Terrence watched Mercer.
That phrase again.
Think carefully.
Authority often sounded most revealing when it pretended to offer advice.
Reyes looked at the badge still in Mercer’s hand.
“Put his credentials down.”
Mercer looked at her.
“I’m holding evidence.”
“No.”
She pointed toward the open wallet.
“You are holding federal credentials belonging to another person.”
Mercer hesitated.
Terrence said:
“Put them on the tailgate.”
Mercer did.
Not because Terrence was FBI.
Because six agents were watching.
Terrence noticed the difference.
He always did.
Reyes asked:
“Are you detained?”
Mercer answered:
“Yes.”
Terrence answered at the same time:
“I have not been told clearly.”
Reyes looked at Mercer.
“What is the detention basis?”
Mercer stared.
“Traffic violation.”
“What violation?”
“Unsafe lane movement.”
Terrence looked at him.
That was new.
He had never mentioned lane movement.
Mercer realized it too late.
Reyes said:
“Citation?”
“Not written yet.”
Reyes looked at Terrence.
“Were you told this before the search?”
“No.”
Mercer interrupted.
“He was suspicious.”
Reyes’s eyes moved toward him.
“That is not a traffic violation.”
Mercer looked increasingly trapped.
Another agent approached Benson.
Quietly.
“Can we talk separately?”
Benson nodded.
Mercer protested immediately.
“He stays here.”
Reyes looked at him.
“No.”
Mercer’s voice rose.
“This is my stop.”
Terrence finally walked away from the guardrail.
Slowly.
Mercer turned toward him.
“Stay back.”
Terrence stopped.
Then pointed toward the black badge wallet.
“You searched my property.”
“You found that.”
“You opened my correspondence.”
“You destroyed my mother’s birthday cake.”
“You found nothing illegal.”
He paused.
“And now you’re inventing a traffic violation you never mentioned.”
Mercer stared.
Terrence continued.
“I suggest you stop talking until your supervisor arrives.”
Mercer laughed.
“You don't give orders here.”
Terrence looked toward Reyes.
Then the agents.
Then Benson.
Then the body camera.
“I’m not giving an order.”
He paused.
“I’m giving you advice.”
Fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Wayne Kirk arrived.
He was Mercer’s shift supervisor.
He stepped from his cruiser, saw the scene, and stopped.
Six federal agents.
Two unmarked SUVs.
One partially emptied pickup.
Clothes scattered everywhere.
Birthday cake on the ground.
Mercer standing rigidly.
Benson pale.
Terrence calm.
Kirk looked toward Mercer.
“What happened?”
Mercer answered quickly.
“Vehicle stop developed into probable-cause search.”
“Contraband?”
“None yet.”
Kirk looked at the truck.
“Yet?”
Mercer nodded.
Kirk’s expression changed.
“How long?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Basis?”
“Marijuana odor.”