“The situation,” Officer Morrison said, stepping even closer, “is that we’ve got a suspicious individual with no ID in a high-value neighborhood where he doesn’t belong, giving us lip and telling us how to do our jobs.” He nodded to Delaney. “I think we need to continue this conversation down at the station.” Officer Delaney’s grip tightened further as he began to turn Marcus toward the police cruiser. “Let’s go, smart guy. Maybe a trip downtown will refresh your memory about where you really live.” “Please,” Marcus said, his voice still controlled but tinged with genuine alarm now. “Just call my father. He’s expecting me home for dinner. He’ll be worried.” “Oh, daddy’s going to be worried?” Delaney mocked, shoving Marcus forward. “Should have thought about that before you decided to go wandering where you don’t belong.” Marcus stumbled slightly under the force of the shove, but caught himself, careful not to make any movement that could be interpreted as resistance. “My father is William Johnson,” he said, finally deciding that revealing his father’s identity might be his only option. “He’s the state attorney general.”
Both officers froze momentarily before exchanging glances. Officer Morrison’s expression darkened and his voice dropped dangerously. “You think that’s funny? You think making up lies about who your daddy is will help you right now?” “I’m not lying,” Marcus insisted, a cold dread spreading through him as he realized that the truth was only making his situation worse. “My father is William Johnson, the attorney general. You can verify that if you—” The rest of his sentence was cut off as Officer Morrison suddenly grabbed the front of his shirt, slamming him back against the cruiser with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. “That’s enough of your smart mouth,” he growled, his face inches from Marcus’s. “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.”
