'Grady by the collar, hauled him to his feet with a force that was professional rather than cruel, and slammed him face first against the concrete wall. The sickening sound of O'Grady's nose crunching against the wall was instantly followed by the metallic click of handcuffs snapping securely around his wrists, tighter than the cuffs he had put on Cynthia, but not cruelly tight, because the agents in this room were not him and would not become him to punish him. O'Grady gasped, blood running from his nose, his cheek pressed to the cold concrete, and for the first time that night he knew what it felt like to be searched, restrained, and rendered voiceless by a badge he could not argue with.
"Kevin Doyle," Cynthia continued, turning to the trembling partner, who was already crying, his shoulders shaking, his hands half raised as if he could not decide whether to surrender or to pray. "You are under arrest for conspiracy to violate civil rights. Turn around and put your hands behind your back."
Doyle didn't fight. He sobbed openly as he was spun around and cuffed, his tears falling onto the floor of the interrogation room, his breath coming in short, hiccuping bursts. He had not planted the drugs. He had not written the report. He had towed a car, laughed at a joke in the front seat, and told himself that was not participation. Now he was learning, in the most public way possible, that standing by the door with your arms crossed while a crime happens in front of you is still a choice, and choices have consequences that do not care about your intentions.
Captain Miller stood frozen, his eyes wide as he watched his two officers being processed like common street thugs, the phrase forming unbidden in his own mind and shaming him even as he thought it. He swallowed hard and tried to straighten his posture, tried to remember that he was a captain, that this was his precinct, that he had a pension and a reputation and a career built over decades. He tried to speak as if any of that still mattered in a room full of federal agents.