Simone looked at him.
“Are we being detained?”
The question changed his posture.
Not much.
But I saw it.
People who know procedure often force other people to choose words carefully.
Rourke said:
“I’m conducting an investigation.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Ma’am—”
“Are we free to leave?”
He paused.
“No.”
Simone nodded.
“Then we are detained.”
Rourke stared at her.
“Identification.”
I reached slowly toward my back pocket.
“Wallet.”
“Two fingers.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Use two fingers. Pull it out slowly.”
I did.
My pulse had started to rise.
Not because I had done anything wrong.
Because I understood what had changed.
I handed him my driver’s license.
Franklin address.
Clean record.
Nothing interesting.
He looked at Simone.
“Yours.”
She reached into the canvas bag beside her chair.
Rourke’s hand went toward his belt.
“Stop.”
Simone froze.
“My wallet is in the bag.”
“Then tell me before you reach.”
“You just told me to show identification.”
“Don’t argue.”
She looked at him for a long second.
Then said:
“My wallet is inside the front pocket of the blue bag.”
“Slowly.”
She opened it.
Pulled out a leather credential case.
Then handed it over.
Rourke opened it.
The upper half contained a state judicial identification card.
HON. SIMONE L. CARTER
CIRCUIT COURT JUDGE
FRANKLIN COUNTY
The lower half held a metal judicial badge issued by the state court administration for courthouse and law-enforcement identification.
Rourke stared at it.
Then at her.
Then back at it.
And laughed.
“This is fake.”
Simone said nothing.
He flipped the case over.
“What website did you order this from?”
My jaw tightened.
“She’s a judge.”
Rourke looked at me.
“I told you to stay out of it.”
“She is.”
“You two think this is funny?”
“No.”
He held the badge up.
“You understand impersonating a judicial official can get you arrested?”
Simone finally spoke.
“Then I suggest you verify the credential.”
Rourke smiled.
“Oh, I will.”
“Good.”
“But until I do, you’re both staying right here.”
“We already established that.”
The smile disappeared.
Something about Simone’s calmness bothered him.
It often bothered aggressive attorneys too.
She did not become louder when challenged.
She became slower.
Cleaner.
More exact.
Rourke put her credential case on the hood of his cruiser.
Then keyed his radio.
“Dispatch, run two names.”
He gave mine first.
Then hers.
There was a pause.
“Spell last.”
“Carter.”
Another pause.
“First Simone.”
Silence.
Then dispatch responded with license information.
Address.
Date of birth.
Vehicle registration.
Nothing about judicial status.
Rourke smirked.
He looked at Simone.
“Dispatch has you as Simone Carter. No judge information.”
She almost smiled.
“My driver’s license does not list my occupation.”
Rourke’s jaw tightened.
“You said this badge is official.”
“It is.”
“Dispatch can’t confirm it.”
“You asked motor-vehicle records to confirm a judicial commission.”
I looked away.
That sentence was so obviously correct that even I felt secondhand embarrassment for him.
Rourke’s face flushed.
“I know how to do my job.”
Simone nodded.
“Then do it.”
That made it worse.
He stepped toward her.
“Stand up.”
She looked at him.
“Why?”
“Stand.”
I stood too.
He turned sharply.
“You sit down.”
“That’s my wife.”
“And she is being detained.”
“So am I.”
“You want cuffs?”
I held his gaze.
Then sat.
Not because I wanted to.
Because Simone looked at me once.
That was enough.
We had been married twenty-four years.
I knew what that look meant.
Do not give him anything.
Simone stood.
Rourke pointed toward the cruiser.
“Walk over there.”
She did.
Slowly.
He told her to put her hands on the hood.
She looked at him.
“For what purpose?”
“Officer safety.”
“I have not threatened you.”
“Hands on the hood.”
She complied.
People were watching now.
The chess players.
A family from two tables down.
The woman in the pink windbreaker stood near the path with her arms folded.
I saw satisfaction on her face.
That was when I knew she had called.
Rourke patted Simone down.
My wife.
A sitting circuit court judge.
A woman who had sentenced armed robbers, signed search warrants, handled homicide trials, and spent nearly two decades listening to officers testify about probable cause.
Standing beside a police cruiser because someone reported a Black couple eating lunch.
Rourke removed nothing.
“No weapons.”
Simone looked over her shoulder.
“I could have told you that.”
“Face forward.”
She did.
He walked back toward me.
“Your turn.”
I stood.
“Hands on the hood.”
I complied.
He patted me down too.
Then he took both our phones from the table.
Simone turned.
“Why are you seizing our phones?”
“I’m securing the scene.”
“What scene?”
“The investigation.”
“What probable cause connects our phones to any suspected offense?”
“Ma’am, enough.”
“No.”
Rourke froze.
Simone’s voice did not rise.
“You may temporarily control movement during a lawful detention. That does not automatically give you authority to seize unrelated personal property.”
Rourke stared at her.
Then he smiled.
“So now you’re a lawyer too?”
Simone looked at him.
“I was one before I became a judge.”
One of the chess players coughed to hide a laugh.
Rourke heard it.
His face darkened further.
He put the phones back on the table.
“Fine.”
Then he turned toward me.
“You’re both awfully rehearsed.”
I said nothing.
“What?”
Still nothing.
“Lost your voice?”
Simone said:
“Malcolm.”
I looked at her.
She gave another small shake of her head.
Rourke noticed.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“That signal.”
“My wife telling me not to argue with you.”
“Why?”
This time I smiled.
“Because she knows me.”
Rourke stepped closer.
“No, I think she’s telling you what story to stick to.”
That was the first moment Simone’s expression genuinely changed.
Not fear.
Disgust.
“You think we fabricated my identity before coming here to eat lunch?”
“I think people do strange things.”
“So do I.”
He missed the irony.
The woman in the pink jacket approached.
“Officer?”
Rourke turned.
She pointed toward us.
“I’m the one who called.”
Of course.
Rourke walked over.
“What’s your name?”
“Margaret Lowell.”
She lowered her voice, but not enough.
“I’ve never seen them here before.”
Simone stared at her.
Margaret continued.
“I walk this park every day.”
Rourke nodded.
“And you saw them near vehicles?”