“Is there a written basis for the stop?”
Bennett’s mouth tightened.
“That will be documented in his report.”
“What is the basis?”
She paused.
“I don’t want to speculate.”
“You’re his supervisor.”
“I understand.”
“Then I am asking you before I leave.”
Bennett looked at Rourke.
He looked away.
Finally she said:
“Officer Rourke observed behavior he believed warranted investigation.”
Charles accepted the credentials.
“That is not an answer.”
“No, sir.”
It was the first completely honest thing anyone in uniform had said to him all evening.
Charles returned to the driver’s seat.
At 8:57 p.m., forty-three minutes after the emergency lights activated, he started the engine.
Nicole had called four times.
He stared at her name on the screen before answering.
“Dad?”
“I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
“Briarwood.”
“What happened?”
He looked into the mirror.
Sergeant Bennett and Officer Rourke stood beside the cruiser.
The body cameras were still recording.
“I got stopped.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need me to come?”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“I said I’m okay.”
His daughter was silent.
Then:
“You sound angry.”
Charles looked at the road.
“I’m trying not to be.”
He reached her house twenty minutes later.
The lasagna was cold.
Nobody cared.
Nicole opened the door before he reached it.
She was thirty-two, an architect, recently married, and generally incapable of hiding emotion from her father.
“What happened?”
Charles removed his coat.
“Let me sit down first.”
Her husband, Andre, muted the television.
The three of them sat around the dining table.
Charles described the encounter.
Not dramatically.
He gave it like testimony.
Time.
Sequence.
Questions.
Commands.
Credential.
Supervisor.
Release.
Nicole’s face changed as the story continued.
“He said you looked nervous?”
“Yes.”
“After ordering you against the trunk?”
“Yes.”
“And once he found out you were a judge, suddenly it was ‘Your Honor’?”
“Yes.”
She pushed her chair back.
“That’s racial profiling.”
Charles did not answer.
“Dad.”
“I heard you.”
“You know exactly what this was.”
“I know what it felt like.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
Charles looked at her.
“And tomorrow I need to document what can be demonstrated, not simply what I believe.”
Nicole stared at him.
“You’re doing judge voice.”
“I am a judge.”
“You’re my father.”
“That too.”
Andre finally spoke.
“Can you get the camera footage?”
Charles nodded.
“I should be able to request it.”
Nicole crossed her arms.
“If you weren’t a judge?”
Charles looked at her.
That was the question he had been avoiding since Briarwood.
“If I weren’t a judge,” he said slowly, “I would still have had the same rights.”
Nicole’s expression hardened.
“That wasn’t what I asked.”