“Get out of that damn car. Now!”
The sheriff's deputy shouted so close to my face that I felt his breath against my cheek.
I had barely finished lowering the driver's window when he seized the door handle and jerked it open. The heavy door struck its mechanical stop with a metallic crack, sending a violent shudder through my black luxury SUV.
I looked up at him.
He was enormous, with a thick neck, broad shoulders, a flushed face, and small, furious eyes beneath the brim of a tan campaign hat. His uniform carried a gold sheriff's star, and his nameplate read TRAVIS MERCER.
Behind him, afternoon sunlight flooded the Alabama highway. Eighteen-wheelers thundered along Interstate 65, carrying freight toward Birmingham and Montgomery, while dry grass bent beneath the wind along the shoulder.
“Officer,” I said calmly, “may I ask why you've stopped me?”
Mercer leaned closer.
“You heard what I said.”
“I did. I'm asking what violation you're investigating.”
His face reddened.
“Lady, you don't get to interrogate me.”
I kept both hands visible.
“I'm not refusing to cooperate.”
He pointed his thick index finger inches from my face.
“Then shut your mouth and get out.”
I was wearing a magnificent metallic champagne-gold evening gown, with an elegant off-the-shoulder neckline, a sculpted satin bodice, and a long flowing skirt. My black hair was arranged in a polished updo, and the gold earrings I'd worn to a women's leadership luncheon glittered in the sunlight.
It was hardly the outfit I would have chosen for standing on the shoulder of an Alabama interstate.
But clothing wasn't the problem.
The problem was the expression on Mercer's face.
He looked at me as though every word I spoke was an insult.
I reached carefully toward my seat belt.
“I'm going to unbuckle.”
“Don't tell me what you're going to do!”
Before I could move farther, he grabbed my upper arm.
I stopped immediately.
“Officer, please allow me to release the seat belt before you pull me out.”
He tightened his grip.
“Move!”
The buckle clicked.
He pulled.
My shoulder brushed the doorframe as I stumbled onto the pavement, the hem of my gold dress dragging across the gravel. I caught my balance without reaching toward him.
“I'm cooperating,” I said.
Behind the SUV, a second patrol door slammed.
Another deputy approached from the passenger side.
He was younger, perhaps thirty-five, with short brown hair, a muscular build, and the same tan uniform. His nameplate read COLE BARRETT.
“What's taking so long?” he demanded.
Mercer laughed.
“She's got an attitude.”