“Step away from the vehicle.”
Samuel Owens looked through the open driver’s door at the police officer standing three feet away.
“Officer, I own this car. My registration is in the glove compartment. I can show you.”
Officer Derek Holloway’s expression barely changed.
“You own it?”
“Yes.”
Derek gave a short laugh that contained no amusement.
“A Black man sitting in a sixty-thousand-dollar Lexus in Westbrook Plaza, and you expect me to believe you just happen to own it?”
Several people had begun watching.
Sam noticed them before he noticed how close Derek’s hand had moved toward his holster.
A teenager near the grocery entrance held up her phone.
A middle-aged man in a business suit slowed to watch.
A couple pushing a full cart stopped beside a row of parked cars.
Nobody knew why the officer had approached Sam.
That did not stop anyone from deciding which man looked suspicious.
Sam kept both hands visible.
“Officer, run the registration.”
“I already did.”
“Then you know it belongs to Samuel J. Owens.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed.
“You carrying fake documents too?”
Sam stared at him.
“No.”
“I’ve seen it before.”
“I’m sure you have.”
That answer irritated Derek.
“Hands on the car.”
Sam complied.
He turned slowly and placed both palms against the hood of his Lexus.
The metal was still warm from the drive.
Derek stepped behind him.
Sam felt the officer’s hand at the back of his collar.
“Sir, there’s no reason to—”
Derek jerked him backward.
“Stop resisting.”
“I’m not resisting.”
“Then quit moving.”
“I wasn’t moving.”