"$500," he said, more aggressively now. "Cash, right now. And we both go about our business like this never happened."
Marcus felt the recorder's smooth surface under his finger. 23 years of police work had taught him to recognize corruption when he saw it. This wasn't a traffic stop; this was extortion.
"What if I don't have $500?" Marcus asked.
Reigns straightened up slightly, his hand moving to rest on his service weapon's grip. Not a direct threat, but a clear message about who controlled this encounter.
"Then we do this the hard way," Reigns said. "Vehicle search, impound, arrest for whatever I find. Could be drug residue, could be an open container, could be anything. By the time you get out of lockup and get your car back from impound, 500's going to seem real cheap."
Marcus stared at the officer through the window. This man had just attempted to extort the new captain of the Westbridge Police Department—the man who would be his commanding officer in less than 3 hours. But Reigns didn't know that yet.
"I'm not paying you anything," Marcus said firmly.
Reigns's expression hardened. The friendly negotiation was over. His hand moved to the door handle.
"Get out of the vehicle," he ordered, yanking the SUV's door open. "Now."
Marcus stepped out of the SUV onto the dark pavement. The cold morning air hit his face as Reigns positioned himself close enough to control the encounter, but far enough to react if Marcus tried anything stupid.
"Hands where I can see them," Reigns barked, his voice carrying the authority of 12 years wearing a badge. "Keep them visible at all times."
Marcus raised his hands slightly, palms open. "Officer, I need you to explain what law gives you the authority to detain me. You mentioned a lane violation, but you haven't specified—"
"Shut up," Reigns snapped. "I'm done explaining anything to you. You want to play games? We'll play games."
Reigns moved closer, one hand hovering near the restraints on his duty belt. His other hand remained free to grab Marcus if needed. The positioning was deliberate, practiced.
"Here's what's going to happen," Reigns said, his voice loud enough to carry across the empty street. "I'm going to search you for weapons and contraband. Then I'm going to search your vehicle. Then I'm going to write you citations for every violation I can find: improper lane change, following too close, defective equipment, suspicious behavior."
Marcus kept his voice calm and steady. "I do not consent to any search of my person or my vehicle."
Reigns laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "Consent? You think I need your consent? You're detained as part of a traffic investigation. I've got probable cause based on your nervous behavior and refusal to cooperate."
"What nervous behavior?" Marcus asked. "I've answered every question you've asked. I've provided my license and registration. I've complied with every lawful order."
"Don't lecture me about lawful orders," Reigns snarled. "I've been doing this job since before you could spell police. Turn around and put your hands on the vehicle."
Marcus didn't move. "Officer Reigns, everything you're doing right now will have consequences. Every word, every action. I strongly suggest you reconsider your approach."
Reigns's expression shifted from annoyed to genuinely angry. Marcus's calm tone, his refusal to show fear, his careful word choices—it all read as arrogance to a man accustomed to immediate compliance.
"Consequences?" Reigns stepped closer, invading Marcus's personal space. "What consequences? You going to file a complaint? Good luck with that. You going to call a lawyer from lockup? You think somebody important is coming to save you?" Reigns gestured at the empty street around them. "Look around. It's just you and me out here. Nobody's watching. Nobody's recording. My camera's broken, remember?"
But Marcus noticed something Reigns probably didn't realize he'd revealed: every time the officer wanted to say something particularly threatening, he moved away from his patrol car, away from the working microphone system that recorded interactions even when body cameras failed. This wasn't impulsive corruption; this was systematic.
"Turn around and assume the position," Reigns ordered, his hand now resting on his handcuffs. "Last chance before I put you down myself."
Marcus remained motionless. "I'm not resisting. I'm standing exactly where you told me to stand, but I do not consent to a search. And I'm asking again, what specific law authorizes this detention?"
"Your attitude authorizes it," Reigns shot back. "Suspicious behavior. Failure to cooperate with a lawful investigation. Keep pushing me and we'll add obstruction of justice."
Reigns moved behind Marcus, positioning himself to apply restraints. "Hands behind your back. Now."
"Officer, you're making a serious mistake," Marcus said without turning around. "Whatever you think this situation is, you're wrong."
"The only mistake here is yours," Reigns replied. "Thinking you could smart-mouth your way out of this, thinking that expensive car makes you special. Time for a reality check."
Reigns reached for his radio, keying the microphone with practiced efficiency. Marcus heard him speak to dispatch, but stayed focused on the patrol car's position relative to their conversation.
"Control, this is Unit 12," Reigns said into his radio. "I need a supervisor to my location. Route 47 at Maple. I've got an uncooperative, suspicious driver refusing to comply with lawful orders."
Marcus felt his jaw tighten. The false report was going out over the radio; an official record was being created that painted him as the problem.
"Roger, Unit 12," came the dispatcher's voice. "Sergeant Voss is en route. ETA 3 minutes."
Reigns clipped his radio back to his belt and smiled coldly at Marcus. "Supervisor's coming. Maybe he can explain things in a way you'll understand."
Marcus remained beside his SUV because he understood the trap: moving away would give Reigns grounds to claim he was attempting to flee; staying put meant enduring whatever came next.
In the distance, Marcus could see headlights approaching fast. Emergency lights activated. The second patrol vehicle was already close. The headlights grew brighter as the patrol car pulled up behind Reigns's unit, the emergency lights painting the dark street in alternating red and blue.
A car door slammed shut. Footsteps approached on the pavement: heavy boots, confident stride. Marcus turned his head slightly and saw Sergeant Calvin Voss walking toward them: 15-year veteran, according to the stripes on his sleeve; older than Reigns, more experienced, more dangerous. Voss's expression made it clear he'd already decided who the problem was before hearing a single word.
Voss walked up to the scene with the confident stride of a man who'd handled countless roadside confrontations. His eyes swept over Marcus, taking in the expensive SUV, the civilian clothes, the calm posture that refused to show proper deference to authority.