“Step out of the car,” he said again.
I opened the door. I stepped out. I kept my hands visible throughout. I had my identification wallet in my right hand — the federal judicial identification with the seal, the photograph, the language that was legally unambiguous. I held it at a height where it was clearly visible and not a threat.
He looked at it.
He did not take it.
“Hands on the vehicle,” he said.
I placed my hands on the hood.
The morning was cold. The metal was already warm from the engine, and the contrast — cold air, warm hood, my palms flat and visible — is something I remember with the specific precision of moments that fix themselves permanently in the mind. I was aware of everything. The sound of traffic on the bridge. The pedestrians who had begun to slow. The second cruiser that had appeared at some point and was pulling in behind.
