Jordan listened without turning around. This was no longer only about whether Whitmore believed him; it was about whether Cole would remain silent while another officer invented reasons to justify a decision already made.
Whitmore reached for the tablet. Cole held it back.
"The vehicle identification number matches. The insurance is active. The registered owner shares his address. His license is valid. There is nothing here."
Whitmore glanced toward the growing line of onlookers. For the first time, uncertainty touched his face—not remorse, not yet, only the awareness that the story was becoming harder to control.
"People forge records," he said.
"Not live state records," Cole replied.
Whitmore ignored him and lifted the family photograph again. He studied Marcus more carefully this time, perhaps searching for recognition. The face seemed familiar, but not familiar enough to stop him.
"Your father works for the federal government," he said to Jordan. "What division?"
Jordan remained quiet.
"I asked you a question."
"I already answered your questions," Jordan said. "You chose not to believe the answers."
Whitmore set the photograph down with more force than necessary. "You're not in a position to be difficult."
"I'm not being difficult. I'm standing here restrained beside a legally registered car while you look for a reason to keep me here."
Cole looked at Whitmore. The truth of the sentence was impossible to avoid.
Jordan's phone lit up again, but this time no sound came from it. A message appeared across the screen: Stay calm. I'm almost there.