“Maybe you should have spent it earning money you could explain.”
Byron looked at him for a long moment.
Then said:
“You are going to regret this stop.”
The sentence came quietly.
Hollister’s hand went immediately toward his belt.
“What did you say?”
Byron did not move.
“You heard me.”
“Was that a threat?”
“No.”
Hollister stepped within inches of him.
“Say it again.”
Byron held his gaze.
“You are going to regret this.”
Gallagher looked between them.
Hollister smiled again.
“Get on the ground.”
Byron frowned.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I am not under arrest.”
“Sit down.”
“There is a guardrail three feet away.”
“I said the ground.”
Hot gravel covered the shoulder.
Cars roared past.
Byron looked at Gallagher.
The deputy said nothing.
So Byron sat.
At fifty-two years old, with a Georgetown law degree, twenty-six years in federal service, and a Senate confirmation vote still fresh enough to be on every major news site, Byron Davis sat on hot roadside gravel because a county sergeant with a badge told him to.
Hollister stood over him.
Then took out his phone.
Byron heard him call someone.
“Yeah.”
Pause.
“Another one.”
Hollister looked at the evidence bag.
“Two grand.”
He laughed.
“Easy afternoon.”
Byron lowered his eyes.
Gallagher stood beside the Tahoe.
His face had become tight.
The word another stayed with Byron.
Another one.
Not first.
Not unusual.
Another.
His phone began buzzing on the hood of the Tahoe.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then again.
Hollister glanced at it.
“Popular guy.”
Byron looked up.
“You should let me answer.”
“You’ll survive.”
“It may concern federal security.”
Hollister laughed.
“Federal security.”
He shook his head.
“Man, you really committed to this story.”
Gallagher looked toward the plate on the Tahoe.
Government fleet.
He had already seen the registration return.
So had Hollister.
That was the part Gallagher could never explain later.
They knew the vehicle was federal.
They simply chose to believe Byron was not important enough for that fact to matter.
Twenty-three minutes after the traffic stop began, Hollister issued a citation for seventy-one in a seventy-mile-per-hour zone.
He handed Byron the paper.
Then pointed at the Tahoe.
“You can go.”
Byron stood slowly.
Gravel had pressed small marks into his palms where he had used the ground to push himself up.
Hollister leaned toward him.
“Next time, don’t carry money around you can’t explain.”
Byron stared at him.
“I explained it.”
Hollister shrugged.
“County will decide.”
Then he walked back to the cruiser.
Gallagher paused beside Byron.
For half a second it looked as though he might say something.
Apologize.
Explain.
Anything.
Instead he followed Hollister.
Their cruiser pulled back onto the highway.
Byron remained beside the Tahoe.
He watched the car disappear.
Then he opened his driver’s door.
Sat inside.
Closed it.
The air-conditioning had been running, but the interior still felt warm.
His phone showed eleven missed calls.
Three from his wife, Sharon.
Four from his transition office.
Two from an FBI security coordinator.