When the red and blue lights flashed behind me, I had just pulled into a gas station on 8th and Green. It was a sunny afternoon, around four o’clock, and I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. No speeding, no rolling stop, not even a forgotten turn signal—something I usually miss. So when the patrol car blocked me in, I figured maybe a light was out or my registration sticker had expired.
I stayed calm. That’s what we’re taught to do: stay calm, stay still, be respectful.
I rolled down my window and waited. The officer approached slowly, sunglasses on, posture relaxed—but with a certain intensity. He asked for my license and registration without much expression.
I handed them over, and he returned to his vehicle.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
I glanced at my side mirror. He wasn’t on the radio or typing into a computer—just looking at his phone. That’s when a strange feeling settled over me. Something didn’t feel right.
Eventually, he came back to my window and leaned in, closer than necessary.
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