You a rapper? A ball player? I'm a retired military officer currently working as a federal consultant," David said, handing over his Georgia driver's license, his VA identification card, and his insurance slip. Brody snatched the cards. He barely glanced at the military ID before flicking it back through the window.
It hit David's chest and fell into his lap. I didn't ask for a discount at Applebee's, buddy. I asked for your license. Brody stared at the license, then leaned in, sniffing the air aggressively. I smell marijuana.
David didn't flinch, though his jaw tightened. There is no marijuana in this vehicle, officer. I don't smoke and I don't drink. Step out of the car, Brody ordered, his voice dropping an octave. Officer, I am perfectly willing to cooperate.
But I'd like to know why I was pulled over, David said, keeping his hands on the wheel. You crossed the double yellow line back by the mile marker. Step out of the car or I will pull you out, Brody threatened, unclipping his taser. David knew the game. He knew the dash cam would only show the back of his vehicle, and he noticed that the blinking green light on Brody's body camera was mysteriously dark.
In a fraction of a second, David processed the tactical situation. He could easily disarm the officer, snap his wrist, and have him on the pavement before the man could draw breath. But David also knew the reality of being a black man on a deserted southern road with an aggressive white cop. David slowly unbuckled his seat belt. I am stepping out of the vehicle.
As soon as David's polished Oxford shoes hit the dirt, Brody grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him hard against the side of the pristine SUV. The hot metal burned through David's suit jacket. Spread them. Brody barked, kicking David's legs apart with his heavy boots. Brody conducted a rough, intentionally degrading pat-down, his hands lingering, searching for a weapon that wasn't there.
You military guys think you own the world. Probably got a fake ID to go with the stolen car. The vehicle is registered in my name. The address matches my license, David said, his voice remaining terrifyingly level. My body camera is recording, by the way.
It's integrated into the vehicle's security system. That was a bluff, but it made Brody pause for a fraction of a second. The hesitation quickly morphed into rage. Brody grabbed David's wrists, twisting them painfully behind his back, and clamped the steel handcuffs down hard. He squeezed the ratchets tight.
Too tight, pinching the ulnar nerve in David's wrists. "You're under arrest for resisting a lawful order and suspicion of operating a stolen vehicle," Brody spat, shoving David toward the cruiser. I didn't resist, David said calmly as Brody forced his head down and shoved him into the suffocating plastic smelling back seat of the patrol car. Tell it to the judge, boy. Brody slammed the door alone in the back of the cruiser.