*CLACK.*
Two CID tactical operators did not draw their sidearms.
The two-hundred-and-twenty-pound tactical operators stepped forward in seamless, synchronized mechanical precision:
Their gloved hands caught Daniel Whitaker by his bespoke flannel lapels, spun his six-foot frame ninety degrees against the mahogany table, and drove his face down onto the blotter with three hundred pounds of linear kinetic leverage:
*SLAM.*
His cheek struck the wood, his gold Montblanc pen snapping beneath his chest, his bespoke silk tie soaked in the spilled water from the witness carafe:
*SNAP-SNAP.*
A pair of heavy-duty, double-locking, high-security stainless-steel military transport restraints ratcheted around Daniel Whitaker’s wrists with two sharp, definitive snaps that sounded like twin rifle shots across the silent courtroom:
*SNAP.*
A second set of chains clamped around his ankles—the identical stainless-steel irons used for capital traitors at the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth.
Beside him, two female military police investigators caught Patricia Whitaker by her cashmere cardigan, dragging her away from the spectator rail, heavy transport irons clamping around her liver-spotted wrists:
