Travis’s throat went bone dry. "Federal... federal registry?"
"Marcus Reed isn't a civilian corporate lawyer, Harlan," Vance said, his tone shifting from anger to pure, unadulterated panic. "He is the Senior Assistant United States Attorney for the Eastern District of North Carolina. He is the head of the Special Prosecutions and Public Integrity Division. And thirty seconds ago, my personal desk phone rang with a direct call from the Chief Judge of the Federal Circuit Court."
The microphone felt impossibly heavy in Travis’s hand. The air inside the cruiser suddenly felt thick, hot, and unbreathable.
"Vance continued, every word landing like a physical blow: "The U.S. Attorney’s Office is currently reviewing three separate civil rights complaints against this department that we’ve been trying to settle out of court for six months. Mr. Reed was on his way to a scheduled, high-level briefing with the Mayor and the District Attorney to discuss federal oversight of our precinct."
Travis stared blankly at the windshield. The words twenty minutes echoed in his mind with terrible, terrifying clarity.
Keep your badge on, Officer Harlan. You’ll need it in twenty minutes.
"Harlan, are you listening to me?!" Vance demanded over the static.
"Yes, sir," Travis whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Hand him his papers. Apologize to him. And pray to God he doesn't call a federal grand jury before I can get down to that intersection. Move!"
The radio click-off burst echoed through the cabin, leaving only the dull hum of the engine.
Travis sat in total, paralyzing silence for ten seconds. His heart was hammering wildly against his ribs, sending a cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck into his collar. He looked at his hand—it was shaking violently now.
Slowly, like a man walking toward an executioner's block, Travis gathered Marcus Reed’s driver’s license and registration paper from the passenger seat. He opened his door, stepped onto the hot asphalt, and walked toward the black Mercedes.
Marcus had not moved an inch. He stood beside his open door, his hands lightly folded across his waist, his rectangular glasses reflecting the bright afternoon sun. His expression was entirely unreadable—a smooth, impenetrable wall of complete composure.
As Travis approached, his boots felt impossibly heavy against the pavement. The confidence that had sustained him for sixteen years, the unquestioned sense of absolute authority that he carried beneath his uniform, had completely vanished, leaving behind a hollow, sickly panic.
He stopped three feet from Marcus. The red mark on Marcus’s cheek had darkened into a distinct, swollen outline of an open hand.
Travis swallowed hard, his throat dry as sand. He extended his hand, holding out the license and registration paper.
"Mr... Mr. Reed," Travis began, his voice stumbling over the syllables. "I... I just spoke with my precinct captain."
Marcus did not reach out to take the documents immediately. He simply looked down at Travis’s trembling hand, then raised his eyes to meet the officer’s gaze.
"Did Captain Vance give you new instructions, Officer Harlan?" Marcus asked softly.
Travis’s face burned with a deep, agonizing embarrassment. The young woman with the phone was still recording from the curb, her camera focused entirely on the scene. The delivery driver was watching silently from his bench.
"Mr. Reed, there... there was a misunderstanding regarding the nature of the traffic light," Travis stammered, his eyes darting nervously toward the ground. "Upon... upon secondary review, you are free to go. No citation will be issued."
Marcus slowly reached out and took his license and registration paper from Travis’s fingers, sliding them neatly back inside his charcoal suit jacket.
"And my apology?" Marcus asked, his tone as light and casual as if he were asking for the time of day.
Travis felt his stomach drop into a bottomless pit. Every fiber of his pride screamed against the words, but the terrifying image of Captain Vance’s panic forced them up through his throat.
"I... I apologize for the inconvenience, sir," Travis choked out, unable to hold Marcus’s eyes.
Marcus stood silently for a moment, letting the apology float in the air between them, completely unacknowledged. Then, he raised his left hand and adjusted the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a sleek, dark silver wrist watch.
"It has been precisely nineteen minutes since I asked you if your body camera was running," Marcus said quietly.
Travis stared at him, his mouth slightly open, incapable of speech.
Marcus turned, opened the door of his Mercedes, and sat down in the leather driver's seat. Before closing the door, he looked up at Travis one final time through the open window.
"Keep that camera attached to your vest, Officer," Marcus said, his voice calm, measured, and final. "My office will be impounding the original digital storage drive from your precinct station by five o'clock today."
Marcus pulled the door shut with a solid, heavy thud. The engine of the Mercedes purred to life with a quiet, powerful hum. The sedan pulled away smoothly from the curb, signaled gracefully, and merged into the flow of afternoon traffic on Lexington Street, disappearing into the city.