I'm asking whether you're certain you want to do this in front of these witnesses." The officer glanced briefly at the sidewalk, at Caleb's phone, at Regina, and at the neighbors gathering across the street. For an instant he looked less certain.
Then Bellamy spoke. "Don't let him talk you out of it, Mason. He's trying to run the stop." The uncertainty vanished from Mason's face. He lifted his chin.
"On your knees, or we do this the hard way." Francis heard Regina gasp. He understood that pride, once invested in a public display, could be more dangerous than anger because retreat began to look like humiliation. Mason was no longer deciding how to conduct a lawful inquiry. He was deciding how not to lose face.
Francis took one careful breath. His credentials were in a leather case in his back pocket, where he had carried them almost every day for twelve years. He had intentionally avoided reaching for them. He wanted the officers to apply the law properly without needing to learn he was a federal agent. But with an armed taser pointed at his chest and Regina watching helplessly, principle was no longer the only consideration. His safety mattered, as did hers.
"Officer Mason," he said, "I have identification in my back pocket. I'd like to show it to you, but I will not move until you understand exactly what I'm doing." Mason's eyes hardened. "Don't reach." Francis kept both hands visible.
"I'm asking permission to retrieve my identification slowly. If you don't want me to, tell me where to stand and how you want to proceed." Grayson shifted toward Mason and spoke quietly, suggesting that they slow things down. Mason ignored him.
Francis repeated that he had a credential case, not a weapon. Bellamy looked irritated, but Puren finally spoke from near the cruiser. "Mason, let him identify himself. We can verify it through dispatch."
His voice was measured and unexpectedly firm. The silence that followed made it clear that the other officers were not accustomed to hearing Puren challenge anyone senior to him. Mason looked from Francis to Puren, then back. "Slowly," he snapped.
Francis moved with deliberate care. One hand remained visible while the other reached toward the leather case. He drew it out without turning his body, held it at a safe distance, and opened it so the gold shield and identification were visible. Morning sunlight flashed across the badge.
He did not raise his voice. "Francis Willard. Special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. You may verify my credentials through dispatch."