Grant’s thoughts about purchasing the Toyota snapped away when the officer softly tapped the driver’s side window. “Hello? Can you roll down the window for me, sir?”

Grant didn’t realize the young officer was standing next to his door. The lights were blinding and hypnotizing all at the same time. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.” He quickly pushed the button to lower the window.

“License. Registration. And proof of insurance?” The young guy had to be fresh out of the academy. He was clean-shaven, uniform neatly pressed, and Grant assumed his shoes shone brightly in the sunlight. Grant didn’t bother to look into the officer’s mirrored sunglasses, a tell-tale sign of a newly appointed officer. If he did, he’d have seen the black sheen on his combat-like boots. The young officer was visually inspecting the car. “Had this car long?” he asked Grant. His name tag read Greene, obviously his last name, with the San Ramon badge attached to his uniform over his left breast.

“A couple of months, I think,” Grant answered. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I don’t remember.”

“Wait here. I’ll be right back, sir.” The young man was polite, even though Grant was sure he wasn’t much older than the cop. Unsure of what happened next, Grant started to sweat. He’d never been pulled over before, much less received a ticket. Honestly, he couldn’t figure out why he was pulled over in the first place. He thought about everything he did before the lights flashed behind him. Grant wondered whether he signaled, yielded to traffic, or cut someone off. Nothing came to mind.

 Grant looked into his rearview mirror and saw the officer sitting in his car. The lights prevented him from seeing what he was doing, but he did see two more police cruisers slide in behind the rookie. Thinking that was a bit unusual, especially for a traffic stop, Grant’s blood turned to ice, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Why would there be a need to have two other officers on the scene? Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Grant considered driving off. He squeezed the wheel cover a few times before relaxing his grip and taking a few deep breaths. Grant’s ex-girlfriend voiced her concern about him being too tense, saying it wouldn’t seem so bad if he’d just take a few deep breaths. She broke up with him a few weeks before he bought the used car. Opening his eyes, the officer’s gun was pointed at his temple. “Slowly, very slowly, step out of the car, sir. First, toss the keys out your window with your left hand. Do you understand?” Grant nodded, reaching for the keys still in the ignition. Grant’s peripheral vision saw the two other officers, one standing right behind the rookie and the other on the passenger side of the Toyota. The passenger-side officer had his HK45 aimed at what Grant assumed was his shoulder. The goal wasn’t to kill him, just to wound him. Throwing the keys out the window, he reached slowly for the door’s handle, opened it, and kept both hands in the sight of all three officers. One wrong move and Grant assumed he would die. San Ramon or Los Angeles. It made no difference. California was California. And cops were cops, no matter where you lived. Small-town officers were worse, but that was to be expected. Fortunately for Grant, San Ramon was carefully and vigilantly watched by the myriad of business owners working and living here. 

Barely leaving the car, Grant found himself forcefully handcuffed and bent over, leaning face-first against the rear of his Toyota. “Mr. McNamar, how long have you owned this car?” All three officers holstered their weapons. The oldest, at least Grant assumed he was the most senior from his grey hair, asked him.

“I told the rookie here,” he said, trying to point with his cuffed hands, “I bought it two months ago from a salvage yard.”

“You told me you didn’t know how long ago it was,” the rookie bit back. “He’s lying!” he shouted.

According to his badge and the multiple chevrons on his uniform, the senior officer, a sergeant, pointed at the young cop, glaring at him. He took off his sunglasses. Grant wasn’t sure if that was because he wanted him to trust him or if it was his way of commanding authority. It didn’t matter. Grant was scared out of his mind. Why was he handcuffed? What possible crime had he committed? Was he going to jail? What was the deal with this car?

“What salvage yard, son?” He talked to him like his grandfather did. It felt slightly condescending, perhaps because it was, but probably not. “You aren’t in trouble yet, but we need to know where this car came from.” He turned Grant around, letting him lean on his hands instead of his stomach. “It’s important, son. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, officer,” he read his name tag, “Turner. Oh. Sorry. Sergeant Turner.”

Turner squinted his eyes, tilting his head. “You ex-military, kid? Or did your family serve?”

“My Dad served. Came back from Vietnam and died fifteen years later at the bottom of a bottle.” Grant’s head pointed to the stripes on Turner’s uniform. “Had the same chevrons on his uniform.”

“I’m sorry. Sounds like your Dad served his country well.”

“I wouldn’t know. Abandoned me and Mom years before he died.”

The second officer, who hadn’t spoken until now, said, “Where exactly did you say this salvage yard was?”

“Down Alcosta and turn left on Crow Canyon road. Follow Crow Canyon over the hill. It’s down the hill and to your left. Can’t miss it.”

“Do you know who owns that salvage yard?” Sergeant Turner asked.

“No. Why? Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters, you little puke!” the rookie shouted at him, reminding Grant of one of those small yapping dogs. Maybe a Yorkie. Or a Terrier. Grant hated dogs, especially the tiny yapping ones.

It was rather amusing that the officers’ uniforms reminded Grant of his father and how he kept his uniform in pristine condition, even though he rarely wore it. That, and how the ranks were very similar to the Army’s rankings. The second in command, probably the same age as Grant, pulled him away from the Sergeant. “That’s enough out of you, rookie,” Corporal Stevens snapped. “One more sound from your mouth, and you’ll be picking up trash with the community service crew, got it?” 

Sergeant Turner shook his head disgustedly. “Okay. I’m sorry about your Dad. And I’m sorry you are caught up in this mess, but we have reason to believe that your car was involved in a drug smuggling operation. And, because you are driving it, you will be charged with anything we find. Before we continue,” he flipped out a small card and read Grant his Miranda Rights. “Do you understand, Mr. McNamar?”

Grant replied, “I want my attorney.”