Page 100 of Shattered Veil

Shifting into park, the policeman filed behind me; the reminder that I had been pointedly avoiding people of authority for a reason flared my anxiety, and I was forced to mentally assure myself that I had no visible criminal record as I saw his door crack open.

I sighed, “I gotta go.”

“Let me know when you get to work?”

I watched the man step my way in the rear-view mirror and muttered back, “Uh huh. ’Course. Bye, Cas,” and rapidly ended the call.

Cold air hit my face as I rolled my window down. I reached for my wallet that was resting in my center console, and popped the glove compartment open to locate my car’s registration. The policeman’s steps were audible as he approached. I took a deep breath and righted myself in my seat as I let it out.

The first thing I noticed—aside from the gun holstered at his hip—was his lanky frame. He made no attempt to ease my strain to meet his eye, standing tall with his thumbs hooked into his belt loops, and I had to crane my neck to the point that it slightly ached. Sunlight reflected off the mirrored frames on his face, he cracked a small bubble in the gum he was chewing, and he ordered:

“License and registration.”

I nodded, opening my wallet to fish out my driver’s license. “Can I ask why you pulled me over?”

The man’s head cocked to the side, and the light glinted off of his sunglasses once more, flashing in my eyes and causing me to wince.

After a brief hesitation, he replied, “You were swerving.”

“Swerving, really?” I returned. “When?”

His head moved once more. I flinched when the bright reflection caught me for a second time, and he asked, “You alright there, son?”

I was unsure as to why he was calling me son, as he only looked to be around forty years old, but I said nothing on that line of thought.

“Fine,” I returned, pointing at his face. “Your glasses are catching the light.” I extended a hand with what he had requested. “Here.”

He took them from me but remained where he was, lifting his glasses away from his eyes. They sat atop his dark hair, the visible crispness of the gel in his short cut holding them upright. His gaze was skeptical as he squinted at me.

“You have anything to drink this morning?”

I was unable to hold back my disbelieving scoff. “As in alcohol?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning, and I’m on my way to work,” I noted.

“I’d appreciate it if you answered the question.”

“No,” I stated as quickly as I could. “Not at all.”

His jaw worked on his gum. “Step out of the vehicle for me.”

I blinked several times in succession. “Why?”

“Quick field sobriety test.”

I’ve always been staunchly under the impression that field sobriety tests can easily be failed. Trip on a rock while walking heel-to-toe? Fail. Wobble while trying to balance on one leg? Fail. The policeman thinks you could be under the influence regardless of the fact that you’ve passed everything they’ve thrown your way? Remarkably, fail.

“Respectfully,” I nearly cut him off, “no.”

“No?” he asked.

“I’d like to not be subjected to a field test,” I stated. “Breathalyze me. I’ll blow zeros.”

He exhaled loudly. “Big guy, I don’t have a breathalyzer. My portable one’s on the fritz. If you’re telling me that you’d like to deny a field test, I’m bringing you in under the suspicion that you’re intoxicated.”

The officer handed my items back to me, and I quickly stowed them in the center console.

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