Instead he said, “The information can be verified.”
The sheriff’s smile faded.
“You telling me how to do my job?”
“No.”
“Sounds like you are.”
Isaiah knew that tone.
It did not matter what answer came next.
The conversation had stopped being about identification.
Now it was about rank.
Not formal rank.
Social rank.
Who would submit first.
Cleary held the card between his fingers.
“How much did you pay for this?”
Isaiah looked at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Online.”
“For the fake credential.”
“It’s real.”
“Sure.”
“Call the number on the back.”
Cleary gave a theatrical sigh.
“Everybody’s got a story.”
“I’m not telling you a story.”
The sheriff leaned closer.
“You know what stolen valor is?”
Isaiah’s expression hardened.
“Yes.”
“People go to jail for pretending to be things they’re not.”
“I know.”
“You wearing medals in the truck?”
“No.”
“Uniform?”
“No.”
“Got pictures somewhere?”
Isaiah stared at him.
“Sheriff, you stopped me for a traffic violation.”
“That’s right.”
“What violation?”
Cleary straightened.
“Eighty-two in a fifty-five.”
Isaiah actually thought he had misheard him.
“Eighty-two?”
“That’s what I said.”
“My cruise control was set at fifty-three.”
Cleary laughed.
“You got a calibrated speedometer?”
“The truck records speed.”
“Now you’re a mechanic too?”
“No.”
“Got somewhere to be?”
“My sister’s.”
“You nervous?”
“No.”
“You should be.”
Isaiah watched the sheriff’s hand tighten slightly around the identification card.
He understood what was coming before Cleary did it.
“Don’t,” Isaiah said.
The sheriff paused.
“What?”
“Don’t damage that card.”
Cleary smiled.
“Why?”
“Because it isn’t yours.”
“Neither is this uniform you’re pretending you wore.”
Isaiah did not move.
Cleary bent the card.
The first pressure turned the plastic white along the center.
Isaiah’s voice lowered.
“Sheriff.”
Cleary pushed harder.
The card snapped.
The sound vanished beneath the ticking engine of the truck.
Then Cleary dropped the pieces into Isaiah’s lap.
“There.”
Isaiah looked down.
For the first time since the stop began, something shifted visibly in his face.
Not fear.
Not rage.
Something colder.
Cleary mistook it for defeat.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Isaiah said.
Cleary leaned through the open window.
“That a threat?”
“No.”
“Sounded like one.”
“It was information.”
The sheriff grabbed the door handle.
“Step out.”
Isaiah stayed seated.
“For what?”
“Step out of the truck.”
“What am I being detained for?”
“You want to add obstruction?”
“I’m asking what the basis is.”
Cleary yanked the door open.
Isaiah unbuckled his seat belt slowly.