“Send them in.”
The door opened and they filed in like a funeral procession. Two FBI agents in dark suits, badges displayed on their belts. A woman I recognized from the DA’s office—Assistant District Attorney Michelle Warren, a sharp-faced woman I’d never liked. And behind them, two more agents carrying empty boxes.
“Mayor Banks.” Michelle stepped forward, her heels clicking against my hardwood floors. “We have a warrant to search your office and seize all electronic devices, files, and documents related to city contracts, campaign finances, and your communications with city employees.”
She handed me the warrant. I took it with steady hands, even though my heart was slamming against my ribs.
“On what grounds?” My voice came out calm. Controlled. Thirty years of politics taught me never to let them see you sweat.
“We’ve received evidence of potential bribery, corruption, and abuse of power.” Michelle’s eyes were cold. Satisfied. She was enjoying this. “The DOJ has opened a formal investigation. Effective immediately, you’re being you’re being relieved of your duties pending the outcome of the investigation.”
“Relieved of my duties?” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m the mayor of Washington, DC. You can’t just?—”
“We can. And we are.” She nodded to the agents. “Start with the computer.”
I watched, helpless, as they descended on my office like vultures. One agent unplugged my computer and placed it in a box. Another started pulling files from my cabinets—files I’d spent decades accumulating. Contracts. Correspondence. The paper trail of a political career most people could only dream of.
A third agent was photographing everything. My desk, where I’d signed legislation that changed this city. My walls, covered in photos of me shaking hands with seven different presidents, with senators and congressmen, with celebrities andCEOs who’d all wanted a piece of my influence. My awards—the NAACP Image Award, the Congressional Black Caucus Phoenix Award, citations and honors from organizations across the country.
All of it being documented like evidence in a crime scene.
Because that’s what this was now. A crime scene. And I was the criminal.
I thought about the sacrifices I’d made to sit in this chair. The marriages I’d ended—two of them—because the men couldn’t handle a woman more powerful than them. The friendships I’d abandoned when they became politically inconvenient. The family I’d neglected, the holidays I’d missed, the moments with my children I’d traded for votes and influence.
I gave up everything for this office. And now these strangers in cheap suits were boxing it up like it meant nothing.
“Mayor Banks.” Michelle’s voice cut through my thoughts. She was holding a framed photo—me and the former President at a state dinner, both of us laughing at some joke I couldn’t even remember now. “We’ll need this as well.”
“That’s personal property.”
“It was on your desk. In your office. Which means it’s part of the seizure.” She dropped it into a box without ceremony. The glass cracked. She didn’t apologize.
I wanted to scream. Wanted to flip her little table of evidence and tell her exactly who she was dealing with. I was Vivica Banks. I’d destroyed careers with a single phone call. I’d made and broken politicians, judges, police chiefs. I’d run this city for years, and I’d be damned if some mid-level prosecutor with a chip on her shoulder was going to be my undoing.
But I didn’t scream. Didn’t flip anything. Just stood there with my hands clasped in front of me, watching my legacy get packed into cardboard boxes.
Thirty years of my life, dismantled in minutes.
“I want to call my lawyer,” I said.
“You’re free to do that.” Michelle didn’t even look at me. “But I’d suggest you do it from somewhere else. This office is now part of an active investigation.”
I grabbed my purse and my phone and walked toward the door. Kept my spine straight. My chin up. I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
The hallway felt longer than it ever had before.
Patricia, the receptionist—sweet girl, worked the front desk for six years—wouldn’t meet my eyes when I passed. She was crying. Whether for me or for her own job security, I couldn’t tell. Probably both.
“Patricia.”
She flinched at the sound of her name. Finally looked up, mascara already running.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said. Kept my voice steady. Professional. Like this was any other day and I was just stepping out for a meeting.
She nodded quickly, then looked away again.
The security guards at the elevator—men who’d greeted me every morning for years, who’d held doors and fetched my coffee and laughed at my jokes—suddenly found the floor very interesting. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked at me.
