Interrupted every answer.
And ignored the younger deputy's attempts to clarify the vehicle information.
Evelyn stepped down from the porch.
"Officer?"
Voss turned.
"Stay back, ma'am."
She stopped several yards away.
"That car belongs to her."
He pointed toward the house.
"Go inside."
Evelyn looked shocked.
"I invited her here for lunch."
Voss rolled his eyes.
"Then you can explain later why you're involved."
The older woman stared.
She wasn't accustomed to being spoken to like that.
Camille turned slightly.
"Evelyn, please stay on the porch."
Her voice was gentle but firm.
Evelyn hesitated.
Then nodded.
She returned toward the front steps, took out her phone, and called a neighbor across the street.
The man answered on the third ring.
"Harold? The sheriff's deputies are outside, and something's wrong."
Harold Jensen emerged from his home less than two minutes later.
He was seventy-three, broad-shouldered, and wore faded jeans with a checked shirt.
His hands bore the marks of decades spent working as a carpenter.
When he saw the patrol vehicle and the Bentley, he recognized the sergeant immediately.
Colin Voss.
The same deputy who had questioned Harold aggressively during his traffic stop several weeks earlier.
Harold felt a wave of anger.
But he didn't walk toward the confrontation.
Instead, he stood near his porch and began recording with his phone.
He wanted a reliable account of what happened.
The previous encounter had taught him that memories and verbal descriptions could be dismissed when officers wrote reports telling a different story.
This time, he intended to preserve evidence.
His recording began as Voss was examining Camille's license.
The deputy looked toward the expensive car.
Then toward Camille.
He asked where she worked.
She answered only that she was involved in public service and that her professional background didn't change the registration records.
Voss laughed.
"Public service. Sure."
Harold tightened his grip on the phone.
He watched the officer become increasingly irritated.
And he recognized the same pattern from his own encounter.
A question.
An answer.
A refusal to accept the answer.
Then another demand.
The information wasn't leading the officer toward a conclusion.
It was being used to challenge the person providing it.
Voss eventually demanded that Camille move away from the Bentley.
She stepped backward.
Her chunky white-and-gray sneakers scraped softly against the pavement, and the long sage-green skirt shifted around her ankles.
The bright-yellow handbag swung against her waist.
She remained near the driveway, several feet from the vehicle.
"Is this where you want me to stand?"
Voss frowned.
"Don't get sarcastic."
"I asked a question."
He pointed toward the car.
"That vehicle may be stolen."
Camille nodded.
"Then verify the registration."
"Stop telling me what to do!"
Solis glanced toward the body camera on her uniform.
She knew it was recording.