Chapter 311
"Explain," I said, sharper than intended.
It was strange. I should have been thrilled, ecstatic, even. Instead, I felt oddly protective of Miles, irritated by the implication of corruption alone.
"Relax." Jackson rolled his eyes, misreading my reaction. "Dirty cops can be bought, bargained with. It's better than the alternative."
"How are you getting—where are you getting that?"
Jackson looked down at the pile, examining his conclusions with scrutiny. "Big picture shit. But it's all there in the career path. What we have, anyway. There's not a lot pre-FBI."
My curiosity won out. "I'm surprised he kept records here."
"He didn't." Jackson shook his head. "Probably does the smart thing and keeps official documentation off-site. What I have is training manuals, articles, shit he was reading, more than half of it dated. It helps that the guy is sentimental. Joe-schmo-blue emails thanking him for his help, he prints it out and sticks it in there." He pointed to a leather file holder, stuffed full of paper.
I picked it up, somehow still surprised at the heft. "Okay. Walk me through it."
"Right." Jackson stood, inclining his head towards the pile on the left. "A lot of feds—the action guys—start in a small field office. But not our boy. They jumped him in hot. Joined a drug unit covering the Fort Worth area in the early aughts. There's nothing that spells out what he was doing, exactly, but the bastard got promoted stupid quick for someone who already had a leg-up to begin with." Jackson paused, testing me. "You get what that means?"