Traffic Stop

Traffic Stop

    The cop car came out of nowhere. I had been coasting along, relaxed, peering into the darkness ahead, when the big cruiser appeared behind me. It was too close, its roof lights flashing bright through my rear window and across my dashboard. Then, a single harsh note from the siren, blaring into the night. A statement of power.

    “Last thing I need,” I thought, and eased over, my tires thumping across the roadside markings and crunching to a halt on the verge. The police cruiser pulled in behind.

    I grabbed my license, rolled down the window, and placed my hands conspicuously in my lap. Then I took a deep breath and watched in the rearview mirror.

    The door of the cop car opened, its large gold star reflecting the lights, and the cop himself, silhouetted, strode into view. Someone out to make his mark.

    Stopping behind my front door, he peeked inside, saw only me. His voice was deep, authoritative. “Do you know what speed you were doing?”

    I knew exactly. “Thirty-eight,” I said, without moving. “Two below the limit.”

    “The limit here is thirty,” said the cop, and I detected the tiniest hint of smugness. I wondered where the forty zone had ended, and I imagined him hunched over his wheel, engine idling, hidden behind some billboard, pondering his ticket quota.

    I gulped. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. I’m on my way to Dallas, the airport, DFW, to pick up my brother. He’s flying in.”

    My words came fast, tumbling. “Dad collapsed this morning. With pneumonia. He’s ninety-four, the doctors say he’ll pass tomorrow. It’s our last chance to see him. God willing.”

    No response.

    The seconds ticked by.

    I spoke again, my voice trembling slightly. “Mom died on Christmas Day…. he’s been alone since then.”

    “This Christmas?” asked the cop.

    “Yes sir,” I answered, a little high-pitched, “It’s been a tough few months.”

    A couple more cars whizzed past.

    Then he said, “I’m letting you go with a warning. Mind your speed.”

    He marched back to his cruiser and stepped inside. Only my eyes moved, watching him in the mirror.

    And at that very moment I heard a tiny sound from behind me. From the trunk. No, I didn’t hear it so much as feel it, through the body of the car and through my bones. It was perhaps the first movement of someone waking up.

    My hand rested on my purse, inches from the hilt of the Lady Glock 20 nestled inside my driver’s door. My index fingernail, still polished red, was cut short to facilitate rapid trigger fire.

    I didn’t think the cop could see my face. I knew for sure he couldn’t hear me. Slowly, very slowly, I turned my head to the side and, barely moving my lips, spoke softly but clearly through my hair. “Don’t you make another goddamn sound.”

    I waited. In the thick silence.

    Nothing more.

    I nodded, satisfied. “Good boy,” I whispered, and pulled out onto the dark road.