“One more word about being the attorney general’s son, and I’ll add impersonating a public official to your charges.”
Marcus felt the cold metal of the car against his back, the officer’s forearm now pressing against his chest, pinning him in place.
The situation was spiraling beyond anything he’d prepared for, beyond what his father’s careful instructions had covered. He could feel panic trying to claw its way up his throat, but forced himself to breathe, to think.
“Hands on the vehicle,” Officer Delaney commanded, spinning Marcus around roughly and kicking his feet apart. “You know the drill.” And Marcus did know, though he’d never experienced it himself—the ritualized positioning of the body for a search, the vulnerability of the stance, the power dynamic it enforced.
He spread his fingers against the cool metal of the police cruiser as Officer Delaney began patting him down with unnecessary roughness, all while Officer Morrison stood watch, hand resting on his holster.
Officer Delaney’s hands were anything but gentle as they moved roughly across Marcus’s body, the pretense of a professional pat-down abandoned in favor of something that felt more like intimidation.
Marcus kept his forehead pressed against the cool metal of the police cruiser, eyes closed, focusing on his breathing while trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation of strange hands invading his personal space.
“Nothing here,” Delaney finally announced, sounding almost disappointed. “No weapons, no drugs.”
Officer Morrison grunted in response. “Turn around,” he ordered. Marcus complied slowly, careful to keep his movements deliberate and non-threatening.
The officer’s face was flushed with what seemed like a building anger, as though Marcus’s lack of contraband was somehow a personal affront.
“So, you still sticking with that story about living in Oakwood? About your daddy being the big-shot attorney general?”
“It’s the truth,” Marcus replied, keeping his voice level despite the churning in his stomach. “My father is William Johnson.
We live at 347 Oakwood Drive. You can verify.” Morrison’s hand shot out, shoving Marcus hard against the cruiser. “I told you to cut that crap.
You think we’re stupid? You think we don’t know who the attorney general is?” Marcus felt his back slam into the vehicle, the impact sending a jolt of pain up his spine.
He swallowed hard, fighting to maintain his composure even as his heart hammered against his ribs. “I’m not lying. Please, just call the number in my phone or drive me home. It’s less than five minutes from here.”
“You hear this kid, Delaney?” Morrison turned to his partner with an exaggerated expression of disbelief. “Still running his mouth about living in Oakwood like some baller or something.” Delaney shook his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, and I’m the damn governor. Look, kid, drop the act.
