Chapter 1: The Handcuffs in the Underground Garage

The third deputy was still smiling when the first black SUV turned into the underground parking garage.

Assistant District Attorney Camille Brooks stood beside her silver Lexus with her wrists locked behind her back.

One handcuff had been tightened so far that she could feel her heartbeat against the metal.

Her brown leather briefcase lay open on the concrete.

A folder of witness statements had spilled beneath the rear tire, where a puddle carried a thin black ribbon of oil toward the paper.

Deputy Trent Voss looked at the approaching vehicle.

“Well, somebody called for an audience.”

The other two officers laughed.

Kyle Mercer, who had taken Camille’s phone, leaned against the Lexus as though it belonged to him.

Luke Brenner stood near the elevator, his body camera pointing toward the wall.

He had turned it away after Camille asked whether it was recording.

A second black SUV followed the first.

Both vehicles stopped across the exit lane.

Their doors opened.

Four people stepped out.

None moved quickly.

The woman emerging from the first vehicle wore a navy raincoat and carried a rectangular evidence case.

Camille recognized her immediately.

Georgia Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Lena Ortiz.

Beside her stood District Attorney Marion Price, sixty-two years old and usually composed enough to make a courtroom quiet without raising her voice.

Price looked at Camille’s handcuffs.

Then at her face.

Then at the three deputies.

“Who authorized this arrest?”

Voss lifted his chin.

“Routine security matter, ma’am. We’ve got a trespasser who refuses to identify herself.”

Camille spoke calmly.

“I identified myself four times.”

Voss interrupted.

“She claims to work for the district attorney’s office.”

Marion Price did not move.

“She does work for my office.”

Voss looked uncomfortable.

“Ma’am—”

“She’s my senior prosecutor.”

The garage became quiet.

Water dripped from an overhead pipe.

A fluorescent light buzzed near the elevator.

Marion continued.

“But that isn’t the question I asked.”

She stepped closer.

“Who authorized this arrest?”

Voss glanced toward Mercer.

For the first time since stopping Camille, he seemed to need help finding an answer.

Lena Ortiz looked toward the scattered documents.

Then at the deputy holding Camille’s phone.

“Nobody touches that briefcase,” she said.

Voss frowned.

“Excuse me?”