Brandon's face was flushed now. "Look, this is a nice neighborhood. Residents here pay good money for their homes. They have a right to feel safe. So, I'm going to need to see some ID and know why you're really here."
There it was: the tell. Why you're really here. The implication that Aisha didn't belong, that her presence in this nice neighborhood needed additional justification beyond being a human being in a public space.
"Officer," Aisha said, her tone still calm, but with steel underneath, "I don't have to provide ID unless you can articulate reasonable suspicion that I've committed, am committing, or am about to commit a crime. Can you articulate that suspicion?"
Brandon's hand moved to his belt—not to his gun, but to his cuffs. An intimidation tactic. "You're refusing to cooperate with a lawful order. That's obstruction."
"That's actually not what obstruction means," Aisha said. "Obstruction requires me to physically interfere with your duties. Asking you to justify your actions isn't interference. It's my constitutional right."
Jessica Torres was now visibly uncomfortable. "Brandon, seriously, maybe we should call a supervisor."
"I don't need a supervisor to handle someone who won't follow simple instructions," Brandon said. He looked back at Aisha. "Last chance: ID now, or you're going in cuffs for obstruction."
Aisha reached slowly into her bag.
Brandon's hand moved to his weapon. "Slow," he barked. "Real slow."
"I'm reaching for my wallet," Aisha said calmly. "Nothing else."
She pulled out a leather wallet. Inside was her driver's license, three credit cards, and a DOJ credential card that identified her as a federal investigator. She removed only the driver's license and handed it to Brandon.
Brandon looked at it: Michigan license, name Aisha Rahman. The address was in Dearborn, Michigan, which Brandon probably knew had one of the largest Muslim populations in America. He studied it for a long moment, then handed it back.
"You're a long way from Michigan," he said. "What brings you to Denver?"