Power can make an arrogant man feel completely invincible until he pulls over the wrong driver. When a corrupt patrolman illegally tore apart a wealthy black grandmother's supercar, he thought he was untouchable. He had no idea the woman he humiliated was his new boss. This is ultimate karma. The Pacific Coast Highway was bathed in the golden dying light of a Tuesday evening.
Josephine Reynolds, 61 years old, sat behind the wheel of a metallic midnight blue Aston Martin DBS Superlegera. The twin turbo 512 engine purred with a restrained terrifying power, but Josephine drove exactly 3 m under the speed limit. Her silver locks were pulled back into a neat, elegant twist, and she wore a tailored linen blazer over a simple white blouse. She was a grandmother of four, a widow, and a woman who had spent 35 grueling years surviving and climbing the ranks of the Chicago Police Department. She was in the affluent coastal enclave of Oakport to retire, or so the public thought.
In reality, Oakport's city council had quietly hired her to gut their notoriously corrupt police department. But tonight, she was just a woman enjoying a drive in a retirement gift she had bought for herself after decades of public service. 2 miles behind her, Officer Derek Tagert was bored. Tagot was a 12-year veteran of the Oakport Police Department, a man whose thick neck and heavy swagger compensated for a career defined by mediocrity and a startling number of excessive force complaints that the local police union had always managed to sweep under the rug. Sitting in the passenger seat of their cruiser was Officer Wyatt Miller, a 23-year-old rookie who was barely 3 months out of the academy.
When the Aston Martin glided past their speed trap, Tagert's eyes narrowed. "Look at this," Tagot muttered, shifting the cruiser into drive. "Quart of a million dollars on wheels." "She's not speeding, man," Wyatt pointed out, checking the radar gun. "Clocked her at 52 in a 55."
"I don't care." Tagert sneered, accelerating rapidly onto the highway. "You see who's driving that thing?" An older black woman in an Aston Martin with outofstate plates in Oakport. Either she stole it or her grandson is moving weight and she's out here spending the cartel's money.
Flip the lights. Derek, we don't have probable cause, Wyatt said, his stomach tightening. I said flip the lights, rookie. She crossed the double yellow. I saw it.
You saw it. Wyatt hadn't seen anything of the sort, but the unspoken rule of the Oakport PD was that you didn't cross Derek Tagot. With a heavy sigh, Wyatt activated the sirens and the flashing red and blues. Ahead of them, Josephine saw the lights in her rear view mirror. A deep, weary sigh escaped her lips.
She activated her turn signal, slowly and safely, maneuvering the lowslung supercar onto the wide gravel shoulder of the highway. She shifted the car into park, rolled down her window, and placed both of her hands on the leather steering wheel at the 10 and two positions. It was the textbook maneuver she had taught rookies in Chicago for decades. Tagert approached the vehicle with his hand resting aggressively on the butt of his service weapon. He didn't bother with a flashlight.