Chapter 39 #2
The noise behind me—the shouting, the chaos, the overlapping voices of a dozen different conversations—instantly quieted as every head in the precinct turned toward me.
The agent interrogating John straightened, his expression shifting from anger to surprise. “What the fuck is going on here?” I demanded, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
The agent’s eyes narrowed. “Ma’am, you need to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind me. “And you need to step away from my client. Now.”
The agent’s jaw tightened. “Your client?”
“That’s right.” I walked toward the table, keeping my gaze locked on his. “And you are in direct violation of his Sixth Amendment right to counsel.”
The agent’s face flushed. “We’re in the middle of an interrogation.”
“An illegal interrogation,” I interrupted, my voice sharp. “You cannot question my client without his attorney present. And I am that attorney.”
The agent opened his mouth, then closed it, his expression darkening.
“So unless you want me to file a motion to suppress every single word he’s said to you,” I continued, moving closer, “I suggest you step away from the table and get the hell out of this room.”
The agent stared at me for a long moment, then he straightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Fine,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve got plenty of other suspects to talk to.”
He started toward the door, and I smiled. “Actually,” I said, my voice dripping with vindictive satisfaction, “you don’t.”
He stopped, turning back to look at me. “Excuse me?”
“All the Diamondbacks,” I said slowly, enunciating each word, “are my clients. Every single one of them. And they have all been given explicit instructions to invoke their right to remain silent and refuse to answer any questions without legal counsel present.”
The agent’s face went pale. Then red. “You can’t.”
“I can,” I said, crossing my arms. “And I have. So unless you want to waste the next several hours trying to interrogate men who won’t say a word, I suggest you start processing their release.”
The agent’s jaw worked, his hands trembling with barely contained rage. “They’re not going anywhere,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “We have them on conspiracy to transport illegal firearms across state lines. And murder.”
My stomach dropped. “Murder?” I said, my voice calm and professional. “What murder?”
The agent smirked. Actually smirked. “A federal agent missed his check-in,” he said, his tone smug. “He’s presumed dead.”
I stared at him and then laughed. Actually laughed.
The agent’s smirk faltered.
“Presumed dead?” I repeated, my voice dripping with disbelief. “You’re charging my clients with murder based on a presumption?”
“He missed his check-in.”
“That’s not evidence of murder,” I said, stepping closer. “That’s evidence of a missed check-in. Without a body, without forensic evidence, without witnesses, you have nothing. And any halfway competent judge will throw that charge out before you even finish your opening statement.”
The agent’s face flushed darker. “We have probable cause.”
“No,” I said, my voice hardening. “You have speculation. And speculation doesn’t hold up in court.”
I turned, glancing at John. He was watching me, his expression unreadable, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were clenched into fists on the table.
I turned back to the agent. “And as for the conspiracy charge,” I continued, “where are the guns?”
The agent blinked. “What?”
“The guns,” I repeated slowly. “The illegal firearms you’re accusing my clients of transporting. Where are they?”
The agent’s mouth opened and then closed. “We have intelligence—”
“Intelligence isn’t evidence,” I said, cutting him off. “You need the actual firearms to prove conspiracy to transport. And unless you have them in your possession—which, based on your silence, I’m guessing you don’t—you have no case.”
The agent stared at me, his jaw working.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. “You’re going to release my clients. All of them. Right now. Because you don’t have the evidence to hold them, and every minute you keep them here is another violation I can use to bury you in court.”
The agent’s hands trembled. “This isn’t over,” he said, his voice tight.
“You’re right,” I said, stepping closer until we were nearly nose to nose. “It’s not. Because when I’m done with you, you’re going to wish you’d never heard the name Diamondback Motorcycle Club.”
I held his gaze, unflinching, until he finally looked away. “Get out,” I said quietly.
He hesitated, and then he turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
The moment he was gone, I turned to John. He was staring at me, his expression a mixture of awe and disbelief. “Jesus Christ, Lina,” he said, his voice rough. “You just—”
“Saved your ass?” I finished, walking over to the table. “Again. Yeah. I did.” I leaned down, my hands braced on the table, my face inches from his. “And you’re going to tell me everything,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “Starting with what the fuck you’ve done now.”
John’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay. I will.”
I straightened, my heart still pounding, my hands still shaking, but I didn’t let it show as I walked to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out into the chaos. Every eye in the room turned toward me. Kansas. Widow. Angel. Whisper. All of them.
I took a deep breath and then I raised my voice, loud enough for everyone to hear. “DIAMONDBACKS!” I shouted. “NOT A FUCKING WORD! You invoke your right to remain silent. You refuse to answer questions. You wait for me. Do you understand?”
One by one, the brothers nodded. Kansas grinned, his expression fierce and proud. Widow’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. Angel raised his sandwich in a mock salute.
I turned to the lead ATF agent, who was standing near the front desk, his face still red with anger. “Release them,” I said, my voice calm and professional. “Now.”
The agent stared at me and then he turned to one of his subordinates and muttered something under his breath. The subordinate nodded and started unlocking handcuffs.
I watched as, one by one, the brothers were released. Kansas was the first to walk over to me. He stopped in front of me, his expression softening. “My wife?”
“At Commanche County Hospital, waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
I nodded. “Go but just know, we’re not done yet.”
“I know,” he said. “But thank you anyway.”
I watched as the rest of the brothers filed out, their expressions ranging from relieved to furious. And as the last one walked through the door, I turned back to the interrogation room to find John still sitting at the table, his hands still cuffed.
I walked back in, my heels clicking against the tile. “Let’s go.”