The afternoon heat struck the passenger window when Byron lowered it, and the sound of traffic intensified immediately. He switched off the engine, placed his license and insurance documents on his lap, and rested his hands on the steering wheel. He had done this before in towns where a Black driver attracted more attention than his speed. Experience had taught him that the safest way through an encounter was often to remove every excuse for a misunderstanding, even when doing so felt like accepting an insult.
Behind him, Hollister remained inside his cruiser for nearly a minute. He checked a display showing seventy-one miles per hour in a seventy-mile zone, then looked again at the Tahoe's government plate. Gallagher sat in the passenger seat, expecting a brief warning and a quick return to the median. Instead, Hollister said, "Let's see what this fellow's carrying." The words made Gallagher turn toward him, but Hollister had already opened his door.
He stepped onto the gravel with a deliberate slowness that was part of his routine. Before reaching the driver, he tapped the Tahoe's taillight with two knuckles and adjusted his sunglasses. Byron watched him approach through the side mirror and noticed that his right hand rested near his belt. Nothing about the gesture proved an intention, but it told Byron that the sergeant wanted the balance of power understood before a word was spoken.
"Good afternoon, officer," Byron said. Hollister looked into the vehicle without answering and demanded a license, registration, and insurance. He took the documents, glanced at the photograph, and asked where Byron was coming from and where he was headed. When Byron explained that he was returning to Washington after official business farther south, Hollister repeated the words "official business" with unmistakable disbelief.
"What kind of business puts a man like you in a truck like this?" he asked. Byron answered that the vehicle had been assigned to his office and that the registration would confirm it. Hollister studied the license long enough to make the pause uncomfortable, then walked back to the cruiser. Gallagher heard him mutter something about people enjoying government benefits while pretending to have government jobs.
The computer record appeared without difficulty. Federal fleet, United States Department of Justice, active registration, no theft reports, and no warrant associated with the vehicle or its driver. Gallagher read the screen over Hollister's shoulder and felt a flicker of relief. A federal vehicle carrying a properly licensed driver ought to have made this stop unusually simple.
Hollister remained silent long enough that Gallagher finally asked, "Are we letting him go?" The sergeant's mouth tightened. "He was speeding. We can ask questions about speeding." Gallagher looked at the number on the radar display again and wondered why a one-mile-per-hour discrepancy was suddenly important enough to justify the trouble Hollister seemed determined to create.
At the Tahoe's window, the sergeant leaned one arm against the roof. "Says here this belongs to the Justice Department. That's your story?" Byron nodded and offered an official identification card along with the license he had already provided. Hollister looked at the card without taking it, then laughed and asked whether Byron had printed it himself.