Crawford stepped behind Malcolm first. “Spread your feet.” He patted Malcolm down like he was searching a suspect after a drug raid. Rough. Deliberate. Hands pressing hard into ribs, running down both legs, squeezing pockets. He pulled out Malcolm’s phone, looked at it, set it on the hood, pulled out a leather wallet, flipped through it again even though he had already seen the ID. Then he moved to Elijah. Same thing. Slower this time, making a show of it. Through the diner window, faces were still watching. A man in a red cap, Loretta with her towel, the older couple frozen in their booth like mannequins. Two Black men, palms flat on a hot cruiser, being searched in broad daylight in front of an audience that refused to blink.
Crawford stepped back and nodded at Brennan. “Check the vehicle.” Brennan walked straight to the gray Nissan, opened the driver’s-side door without asking. Malcolm turned his head. “I do not consent to this search.” “Noted,” Crawford said. He did not even look at him. Brennan popped the glove box, pulled out the rental agreement, tossed it on the seat. Then he moved to the back seat, looked under the floor mats, ran his hand between the cushions like he was looking for drugs or weapons or anything that would justify what they were doing. He found nothing, because there was nothing to find. Then he opened the trunk. Inside was a single black leather briefcase. Professional, clean, the kind that costs more than Brennan’s weekly paycheck. Next to it, a garment bag with a pressed suit inside. Next to that, a small box of business cards.
Brennan pulled the briefcase out and brought it to Crawford like a dog bringing a bone to its owner. Crawford unclipped the latch. Inside were legal files, folders, printed memos on thick paper with headers that read United States Department of Justice. A leather-bound notebook with the DOJ seal embossed in gold on the cover. Crawford flipped through the papers the way a bored student flips through a textbook, fast, careless, not reading a single word. He held up one of the folders. “What’s all this? You some kind of paralegal?” Malcolm said nothing. “Maybe a law student?” Crawford smiled. “Or wait. Let me guess. You watch a lot of legal shows and bought yourself a fancy briefcase to feel important.” Brennan laughed. The kind of laugh that comes from wanting your boss to like you. Malcolm said nothing. He kept his palms flat on the hood, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. The heat from the metal was turning his skin red. Sweat ran down the side of his neck. A fly landed on his wrist. He did not move.
Crawford tossed the folder back into the briefcase and dropped it on the gravel. Papers spilled out. The DOJ seal caught the sunlight for a second before a page settled face down in the dust. “Boy.” That word. That one word. Crawford said it the way certain men in certain towns have said it for a hundred years. Not loud, not shouted, just dropped, flat and heavy, like a boot on someone’s throat. “Boy, you sure are quiet all of a sudden. What happened to all that legal talk in the diner?” Malcolm did not answer. His jaw was set. The muscles in his forearms were tight as cable wire, but his hands stayed flat. His breathing stayed even. Crawford leaned in close, so close Malcolm could hear the leather of his belt creaking. “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to really hear it. I’ve been doing this twenty-two years. Twenty-two years keeping this town clean. And it’s always, always the same story with you people. You show up where you don’t belong. You cause problems, and then you cry about your rights.” He stepped back, spit on the gravel next to Malcolm’s shoe. “Run them both for warrants,” he told Brennan. “Take your time.”