“The warrants are federal,” he added.

“There will be no bail.”

A third deputy moved behind Patricia.

She did not resist as he brought her wrists together.

The metallic click of the handcuffs sounded incredibly loud in the damp air.

Behind them, the massive double doors of the mansion remained open.

Three more family members stood in the grand foyer.

Grant’s uncle, Richard, was clutching a leather briefcase.

His wife and daughter stood behind him, wrapped in expensive wool coats.

A marshal stepped past the threshold and pointed toward the driveway.

“Everyone out of the house,” the marshal said.

“This property is now a federal crime scene,” he added.

“You can’t do this,” Richard said, his voice cracking.

“This is our private residence,” he argued.

“Not anymore,” the marshal replied.

The deputy escorted Richard down the steps.

Richard’s wife gasped as the cold rain hit her face.

They had no umbrellas.

They had no bags.

The marshals pushed them gently but firmly toward the curb.

They stood on the wet asphalt of the public street, shivering in the gray light.

Their phones had already been confiscated.