The officer had already decided the car could not belong to her before he reached the driver’s window.
That was what she would remember later.
Not the flashing lights.
Not the gravel grinding beneath her tires as she eased the black luxury sedan onto the highway shoulder.
Not even the officer’s hand resting near his belt when he approached.
What stayed with her was his expression.
He looked through the open window, saw the woman behind the wheel, and did not ask his first question like a man trying to understand what had happened.
He asked it like a man waiting to hear which lie she had chosen.
“Whose car is this?”
The Black woman slowly removed one hand from the steering wheel.
She was forty-three years old, tall and striking, with deep dark-brown skin, sharp almond-shaped eyes, and long glossy black hair worn straight beneath narrow burgundy-tinted sunglasses.
She did not look like anyone’s idea of a stranded traveler.
Her floor-length burgundy sequin dress shimmered even in the hard Georgia daylight. Over it she wore a dramatic wine-red faux-fur coat that almost touched the pavement when she stepped out. Nude pointed heels rested near the pedals. A small red clutch sat in the passenger seat.
She had just left a private fundraising breakfast at a downtown Atlanta hotel.
In less than ninety minutes, she was supposed to change clothes at the state command center and continue to the Capitol.
The dark-blue general officer dress uniform hanging inside a garment bag across the back seat had been professionally pressed that morning.
The star insignia had been polished.
The ribbons checked twice.
Her aide had teased her about that.
“You know nobody at the ceremony is going to measure them with a ruler.”
The woman had answered:
“I’ll know.”
Now a local police officer stood beside her window looking from the dress to the car as though both required explanation.
She took off her sunglasses.
“My car.”
He gave a short laugh.
Not friendly.
“You own it?”
“Yes.”
“Registration?”
“In the glove compartment.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Her fingers stopped.
The officer was white, early forties, broad across the shoulders, short light-brown hair, face already red from the summer heat.