Inside the sedan, Sloan ran through a mental checklist. It hadn’t been taught to her at the FBI Academy in Quantico. It had been taught to her by her father when she was sixteen years old. A set of rules built for Black drivers navigating encounters with police.
Engine off. Keys on the dashboard. Windows rolled all the way down. Hands placed firmly on the wheel. She knew the statistics. She knew exactly how fast a routine stop on an empty road could turn into a headline.
Her badge, locked inside the breast pocket of the jacket draped over the passenger seat, was a shield in federal court. Out here, in the dust and the heat, she was simply a Black woman alone in a car.
“Afternoon,” Sloan said, her voice even, calm, stripped of emotion, as Haynes leaned his mirrored sunglasses into her open window. “License, registration, proof of insurance,” Haynes demanded. No greeting. No explanation for the stop. Just a sharp, barking order meant to establish dominance before a single word of conversation had passed between them.
“I can get those for you, officer,” Sloan said, keeping her hands on the wheel. “My wallet is in the inside pocket of the jacket on the passenger seat. I’m going to reach for it now.” “I didn’t ask for a narration,” Haynes snapped, his jaw tightening. “Just get the license.”
Sloan turned her head slowly. She kept every movement deliberate and visible. She unzipped the inner pocket of her dark jacket and pulled out her leather wallet. She deliberately left her FBI credentials tucked away.
There was an unwritten rule among federal agents. Never flash a badge at local police unless it was absolutely necessary. It was seen as arrogant. She only wanted to hand over her civilian license, take whatever imaginary ticket Haynes had invented, and go home to her bed.
She passed her Arizona driver’s license through the window. Haynes snatched it from her fingers, glancing between the plastic card and her face, his lips curling into a sneer. “Sloan Jenkins,” he read aloud, stretching her name out as if testing it for a lie. “You know why I pulled you over, Sloan?”
“I don’t, officer. My cruise control was set to the speed limit.” “You swerved.” Haynes lied without blinking. “Crossed the yellow line back there about two miles ago. You drinking? Smoking something?”
A flare of cold anger rose in Sloan’s chest, but her breathing stayed steady. “No, officer. I’m completely sober. I’m just trying to get home.” “Step out of the vehicle,” Haynes commanded. Sloan froze. “Excuse me?”
“Are you deaf? I said, step out of the vehicle.” Haynes leaned back, his hand wrapping fully around the grip of his holstered gun. “Officer,” Sloan said, her voice dropping into the low authoritative tone she usually reserved for interrogation rooms. “I have not committed a moving violation. There is no probable cause to order me out of my vehicle during a routine traffic stop. Write the citation. I will be on my way.”