Two car lengths behind him.
Derek checked his speed.
Thirty-eight miles per hour.
Posted limit: forty.
He checked his mirrors.
No obvious equipment problem.
Seat belt fastened.
Registration current.
Inspection valid.
He kept driving.
The cruiser remained behind him.
One block.
Two.
Three.
Derek felt the familiar tightening in his chest.
This would be his third traffic stop in six months.
The previous two had ended with no citation.
One officer had claimed Derek rolled through a stop sign.
The second said he was checking vehicles because of recent break-ins.
Both times Derek had been asked where he was going.
Where he lived.
What he did.
Why he was driving that particular vehicle.
Neither encounter became serious enough for a complaint.
That did not mean Derek forgot them.
At 9:19, the lights came on.
Derek exhaled.
“Of course.”
He activated his turn signal and looked for somewhere safe to stop.
Rather than pulling onto the dark shoulder, he continued approximately two hundred yards to a brightly illuminated gas station.
He turned into the lot and stopped near the edge of the property, away from the pumps.
Engine off.
Interior light on.
Window lowered halfway.
Hands on the steering wheel.
He waited.
The patrol cruiser stopped behind him at an angle.
Its headlights filled Derek’s rearview mirror.
Nobody emerged.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then a minute.
Then two.
Derek knew what the officer was likely doing.
Running the plate.
Checking registration.
Checking warrants.
Maybe reading previous contacts attached to the vehicle owner.
Ordinary things.
Yet after three minutes, Derek began wondering what could possibly be taking so long.
Finally, the driver’s door opened.
Officer Victor McMillan stepped out.
He was forty-one years old and had served twelve years in law enforcement.
He had the physical confidence of someone accustomed to controlling interactions: broad stance, clipped movements, chin slightly elevated.
The flashlight came on before he reached the Audi.
The beam hit Derek directly in the face.
Derek squinted.
McMillan swept the light through the vehicle.
Passenger seat.
Center console.
Rear seats.
Floorboards.
Then Derek again.
“License and registration.”
No greeting.
No explanation.
Derek kept his tone neutral.
“Absolutely. May I ask why you stopped me?”
“License and registration first.”
Derek had been in enough roadside encounters professionally to understand how quickly a movement could be misinterpreted.
“I’m reaching toward the glove compartment for my registration and insurance.”
McMillan said nothing.
Derek moved slowly.
He retrieved the documents and placed them in his left hand.
“My wallet is in my right rear pocket. I’m going to reach for it.”
McMillan’s flashlight remained trained on him.
“Go ahead.”
Derek retrieved the wallet.
He handed over his driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance.
McMillan looked at the license.
Then at Derek.