“Yes.”
“For officer safety?”
“For my investigation.”
“What investigation?”
McMillan leaned closer.
“I smell marijuana.”
Derek almost laughed.
Instead, he became very still.
The Audi had never had marijuana inside it.
Derek did not use it.
Renee did not use it.
There was no reason for the car to smell like it.
“Officer McMillan,” Derek said after reading the nameplate, “there is no marijuana in this vehicle.”
“I know what I smell.”
“What you smell doesn’t explain why you initiated the stop several minutes before you approached the window.”
McMillan’s expression changed.
That had landed.
Derek continued.
“If the alleged odor happened after the stop began, it cannot retroactively explain why you stopped me.”
McMillan straightened.
“You trying to tell me how to do police work?”
“I’m telling you I understand how traffic stops are reviewed.”
“So now you’re a lawyer?”
“No.”
Derek paused.
“I’m a federal law-enforcement officer.”
McMillan gave a short laugh.
“Sure.”
“DEA.”
“Right.”
“I’m asking you to verify it.”
McMillan ignored that.
“Step out.”
Derek’s voice remained calm.
“I will comply with a lawful safety instruction. I am also making clear for your camera that I dispute the basis for this detention.”
“The smell is the basis.”
“The smell you claim you detected after stopping me.”
“You’re in possession of drugs.”
“What evidence supports that statement?”
“The odor.”
“There is no odor.”
McMillan’s hand moved toward his belt.
“Buddy, I won’t ask you again.”
Derek looked at him.
“I will step out if you’re ordering me to. Before I move, I’m telling you I have federal credentials in my inside jacket pocket, and I do not want you mistaking me reaching for them as a threat.”
McMillan scoffed.
“Yeah, okay. I’m done playing games.”
“I’m not playing a game.”
“Get out. You’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
“Possession of a controlled substance and obstruction.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed.
“What controlled substance?”
McMillan did not answer.
Derek said slowly, “I’m going to retrieve my credentials.”
“Hands where I can see them.”
“They are.”
Derek moved his right hand toward his jacket.
Slowly.
Two fingers.
Then the credential wallet came out.
He opened it.
Federal badge.
Photographic identification.
Agency markings.
Employee number.
Derek held it toward the window without sudden movement.
“Special Agent Derek Johnson. Drug Enforcement Administration, Dallas Field Division.”
McMillan snatched the wallet from his hand.
Derek said nothing.
That became important later.
The body camera captured McMillan examining the identification beneath his flashlight.
The angle was clear enough to show the badge.
Clear enough to show the photograph.
Clear enough to capture McMillan’s face as certainty disappeared.
He rotated the credential wallet.
Once.
Twice.
Then looked at Derek again.