Page 100 of The Fed Sex Man

I rolled my window down approximately one inch.

“Roll the window down, Sir,” he barked.

With my hands positioned on the steering wheel and my eyes fixed on the windshield, I responded. “I can hear you just fine.”

“License and registration,” he said.

“What’s the reason for pulling me over?”

“Speeding.”

I looked at him. “I find that hard to believe,” I said. “I was in neutral and preparing to take the off-ramp. Do you have my speed recorded on radar? May I verify it?”

“License and registration, please.”

I cleared my throat. “I have a legally owned, properly registered, and loaded weapon between my right thigh and the console of the car, Sir. Would you instruct me as to how you’d prefer I obtain my license? It’s in my right rear pocket.”

The officer pulled his gun from his holster and trained it on me. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

My mind flashed to the night my father died. The blood. My crying. I desperately wanted to wipe my brow but didn’t dare move my hands.

“I’m not moving, Sir,” I said, my voice cracking from emotion. “Neither is my passenger.”

“Keep your fucking hands where I can see them,” he shouted.

“I’ll advise you that this is being recorded, officer,” I lied.

If his ridiculous overreaction was being recorded, I felt that he might refrain from shooting until he felt he absolutely had to, and I had no intention of giving him any reason to do so.

“Driver,” he shouted. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel.”

“Understood,” I said.

“Passenger,” he barked. “Using the index finger and thumb of your left hand only, lift the weapon and place it in the vehicle’s rear seat. Slowly.”

Visions of the day my father died came to mind. I hated that Jo was being brought into the equation, but there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

“Take your time, Jo,” I said. “Just like he said. Left hand. Thumb and forefinger.”

Jo complied by lifting the gun’s holster from its resting place. After placing it in the rear seat, she returned her hand to her lap.

Clenching the steering wheel as if my life depended on it, I cleared my throat. “What now, officer?”

“Roll down your fucking window!” the officer demanded.

I shook my head. “I can hear you just fine.”

“Tyson,” Jo pleaded.

My jaw tightened.

“Keep your right hand on the wheel,” the officer said. “Use your left hand to retrieve your license. Hand me the license through the window.”

I did as the officer asked, performing the awkward task without giving him reason to be alarmed. After handing him the license, he asked that we both get out of the car.

“For what reason?” I asked.

With his weapon still pointed at me, he explained his reasoning. “My safety.”