"License, registration, and proof of insurance!" Tagert barked, skipping any form of professional greeting. He leaned heavily against the driver's side door, intentionally smudging the pristine paint job with his tactical vest.
"Good evening, officer," Josephine said, her voice smooth, deep, and steady. "May I ask why I am being pulled over?"
"I ask the questions here!" Tagert snapped. "Hand over the documents before I rip you out of this vehicle for resisting."
Josephine did not flinch. Thirty-five years in law enforcement had immunized her to the intimidation tactics of small-minded men in uniforms. She knew exactly what Tagert was doing. She also knew that the Oakport mayor had placed a strict embargo on her identity until tomorrow morning's press conference. As far as the world was concerned, she was just Josephine Reynolds, civilian.
"My license is in my purse on the passenger seat," Josephine stated clearly, narrating her movements to ensure there were no misunderstandings. She slowly retrieved her Illinois driver's license and the car's registration, handing them through the window.
Tagert snatched them. He barely glanced at the name. "Josephine, huh? Whose car is this, Josephine?"
"It is my vehicle, officer."
"Right. Sure it is," Tagert laughed mockingly. He shone a bright tactical flashlight directly into her eyes, though she was already fully illuminated. "Step out of the car."
Wyatt, standing nervously near the rear bumper, stepped forward. "Derek, we just need to run the plates."
"Shut up, Wyatt!" Tagert barked. He turned his attention back to Josephine. "I said step out of the vehicle now."
"Officer, under Pennsylvania v. Mimms, you have the right to order me out of the vehicle," Josephine said calmly, reciting the Supreme Court precedent perfectly. "But I would like to establish for the record that I have committed no traffic violation, and you have no reasonable, articulable suspicion to detain me."
Tagert's face flushed a deep, violent crimson. He despised civilians who knew the law, and he especially despised minorities who spoke to him as equals.
"Get out of the damn car before I smash this window and drag you out by your hair!" Tagert roared, his hand unfastening the retention strap on his holster.
Josephine remained perfectly composed, though her jaw tightened. She opened the door and stepped out into the cool ocean breeze. She was only 5'5", but she carried herself with a towering, immovable dignity.
"Turn around, hands on the roof," Tagert ordered.
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."