Valerie blinked against the piercing light, but did not move her hands from the steering wheel. Good evening, officer. My license is in my purse on the floorboard behind my seat. My registration and insurance are in the glove box. How would you like me to proceed?
The flashlight beam snapped from Valerie's face to Tim in the passenger seat, then back to Valerie. Officer Dunn took a step closer, leaning down so his face was visible. He had a tight military-style haircut and a jaw set in a permanent sneer. He looked at Valerie with a distinct expression of contempt. "I said, give me your license," Dunn snarled, resting his right hand heavily on his duty belt. just inches from his holstered firearm.
I didn't ask for a conversation. In the passenger seat, Tim's instincts kicked in. Having worked on dozens of police misconduct cases, he knew exactly how quickly a bruised ego with a badge could turn a traffic stop into a tragedy. Without making any sudden movements, Tim slid his smartphone out of his jacket pocket. He kept the screen brightness all the way down, pressed the side button to open the camera, and swiped to video.
He hit record. But Tim went one step further. He opened a secure legal evidence app on his phone that instantly streamed and backed up the footage to the cloud. Even if the phone was smashed, the video would survive. He rested the phone casually on his thigh, the camera lens perfectly angled toward the driver's side window.
"Officer," Valerie said, her voice dropping an octave, radiating the same chilling authority she used to silence bickering attorneys in her courtroom. "I am informing you of my movements for your safety and mine. I am now reaching behind my seat to retrieve my purse," Dunn scoffed, leaning closer to the window. Just get the damn ID and make it quick. Whose car is this anyway?
You borrow it from somebody? The racial microaggression hung in the damp air, heavy and undeniable. Whose car is this? It was a $50,000 luxury SUV. Dun's immediate assumption was that it couldn't possibly belong to the black woman behind the wheel.
Valerie retrieved her wallet, pulled out her Georgia driver's license, and handed it through the window. Dunn snatched it from her fingers. He shined his light directly onto the card. Valerie Covington, her driver's license didn't say honorable. It didn't list her occupation.
To officer Gregory Dunn, she was just an ordinary civilian out past midnight. "Where are you coming from? " Dunn demanded, his tone escalating in aggression. We are driving home from work in Mercer County. Valerie answered calmly. Work?
Dunn repeated, dripping with sarcasm. At midnight, right? You were swerving over the yellow line back there, Valerie. He deliberately used her first name, a blatant sign of disrespect designed to establish dominance. I assure you, officer, I have maintained my lane perfectly for the last 20 miles.
Valerie replied, her eyes locking onto his. If you have dash cam footage showing otherwise, I would be very interested in seeing it. That was the trigger. Dun's face flushed red. Nobody questioned him on his patrol routes.