Thomas stepped back from the door and hooked his thumbs into his duty belt. "Step out of the vehicle."
Marcus didn't move. He kept his hands on the wheel. "On what grounds, Deputy? Under state law, you cannot order a driver out of a vehicle during a routine traffic stop unless you have reasonable suspicion of a crime or an articulate safety concern."
"I smell marijuana coming from the cabin," Thomas lied instantly, a practiced, ironclad justification used for decades in rural jurisdictions to bypass the Fourth Amendment. "That gives me probable cause to search this vehicle and everyone in it. Step out of the car. Now."
"There is no marijuana in this vehicle, Deputy Miller, and you know it," Marcus said, his voice dropping an octave, dead serious. "I do not consent to any search of this vehicle or my personal belongings."
"I didn't ask for your consent!" Thomas roared, his hand slamming down against the roof of the Lincoln with a loud, metallic thud that vibrated through the frame. "Step out of the goddamn car before I drag you out through the window!"
Marcus calculated his options. Remaining inside meant risked being assaulted through the glass or having the window shattered. Getting out put him at the mercy of an enraged officer on an empty stretch of highway where the pine trees blocked the view from any distant farmhouses. He opened the door slowly and stepped onto the red dirt, his full six-foot-two frame uncoiling into the heat.
"Turn around and place your hands on the trunk," Thomas snapped, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his utility belt.
"Am I under arrest?" Marcus asked, standing straight, refusing to bend over the hot hood.
"You're being detained for obstructing an officer and resisting a lawful command," Thomas spat, reaching out to grab Marcus’s left wrist.
Marcus pulled his hand back just an inch—not an aggressive move, but a instinctive movement to prevent the metal cuff from biting into his skin. "I am not obstructing you, Deputy. I am asserting my constitutional rights. I am an officer of the court—"
That subtle retraction was all Thomas needed. To a man whose authority had gone unquestioned for thirty years, a Black man pulling his wrist away was an act of war.
"Resisting!" Thomas yelled.
With a brutal, heavy shove, Thomas drove Marcus forward into the rear quarter panel of the Lincoln. The attorney's face slammed hard against the hot glass of the rear window, his glasses skittering across the trunk lid and falling into the red dust below. Marcus gasped as Thomas pinned his cheek against the glass, placing a heavy, hundred-and-forty-pound knee directly into the small of Marcus's lower back.
"You think you're smart because you got a law degree?" Thomas grunted, wrenching Marcus's arm behind his back until the shoulder joint popped ominously. "You think you can come down here and destroy my department? Destroy my family's legacy?"
"Deputy... you are... violating... federal law..." Marcus managed to choke out, his breathing constricted by the weight on his spine.
Thomas didn't answer with words. He pulled his heavy leather-wrapped steel flashlight from his belt and brought it down hard across the back of Marcus’s thighs. Pain flared like white electricity through Marcus's legs. He lost his footing, his knees buckling, slipping down the side of the car into the dirt.
Thomas stood over him, breathing heavily, his face purple with rage. "Get up!" he screamed. "Get up and put your hands behind your back!"
"I can't... if you keep..." Marcus reached out blindly into the dust to steady himself, his hand inadvertently brushing against the tire iron that was strapped near the undercarriage of the old car's bumper.