“I’m going inside,” she said.
She turned.
“I didn’t say you could go.”
Imani stopped.
She faced him again. “Am I being detained?”
“You’re being questioned.”
“That was not my question. Am I legally detained?”
His expression hardened.
“I smell marijuana coming from your vehicle.”
The accusation was so abrupt that for one second she thought she had misheard him.
“No, you do not.”
“Excuse me?”
“There is no marijuana in my car, on my property, or anywhere around me.”
“So you’re calling me a liar?”
“I’m telling you the statement is false.”
“Open the vehicle.”
“I do not consent to a search.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then you’re hiding something.”
“I am exercising a constitutional right.”
Tom Carter, who lived directly across the street, stepped onto his porch while holding his phone. He had been heading outside to retrieve a package when he noticed the police cruiser blocking the Richardson driveway. Tom was a high school history teacher, fifty-three years old, and the sort of neighbor who noticed when garbage collection came a day late but generally tried not to interfere in other people’s business.
This looked like the kind of business that needed witnesses.
He opened his camera.
Across the street, Imani saw the motion.
Hutchkins did not.
“Hands behind your back,” he said.
Imani’s stomach dropped.
“For what?”
“Obstruction.”
“What have I obstructed?”
“Turn around.”
“I want an attorney.”
“You can call one at the station.”
“Officer, there has been no crime.”
He reached for her arm.
Imani recoiled on instinct.
His fingers closed hard around her upper arm.
“There it is,” he said. “Resisting.”
“I am not resisting. You grabbed me.”
He pulled her toward the car.
Her shoulder struck the driver-side door with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs.
“Hands on the hood.”
She placed both palms on the warm metal.
Her keys remained trapped in her left fist.