For a full thirty seconds, General Eiling said nothing.
His squad leaders were in a panic on the street behind him, fighting to push through a crowd that had no intention of moving. There wasn't a gap wide enough for a person to squeeze through, let alone a vehicle. He was on his own.
The silence inside the car stretched while Eiling's brain slowly, reluctantly, assembled the information the reporters had just detonated in his face. When the picture came together, he gritted his teeth hard enough to creak and turned to look at the man in the back seat.
Jude met his gaze and smiled.
"I told you yesterday, didn't I? 'It's best not to touch either of them.'" He tilted his head, almost sympathetic. "You really should've listened."
Whatever remained of Eiling's morning evaporated.
But the cameras were still rolling outside his window, and half a dozen microphones were pressed against the glass, and he didn't have time to deal with Jude. Not yet. He turned back to face the press with a jaw like poured concrete.
"Whatever anyone believes they have here, these are baseless accusations without a shred of evidence. As a general in the United States military, I do not abuse my authority. I am not a racist. I have never been a racist." His voice took on the quiet, particular menace of a man who was used to that tone ending conversations. "I would strongly advise everyone present not to play with fire. Anyone who attempts to slander or smear my reputation will learn very quickly what my patience looks like when it runs out."
So you're denying these events occurred?
The reporters — and this was the part he hadn't accounted for — didn't blink. They'd anticipated exactly this. Eyes gleaming, they produced their phones and hit play.
"So, you want to ask me for help?"
"I am asking you to fulfill your obligations as an American citizen."
Then: General Eiling, in crisp HD, raising a firearm and pointing it at a civilian.
"I said — tell me where she is. Otherwise you'll be considered an accessory to her defection and arrested as a co-conspirator."
The second clip was from inside the Central City Police Department.
"What's your name again? Singh? Cindy? Inspector — whatever. Go explain yourself to your superiors."
"And that Black detective from this morning — where did he go? Never mind. Both of you, go explain to your superiors."
Then the exterior footage: Jude being marched out of the building. His own voice, level and clear:
"I knew from the start you're the kind of person who doesn't respond to reason. Even if I'm innocent. Even if you have no evidence. I still find a way."
CRACK.
Eiling's fist, full force, into Jude's stomach — captured in crisp, steady focus. And then Eiling's voice, almost cheerful, as Jude bent double:
"Whether you're innocent or not — that's for me to decide."
Eiling stared at the screen.
His head was buzzing. The sound of his own blood in his ears.
Oh no.
He ran the logic in sequence, the way he'd run a tactical assessment, and each step was worse than the last.
An Asian man arrested without evidence — manageable.
A mid-level officer suspended without cause — a footnote.
A Black detective dismissed on the spot — not ideal, but survivable.
But: an Asian man arrested without evidence, and a minority and gay officer suspended, and a Black officer dismissed — all three from minority groups, all in the same forty-eight-hour window — and footage of him threatening a civilian at gunpoint, and a clip of him saying "that Black detective" like it was a category rather than a name, and the coup de grâce, on camera, in his own voice: whether you're innocent or not, that's for me to decide —
That was not a stain. That was a fire.
While Eiling sat rigid, face cycling between red and white, the back door of the car clicked open.
He'd locked it. He was certain he'd locked it.
Jude slid out onto the pavement and crumpled directly at the feet of the nearest reporter.
"Cough — help — someone, please—"
The transformation was instantaneous and complete. The man who'd been needling Eiling with quiet amusement thirty seconds ago was now a wreck — pallid, trembling, bloodshot eyes, a spreading dark stain soaking through his shirt from wounds that were very real even if the performance around them was not.
He looks half-dead, Eiling thought. He looks exactly half-dead.
"Oh my God — somebody call an ambulance!"
The press scrum pivoted as one organism. Cameras came down. Then went right back up again for photos. Then came down once more as people remembered they were also humans and began actually helping. Someone lifted the hem of Jude's shirt and discovered the full map of bruising underneath, and the cameras surged up for another round.
A general abuses his rank for personal revenge. Torture disguised as interrogation. Racism dressed up as national security. A journalist who fearlessly speaks truth to power.
What a story. What an absolutely perfect story.
"You—" Eiling's voice came out strangled. "You set me up."
His eyes were wide, something almost like disbelief moving through them. Singh and Joe, yesterday. The interrogation this morning. The confession. Every single moment Jude had spent in his custody, the man had been building something, and Eiling had provided every brick.
The problem was that there was no room left to explain. The footage existed. His words existed. The logic was already written. A brown stain on his trousers could theoretically be anything. Nobody was going to call it chocolate.
An ambulance was pulling up at the end of the block.
Eiling shoved his door open, surging forward to grab Jude and throw him back in the car — and immediately found himself walled off by reporters on all sides, microphones in his face, cameras at every angle.
Nobody was letting this moment go.
"General Eiling — how do you account for what's in those videos?"
"General Eiling — you referred to the suspended officer referring him as 'Cindy' and 'that Black detective.' You claim you're not a racist. Can you explain why all three individuals targeted were minorities?"
"General Eiling — was there evidence? Were there procedures? Or was it, as you stated yourself on camera, entirely your personal decision?"
"General Eiling — what caused this man's injuries? Was he subjected to coercive interrogation?"
The questions came from everywhere and nowhere. Eiling stood in the center of them, jaw clamped shut, watching the paramedics load Jude onto a stretcher.
On the stretcher, Jude kept his eyes closed and his expression appropriately wretched.
Good thing the ambulance was fast, he thought, with considerable effort. Another thirty seconds and I would've started laughing.
His soldiers finally broke through the crowd and extracted Eiling — but by then the ambulance was already rounding the corner, and Jude knew, with quiet certainty, that he'd bought himself something today. Not freedom. Not yet. Eiling was still out there.
But that afternoon, every major news outlet in Central City ran the story. The videos. The interview remarks. The general who'd said whether you're innocent or not, that's for me to decide — on camera, grinning.
His rank didn't protect him. It made the headline bigger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~