Calvin noticed the patrol cruiser in the rearview mirror as they rounded a gentle curve. It was a white Ford Crown Victoria with a green-and-gold Carthage Police Department emblem on its door, an older model that looked as though it had spent years baking in the Georgia sun. It remained several car lengths behind them, matching their speed. After two minutes, Calvin said quietly, "We've picked up somebody who seems very interested in us."
Nathaniel did not turn his head. "Keep your speed steady, signal every turn, and don't do anything different just because he's there," he said. Calvin checked the posted limit and continued at forty-five. The cruiser stayed behind them through another bend, then its blue lights flashed and a short siren chirped. Nathaniel's stomach tightened with the familiar recognition of a situation that could become more complicated than it had any right to be.
They pulled onto the gravel shoulder beside Grace Fellowship Church, a small clapboard building with faded white paint and a sloping roof. Nathaniel remembered attending a Christmas service there with his mother when he was eleven. The church stood close enough to the road that he could see a camera mounted beneath the eaves, but he did not pay it much attention. At the time, he had no reason to imagine it would become one of the most important witnesses in the case.
Calvin put the transmission in park, lowered the driver's window, and placed his hands on the steering wheel. Nathaniel kept both hands in his lap and told himself to remain calm. Through the side mirror, he watched a broad-shouldered officer emerge from the cruiser and walk toward them with the deliberate pace of someone who enjoyed making people wait. His mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, but the stiff set of his shoulders conveyed plenty without them.
"License and registration," the officer said when he reached the window. He did not introduce himself or explain the reason for the stop. Calvin gave him his license and asked, "May I ask what the issue is, Officer?" The man ignored the question, looked over the dashboard, and then directed his attention toward Nathaniel. "And you. Identification."
Nathaniel moved slowly, narrating what he was doing so there could be no misunderstanding. "My wallet is in my right pocket," he said. He retrieved his Georgia license and his military identification card, holding both where the officer could see them. The officer's name plate read BRETT CHENEY, and when he examined the military card his mouth twisted into a faint smile.
"Fort Liberty," Cheney read aloud. "You military?" Nathaniel answered that he was. Cheney turned the card over, examined the photograph, and glanced toward the Escalade's polished interior. "Doesn't look much like a soldier to me," he said, tossing the identification back through the open window. The cards landed against Nathaniel's leg and slid into the space beside his seat.