Now he was experiencing it personally.
“If you want the credentials,” James said, “I will retrieve them slowly after you tell me I’m permitted to reach inside.”
Cross’s radio hissed faintly.
He ignored it.
“Slowly.”
James turned.
He narrated every movement.
“I am opening the driver’s door.”
The door opened.
“My left hand is on top of the door frame.”
Cross shifted for a better angle.
“My right hand is moving toward the center console.”
“Slow.”
“It is slow.”
James opened the console.
He removed a dark leather credential wallet.
Then he turned back and opened it.
His Department of Justice identification was displayed inside.
His photograph.
Name.
Title.
Agency markings.
Official security features.
James held it at chest height.
“James Mitchell. Assistant United States Attorney. Northern District of Georgia.”
Cross stared.
James watched recognition fail to happen.
Not because the credentials were unclear.
Because accepting them would require Cross to admit that the person he had already categorized as suspicious was something else entirely.
Cross took the credentials.
He looked at the photograph.
Then at James.
Back at the identification.
“Could be fake.”
James went completely silent.
That sentence changed the encounter.
Until then, some part of James had still treated this as poor policing.
Sloppy.
Biased.
Escalating.
But potentially correctable.
The credentials were an opportunity for Cross to reset.
To verify.
To say, “All right, give me a moment.”
Instead, Cross chose another theory.
James was not merely suspicious anymore.
He was possibly someone carrying forged federal credentials.
“Officer Cross.”
James had read his nameplate.
Cross looked up.
“You now have government identification in your hand.”
“Alleged government identification.”
“You can verify it.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
James folded his arms carefully.
“Call the Department of Justice.”
Cross’s face hardened again.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Then verify it however your procedures require.”
Cross placed the credentials on the BMW’s hood.
“Step away from the car.”
“I already am.”
“Further.”
James stepped back.
“Anything else?”
“Turn around.”
James stared.
“Why?”
“I’m controlling the scene.”
“You are escalating a scene you created.”
Cross touched his microphone.
“Dispatch, start another unit.”
James looked directly at Cross’s body camera.
“Officer Nathan Cross, I want the record clear. I am standing beside my own registered vehicle in a grocery-store parking lot. I have told you I own the vehicle. I have offered the receipt. I have provided Department of Justice credentials identifying me as a federal prosecutor. You are continuing to detain me without telling me what objective conduct you personally observed connecting me to any crime.”
Cross’s cheeks reddened.
“You want to put on a show?”
“No.”
James gestured toward the camera.
“I want an accurate record.”