"Rimshot made the call at 8:00 a.m. Agents on the way."
Specter nodded once, satisfied.
Luther looked at the parking lot, at the news vans, at the reporter with the camera.
"We stay," he said, "until the FBI arrives, until Preston's in custody, until we know for certain this is real."
Nobody argued.
They just stood there.
200 bikers watching the building, waiting for justice to catch up.
Between 9:47 a.m. and 11:30 a.m., three people walked into the county building.
Not together. One at a time.
Each looking for the bikers they'd seen on the news.
The first was Dorothy Crane, 71 years old, retired school nurse, had lived on Maple Street for 43 years, the same street where Emmett's mother used to live before the eviction.
She found Specter near the entrance.
"I need to tell someone," she said, voice shaking, "about what I saw."
Specter led her to a quiet corner, pulled out his phone, hit record.
"Tell me," he said gently.
Dorothy's hands twisted in her lap.
"I saw the Holloway boy the week of their eviction. He was outside their building, just sitting on the steps, staring at nothing. I knew something was wrong. I'd taught his mother in elementary school 30 years ago. Sweet girl. Didn't deserve what happened."
"What did you see?" Specter asked.
"I saw him there three times. Once on Tuesday morning when the eviction notice went up. Once on Thursday when the movers came. Once on Saturday when the locks were changed. Each time he looked smaller, like he was disappearing."
Her voice broke.
"I filed an inquiry with the school district, asked if anyone was checking on him, called twice. Nobody answered. Nobody called back."
"Why didn't you do more?"
Dorothy looked at him with red-rimmed eyes.
"Because I convinced myself someone else would handle it. That the school would notice. That family services would intervene. That I was overreacting."
Her hands were shaking now.
"I knew something was wrong. I just... I didn't want to be the one who made it worse. And now I know he spent 3 weeks on the street. 3 weeks."
She couldn't finish.
Specter stopped recording, handed her his card.
"What you just told me, that's evidence. The pattern of displacement, the lack of follow-up. You're a witness now, not a bystander. A witness."
She took the card with trembling fingers.
The second witness was Raymond Stokes, 56, former county housing intake coordinator, had resigned in 2021 after 3 years processing wait list corrections under Preston's direction.
He found Luther in the parking lot.
"I worked for him," Raymond said.
No preamble.
"Preston. I processed the corrections. Not all of them, but enough."
"How many?" Luther asked.
"11. Over 3 years. Each time he'd bring me a file, tell me there was a data entry error that needed correcting. Tell me to move the position back in the queue. I'd ask why. He'd say procedural compliance, eligibility discrepancy, administrative review."
Raymond's jaw was tight.
"The first few times I believed him. Then I started noticing the pattern. The families he corrected were always in corridors scheduled for development. Always right before acquisition deals closed. Always displaced within weeks."
"What did you do?"
"I asked questions. He told me I was overthinking it. That the timing was coincidence. That I should focus on my job and let him handle policy decisions."
Raymond looked at the ground.
"Then one day he brought me a file, told me to sign off on a correction. I looked at the file. It was a single mother with two kids, stage four cancer. They'd been waiting 19 months. I said no, I wouldn't sign it."
"What happened?"
"He told me to take a week to think about it. Told me my job performance was being reviewed. Told me there were budget cuts coming and I should consider whether I wanted to be seen as a team player."
Raymond's voice went flat.
"I resigned 2 weeks later. Personal reasons. That's what I told everyone. But the real reason was I couldn't look at myself in the mirror anymore, knowing what I was helping him do."
Luther held his gaze.
"You ready to say that on the record?"
"I've been ready for 3 years," Raymond said. "I just didn't know who to tell."
At 11:34 a.m., a dark sedan pulled into the lot.