He waited. The cruiser stopped eight feet away. The door opened. Tull stepped out.
"Get off the bike. Hands where I can see them, now." Micah complied. He stepped off the bike, let it fall, raised his hands. The newspaper scattered.
And then Tull was close. Too close. The distance between his chest and Micah's face was less than 2 ft. Micah could smell coffee and after shave and the chemical residue of gun oil.
The flashlight went into his eyes and stayed there. What are you doing in this neighborhood at this hour? Sir, I'm delivering newspapers. My road covers Collier Ridge.
My delivery list is in the front pocket of my bag. Turn around. Sir, I'm a minor. I have the right to have a guardian or parent present before any search of my person.
If you'd like to verify my delivery route, my list is visible in the bag. Tull's jaw tightened. The flashlight did not move for 3 seconds. Neither of them spoke.
The body camera on Tull's chest recorded everything. The red light pulsing in the gray predawn air like a second heartbeat. Then Tull reached down and grabbed the satchel. He did not ask.
He pulled it off Micah's shoulder hard enough that the strap caught on the boy's ear and scraped the skin behind it. Micah winced, but did not step back. Tull upended the bag onto the sidewalk. Newspapers, rubber bands, a pencil, a folded delivery manifest, and a small digital voice recorder tumbled out and spread across the concrete.
Tull stared at the pile, 26 newspapers, a list of addresses, a pencil, a recorder, no weapon, no contraband, no tools, nothing that matched the word suspicious in any definition a court would recognize. He picked up the voice recorder. What's this? A voice recorder.