He hesitated.
Then:
“Slowly.”
She opened the passenger door.
Removed a leather document case.
Closed the door.
Handed it over.
He opened it.
Registration.
Insurance.
Dealer delivery sheet.
Copy of trust authorization.
Emergency contact information.
The officer looked at the dealership logo.
His face changed slightly.
“You work for this company?”
“No.”
“My father owns it.”
There.
She saw it.
Disbelief.
Not curiosity.
Disbelief.
The officer flipped through the pages.
“Your father owns a dealership group.”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
She gave it.
The officer glanced back toward the dealership paperwork.
“Anybody can print something like this.”
The teen stared.
“Then verify it.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“Call the number.”
She pointed toward the bottom of the document.
“Dealer office.”
“Insurance.”
“State registration.”
“Any of them.”
The officer shut the folder.
“We’ll decide what needs verification.”
The teen’s anger began replacing fear.
“That is verification.”
He handed the folder to the second officer.
“Check everything.”
The second officer took it.
The first remained with her.
Then the questions became less about the car.
Where was she going?
Where had she been?
What school?
Why did she attend that university?
What did her father do?
How much did the vehicle cost?
Did she know?
Why would he buy it?
How long had she driven it?
Had she ever been arrested?
The teen answered most.
Not because each question seemed relevant.
Because she wanted the stop over.
Then the officer asked:
“Any drugs in the car?”
She stared.
“No.”
“Weapons?”
“No.”
“Large amounts of cash?”
“No.”
“You mind if we search?”
There it was.
She remembered her father’s voice.
Never consent because you’re afraid saying no looks guilty.
The teen swallowed.
“I do not consent to a search.”
The officer’s face changed.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
“If there’s nothing inside—”
“That doesn’t mean I have to let you search it.”
He stared.
“You studying law?”
“No.”
“Then don’t tell me the law.”
She looked away.
Cars moved through the station.
Customers watched.
A woman near the convenience-store entrance held a phone.
The teen hated that almost as much as the officer.
She imagined the video online.
Rich girl.
Luxury car.
Police.
People deciding everything from fifteen seconds.
She wanted to disappear.
Instead she straightened.
“Am I being detained?”
The officer answered:
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Possible vehicle theft.”
She stared at him.
“Then verify the vehicle.”
The officer’s face tightened.
The second officer returned.
“Plate is clear.”