To him, a 19-year-old black kid driving a car registered to a faceless LLC meant one of two things: the car was stolen, or it was funded by illicit organized crime money. It didn't matter that the vehicle hadn't been reported stolen. Ford's instincts, poisoned by years of unchecked prejudice, told him he had a massive bust on his hands. He didn't need a legitimate reason to pull the car over. He just needed a pretext.
He accelerated, closing the distance between the cruiser and the McLaren. He shadowed Devon for a mile, looking for anything. A slight drift over the yellow line, a failure to signal early enough, a tinted window violation. Up ahead, Devon glanced in his rearview mirror and felt his stomach drop. The distinctive black and white grill of a police cruiser was riding his bumper aggressively close.
The familiar sickening surge of adrenaline flooded Devon's veins. He checked his speedometer, 34 in a 35 zone. He checked his hands, still at 10 and 2. He made sure his seatbelt was visibly crossing his chest. Stay calm, Devon told himself, echoing his father's deep, resonant voice.
Do not give them an excuse. Comply, survive, and let the lawyers handle the rest. Devon approached a four-way stop. He came to a complete textbook halt, counting to three in his head, before slowly pressing the accelerator. Behind him, Ford grinned.
It was a weak pretext, but it would hold up in his reports. He didn't hold the stop long enough. Rolling stop. Ford muttered to himself, reaching up and flicking the toggle switch on his overhead console. Instantly, the serene afternoon was shattered by the blinding strobes of red and blue lights, accompanied by a short, aggressive burst of the siren.
Devon let out a long, shaky breath. He immediately activated his right turn signal, pulled the McLaren smoothly to the shoulder, and shifted the car into park. Following his father's strict protocol, Devon rolled down all four windows of the vehicle, shut off the engine, removed the keys, and placed them on the dashboard where they were clearly visible. Then, he placed both of his hands flat on the top of the steering wheel. He was ready.
But, as he watched Officer Ford step out of the cruiser in the side mirror, adjusting his utility belt with an arrogant swagger, Devon realized that readiness might not be enough to protect him from a man looking for a fight. Officer Mitchell Ford approached the McLaren with the cautious, deliberate stride of a hunter cornering prey. He kept his right hand resting casually, yet threateningly, on the butt of his service weapon. As he reached the driver's side window, he didn't lean in. Instead, he stood tall, attempting to cast an imposing shadow over the low-slung cabin of the supercar.
"Afternoon," Ford said. His voice was entirely devoid of warmth, replaced by a grating, authoritative edge. "Do you know why I pulled you over?" "No, officer, I do not," Devon replied. His voice was steady, calm, and impeccably polite.
He did not turn his head to look at Ford, keeping his eyes forward and his hands locked onto the steering wheel. Ford scoffed, a short, ugly sound. "You rolled through that stop sign back there on Elm, and you were swerving over the center line. You've been drinking, boy." The word boy hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.