Keep Them Close(11)

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 as awash.

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 formal usted phase.

“Bourbonnais,” I answer.

“What’s in Bourbonnais?”

“Olivet Nazarene University. I’m dropping off clothes for a friend’s brother.”

“What’s his name?”

I lean my head out the window. “Did I do something wrong, Officer? I wasn’t speeding.”

I see more lights flashing behind us. A second state police SUV pulls off the shoulder in front of me and backs up, basically blocking me in between the two police vehicles.

“Can you please tell me what’s going on?” I say.

The trooper, one hand resting on his sidearm, leans in toward me. “I’d like your permission to search the vehicle.”

“Why?”

“Do I have your permission?”

“Maybe if you tell me why. Since when is it a crime to drive to Bourbonnais?”

One of the officers from the SUV in front of me steps out and joins Officer Friendly.

“Sir, I am asking again for permission to search this vehicle.”

“Fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m gonna need you to step out of the vehicle.”

The officer opens my door like he’s my prom date, and out I go.

“Sir, I’m gonna conduct a protective pat-down for officer safety. Please turn around and put your hands against the car.”

“This is ridiculous.” I’m a threat to officer safety? But I don’t have a choice. He does a full frisk, actually tickling me under the arms.

“I’m gonna need you to take a seat in the back of that trooper’s vehicle for your safety.”

They put me in the rear cabin of the police SUV parked in front of my car, a cage facing me and passenger doors without handles. It smells like bleach, which I suppose is preferable to the many alternative odors one might experience in the back of a squad car.