“Keep your badge on, Officer Harlan.”
Travis frowned, taken aback by the strange phrase. “What?”
“You’ll need it in about twenty minutes,” Marcus said.
The surrounding witnesses fell completely silent. Even Travis stopped mid-breath, his brow furrowing as he processed the calm certainty in the driver’s tone.
Then, Travis forced a loud, harsh laugh. “Is that a threat? Are you threatening a police officer?”
“No,” Marcus said.
“That sounded an awful lot like a threat to me.”
“It wasn't a threat,” Marcus repeated softly.
“Then what the hell was it?”
Marcus looked past Travis’s shoulder toward the quiet interior of his Mercedes sedan. “It was a suggestion.”
Travis reached down to his belt and unclipped his steel handcuffs with a loud, metallic click. “You think you’re somebody important, don't you? You think you can talk to me like that?”
Marcus offered no reply.
“Who do you think you are?” Travis demanded, stepping closer and grabbing Marcus’s left forearm. “Who are you?”
“You already have my identification in your hand,” Marcus said calmly.
“I asked you a question! Who are you?!”
Marcus looked down at the lens of the body camera mounted on Travis’s chest, then looked directly into Travis’s eyes.
“Marcus Reed.”
“That’s all?” Travis sneered, pulling the handcuff around his wrist.
“For now,” Marcus said.
Travis yanked Marcus’s arm around his back with unnecessary force. Marcus did not resist the physical contact at all; he allowed his arm to be moved, keeping his body loose and compliant as Travis shoved him face-first against the side window of the Mercedes.
The young woman on the sidewalk stepped off the curb, holding her phone higher. “He didn't do anything to you! I have the whole thing on video! You hit him!”
Travis whirled around, keeping one hand clamped on Marcus’s back. “Get back on the sidewalk! Back up right now!”
She did not retreat. “You’re being recorded! I’m live-streaming this!”
“I said get the hell back!” Travis yelled, his voice cracking with rage.
Marcus spoke quietly against the glass of his car window. “Officer Harlan.”
Travis froze instantly, his grip tightening on Marcus’s coat. He had never told this man his name. He hadn't introduced himself, and he wasn't wearing an easily readable nametag over his radio strap.
Marcus continued smoothly, his cheek resting against the glass. “You really should focus on your own conduct right now.”
Travis turned him around roughly. “How the hell do you know my name?”
Marcus tilted his chin downward, looking at the small, dark blue embroidered nameplate sewn directly above the left pocket of Travis’s uniform shirt.
“Your uniform,” Marcus said softly.
Travis glanced down at his own chest. For a fraction of a second, a dark wave of intense embarrassment washed over his face, replacing the blind aggression that had driven him for the last five minutes. But almost instantly, an even thicker layer of anger surged up to cover it.
“You trying to be funny with me?” Travis hissed.
“No,” Marcus replied.
Travis released his grip on Marcus’s arm, stepping back a pace while keeping his hand near his holster. Marcus calmly straightened the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket, brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve, and stood waiting on the pavement.
The traffic stop had lasted exactly seven minutes.
Twenty feet away on the sidewalk, Alyssa Grant kept her phone camera pointed steadily at the scene. She was twenty-four years old, a second-year nursing student at the local community college, and had simply been walking toward the subway entrance when the loud confrontation caught her attention. She had only started recording after hearing Travis yelling at the driver to get out of the vehicle, but her camera had captured the physical strike with absolute, terrifying clarity.
So had the high-definition outdoor security camera mounted above the Italian restaurant’s entrance.
So had Travis’s own chest-mounted body camera.
Marcus Reed knew about all three of those recording devices. He knew the precise angle of the restaurant’s dome camera, he knew the coverage field of the smartphone lens, and he knew the technical specifications of the police department’s Axon body-worn units.
That was more than enough.
Travis took three steps back toward his idling patrol cruiser, holding Marcus’s driver’s license and registration in his left hand.
Marcus raised his voice slightly, his tone completely steady. “Am I free to go, Officer?”
Travis turned his head around, glaring over his shoulder. “No.”
“For what specific legal reason am I currently being detained?” Marcus asked.
“An ongoing investigation,” Travis barked back.
“An investigation of what?”
Travis stared at him across the roof of the car, his teeth gritted. “You’re obstructing a law enforcement officer.”
A faint, almost invisible smile touched the corners of Marcus Reed’s mouth. “By standing precisely where you ordered me to stand?”
“Keep pushing me, pal,” Travis warned, his hand hovering over his belt. “Just keep pushing.”
Marcus did not push. He did not say another word. He simply stood beside his black sedan, his hands resting lightly at his sides, watching Officer Travis Harlan walk back to his cruiser.