Johnson approached slowly, chewing a piece of gum like it was his job. His partner, Officer Daniels, stood near the patrol SUV, arms crossed, watching traffic with the lazy posture of a man who thought the world owed him a quiet shift.
“License,” Johnson said, not greeting her, not explaining, just taking.
The woman reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out her wallet. Her hands were clean—no trembling, no rush—just deliberate.
Johnson took the license and squinted at it, angling it under his flashlight even though the sun wasn’t fully down yet.
“Ms. Hart,” he read aloud, drawing out the syllables like they tasted suspicious. “You know why we’re stopping you?”
She kept her gaze on his face. “No.”
Johnson’s eyebrows rose. “No?”
“No,” she repeated, calm. “I’d like to know.”
Daniels made a small sound—half laugh, half snort.
Johnson rocked back on his heels. “Well, Ms. Hart. We’re running a sobriety checkpoint.”
The woman nodded once. “Okay.”
Johnson leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing in that practiced way some cops used to make normal citizens feel smaller. “Where you headed?”
“To a wedding,” she said.
Johnson glanced at her hoodie like it offended him personally. “In that?”