His phone sat in the center console.
He thought about reaching for it.
Did not.
Not yet.
“Officer, am I being detained?”
“You’re on a traffic stop.”
“For what traffic violation?”
The officer stared.
“You crossed the center line back there.”
The driver knew he had not.
He had been driving behind a slow farm truck for almost four miles.
No passing.
No swerving.
Still, arguing roadside geometry would accomplish little.
He unbuckled his seat belt.
“I'm stepping out.”
“Slowly.”
The driver opened the door.
He was a broad-shouldered Black man in his late forties with close-cropped hair, a shaved head beginning to gray slightly around the sides, and the controlled posture of someone accustomed to people watching what he did under pressure.
He wore a charcoal-gray polo shirt tucked into tan trousers.
Black belt.
Simple watch.
No jewelry except a wedding band.
The officer’s eyes moved over him.
Then toward the rear seat.
“Stand by the hood.”
The driver complied.
The officer pointed.
“Hands where I can see them.”
The driver rested them lightly on the front edge of the hood.
The metal still held the day’s heat.
The officer walked around him.
Once.
Slowly.
“You nervous?”
“No.”
The officer stopped.
“Everybody’s nervous when I stop them.”
The driver turned his head slightly.
“Should I be?”
The officer stared.
“Don’t get smart.”
“I asked a question.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
The driver looked forward again.
Behind him, the officer continued.
“You said there’s a gun.”
“Yes.”
“Where exactly?”
“Locked case behind rear seat.”
“Loaded?”
“The firearm and ammunition are stored according to law.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No. Not loaded.”
“Any drugs?”
“No.”
“Cash?”
The driver glanced back.
“Is carrying cash illegal?”
The officer stepped closer.
“See?”
“What?”
“This attitude.”
The driver faced forward.
“You asked. I answered.”
The officer walked toward the pickup door.
“Mind if I take a look?”
The driver turned.
“Yes.”
The officer stopped.
“You mind?”
“Yes.”
The word hung between them.
The officer smiled faintly.
Not pleasantly.
“Why?”
“Because I do not consent to a search.”
“People with nothing to hide usually don’t care.”
The driver met his eyes.
“People with nothing to hide still have rights.”
The smile disappeared.
“Who taught you that line?”
“No one.”
“You a lawyer?”
“No.”
The officer stepped closer.
“What are you?”
The driver looked at him.
“A driver you stopped.”
That irritated him.
The officer glanced toward the truck again.
“Got a dog?”
“No.”
“Anything dangerous in the cab besides the firearm?”
“No.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
The driver shook his head.
“I do not consent.”
The officer nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
The way he said it made the driver uneasy.
The officer walked toward the passenger side.
Then leaned toward the open driver’s door.
The driver straightened.
“Officer.”