Stepping out of his cruiser, Bennett adjusted his duty belt, the heavy leather creaking in the suffocating silence of the afternoon. He walked with a specific, practiced swagger—chest puffed out, right hand resting casually near the holster of his Glock 19. He didn't approach the window immediately. Instead, he paused at the tail light of the Malibu, pressing his thumb against the plastic to leave a fingerprint, a textbook tactic from the academy.
In his side mirror, Marcus watched the officer’s approach. He saw the rigid posture. He saw the aggressive, jutting set of the young man's jaw. After decades of interviewing hostile subjects, Marcus knew exactly what was coming.
"Driver," Bennett barked, his voice artificially loud, projecting for the benefit of his own body camera. "Keep your hands where I can see them."
Marcus didn't turn his head. He spoke straight ahead, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that had silenced chaotic boardrooms in D.C. "My hands are on the wheel, officer. The engine is off. How can I help you this afternoon?"
"I need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance. Do not reach for them until I tell you to."
Marcus remained perfectly still. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to look the young patrolman in the eye. "Officer, before I reach for anything, I’d like to know the reason for this stop. I was traveling forty-five in a fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone. I signaled my merge. My tail lights are functional. What is the articulable, reasonable suspicion for this detention?"
Bennett blinked. He wasn't used to questions. He was used to yes, sir and sorry, sir. The question hung in the heavy, hot air between them, dangerous and entirely unexpected.
Bennett leaned in closer, invading the space of the open window. The smell of chewing tobacco and cheap drugstore cologne drifted into the car. "I didn’t ask you for a speech, sir. I asked for your identification. Now, are you going to comply, or do I need to remove you from the vehicle?"
Marcus didn't flinch. He had stared down cartel money launderers and corrupt state senators. A twenty-nine-year-old patrolman with an attitude problem wasn't going to rattle him.
"Officer," Marcus said, his voice as steady as a metronome. "Under Delaware v. Prouse, you cannot stop a motorist solely to check their license and registration without reasonable suspicion that a traffic violation or a crime has occurred. I am asking you for the record—and note that I have a dash cam recording inside this vehicle as well—what crime do you suspect me of committing?"