The flashing lights appeared in the rearview mirror less than three minutes after the Black driver left the downtown conference center.
He noticed them immediately.
Red.
Blue.
Red again.
The lights bounced across the polished interior of the black sedan and reflected from the glass buildings lining the broad city avenue.
The Black driver glanced at the speedometer.
Thirty-four miles per hour.
The limit was thirty-five.
He looked at the traffic signal ahead, checked his mirrors, switched on his turn indicator, and carefully pulled onto the wide shoulder beside a row of closed storefronts.
There was no reason to rush.
There was no reason to panic.
He had been stopped before.
Not often, but enough times to know the safest thing he could do was make every movement obvious.
He lowered the driver's window.
Then he placed both hands on top of the steering wheel.
Outside, traffic continued flowing past.
A patrol car stopped several yards behind him.
The driver's door opened.
A white police sergeant stepped out.
He was a thick-necked man in his early forties with a stiff walk and the kind of expression that seemed irritated before anyone had spoken.
He adjusted his duty belt and approached the sedan.
The Black driver watched him in the side mirror.
The sergeant did not walk toward the window cautiously.
He walked toward it as if the decision about what kind of person was inside had already been made.
"License and registration."
There was no greeting.
No explanation.
The Black driver remained calm.
"Good afternoon, Sergeant. May I ask the reason for the stop?"
The sergeant looked through the open window.
His eyes moved over the driver's face.
Then his clothing.
The Black driver was not dressed casually.
He wore an immaculate dark olive dress uniform, polished shoes, carefully arranged ribbons, formal insignia, and a gold ceremonial belt.
He had just attended an official event downtown and had been scheduled to continue to another meeting across the city.
The sergeant stared at the uniform for a moment.
Then he smirked.
"I asked for your license."
The Black driver nodded.
"It is in my wallet, inside my jacket. May I reach for it?"
The sergeant's expression tightened.
"Slowly."
The driver moved one hand toward his jacket.
The sergeant immediately leaned closer.
"I said slowly."
The Black driver stopped.
"My hand hasn't reached the pocket yet."
"Don't get smart with me."
The driver looked straight ahead.
"I am not."
The sergeant studied him.
Something about the calmness seemed to irritate him more.
People who were frightened were easier to control.
People who became angry could be accused of becoming aggressive.
But this man was doing neither.
He was simply sitting there.
Steady.
Measured.
Watching.
"License."
The driver removed his wallet and handed over his driver's license.
The sergeant looked at it.
Then at him.
Then back at it.
"Registration."
"Glove compartment."
"Open it."
The driver slowly reached across and opened the compartment.
Inside were vehicle documents arranged neatly in a leather folder.
He removed the registration and insurance card.
The sergeant took them.
He looked toward the dashboard.
Then toward the rear seat.
Then toward the driver's clothing again.
"What are you supposed to be?"
The question hung in the air for a moment.
The Black driver turned his head slightly.
"Excuse me?"