Page 101 of Shattered Veil

Despite my nervousness at his presence, I shook my head and immediately unbuckled my seatbelt. “Then bring me in. Test me there. I’m telling you, I’m not drunk.”

Snagging my phone from the holder on the dash, I placed it in my pocket along with my wallet that I had left in my lap. I turned my car off, pocketing the keys as well, and when I reached for the door handle, the policeman chastised:

“Slowly.”

I mumbled, “Okay, slowly, got it,” as I stepped out.

“Face away from me, hands on the vehicle.”

My eyebrows shot up. “For what? Are you patting me down?”

“Protocol, son, turn around.”

The man then held up an index finger, twirling it in a circular motion.

I obeyed his request, but as I placed my palms on my car’s roof, I quietly noted, “This doesn’t feel like protocol.”

His hands tapped along my ribcage and down to my waist.

“I’m assuring you aren’t armed.”

“I’m not,” I replied insistently. A sharp pinching sensation on my right glute where his hand met my slacks made me whisper, “Ow.”

“Apologies,” he muttered, though it wasn’t sincere in the least. “Spread your legs.”

I did as I was told. He continued down either one of my legs, and once he seemed to be finished, I asked, “All good?”

“Set,” he replied. “Hands behind your back.”

“Hands behind my—why?” The clinking of metal sounded behind me, and realization snapped into place. “Am I being arrested?”

He reached for my right wrist, pinned it behind me, and made for my left. Either out of shock or compliance, I allowed him to do so.

“Yes,” he said. “You’re being arrested for being under the influence while operating a vehic—”

“You haven’t tested me at all,” I argued.

The handcuffs encompassed my wrists with a series of metallic clacks.

“You refused the field sobriety,” he reminded me.

“Isn’t that voluntary by law?”

He guided me by the upper arm toward his car. “It is. However, you were swerving before I pulled you over, you appeared impaired when I approached, and I can smell alcohol on your breath.”

“I—Jesus, okay—one, I don’t know when I could’ve been swerving. I was just talking on the phone. On Bluetooth, on my phone. My eyes were on the road. I didn’t swerve.”

The man tugged me along, and my steps faltered as my shoes scuffed a rock that was frozen to the ground.

“Watch your step.”

“Two,” I continued to plead my case, “I don’t know how I seemed impaired, but the only thing bothering me was your sunglasses blinding me, and three,” I powered on as he opened the rear driver’s side door, “there’s no way you can smell liquor on me. I haven’t had a drop today.”

He ignored me, placing a hand on the back of my head and saying, “Mind the door,” as he ushered me to my seat.

I did nothing to fight him as I sat. The door was shut for me, I grumbled as I recognized a dull ache in my right leg, and I stretched it as much as I could to no avail. The moment the police officer returned to his own seat, I asked:

“What’s your name?”

---