Page 128 of Monk

“Anillegalinterrogation,” 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 voicelow 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. Actuallysmirked. “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 apresumption?”

“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 havenothing. 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.