And then I want to know why your truck is parked six inches over the white line." Zeke sighed. He looked at the cherry pie Beverly had just set down on the counter, steaming and untouched. He knew how this went.
He could quote the statutes. He could assert his Fourth Amendment rights, but right now, in this diner, the law was whatever Royce Dalton said it was. "I'm reaching for my wallet." Zeke narrated calmly, moving his hand slowly toward his back pocket.
"Easy!" Carver shouted, his hand flying to his holster. "Watch his hands, Sarge." Zeke froze.
He looked at the young officer, seeing the panic in his eyes. That was dangerous. A bully like Dalton was predictable. A scared kid like Carver was a trigger waiting to be pulled.
"My hands are plain to see," Zeke said, his voice dropping an octave, taking on the command tone he had used to lead platoons.
"I am going to slowly remove my wallet and place it on the table. Nobody needs to get excited." Dalton glared at him, annoyed that his attempt to provoke fear had failed. "Do it slowly."
Zeke pulled out the slim leather wallet and set it down. Dalton snatched it up, flipping it open. He pulled out the driver's license, squinting at it.
"Isaiah Washington. Washington, D.C. address. You a politician, Isaiah?" "No."
"You got a record?" "No." Dalton tossed the license onto the table, but it slid off the edge and landed on the dirty floor. He didn't apologize.
He grinned.
"Pick it up." The diner was dead silent. Beverly was clutching a dish rag to her chest, her eyes wide with fear. Zeke looked at the license on the floor, then back at Dalton.
This was the test. The humiliation ritual.
If he picked it up, he submitted. If he refused, he escalated. "I think you dropped that, Sergeant," Zeke said softly. Dalton's face went red.
The vein in his neck pulsed.
"I gave you a lawful order. Pick it up." "I don't see how that's a lawful order related to a traffic investigation," Zeke said. "But if it makes you feel like a big man, sure."
Zeke bent down slowly. As he did, Dalton kicked the license across the room under the counter. "Oops." Dalton laughed.
"Clumsy me. Go get it." Zeke straightened up. The air in the booth changed.
The tired gardener facade evaporated. Zeke stood up, unfolding to his full height of 6'2.
He was leaner than Dalton. But he held himself with a density. A coiled power that the fat sergeant lacked. "I'm done eating," Zeke said.
"I'm going to pay my bill and I'm going to leave." "You're not going anywhere until I say you are." Dalton stepped into Zeke's path, chest bumping him.
"We're going to search that truck. I smell narcotics on you." "You smell cherry pie and Old Spice," Zeke said. "You don't have probable cause."
"I have a K9 unit coming that says I do," Dalton hissed. "And until that dog gets here, you're detained. Put your hands behind your back."
The handcuffs ratcheted tight, too tight. Sergeant Dalton made sure of that, wrenching Zeke's arms up at an unnatural angle as he shoved him against the counter. The cold laminate bit into Zeke's cheek. "Stop resisting!"