“Get in line back there,” the officer said, pointing toward the people who had just walked in. One of the Black twins let out a bitter laugh. “We were here first.” The officer’s hand landed on his chest—too casual, too confident. “Don’t get smart with me.” The bartender looked away. Then a woman at the corner table stood up, her voice sharp as a blade. “That’s my brother.” She raised her phone. “And I’m the federal prosecutor you’ve all been trying to avoid.”