Yeah, I’m nervous.
I reach into the glove compartment for her registration and proof of insurance. A pile of napkins nearly tumbles out when I ease down the hatch. But there they are, among the hand sanitizer and small bag ofairplane peanuts and travel tube of Advil and take-out straw still in its wrapping—Trinity’s registration and insurance card, clipped together.
Five minutes pass. The cop remains inside his car. What could be taking him so long?
I wonder what you call a group of octopi. Do they have a cool collective name like a murder of crows or an embarrassment of pandas?
A congress of octopi?
Not making any sudden movements, I remove my sunglasses and grab my phone from the passenger seat to text my sister, Allison:I got pulled over by police. The cop isn’t getting out of car just sitting there for like five mins. Any idea why?
Her text balloon bubbles for a moment before she replies:Why pulled over?
No idea, I answer.
On your way to dome?
The dome where we hold indoor practices, she means. The dome where I work part-time as an instructor when I’m not coaching baseball at Mortimer College.
On my way to Olivet Nazarene,I reply.Doing favor for Trinity.
She doesn’t respond immediately. For all I know, she’s in the middle of a court hearing or something. She’s a high-powered lawyer. She’s also the smartest person I know.
In the rearview mirror, I see the cop finally leave his vehicle and strut toward me.
I reach into my pocket, dig out the thumb drive, and toss it into the center console.
My phone buzzes with Allison’s response:When in doubt, don’t answer. Don’t trust troopers.
Scary thought, coming from a law-and-order former prosecutor, albeit a federal prosecutor who doesn’t have the highest opinion of most state-level law enforcement.
Albeit, that’s another of those words, though not quite as obnoxious asawash.
I remove my driver’s license and proof of my own insurance from my wallet, then buzz down the window, suddenly awash in the rush of cool air, albeit within the warmth of the automobile.
“Sir.” The officer stops short of my car and calls out to me over the noise of passing traffic. I crane my head to look back at him. “I’m gonna need you to put your hands on the steering wheel.”
I plop my hands against the steering wheel, ten and two, my driver’s license and registration and two insurance cards between the index and middle fingers of my left hand.
The trooper comes into view, a tall white guy, skinny, dressed in a tan top and chocolate-brown pants that match his goofy trooper hat. He looks like a colorblind forest ranger.
“Sir, I’m recording this interaction by body camera,” he says, gesturing to the black square device pinned to his chest. “This your car, sir?”
“No, this is my friend’s car,” I say. “Trinity Casto. I have her registration.”
“I’m gonna need you to hand me that.”
I give him all four items and return my left hand to the steering wheel. Why are my hands on the steering wheel? What am I, a trigger man?
That would be cool, to be an assassin. I mean, the killing part aside. Being a dangerous, mysterious loner. Then you find redemption when it turns out one of your victims had an infant child and you raise her as your own and discover love and leave that life behind until the government that once sponsored you comes calling and threatens your daughter unless you do one last job for them.
“I’m gonna need you to turn off your engine, sir.”
I punch the ignition button to kill the engine. Again, why? I doubt this guy is concerned with environmental emissions.
“Where you headed, Luke?” he asks, reading my driver’s license.
So now we’re on a first-name basis? That feels quick. If we were speaking Spanish, I think we’d still be at the more formalustedphase.
