Pruitt took them. He looked at them. He looked at Winston. He went to his cruiser and ran the license. The license came back clean: no warrants, no violations, valid. The truck's registration was current.
He came back. He said, "I've had reports of a vehicle matching this description making repeated passes near the school."
Winston said, "This is the first time I have been in this pickup line today. I arrive at 2:40 every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday because those are the days I pick up my daughter. I park in the pickup line with the other parents. The pickup line is the designated area." He said, "What vehicle description was reported?"
Pruitt said, "A dark blue pickup truck."
Winston looked at the pickup line. There were three dark-colored pickup trucks in the line within his line of sight. He said, "I am one of approximately three dark-colored pickup trucks currently in this pickup line." He said, "Is there anything specific about this vehicle that distinguishes it from the other vehicles matching that description?"
Pruitt said, "I need you to move the vehicle."
Winston said, "My daughter is going to come through those doors in 15 minutes, and she will be looking for this vehicle, and I will be here waiting for her when she comes out."
Pruitt said, "Sir, I'm not going to ask you again."
The woman in the white Subaru ahead of Winston's truck had her window down. She had been listening. She was a woman named Claire Hawthorne, 44 years old, a pediatric occupational therapist whose son was in third grade at Westbrook, and who had been in the pickup line on Tuesdays and Wednesdays for two years, and who had seen Winston Beaumont in this line many times—enough times to recognize his truck and his face, and the fact that his daughter always ran to the truck and jumped in with the specific enthusiasm of a child who is glad to see her parent.
She said from her window, "Officer, that man parks here every week. He's a pickup parent. His daughter is in fourth grade."