He reached the driver's side window just as the door clicked and began to push open. Griggs planted his feet, resting his right hand casually but deliberately on the butt of his service weapon, ready to unleash a torrent of abuse on whatever poor, terrified civilian dared to step out into the rain.
The door of the Camry swung open, and Evelyn Carter stepped out into the neo-noir glow of the flashing police lights.
Griggs blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. He had expected a terrified teenager, a panicked gig worker, or a weary middle-class worker. He had not expected the woman standing before him.
Evelyn stood tall, her posture radiating an effortless, terrifying authority. The mustard-yellow silk of her blouse caught the erratic red and blue lights, creating a high-contrast spectacle against the deep navy blue of her tailored trousers. She did not tremble. She did not look at her ruined car. She looked directly at Griggs, her dark, wavy hair catching the rim light of the streetlamps, framing a face that was dangerously composed.
She reached into the car, smoothly retrieving a black leather designer handbag, which she draped elegantly over her left forearm.
"You hit my cruiser!" Griggs barked, recovering his aggressive facade, stepping directly into her personal space to use his bulk to intimidate her. He thrust a thick, trembling finger inches from her face. "What the hell is wrong with you? Did you get your license out of a cereal box?"
Evelyn did not flinch. She simply tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes scanning his face. She noted the dilated pupils, the sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the air, the frantic, guilty energy vibrating off his large frame.
"I was stopped at a red light, Officer," Evelyn said. Her voice was not loud, but it possessed a rich, resonant timber that cut through the hiss of the rain and the hum of the engines. It was the voice of a woman accustomed to speaking in boardrooms where billions of dollars hung on her every syllable.
"Bullshit!" Griggs roared, spittle flying from his lips. He waved his hand frantically toward the wreckage. "You backed into me! You threw it in reverse! Are you drunk? Are you high? Because if you keep running your mouth, I'll write you up for reckless driving, assault on an officer, and whatever else I can find in that car of yours!"
He waited for the tears. He waited for the stuttering apologies, the frantic pleading that usually followed his tirades.
Instead, Evelyn Carter simply crossed her arms. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of her lips—a look of pure, unadulterated pity mixed with disdain.
"You hit my vehicle while I was completely stationary," Evelyn replied, her tone conversational, as if she were correcting a child on a minor point of grammar. "And before you continue manufacturing a narrative that will inevitably end your career, you should know that this vehicle is equipped with a 360-degree telemetry and recording suite. My cameras recorded every second of your approach, your speed, and your impact."