I had spent years teaching investigators the importance of documenting what people actually did rather than what an officer later claimed they intended. Now I was living inside that distinction. Every movement I made would be described by somebody else, and the man holding me down had already decided that my behavior was suspicious.
I tried to keep my voice steady.
"I need you to know that my wrists are going numb."
Garrett ignored me.
The younger deputy stepped closer.
"Garrett, ease up. She's not fighting."
"Go check the damn car."
Miles looked toward me.
Then toward his partner.
He hesitated for perhaps two seconds.
That hesitation would haunt him later.
Because two seconds can feel like a lifetime when you're the person lying on the pavement.
Eventually, Garrett removed his knee.
He ordered me to sit beside the car.
I obeyed.
The sun reflected off the polished black bodywork, and I could feel sweat moving down my back beneath the tight fabric of my dress.
Garrett began searching for an explanation that would justify what he'd already done.
"Where's the paperwork?"
"In my purse."
"Where's the purse?"
"Inside the trunk."
He laughed.
"Of course it is."
"The vehicle registration is also accessible through the records associated with my plate."
He looked toward Miles.
"Run it."
Miles moved toward the patrol SUV.
Garrett watched him for a moment.
Then turned back toward me.
"How much did this car cost?"
I stared.
"That's not relevant to a traffic investigation."
His expression darkened.
"I'm asking you."
"Approximately one million dollars, including the custom work."
He gave a harsh laugh.
"One million."
I remained silent.
He looked toward the emblem on the hood.
Then toward the interior.
"Must be nice."
I took a slow breath.
"I worked for what I have."
Something about that answer enraged him.
He stepped toward me.
"Don't get smart."
"I'm answering your question."
He pointed at the car.
"You expect me to believe you bought this with a government salary?"
I looked up at him.
"I didn't say I purchased it using my salary."
He leaned forward.
"Then where'd the money come from?"
"My lawful private finances."
His eyes narrowed.
"Sounds like a confession."
I almost laughed at the absurdity.
But I was beginning to understand that reason would not help.
A reasonable answer did not satisfy him.
A polite answer did not calm him.
Every explanation simply became another excuse for humiliation.
Then Miles returned from the patrol SUV.
His expression was troubled.
"Garrett, the registration comes back valid."
Garrett turned.
"What?"
"The plate matches the vehicle. It's registered to Renata Cole."
For the first time, I felt a small measure of relief.
It lasted less than a second.
Garrett stared at Miles.
"That doesn't mean she owns it."
Miles frowned.
"The registered owner is sitting right there."