“Give me your hand.”
“I’m not resisting.”
“Stop moving.”
“I’m not moving.”
Pike twisted Adrian’s arm behind his back.
Wells forced the other arm backward.
The cuffs snapped shut.
Too tight.
Adrian inhaled slowly.
Wells leaned close.
“You should’ve opened the trunk.”
Adrian stared through the windshield.
His own reflection stared back.
Salt-and-pepper beard.
Blood beginning near the cheekbone.
Eyes steady.
Behind the glass, almost directly in front of him, hung the garment bag.
Inside it was the robe he would wear in federal court at nine o’clock.
Adrian closed his eyes once.
His grandfather’s voice returned.
Never confuse power with character.
Wells pulled him away from the hood.
“Get down.”
Adrian looked toward him.
“I’m handcuffed.”
“I said down.”
Wells forced him toward the pavement.
Adrian went to one knee.
Then the other.
Pike stood behind him.
Adrian asked, “What offense are you investigating?”
Wells ignored the question.
“Where are you coming from?”
“Washington.”
“Where are you going?”
“Macon.”
“For what?”
“Work.”
“Who are you meeting?”
“That is irrelevant to whether you have grounds to search my vehicle.”
Wells crouched.
“You know what your problem is?”
Adrian looked at him.
“You think this is a courtroom.”
“No.”
“Out here, you don’t get to play attorney.”
Adrian’s voice remained level.
“The Constitution does not stop at the courthouse door.”
Wells stared.
Then stood.
“Pike, search him.”
Adrian turned his head.
“I do not consent.”
Wells laughed.
“You’re in cuffs. Nobody cares what you consent to.”
Pike hesitated.
That hesitation lasted perhaps two seconds.
Later, he would remember it more clearly than anything else.
He knew Wells was angry.
He knew no weapon had been seen.
No call had been dispatched.
No crime had been reported.
They had been sitting at the rest stop because Wells wanted coffee and because highway interdiction sometimes produced drugs, guns, or cash.
Wells called it proactive policing.
Pike called it learning from a veteran.
Until that night.
Pike began patting Adrian down.
Wallet.
Phone.
Keys.
A slim leather credential holder in the inside pocket of Adrian’s sport coat.
Pike started to remove it.
Wells said, “Leave it.”
Pike stopped.
“It might be ID.”
“We already have his license.”
Pike released it.
Adrian noticed.
He said nothing.
Wells walked toward the car.
He shined a flashlight through the window.
“Whose car?”
“Mine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Wells looked at the license.
Registration information was visible through the windshield.
Same name.
Same address.
He did not mention it.
“What’s in the back?”
“Personal belongings.”
“What’s in the garment bag?”
“Clothing.”
“What kind?”
Adrian almost laughed.
Instead he said, “A robe.”
Wells looked toward Pike.
Pike smirked.