“For investigation.”
“Of what?”
“Your behavior.”
Isaiah almost smiled, but there was nothing amusing about the progression. A traffic stop had become an investigation of the fact that he questioned the traffic stop. The theory was beginning to feed itself.
“I am requesting your supervisor again.”
Voss stepped into him and shoved him backward. Isaiah’s heel struck the curb, but he regained balance.
Cameron said loudly, “Second physical contact, no threat from the driver.”
Voss spun toward him. “Shut that camera off.”
“No.”
“Then stand farther back.”
“I’m across the street.”
The officer looked back at Isaiah. “You’re creating a scene.”
Isaiah answered, “I am standing where you put me.”
The crowd murmured. Voss’s face reddened.
“You got something smart for everything.”
“No.”
“You disrespecting me?”
“No.”
“Then learn when to stop talking.”
The slap came without warning.
Voss’s right hand struck Isaiah across the left side of his face with enough force to send the sunglasses flying. One lens cracked when they hit the pavement, and Isaiah’s coffee cup fell from the roof of the car where Voss had placed it earlier. The entire block seemed to go silent.
Isaiah’s head turned. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth where one tooth cut the inside of his lip.
He did not step toward Voss. He did not curse.
He removed a white handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the blood. Then he looked back at the officer.
“Officer Voss has just struck me without provocation.” His voice remained controlled. “The time is approximately 8:39 a.m., and multiple witnesses are recording.”
Voss’s expression shifted. The calm bothered him.
Men he struck usually gave him something emotional to write about later. Shouting.
Swearing. Pulling away.
A clenched fist. Anything.
Isaiah gave him a timestamp.
Teresa shouted, “I got all of it.”
Cameron’s livestream surged past fifteen thousand viewers. Marjorie moved toward the curb with her phone held high.
“I have watched you do this for years,” she said. “You shoved the Thompson boy outside the bus stop, you emptied Mr. Patel’s delivery bag into the street, and you threw a veteran against my store window because he asked why you wanted his ID.”
“Ma’am, move back.”
“No.” Marjorie’s voice stayed calm.
“You move back.”
A strange sound moved through the crowd. Not applause.
Recognition.
The street had spent years whispering. Someone had finally said everything out loud.
Voss reached for his handcuffs. “Turn around.”
Isaiah looked at him. “For what charge?”
“Disorderly conduct.”
“What conduct?”
“Obstruction.”
“What did I obstruct?”
“Resisting.”
“I have not resisted.”
Voss stepped closer. “Turn around.”