Josephine complied. Tagert immediately began patting her down—a brazen violation of protocol, considering Wyatt was standing right there, and a female officer should have been called for a Terry frisk, let alone the fact that there was no suspicion of a weapon.
"What are we looking for, officer?" Josephine asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
"Shut up!" Tagert hissed.
Finding nothing on her person, he turned his attention to the Aston Martin. Without asking for consent, he leaned into the driver's side and began tearing the interior apart. He yanked the glove box open, dumping registration papers, napkins, and a tire gauge onto the floor mats. He shoved his hands violently between the custom leather seats, scratching the center console with his utility belt.
"Officer, you do not have my consent to search this vehicle," Josephine stated firmly.
"I smell marijuana," Tagert lied smoothly, a rehearsed line he had used a hundred times before to manufacture probable cause. "That gives me the right to search whatever I want."
Wyatt looked at the ground, his face pale. There was no smell of marijuana. There was only the scent of new leather and expensive perfume.
Tagert popped the trunk. He found a small leather briefcase. He unlatched it, hoping to find stacks of cash or contraband. Instead, he found thick, heavily redacted files—dossiers on the Oakport Police Department's internal affairs records. Tagert, however, was too blinded by his own adrenaline and arrogance to read the headers on the files.
He saw a small velvet box next to the papers. He ripped it open, revealing a gleaming gold badge.
Tagert scoffed, tossing the box back into the trunk. "What is this? An honorary sheriff's badge from a Cracker Jack box? Fake police paraphernalia. I should write you up for impersonating an officer."
"I strongly suggest you put that back exactly where you found it," Josephine said, her voice dropping an octave, carrying the distinct, razor-sharp authority of a commanding officer.
Tagert froze for a second. The tone of her voice was deeply unsettling, triggering a subconscious instinct he couldn't quite place, but his ego quickly squashed the feeling. He slammed the trunk shut.
"You're lucky I'm in a good mood, Grandma," Tagert said, walking back to her. He shoved her driver's license against her chest. "I'm writing you a citation for failure to maintain a lane. Next time you drive through my town, you better look over your shoulder. Now, get out of here before I decide to tow this shiny little toy of yours."
Josephine took the license. She looked at Tagert's badge: Tagert, D., Badge Number 4492. She committed it to memory. Then she looked at the trembling rookie: Miller, W., Badge Number 5103.
"Have a good evening, officers," Josephine said softly. She got back into her car, ignoring the mess Tagert had made of her passenger seat, and drove away.
In the cruiser, Tagert was laughing. "See that, rookie? That's how you handle them. You got to show them who runs the streets. I guarantee you she'll never drive through Oakport again."
Wyatt stared out the window into the darkness, a heavy, sinking feeling in his gut. "Yeah, right."
The Oakport Police precinct was a brutalist concrete building that smelled perpetually of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and sweat. At 7:30 a.m. the next morning, the locker room was buzzing with a frenetic, nervous energy. The previous chief of police had been forced into early retirement a month ago after a local journalist exposed a massive embezzlement scandal involving police pension funds.
Today was the dawn of a new era. Mayor William Stanton was personally coming to the precinct to introduce the new chief of police.
Rumors had been swirling for weeks. The union reps swore the mayor was promoting Captain Hodges, an Oakport lifer who would keep the status quo. Derek Tagert stood in front of his locker, meticulously adjusting his uniform tie. He was in high spirits. With Hodges expected to take the chief's office, Tagert had been practically promised a promotion to sergeant.
"Looking sharp, Tagert," Officer Bradley Jenkins said, slapping Derek on the shoulder. "Ready for the new boss?"
"Hodges is a good man," Tagert grinned. "He knows how the streets work. He knows you can't police this town with kid gloves. We'll be fine."
Across the room, Wyatt Miller was quietly lacing up his boots. He hadn't slept a wink. The image of the elegant, composed Black woman standing on the side of the highway while Tagert trashed her car haunted him. He knew he should have intervened. He knew he should have turned on his body camera, which Tagert had conveniently told him to leave off.
"Hey, Miller!" Tagert barked across the benches. "You look like a ghost. Shake it off. Today is a good day. We're getting the department back on track."
At 7:55 a.m., the intercom crackled to life: "All available personnel, report to the main assembly room. Mandatory briefing in five minutes."
The assembly room was a massive auditorium lined with rows of folding chairs. Nearly two hundred officers, detectives, and administrative staff piled in, a sea of navy blue uniforms. Tagert took a seat in the second row, making sure he was visible; he wanted the new chief to see his face. Wyatt sat nervously in the back row near the exit.
At exactly 8:00 a.m., the side door opened. Mayor William Stanton walked onto the wooden stage. He was a tall, severe-looking man who had campaigned heavily on police reform. The room fell into a tense silence.
"Good morning," Mayor Stanton began, stepping up to the podium. He adjusted his microphone, his eyes scanning the crowd of officers. "For the past five years, the Oakport Police Department has been plagued by scandal, corruption, and a severe breach of public trust. We have settled over fourteen million dollars in excessive force lawsuits. This department is broken."
A low murmur of dissent rippled through the veteran officers. Tagert crossed his arms, rolling his eyes. Here we go with the political garbage, he thought.