Crawford frowned. He looked from the computer screen to the men beside his car and then toward the rented Nissan. Instead of recognizing that he had no reasonable basis to prolong the encounter, he seemed to treat the lack of incriminating information as a personal challenge.
"Check the vehicle," he said.
Brennan glanced at him. "You want me to ask permission?"
"I gave you an instruction."
Malcolm turned his head. "I do not consent to a search of that vehicle."
"Noted," Crawford said.
The word would later appear in court transcripts, not because it had any legal effect in itself but because it made clear that Malcolm's refusal had been heard. Brennan walked toward the Nissan, used the keys Crawford had taken, and opened the driver's door. He looked beneath the front seats, through the glove compartment, and behind the sun visors, then began checking the rear seating area.
He moved slowly, as if delay might give him time to think of a way out. In the training academy, he had learned that a nonconsensual search required a valid legal basis and that a routine inquiry into unfamiliar diners did not supply one. He remembered the lesson. He remembered the test question on which he had answered correctly, and then he continued searching because Crawford was watching.
Inside the diner, Frank Tiller had moved to the window. He could see Brennan reaching inside the rental car, Crawford beside the cruiser, and the two Black men standing with their hands pressed to the hood. He thought about the time his own truck had broken down near another county and a deputy had helped him find a mechanic. Nobody had searched his trailer or asked why he was traveling. The difference bothered him, but not enough to make him open the door.
Loretta stood beside him. "This isn't right," she whispered.
Frank turned. "Then tell him."
Loretta said nothing. The fact that Frank did not go outside either passed between them without acknowledgment. They watched as Brennan opened the trunk.
The trunk held a garment bag, a folded travel blanket, and a black leather briefcase secured with a simple latch. Beside it sat a small cardboard box containing freshly printed business cards. Brennan pulled the briefcase out and set it on the edge of the trunk, checking Crawford's face before he opened it.
"Bring it here," Crawford ordered.
Brennan carried the case across the gravel. Crawford unclipped the latch with unnecessary force. Inside were neatly arranged folders, an agenda for Malcolm's first weeks in office, a copy of a public ethics memorandum, notes for a speech, and the leather notebook Malcolm had carried through years of hearings and trials. The embossed Department of Justice seal on one cover was unmistakable.
"What the hell's all this?" Crawford asked.
"Professional documents," Malcolm answered. "They belong to me."
"Professional, huh? What are you, a paralegal?"
Malcolm said nothing.
"Law student? Internet lawyer?"
Brennan made a short, nervous laugh. It died when Malcolm looked at him, not with fury, but with a quiet disappointment that made Brennan turn away. He knew enough to understand that the folders were probably real; he also knew the man wearing the uniform beside him did not want to discover that possibility.