Beatrice didn't fidget. She waited.
Derek stepped out first, adjusted his belt, took his time. Craig came out on the passenger side and hung back near the rear bumper. Standard positioning: one at the window, one watching from behind.
Derek walked up to the driver's side. He didn't lean down to eye level the way you're trained to. He stood tall, looked down, made her crane her neck up to see his face. He didn't say good morning, didn't introduce himself, didn't explain why he stopped her.
"License and registration."
Beatrice kept her hands on the wheel. "Good morning, officer. May I ask why I've been pulled over?"
"License and registration. Did I stutter?"
"My purse is on the passenger seat. I'm going to reach for it now." She moved her right hand slowly, deliberately.
"Hands on the wheel!" Derek snapped. His hand went to his hip.
Beatrice froze. Her hand stopped midair. "You just asked me for my documents, sir."
"I tell you when to move, not the other way around."
She put her hand back, waited. Three seconds. Five. Ten.
"Now, slowly."
She reached across, opened her purse, pulled out her wallet, handed him the license. The registration was in the glove box. She told him so.
"Open it."
She leaned over and opened the glove compartment, pulled out the registration, handed it through the window. Derek looked at the license, looked at her, looked at the license again. Like something didn't add up. Like her face didn't match the name. Like a 74-year-old woman in a floral blouse was somehow suspicious.
"Sit tight." He walked back to the cruiser.
Beatrice sat, hands on the wheel. The gospel station played low. The morning sun was climbing above the oaks. She could smell the magnolia through the open window. Five minutes passed. Then seven. Then ten.
In the cruiser, Derek ran her plate. It came back clean. Ran her license. Spotless. Not even a parking ticket. 22 years at the same address. Valid registration. Valid insurance. Everything perfect.
He came back anyway. "Ma'am, your left taillight is flickering."
It wasn't. Both taillights were working fine. Dorothy Perkins could see them from her porch. Later, her phone footage would prove it.
"I had them checked last month," Beatrice said. "Both lights are working."
"Are you arguing with me?"
"No, sir. I'm telling you a fact."
Derek leaned on the window frame. His face was close now. She could smell his coffee breath. "Here's a fact for you. Your license isn't coming up clean in our system. There's a flag."
There was no flag. There was no system issue. He made it up right there on the spot.
"That's not possible," Beatrice said. "My record is clean."
"Ma'am, I need you to step out of the vehicle."
"For a taillight?"
"For your safety and mine. Step out."