CHAPTER TWO: THE STOP
The heavy thud of a car door closing echoed in the quiet twilight. Iris watched in her side mirror as a young officer approached. He had a tight, military-style haircut and a tense posture. His hand was resting casually, yet purposefully, on the butt of his service weapon. His name tag read VOSS.
"Evening," Officer Grant Voss said, shining a high-powered Maglite directly into Iris's eyes, blinding her momentarily. He leaned in close to the window, his gaze sweeping over the luxurious leather interior, lingering on the high-tech center console, and finally resting on Iris. The look in his eyes was a mix of suspicion and disdain.
"Good evening, Officer," Iris replied, her voice steady, keeping her eyes forward. "Is there a problem?"
"License, registration, and proof of insurance," Voss demanded, ignoring her question.
"My license is in my wallet, which is in my purse on the passenger seat. My registration and insurance are in the glove compartment. I am going to reach for them now. Is that alright?"
Voss frowned, clearly annoyed by her textbook compliance. "Just get them."
Moving slowly and deliberately, Iris retrieved the documents and handed them through the window.
"Iris Bennett," he read slowly, mispronouncing her last name slightly as if to test her. "Whose car is this, Iris?"
"It is my vehicle, Officer."
"Yours? A twenty-four-year-old driving a three-hundred-grand car?" Voss let out a short, humorless laugh. "What do you do for a living?"
"I work in technology," Iris answered politely.
Voss stepped back slightly, adjusting his duty belt. "You failed to maintain your lane back there about two miles ago. Swerved over the solid white line."
"I see," Iris said, knowing full well she had driven perfectly straight, aided by the car’s lane-assist technology.
Voss leaned closer again, sticking his head slightly past the window plane. He took a theatrical, deep sniff of the air inside the cabin.
"You know," Voss said, his tone shifting into something sharper, more dangerous. "I’m smelling a strong odor of marijuana coming from this vehicle."
Iris’s blood ran cold. It was the oldest, most legally indestructible lie in modern policing. The invisible, unprovable "odor" that magically bypassed the Fourth Amendment and granted officers probable cause to dismantle a citizen's privacy. Iris didn't smoke. No one had ever smoked in the McLaren.
"Officer, I don't smoke marijuana, and there is absolutely no marijuana in this car," Iris said, her voice dropping an octave, becoming firm.
"I know what I smell," Voss snapped. "Step out of the vehicle."
"Officer, I do not consent to any searches or seizures," Iris stated clearly, ensuring the directional microphones of the Sentinel Node picked up every syllable.
"I don't need your consent," Voss sneered. "I have probable cause. Now step out of the car before I pull you out."
Iris unbuckled her seatbelt slowly and stepped out into the cool evening air. The wind whipped her braids around her face. Voss immediately grabbed her by the arm, spinning her around and pressing her against the side of her own car. He kicked her legs apart and aggressively patted her down.
"I am unarmed. I have no contraband," Iris said.
Voss didn't reply. He unclipped his radio. "Dispatch, this is Unit 4. I have a 10-15 on a traffic stop, strong odor of narcotics. Requesting a supervisor and additional units to my 10-20."