A man walked up to his window: big, bald, badge that read Bruce.
"License and registration," Bruce said, already bored with the question before he finished asking it.
Nathan handed them over slow. No sudden moves. "Morning, officer. Mind telling me why I'm stopped?"
Bruce didn't answer right away. He looked the papers over like they'd done something to insult him. Then he looked at Nathan—really looked—and something in his face changed: a small, ugly smile.
"Your taillight's out."
"No, sir, it's not."
"I said it's out."
Nathan didn't argue the point. He'd argued points before with men like this, and it never once made a difference. Behind Bruce, the younger officer—Langston, his tag said—stood near his own cruiser: arms crossed, eyes somewhere else. Not helping, not stopping it either.
"Going to need to search that trailer," Bruce said.
"Can I ask what for?"
"You can ask." Bruce tucked the license into his shirt pocket like he planned on keeping it. "Doesn't mean I got to answer." He leaned in close, one arm braced on the door, and dropped his voice like they were sharing a secret. "Tell you what: save us both the trouble. $500 cash right now, and you and your truck go on your merry way. No search, no paperwork, nothing."
Nathan felt his jaw tighten. He kept his voice level anyway. "You're asking me for money to use a public highway."
"I'm asking you for a toll." Bruce grinned wider. "Consider it a fee for my trouble."