The officer’s jaw worked.
“Suspicious vehicle.”
“Based on what?”
“No front plate.”
The Black Driver nodded.
“That was enough to stop me?”
“And…”
The officer paused.
The Black Driver waited.
“And what?”
The officer looked toward the lime-green car.
“You were driving slowly.”
“Three miles below the limit.”
The officer’s face tightened.
“This area has thefts.”
“So you said.”
The Black Driver took one step forward.
The officer instinctively moved back.
Not much.
Enough.
The power in the scene had reversed.
That made the Black Driver sad rather than satisfied.
He asked:
“Did you run the plate before pulling me over?”
No answer.
The younger officer looked toward the first.
The Black Driver repeated.
“Did you?”
The first officer finally said:
“No.”
“Why?”
The officer looked at him.
No answer.
The Black Driver nodded.
“Exactly.”
He walked toward his driver door.
The first officer said:
“Director.”
The Black Driver stopped.
The officer swallowed.
“We really did have vehicle thefts.”
The Black Driver turned.
“I believe you.”
That surprised him.
The Black Driver continued.
“I also believe you decided I was driving a stolen car before you had evidence that any crime existed.”
The officer’s face hardened defensively.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
The Black Driver pointed toward the body camera.
“You recorded it.”
He opened the car door.
Then stopped again.
“Officer.”
The man looked at him.
“If you delete or intentionally interfere with that recording, this stops being a policy investigation.”
The officer’s face went pale.
The Black Driver got into the car.
The younger officer stepped closer to his partner.
The Black Driver could see them in the mirror.
The first officer said something he could not hear.
The younger man shook his head.
The Black Driver started the engine.
The lime-green sports car came alive with a deep mechanical growl.
He checked the clock.
2:38.
Twenty-two minutes.
Enough time to reach headquarters if traffic cooperated.
His shoulder hurt.
His wrist was red.
His shirt had a streak where the hood dusted against it.
He considered going home.
He considered calling the Commissioner and rescheduling.
He considered doing what victims were often told to do after encounters like this.
Calm down.
Document.
Wait.
Be professional.
He almost laughed.
Instead he opened his phone.
One missed call.
Commissioner.
Two messages from his deputy director.
WHERE ARE YOU?
COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE ASKING.
He typed:
Traffic delay. Arriving shortly.
Then he drove to police headquarters.
No escort.
No dramatic convoy.
That mattered to him.
At 2:57, the sports car entered the underground municipal garage.
The security officer at the entrance recognized the plate and raised the gate.
The Black Driver parked in his reserved oversight space.
He stayed seated for several seconds.
Hands on the steering wheel.
Not because he was afraid to go inside.
Because his body had begun catching up with what happened.