Devon stood pressed against the hot car, his hands bound behind his back, feeling the burning sting of public humiliation. He was a straight-A student, a volunteer at the community legal clinic, a son who had done absolutely everything right. And yet, here he was, treated like a violent felon in broad daylight, simply because a man with a badge couldn't fathom a black teenager existing legitimately in a space of wealth. In the distance, the wailing siren of an approaching backup unit grew louder. Ford leaned in close to Devon's ear, his breath smelling of stale coffee and tobacco.
"You're not so smart now, are you, college boy?" Ford whispered maliciously. "Let's see what daddy's money can do for you when I impound this piece of trash and book you for possession." Devon didn't respond. He just closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing.
Let him dig, Devon thought, the initial fear slowly morphing into a cold, calculated resolve. Let him dig his grave as deep as he possibly can. The backup cruiser skidded to a halt at a sharp angle in front of the McLaren, its light bar painting the neighborhood in aggressive flashes of crimson and blue. The door popped open, and Officer Toby Jenkins hurried out. Jenkins was everything Ford was not.
Young, relatively new to the force, and visibly anxious. He had joined the Oakwood Hills Department just 3 years prior, full of idealism that was rapidly being chipped away by the cynical culture of the precinct. "What do we got, Mitch?" Jenkins asked, jogging over his hand resting tentatively on his belt. He looked from the aggressively positioned Ford to the handcuffed teenager pressed against the supercar.
"Got a wise guy." Ford sneered, stepping back slightly but keeping a firm grip on Devon's handcuffed arms. "Pulled him over for reckless driving, smelled weed pouring out of the cab, refused to cooperate. He's claiming the car belongs to his daddy." Jenkins frowned, looking at Devon.
Devon wasn't thrashing, wasn't yelling. He stood perfectly still, his posture dignified despite the degrading circumstances. Jenkins glanced at the driver's license sitting on the trunk of the McLaren where Ford had tossed it. Devon Whitfield. Jenkins felt a strange cold flutter in his stomach.
The name Whitfield was currently dominating every local news channel and newspaper in the state. Just 2 weeks ago, the governor had appointed a new district attorney for the county, a hard-nosed, fiercely intelligent, no-nonsense prosecutor named Lawrence Whitfield. The new DA had campaigned heavily on police accountability and combating municipal corruption. No, Jenkins thought, shaking his head slightly. It's a common enough name.
It can't be. Did you run the registration? Jenkins asked, his voice a pitch higher than normal. It's registered to some shell company, Apex Holdings, Ford said dismissively. It's a front.
I'm tossing the car. Put him in the back of your unit, Toby. Keep an eye on him. If he twitches, write him up for resisting. Ford roughly shoved Devon toward Jenkins.