“You were under a lot of pressure, Chief. I get it.”

He shrugs.

“Well, now the feds are trying to play nice. Probably ’cause they don’t have shit. I think they’re as scared about this whole thing as we are.”

We reach the main bank of elevators. But we don’t stop. I assumed we were going up to his fourth-floor office. Guess not. So where are we going?

“You’ve been doing some first-rate work, Rooney—blindfolded and hog-tied as you were,” he says. “You’ve more than earned a spot at this table. The least I can do is offer you a seat.”

I don’t have a clue what “table” or “seat” Cunningham is talking about. I’m about to ask when we round a corner.

I see a uniformed officer standing outside the door of the firstfloor briefing room.

The same room where the department’s Use of Force Review Board hung me out to dry on my last day as a cop.

Seeing us approaching, the officer nods at Cunningham and opens the door.

Inside, the mood is somber. Tense. Like a wake without a casket.

Dozens of law enforcement officials of every stripe are milling around the spacious auditorium, making worried small talk.

A number of them are NOPD bigwigs. Like Superintendent Robert Fontaine, the white-mustachioed head of the entire force. I also recognize a couple deputy superintendents, whose departments include the bomb squad, the K9 unit, and the NOPD’s tactical platoons—a.k.a., New Orleans SWAT.

I see plenty of folks I don’t recognize, too. Some are in suits. Some wear black blazers with “New Orleans Fire Department” patches on the shoulder. Others are dressed in Louisiana State Police and Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Office uniforms.

I slowly begin to realize what I’ve just walked into.

A high-level, inter-agency, emergency security briefing.

“Is this some kind of goddamn joke?” a familiar voice cries out.

Agent Morgan—jacket off, sleeves rolled up, tie loose—is standing on stage beside a giant map of the city. He’s glaring at me, his jaw halfway to his knees.

“Your pathetic investigation is the goddamn joke,” I fire back.

“Enough!” Cunningham yells. “Jesus Christ, let’s everybody cut the schoolyard shit and focus, all right?”

I take a seat and settle in—for the most unsettling ninety minutes of my life.

Agent Morgan glares at me one more time, and then his team proceed to walk us through, in meticulous detail, how the FBI plans to protect the roughly one million people expected to fill the streets for the day-long, city-wide extravaganza.

Morgan is doing his best to project a sense of calm and confidence. But it’s obvious that Cunningham was right.

The feds are clueless. And scared shitless. Just like the rest of us.