Agrippa blinked against the harsh light, keeping his hands firmly planted on the leather wheel. "Good evening, officer. Is there a problem?"
"Do you know why I pulled you over?" Decker asked the standard trap question, hoping the driver would admit to a phantom crime.
"I cannot fathom a guess, officer," Agrippa replied, his voice a rich, calm baritone. "I was traveling exactly the speed limit. My registration is current, and I utilized my signals."
Decker's jaw tightened. He didn't like the vocabulary. He didn't like the complete lack of fear. Drivers were supposed to be nervous, apologetic, stammering. This man sounded like a professor giving a lecture.
"You crossed the double yellow line back on Oakridge Boulevard," Decker lied smoothly. "Swerved right over it. You been drinking tonight?"
Agrippa stared back into the blinding glare of the flashlight. He knew the layout of Oakridge Boulevard intimately. There was no double yellow line on that stretch of the road. It was separated by a landscaped median.
"I have not had a drop of alcohol, officer," Agrippa said, his tone remaining perfectly level, though the gears in his sharp mind were beginning to turn. "And I believe you may be mistaken about the road markings."
Decker leaned in closer, the smell of wet wool and stale coffee radiating from his uniform. "I don't make mistakes, pal. License, registration, and proof of insurance. Now."
"They are in the glove compartment," Agrippa said, his hands remaining perfectly still on the steering wheel. "I'm going to take my right hand, open the compartment, and retrieve them. Is that acceptable to you?"
Decker scoffed, irritated by the driver's meticulousness. It felt like mockery to him. "Just get the damn papers."
Agrippa moved slowly and deliberately. He popped open the glove box, pulled out a neat leather folio, and extracted his registration and insurance card. He then used two fingers to slide his driver's license from his wallet, which was sitting in the center console. He handed the stack of documents through the window.
Decker snatched them. He shone his light on the license. Agrippa Graham. The name didn't immediately register to the officer.
He looked at the address. 442 Elmwood Drive. Decker's eyes flicked up, peering through the rain at the massive brick estate just a few houses down.
"This your current address?" Decker asked, skepticism heavy in his throat.
"It has been for 12 years," Agrippa replied calmly.
Decker wasn't buying it. A black man in a $3,000 suit driving a $90,000 car living in a $3 million house. In Decker's twisted worldview, the math didn't add up unless there was something illicit going on. He decided he was going to tear this man's night apart until he found out what it was.
"Step out of the vehicle," Decker commanded.
Agrippa did not immediately move. He looked at the officer, his judicial mind evaluating the legal threshold of the demand. "Officer, under Pennsylvania v. Mimms, you do have the authority to ask me to step out of the vehicle during a lawful traffic stop. However, as I have committed no traffic violation, and given the inclement weather, I must ask for your specific articulable suspicion for escalating this stop."
For a full 3 seconds, Decker was silent. The legal jargon hit him like a physical blow, sparking a white-hot fury in his chest. Nobody talked back to him, and certainly nobody quoted Supreme Court case law at him in the middle of a traffic stop. To Decker, this wasn't a citizen knowing his rights. This was a suspect being a smart mouth, challenging his authority.