Beatrice looked at him. She'd served under commanders in Desert Storm. She'd walked through checkpoints in Bosnia. She'd handled pressure that would break men half her age. She knew what this was. But she also knew what happened to Black people who refused.
"I'll step out," she said. "But I'd like your badge number first."
"You don't need my badge number. I'm entitled to—what you're entitled to is following my instructions. Now, step out of the vehicle or I'll remove you myself. Your choice."
She unbuckled her seat belt slowly. Her knee was stiff from sitting. She opened the door, swung her legs out, planted her feet on the curb, stood up. It took her a few seconds. The knee didn't cooperate the way it used to. She held the door for balance.
Derek didn't wait. "Move to the back of the vehicle."
"I'm moving. My knee—"
"Faster."
"I just had a knee replacement."
"I don't need your medical history. Move."
She limped toward the trunk. Craig was already there, standing with his arms crossed. He didn't say a word, just watched her approach with flat, empty eyes.
"Hands on the trunk," Derek said.
Beatrice placed her hands on the warm metal. The canned goods shifted underneath. She could hear them rolling. 14 cans of soup, eight cans of beans, children's books, blankets for veterans.
"Spread your feet."
She was 74 years old, standing on a public street, hands on the trunk of her own car, being told to spread her feet like a suspect. At 9:20 on a Saturday morning, two blocks from her front door.
Derek radioed in. His voice was calm, almost bored. "Dispatch, I've got a possible unregistered vehicle at Elm and Magnolia. The driver is non-compliant. Requesting a unit for backup."
*Non-compliant.*
She'd done everything he asked. Every single thing. She'd handed over her documents, stepped out of the car, walked to the trunk, put her hands down, and he called her non-compliant.
The radio crackled back: "10-4. Unit en route."
Craig shifted his weight. He glanced across the street. Dorothy Perkins was standing on her porch now, coffee mug still in one hand, phone in the other, held up. Recording.
Craig leaned toward Derek, whispered. "The neighbor's got her phone out."
Derek didn't even turn. "Let her record. She'll see us doing our jobs."
Beatrice stared at the trunk. At her own reflection in the paint, distorted, small. She said quietly, "I've lived on this street for 22 years. I know everyone on this block. You know I didn't do anything."
Derek stepped close behind her. Close enough that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. "Ma'am, the only thing I know is that you're going to stand right there and keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise."
She closed her eyes, her gold cross pressed against her chest.