"We visited a family member's grave. Riverside Memorial Gardens."
Calhoun's eyes moved to Renata, who had finally stepped out of the vehicle at Okafor's second instruction. She stood with her leather portfolio under her arm. Her expression was the same as it had been since the moment the lights came on: present, attentive, disclosing nothing.
"What's in the case?"
"Personal documents."
"I'm going to need to see those."
"No," Renata said. "You're not."
Okafor took one step toward her. He was close. Too close. And he was using that proximity the way he used his size: as a statement, a declaration of hierarchy delivered through physical space. "You want to run that by me again?"
"The contents of that portfolio are private documents. You have not established probable cause for a search. Under Florida Statute Section 901.151, a stop and detention requires articulable reasonable suspicion of criminal activity. 'Failure to maintain lane,'" she said it with a quality that made the words into quotation marks around themselves, "'does not provide probable cause for a search.'"
Calhoun turned toward her slowly. His expression had changed. It was no longer the expression of a man inconvenienced; it was the expression of a man who had decided to win something for reasons that had nothing to do with law enforcement.
"You a lawyer?"
"I didn't say that."
"You sound like one."
"I sound like someone who read the statute posted on the notice board at the precinct waiting room," Renata said, "which is publicly accessible information."