“Something funny?”
“No, Chief.”
The chief looked back toward the restrained man.
“I think you came in here because you thought nobody in a small Georgia department would know the difference between a real federal agent and a fake one.”
The Black man looked around the office.
Beige filing cabinets.
Framed commendations.
Old academy photograph.
A plaque from the city council.
A photograph of the chief shaking hands with a former governor.
A wooden display containing challenge coins.
Everything carefully curated.
Then he looked at the chief.
“I think you know the difference.”
The chief’s expression changed.
Tiny.
The Black man continued:
“I think that’s why you haven’t opened the wallet.”
The younger patrol officer looked sharply toward the chief.
The older white officer beside him did too.
The chief stared.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
The chief stepped forward.
“You think I’m afraid of your fake badge?”
“No.”
The Black man looked toward the desk.
“I think you’re afraid it’s real.”
For the first time since the rope came out, the chief stopped moving.
The silence lasted three seconds.
Maybe four.
Then the chief laughed.
Too loud.
“That’s good.”
He turned toward the officers.
“You hear this guy?”
Nobody responded.
The chief looked back.
“You come into my station accusing my people of mishandling evidence and now you’re trying to scare me?”
The Black man said:
“I haven’t accused anyone.”
“You asked for evidence-access logs.”
“Yes.”
“You asked who can modify entries.”
“Yes.”
“You asked about missing narcotics evidence.”
“I asked about discrepancies.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
The Black man’s voice remained calm.
“Words matter.”
The chief scoffed.
“To lawyers.”
“To investigations.”
The chief leaned close again.
“You’re not investigating anything.”
The Black man looked toward the credential.
“Then prove it.”
The chief’s nostrils flared.
He turned toward the desk.
For one second, the Black man thought he might finally open the wallet.
Instead, the chief grabbed it and threw it into the top drawer.
Then slammed the drawer closed.
The younger patrol officer looked toward the floor.
The Black man’s face changed.
Barely.