The heavy thud of a car door closing echoed over the hum of the police cruiser's engine. Heavy boots crunched against the wet gravel.
Deputy Harris walked toward her vehicle with the slow, arrogant swagger of a man who believed he was completely untouchable. At forty-four, Harris was a thick, heavily muscled Caucasian man with a tight buzz cut and a face hardened by years of unquestioned authority. Dressed in his tan patrol uniform, his heavy leather duty belt creaking with every step, he operated under a simple, corrupt philosophy: the badge granted him the power to shape reality however he saw fit.
Harris didn't stop at the driver’s side window to ask for her license and registration. He bypassed protocol entirely. He walked straight to the rear passenger door of her sedan and yanked the handle. Maya had purposefully left the doors unlocked.
Maya stepped out of the driver's seat, her movements smooth and unhurried. She walked to the back of the car, resting her hands casually on the trunk as she watched the officer lean halfway into her backseat. He rustled around in the dark for mere seconds before pulling his arm out.
When Harris turned around, a sickeningly triumphant smirk twisted his features. The flashing red and blue lights illuminated the large, plastic ziplock bag he was holding up in his right hand. It was filled with a heavy amount of coarse white powder.
"Wow, look at that," Harris said, his voice dripping with mock surprise and predatory amusement. He took a step toward her, holding the planted evidence high. "You really thought you could drive around with this in your car?"