“No.”
“Anything illegal in the van?”
“No.”
“Weapons?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Cash?”
“No.”
Barlow nodded slowly.
“Mind if I look?”
George paused.
He had learned over the years that the phrase mind if I look could be deceptively simple.
Consent had edges.
People did not always respect them once granted.
“You may visually inspect the cargo area,” George said. “You may not open customer packages or the secured federal compartment.”
Barlow stepped into the van without acknowledging the limitation.
He picked up a small shipping box.
Read the label.
Set it down.
Then another.
George stood near the rear bumper watching.
Across the street, a curtain moved.
A woman appeared in a window.
George saw her.
So did Barlow.
The officer continued.
He opened an empty plastic tote.
Looked beneath a packing blanket.
Checked the side shelf.
Then returned to the secured compartment.
“What happens if I remove this strap?”
George’s voice sharpened slightly.
“Please don’t.”
Barlow looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because the seal must remain in documented custody.”
“I’m not talking about the envelope.”
“The compartment is logged as secured during transit.”
“Logged by who?”
“My company’s tracking system.”
Barlow smiled faintly.
“You’ve got an answer for everything.”
George said nothing.
That silence irritated him more than an argument would have.
Outside the van, a sprinkler switched direction.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Water flashed in the sunlight.
Across the street, the woman came outside.
She appeared to be in her sixties, wearing a blue housecoat and holding a ceramic coffee mug.
She leaned against the porch rail.
Watched.
Two houses farther up, a man in running clothes stepped into his driveway.
Earbuds hung around his neck.
His phone was in his hand.
George noticed him too.
Barlow stepped out of the van.
“What’s your name again?”
“George Adams.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifty-one.”
“You ever been arrested?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Barlow studied him.
George felt a familiar irritation settling beneath his calm.
He did not fear police.
He had dealt with many officers over fourteen years of deliveries.
Most interactions lasted seconds.
A blocked street.
A signature at a station.
A traffic accident.
Once, an officer had helped him lift a fallen refrigerator box.
But George also knew the difference between a question asked to understand and a question asked to justify a conclusion already reached.
Barlow had stopped investigating the situation.
He was now investigating George.
“Federal courier clearance,” Barlow said.
“Yes.”
“You know what that sounds like?”
George waited.
“Something somebody says when they want police to stop asking questions.”
George looked at him.
“That may be how it sounds to you.”
Barlow’s jaw tightened.
“You getting smart?”
“No, sir.”
“You think I don’t know when somebody’s hiding something?”
“I think I’ve offered you a direct phone number that can verify everything in four minutes.”
Barlow looked toward the neighbor with the phone.
The man was recording now.
There was no mistaking it.
The woman on the porch had put her coffee down.
A teenager on a bicycle had stopped at the end of the block.
The street was slowly becoming an audience.
That changed Barlow.
Not toward restraint.
Toward performance.
He straightened his shoulders.