Chapter 7 - The Interrogation of Jake Carter
When Jake was pushed through the doorway of the office, he didn't look like the confident golden boy who had laughed at me over the grill three hours ago.
His college jersey was torn at the shoulder where the FBI agent had pinned him against the wall. His gelled hair was a wild, greasy mess. The silver handcuffs around his wrists clicked softly with every shudder of his shoulders. His eyes were red, swollen, and wild with the absolute, blinding terror of a man whose entire universe had just collapsed into a black hole.
Two armed federal marshals flanked him, their hands resting on their sidearms.
"Sit," one of the marshals commanded, shoving him roughly into the steel folding chair Carl Vance had just vacated.
Jake collapsed into the seat. He looked up, his chest heaving, his breathing shallow and rapid.
And then he saw me.
I was leaning against the heavy mahogany desk, wearing my combat boots, tactical vest, and service sidearm. On the desk beside me was the signed manifest bearing his name in blue ink.
"Emily?" Jake croaked. His voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. "Em... thank God. Thank God you're here. You gotta tell these guys... they made a mistake. They treated me like a criminal! They kicked Mom’s door down! They tackled me on the carpet!"
He leaned forward, rattling his chains desperately.
"Tell them who I am, Em! Tell them I’m your brother! Tell them I’m the regional director! Carl... Carl set me up! I didn't do anything!"
I didn't speak. I didn't move. I just watched him.
For twenty-eight years, I had watched Jake Carter talk his way out of everything. When he crashed Dad’s car at sixteen, he blamed the ice on the road. When he failed out of his first semester of college, he blamed the professors. When his freight company went bankrupt and cost Dad our house, he blamed the bank.
And every single time, our parents had stepped between him and the consequences, wiping away his tears, paying his bills, and telling him he was special.
"Emily?" Jake’s voice dropped, the panic turning into anger. "Did you hear me? Speak to these people! Why are you dressed like that? What the hell is going on?"
I reached down to the desk, picked up the manifest, and took two slow steps toward him.
I held the paper twelve inches from his face.
"Is that your signature, Jake?" I asked.
Jake blinked at the paper, trying to focus through his tears. "That’s... that’s just a shipping receipt. I sign fifty of those a day. It’s just logistics. Carl said—"
"Is that your signature?" I repeated, my voice dropping an octave, hard as cold iron.
"Yes! Yes, okay? It’s my signature! So what? What did Carl put in that truck?"
"Eighty million dollars of Next Generation Air Dominance prototype avionics," I said clearly. "Hardware developed for the United States Air Force. Hardware that, if it reached foreign hands, would allow enemy air defenses to shoot down American fighter pilots before they even crossed the border."
Jake’s eyes widened until the whites showed all the way around. "A-avionics? Em, I don't know what that means! Carl told me it was medical supplies!"
"You didn't read it," I stated.
"I... I was busy! I had thirty trucks to clear! Carl said it was urgent!"
"You didn't read it," I repeated, stepping even closer until I was looking straight down into his trembling face, "because Carl gave you a ten-thousand-dollar watch and a fancy title on a business card. You sold out the national security of the United States for an expense account and a gold-plated Rolex."
"No!" Jake screamed, violently shaking his head. "No! I’m a patriot! I love this country! Dad flew the flag every Fourth of July! I played football! I’m an American!"
"A patriot?" I leaned down, my eyes drilling into his. "A patriot serves, Jake. A patriot sacrifices. A patriot doesn't take shortcuts and brag about work they never did."
I pulled out my phone and held the screen in front of him.
It was his text from two hours ago: *Dad is having chest pains and Mom won't stop crying. You think you're funny? Call me right now before I come find you.*
"You asked me if I was replacing printer cartridges at the Pentagon," I said. "You asked me if I was serving coffee at the airport."
Jake’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He looked at the phone. He looked at the tactical vest. He looked at the two marshals standing behind him with their stone-cold faces.
The reality finally broke through the thick, impenetrable armor of his lifelong arrogance.
The sister he had mocked. The sister he had kicked aside. The sister he had treated like an annoying stray dog who only existed to clean up his messes.
She wasn't a clerk.
She was the federal authority that held the keys to his prison cell.
"Emily..." Jake whispered, his voice cracking into a broken, high-pitched sob. Tears poured down his cheeks, soaking into his jersey. "Please. Em, please. I didn't know. I swear to God on Mom’s life, I didn't know. Don't let them take me to prison. Please. Dad will die if I go to prison. You know how Dad is. His heart... he can't take this."
"Dad didn't care about his heart when he told me the bus stop was down the road," I said.
Jake flinched as if I had struck him with a hammer.
"He was just joking, Em! You know how Dad is! He’s old school! He didn't mean it!"
"He meant every word, Jake," I said softly. "And so did you."
I turned around and walked back to the desk. I looked at the lead marshal.
"Marshal Davis."
"Yes, Director?"
"Take the prisoner down to the processing vehicle. Transport him to the federal detention facility in Seagoville. Hold him under Title 18, Section 793, pending formal grand jury indictment."
"No! Emily! NO!" Jake screamed, lunging forward out of the chair.
The two marshals grabbed him instantly by the arms, twisting him back and forcing him toward the door. Jake kicked and thrashed, his boots squealing against the linoleum floor, his face bright red and covered in snot and tears.
"Emily! You're my sister! You can't do this to me! Tell them to stop! EMILY!"
The heavy steel door closed behind him, cutting off his screams.
The room went completely silent again, save for the hum of the secure satellite terminals.
Major Vance looked at me from across the desk. "Director. That was your brother."
I pulled my personal phone from my pocket. It was vibrating again.
The screen lit up: *Incoming Call - Dad.*
I stared at the name for five long seconds. Then I slid my thumb across the screen, accepted the call, and raised the phone to my ear.
May you like
"Speak," I said.
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