He waited ten minutes in the cold room, with only his legal pad in his hand. He looked at the suspect’s jacket. Jerome Miller was a 22-year-old black man. He’d had two prior drug cases—nothing substantial. Pratt figured he was a petty criminal and he knew that Miller might want to save his own ass once he knew the case was going federal. Cooperating with the feds in this case might save the young man seven years. Miller walked in a tad shorter than the 5'6" height indicated on his arrest record. The Mecklenburg County jumpsuit swallowed his thin frame. Pratt offered his hand. Miller didn’t shake it. He sat down across from Pratt. “Yeah, who are you?” Pratt pulled out his DEA badge. “I’m with the DEA.” “Okay. What do you want with me?” “Your case is going federal.” Squirt looked surprised. “Nine ounces is going federal? What, are you crazy?” “You had a gun and the ATF will be seeking an indictment.” “Come on, man. Are you serious?” Squirt cracked his knuckles.
