Evans was trapped. He had no facts, only a flimsy prejudiced tip, and his own escalating anger. He looked from Sarah's determined face to Robert's stoic expression, then glanced at the neighbor recording on her phone. He had been publicly corrected, his authority questioned, and his legal ignorance exposed. For a man like Evans, this was an intolerable humiliation.
And in that moment, he made a decision that would not only ruin his career, but would also cost the U.S. Government millions of dollars. He decided to assert his power in the only way he had left. "That's it," he said, his voice tight with fury. "You're interfering with a federal investigation.
Turn around. Place your hands behind your backs. You're both under arrest." Robert and Sarah stared at him, stunned into silence for the first time. Arrest for what?
For unloading their own van? For knowing their own rights? "You have to be kidding me," Robert said, his voice a low rumble of disbelief. Evans pulled out his handcuffs. "Does it look like I'm kidding?"
The cold hard click of the metal ratcheting shut around Sarah's wrists was the loudest sound on the quiet street. Then another click as Robert's hands were bound. The historian and the engineer handcuffed on their own property, arrested for the crime of moving while black. The neighbor's camera kept rolling, capturing every shameful second. The ride to the federal processing center was silent and surreal.
Robert and Sarah sat in the back of the sedan, the hard plastic seats a stark contrast to the leather of their own car. The air was thick with the smell of cheap air freshener and an undercurrent of injustice. Agent Evans drove his knuckles white on the steering wheel while Miller sat in the passenger seat staring out the window, refusing to make eye contact. The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in. They arrived at a nondescript federal building and were escorted inside past agents who gave them cursory indifferent glances.
They were just two more bodies in the system. They were taken to a processing area where a supervising officer, a man named Henderson, a bitter irony sharing a name with their watchful neighbor, was on duty. Supervisor Henderson was a 25-year veteran with tired eyes that had seen it all. He looked up from his paperwork as Evans brought the Jacksons in. "What have we got, Evans?"
He asked, his voice weary. "Interfering with a federal investigation," Evans announced with a hint of pride. Henderson looked at the well-dressed middle-aged black couple in handcuffs. They didn't fit the usual profile. "Interfering with what investigation?"
"Suspicious activity, potential smuggling. They were uncooperative. Refused a search of their vehicle." Henderson sighed. This was already sounding thin.
He began the standard booking procedure starting with their belongings. He took Robert's wallet first, cataloging its contents. Then he took Sarah's purse. He pulled out her wallet and inside nestled next to her driver's license was her university faculty ID complete with her photo and title Dr. Sarah Jackson, Professor of American History.