We ended the call.
I placed the phone in my handbag beside the credential wallet and started the drive home.
I had no idea that within the hour, the first serious misconduct case of my new appointment would involve the person sitting behind my own steering wheel.
The road was quiet.
It curved past a series of subdivisions, a shopping center, and several older houses surrounded by mature trees. Afternoon sunlight moved across the windshield, and traffic was light enough that I could hear the soft hum of my tires against the pavement.
I wasn't speeding.
I wasn't using my phone.
And as far as I knew, there was nothing wrong with my vehicle.
When I first noticed the police cruiser behind me, I barely thought about it.
The car followed at a normal distance for several blocks.
Then it moved closer.
I glanced at my speedometer.
Five miles under the posted limit.
A few seconds later, red-and-blue lights flashed across my rearview mirror.
I felt a familiar tightening in my stomach.
Not panic.
Recognition.
I remembered my mother sitting in the driveway all those years earlier.
I remembered her saying she didn't know who would take her complaint seriously.
Then I reminded myself that I didn't yet know why I was being stopped.
There could have been a legitimate explanation.
I signaled, slowed, and pulled onto a broad gravel shoulder near a line of trees. I stopped in a visible location, switched off the engine, and kept my hands on the steering wheel.
The cruiser stopped behind me.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the driver's door opened.
A broad-shouldered officer stepped out.
He was in his early forties, with close-cropped sandy hair, a square jaw, and an expression that looked angry before he said a word. His uniform was immaculate, and his duty belt carried a black expandable baton, radio, handcuffs, and other standard equipment.
His nameplate read MERCER.
A younger deputy stepped out from the passenger side.
He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with short light-brown hair and a cautious expression. He carried a mobile terminal and watched the senior officer approach my vehicle.
I lowered my window slightly.
Before I could speak, Mercer shouted.
"Turn the car off!"
"It's off, officer."
"Hands where I can see them!"
I raised them slightly from the wheel.
"They're visible."
He approached until he stood directly beside my door.
Then leaned toward the opening.
"License and registration."
I looked toward him.
"Of course. They're in my handbag and glove compartment. May I reach for them?"