Terrence nodded once.
“Then you’ll put that in the report.”
“I will.”
“And the reason you opened my luggage?”
The officer stared.
“Same.”
Terrence’s voice became colder.
“You believed the firearm might be hidden inside clothing after I told you exactly where it was?”
Silence.
The officer looked toward the arriving personnel.
He seemed to realize he had an audience now.
More importantly, an audience he respected.
Terrence noticed.
That bothered him.
The officer reached toward his body camera.
Terrence watched.
“Is it recording?”
The officer stopped.
“Yes.”
Terrence looked at the device.
No visible light.
“Show me.”
The officer’s jaw tightened.
“It’s recording.”
Terrence said:
“Then there will be a record.”
The officer gave a short nod.
“Correct.”
Terrence closed the travel bag.
The arriving senior man stepped closer.
“We were expecting you at the hotel.”
“I know.”
Terrence looked at his watch.
“I’ll be late.”
The man glanced toward the officer.
“Do you need us to stay?”
Terrence considered.
“No.”
The officer visibly relaxed.
Terrence continued:
“But note the time and location.”
The relaxation disappeared.
The other man nodded.
“Already done.”
Terrence returned to the hood.
He stood there.
Waited.
The officer held his license.
Registration.
He looked at them as if he had forgotten they existed.
Finally he approached.
“Here.”
Terrence held out his hand.
The officer returned the documents.
“Am I receiving a citation?”
The officer paused.
“No.”
“Warning?”
Another pause.
“No.”
Terrence looked at him.
“Then was I actually stopped for crossing the center line?”
The officer stared.
“I observed what I observed.”
Terrence nodded.
“Fine.”
He walked toward the driver’s door.
Then stopped.
“Officer.”
The officer looked at him.
Terrence pointed toward the passenger seat.
“My mother’s cake.”
The officer frowned.
“What?”
“You put paperwork on it.”
The officer looked inside.
One of the registration sheets had landed partly across the cake box.
The box was slightly crushed.
Frosting had smeared beneath the plastic window.
The officer reached in awkwardly.
Moved the paper.
Terrence watched.
Something about that tiny act irritated him more than the rest.
Not because cake mattered more than rights.
Because the officer had treated every object inside the truck as meaningless the moment he decided the owner was suspicious.
Uniform.
Clothes.
Documents.
Cake.
Everything became searchable clutter.
The officer stepped back.
“You’re free to go.”
Terrence opened the door.
Then looked at him.
“I know.”
He got in.
The SUVs followed him away.
The officer remained on the shoulder.
Alone beside flashing lights.
For several seconds, he did not move.
Then he touched his body camera.
Dark.
He pressed a button.
A light activated.
Recording began.