“Gallagher, you smell that?”
Sergeant Craig Hollister leaned toward the open driver’s window of the dark blue Chevrolet Tahoe and smiled.
Deputy Trent Gallagher stood several feet behind him, one hand resting near his duty belt.
Hollister looked back at his younger partner.
“Government air freshener and borrowed money.”
Gallagher did not laugh.
The Black man behind the wheel kept both hands resting on top of the steering wheel where they could be seen.
His name was Byron Davis.
He was fifty-two years old.
Gray had begun spreading along both temples, but otherwise he looked younger. Lean. Calm. Polo shirt. Khaki trousers. Brown loafers. No jewelry except a wedding ring and an inexpensive stainless-steel watch he had owned for almost fifteen years.
Nothing about him announced power.
That was exactly how he wanted it.
Hollister tapped Byron’s license against the roof of the Tahoe.
“So let me understand this.”
Byron looked at him.
“You say you work for the federal government.”
“Yes.”
“What do you do?”
“I work for the Department of Justice.”
Hollister gave a short laugh.
“Doing what?”
Byron hesitated.
Not because he was afraid.
Because he was deciding how much information should be necessary during a traffic stop that had begun over one mile per hour.
“I’ve recently accepted a leadership position.”
“A leadership position.”
Hollister repeated the phrase as if Byron had told him he commanded a space station.
“Yes.”
Hollister looked at Gallagher.
“You hear that?”
Gallagher stared at the highway.
“Sergeant.”
“Director of something, maybe?”
Byron said nothing.
Hollister leaned closer.
“You people always have some story.”
The temperature outside was ninety-three degrees.
Heat shimmered over the asphalt behind him.
Byron smelled dust, hot rubber, and the faint odor of Hollister’s chewing tobacco.
He had spent twenty-six years investigating people who abused authority.
He recognized the moment when a conversation stopped being about facts.
“Officer,” Byron said, “you have my license, registration, and insurance. The vehicle registration confirms this Tahoe belongs to a federal fleet. I’d like to know the reason for the continued detention.”
Hollister’s smile vanished.
“You were speeding.”
“One mile per hour.”
“Speeding is speeding.”
“Then issue the citation.”
The words were respectful.
The tone was not submissive enough.
Hollister’s eyes narrowed.
“Step out of the vehicle.”
Gallagher looked toward him.
Byron did not move immediately.
“For what purpose?”
Hollister opened the door himself.
“The purpose where I told you to get out.”
Byron slowly unbuckled his seat belt.
“All right.”
He stepped onto the shoulder.
Cars passed at seventy miles an hour, pushing hot air and gravel dust around them.
Hollister pointed.
“Hands on the hood.”
Byron complied.
Gallagher approached.
“Sir, I’m going to pat you down for weapons.”
Byron glanced at him.
“I am not armed.”
“I understand.”
Gallagher’s voice was different from Hollister’s.
Uncomfortable.
Almost apologetic.
He conducted the pat-down.
Nothing.
Wallet.
Phone.
Keys.
No weapon.
Hollister looked inside the Tahoe.
“You traveling alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where from?”
“I had meetings in Richmond.”
“Going?”
“Washington.”
“What kind of meetings?”
“Work.”
Hollister clicked his tongue.
“You’re not very cooperative.”
“I have answered your questions.”
“Not all of them.”
“You have not explained why additional questions are related to a one-mile-per-hour speeding stop.”
Gallagher looked down.
He knew enough law to know the driver had a point.
Hollister knew too.
He simply did not care.
He walked toward the passenger side.
Byron straightened.
“I do not consent to a search of the vehicle.”
Hollister opened the passenger door anyway.
“Noted.”