The Traffic Stop

At the same moment, I found the damn registration behind the last page in the manual. I quickly passed it to my flustered friend.

“Here they are,” she almost stuttered as she handed her license and the registration out of the driver door window.

Again, the policeman didn’t take them. “I said, get out of the car, girl!”

“Okay, sorry.” Salisha’s voice trembled. Then she opened the door with her left hand and, for some reason, handed me her license and the registration I had just given her. I took them.

Once out of the car, she stood then turned around when directed by the positively peeved patrolman. After slowly looking her over, front and back, he said, now looking at her back, “License and registration.”

Realizing her stupid mistake, Salisha started to lean back in to retrieve the requested documents I held in my extended hand. I still had my seatbelt connected.

“Stay out of the car!” the officer practically shouted as he grabbed and pushed her to the left, away from the open door.

I think Salisha tried to turn to face him. At any rate, he grabbed her arm, and with a twist, she was suddenly on the ground with his knee on her back. As the officer proceeded to cuff my buddy, I shouted, “I’ve got them. Here, I’ve got her license and registration!”

“Stay in the car! Stay in the car!” His low, threatening voice left no doubt we had crossed some line.

I stayed where I was, still holding the requested items toward the open driver’s door. He lifted Salisha to a vertical position and walked her to the patrol car where he put her in the back seat behind a grill that separated those in front from whoever was unlucky enough to be in the rear seat.

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