Derek stared at it like he was looking at evidence. "What's all this?"
"Donations," Beatrice said. "For the Veterans' Food Pantry on Oak Street. I volunteer there every Saturday."
Derek picked up a can of chicken noodle soup, turned it in his hand, put it down. Picked up another, tomato, set it beside the first. Like he was conducting an inventory of a crime scene. "That's a lot of supplies for one person."
"It's not for one person. It's for the pantry."
"Who told you to bring all this?"
"Nobody told me. I've been doing this for eleven years."
Derek looked at Craig. A look passed between them. The kind of look that means nothing to a camera, but everything to the person standing in front of it. "You're running some kind of operation, ma'am."
Beatrice turned her head. "Excuse me?"
"I asked you a question. All this stuff. Who's it really for?"
"I just told you. It's for veterans."
"Yeah, you said that." He closed the trunk slowly, let the lid hang for a second before it clicked shut. "We'll see."
Then he turned to her purse. It was still on the passenger seat. He walked around, opened the passenger door, grabbed it, and dumped the entire contents onto the hood of the car. Everything scattered. Reading glasses, wallet, a tube of hand cream, her VA medical card, a small leather Bible with a cracked spine. A photograph. James in his dress uniform, smiling.
The photo slid across the hood and almost fell off the edge. Beatrice reached for it.
"Don't touch that." Derek pointed at her, one finger, like scolding a child.
She pulled her hand back, watched the photo of her dead husband sitting on the hot metal hood of her car. Face up. James smiling at the sky.
Derek picked up the VA card, turned it over, read it. "US Department of Veterans Affairs. Beatrice A. Taylor." He tossed it back on the pile. It landed on the Bible. He picked up the wallet, opened it, counted the cash. $42. He put it down without a word.
"What about in here?" He held up the Bible.
"That's my Bible."
"I can see that. What's inside it?"
"Scripture."
Derek flipped through the pages, shook it like something was supposed to fall out. Nothing did. He dropped it on the hood. The spine cracked a little more.
Beatrice watched her whole life spread across the hood of her Honda like evidence at a crime scene. Glasses, wallet, Bible, VA card, a photo of the man she loved for 41 years. And two cops standing over it all, picking through it, tossing things around.
"This is humiliating," she said.
"What was that?"
"I said, this is humiliating. You've searched my car. You've gone through my purse. You found nothing because there's nothing to find."
Derek stepped toward her. "You don't get to tell me when I'm done."
"I want your badge number. Both of you."
"You already asked for that, and you didn't give it."
"I'm asking again."
Derek smiled. Not a warm smile. The kind that says, *I dare you.*
"File a complaint."
"I will. And I want to call my son."
"No calls."
"I have a right to."
"You have a right to stand there and be quiet. That's what you have."
Beatrice's jaw tightened. She turned to Craig. He'd been silent the entire time, standing there, arms folded, watching. "Young man," she said. "You see what's happening here? Is this what they taught you at the academy?"
Craig blinked. His mouth opened slightly. For a half-second, something crossed his face. Maybe discomfort, maybe recognition. Then it was gone. "Ma'am, just cooperate and this will be over soon."
"I have cooperated from the first second. I've done everything he asked."
Craig looked away. Dorothy Perkins was still filming across the street. Another car had pulled over. The driver was recording from inside. Craig swallowed hard but said nothing.
Derek came back around the car. He was done pretending to search. Now he was just standing in her space. Close. Too close. She could smell his sweat mixing with the morning heat.
"You know what your problem is?" he said. "You think because you're old, you get to mouth off. You think you get special treatment."
"I think I get treated like a citizen."
"You get treated like what I decide." He poked her shoulder with two fingers. Not hard, just enough to make her take a step back.
She didn't take the step. She stood exactly where she was. 74 years old, bad knee, floral blouse, gold cross, and she did not move.
Something shifted in Derek's eyes. He wasn't annoyed anymore. He was angry because she wasn't breaking. She wasn't crying. She wasn't begging. She was standing on her own street, looking him in the face. And she was not afraid. That made him dangerous.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," he said. "Step to the back of the vehicle and put your hands behind your back."