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While they waited for the prison staff to secure Cunningham to the table’s eyebolt, Draper explained what they were doing at MDC Brooklyn.

‘Before this started, Koenig had a run-in with four corrupt police officers,’ she said. ‘They were going to deliver him to a man who planned to skin him alive.’

‘Why?’ Carlyle asked.

‘Why did someone want to skin Koenig alive, or why did the cops want to take him there?’

‘Both, I guess.’

‘You’re looking for something more nuanced than they’d met him?’

Carlyle’s lips stayed pressed together. Koenig got the impression she didn’t laugh much.

‘I have no idea about the first, other than there are some sick assholes with some even sicker predilections out there,’ Draper said. ‘The second is easier to explain: Koenig has a five-mil bounty on his head. The cops planned to get half of it.’

‘Gosh,’ Margaret said. ‘What happened?’

‘Koenig killed one, put another in an irreversible coma, and swiped a credit card across Miss Cunningham’s forehead like he was paying for dinner.’

‘Psycho asshole split my head open!’ Cunningham yelled.

‘Oh, stop complaining,’ Draper said. ‘You had guns, he was unarmed.’

‘Stop complaining?’ she said. ‘Are you fucking kidding?’ She reached up and pulled up her bandage to reveal an ugly welt across her forehead. It was red and livid and thicker than lipstick. The surrounding skin was as bruised as a dropped apple. ‘Look what he did to my face. They had to take skin off my ass to patch it together. You got any idea what it’s like in here for a cop with an asshole grafted to her head? As if I don’t have enough shit to deal with right now.’

One of the guards tugged her restraints. ‘The prisoner’s secure,’ he said.

They left the room. Draper locked the door and put her ear to it. Koenig doubted Isaacs was stupid enough to have a glass pressed up against the other side, but Draper was an ex-spy; suspicion was her default position.

‘What happened to the fourth police officer?’ Carlyle asked.

‘The NYPD arrived,’ Draper said. ‘Otherwise, he’d have gone the same way as the others. Unfortunately for Miss Cunningham, she’s carrying the can for the whole thing. The fourth cop was waiting in the parking lot. He claims he had no idea what his friends were doing. The FBI have him on a bunch of conspiracy stuff with more charges to follow, but right now, Miss Cunningham’s only play is to make a deal.’

‘A deal?’ she said. ‘With that asshole? I’d rather do my time.’

‘All of it?’

‘Yes, all of it. What do you think I’m gonna do? Dig a tunnel?’

‘You don’t know this yet,’ Koenig said, ‘but the feds are going full RICO on your ass. Even the part that’s stitched to your face. Conspiracy to murder. Kidnapping. Murder for hire. Money laundering. Tax evasion. A smorgasbord of offences, enough to feed even the hungriest US attorney. So, when my colleague said, “All of it?”, she wasn’t talking about your sentence; she was talking about your life.’ He let that sink in. ‘How old are you, Cunningham? Sixty-five, Sixty-six?’

‘I’m thirty-one, asshole!’

‘So, if you can avoid getting shanked, you might reasonably expect to spend another fifty years in here. I’m no somnologist, but that’s bound to keep you awake at night.’

Koenig hadn’t told Cunningham anything she hadn’t already worked out for herself. Prosecuting dirty cops was the gift that kept on giving. It restored public confidence in the police. It showed a prosecutor’s independence from their institutional allies in law enforcement. And the voters loved it.

‘Best you can offer is where I serve my time,’ she said. ‘My own lawyer says I ain’t never getting out.’

‘You were a cop once, Cunningham,’ Koenig said. ‘Try being one again. What’s different about this room? What do you see?’

She looked around. ‘I don’t see shit.’

‘That’s good. At least your face-ass isn’t leaking.’

‘Screw you.’

Koenig waited.

Cunningham shrugged. ‘There ain’t no Liberty.’

The Liberty Interview Recorder was the NYPD’s interview-room recording system. It had three cameras, two fixed and one with pan–tilt–zoom capabilities. Koenig doubted MDC Brooklyn used anything as advanced, but at least Cunningham understood the room was clean.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘There are no cameras, no microphones, and no FBI agents. What does that tell you?’

‘You’re going to beat a confession out of me.’

‘There are no cameras or feds in here, Cunningham, because what we’re about to do will make Special Agent in Charge Isaacs lose his mind.’