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."
"Why am I being arrested?"
"You're being detained."
"For what?"
"For failure to comply."
"I've complied with everything."
"You're complying when I say you're complying."
He grabbed her left wrist, twisted it behind her back. She gasped. Her shoulder wasn't built for that anymore.
"My arm. Stop."