“Slowly,” Travis ordered.
Marcus reached back into his jacket with deliberate, agonizing slowness, using only two fingers to retrieve a thin leather wallet. He unfolded it, slid his North Carolina driver’s license out from behind the clear plastic window, and extended it toward the open car frame. Travis snatched the card from his hand, studying the glossy surface for much longer than was necessary to read a name and date of birth.
“Marcus Reed.”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing in Brookhaven, Mr. Reed?”
“I’m driving to a meeting.”
“What kind of meeting?”
Marcus tilted his head slightly, the light reflecting off the top edge of his glasses. “Is that relevant to the traffic stop, Officer?”
Travis’s jaw tightened. The muscles along his cheek twitched once. “You want to start this conversation that way?”
Marcus remained entirely motionless, his voice level and steady. “I’m simply asking why you stopped me.”
“You went through a light back at Jefferson,” Travis said, his tone dropping into an aggressive register.
“It was yellow when I crossed the stop line.”
“It turned red.”
“After I had already entered the intersection,” Marcus corrected gently.
Travis leaned down, placing his forearm along the bottom edge of the open window frame, bringing his face within eighteen inches of Marcus’s profile. “Are you telling me how traffic law works in this city?”
Marcus turned his head and looked directly at the small, black body camera attached to the center of Travis’s tactical vest. The tiny LED light was glowing a steady, solid green.
“No,” Marcus replied softly. “I’m asking you to tell me what specific traffic violation you believe occurred.”
Travis stared at him. Over sixteen years on the force, people usually reacted in one of two distinct ways when his voice dropped into that low, threatening register. They either apologized profusely and begged for leniency, or they became visibly angry, giving him a clear, easy justification to escalate the encounter. Marcus Reed did neither. He simply sat there, calm, motionless, and terrifyingly composed.
It irritated Travis more than an outright insult would have.
“Registration paperwork,” Travis demanded.
Marcus reached his right arm smoothly toward the passenger side glove compartment.
“Stop!” Travis yelled again.
Once more, Marcus stopped instantly, his hand hovering over the center console. Travis unholstered the security strap on his duty belt, his palm resting heavily on the grip of his pistol.
“You make another sudden move before I give you an explicit instruction,” Travis said, leaning farther into the car, “and you are getting pulled out through this window. Do you understand me?”
Marcus’s expression shifted subtly. It was not fear that crossed his features; it was a quiet, sudden recognition. It was as though a picture he had been studying from a distance had suddenly clicked into sharp focus.
Marcus spoke slowly, measuring every syllable. “My registration paperwork is inside the glove compartment.”
“I know where the registration is stored.”
“Then may I retrieve it now?” Marcus asked.
Travis stared down at him for three full seconds, letting the heat of the afternoon sun beat down on the roof of the Mercedes. “Go.”
Marcus opened the glove box, removed a neatly folded piece of white paper, and handed it over without making sudden movements. Travis snatched the paper, opened it, and checked the VIN against his clipboard. Everything matched perfectly. The car belonged to Marcus Reed. The address was correct. The insurance was active. There was nothing left to check. He could have easily walked back to his cruiser, written a quick warning or a routine equipment check slip, handed back the documents, and ended the stop right then and there.
Instead, Travis folded the paper, held onto the driver’s license, and stepped back from the door.
“Step out of the vehicle.”
Marcus looked out at him through the glass. “Why?”
“That wasn’t a request, and it wasn’t a question,” Travis said, his hand remaining locked on his duty belt. “Step out.”
“I understand,” Marcus said, his tone remaining remarkably flat and low. “But I would like to know the reason you are ordering me outside of my vehicle.”
Travis didn't answer with words. He grabbed the exterior door handle, pulled the door wide open, and stepped into the swing arc. Marcus immediately moved both of his hands away from the door panel, holding them raised at chest height inside the cabin.
“Because I told you to,” Travis said. The words hung heavy in the warm afternoon air between them.
Marcus looked past Travis toward the concrete sidewalk. A few local pedestrians were passing by on their afternoon routines. A young woman wearing scrub pants had slowed her pace, watching the interaction with an anxious expression. Outside a small Italian restaurant twenty feet away, a delivery driver stood on the curb holding two large cardboard catering boxes, his eyes locked on the police cruiser’s flashing lights.
Marcus turned his gaze back to the officer. “Officer, I am not resisting you in any way.”