She presses the button slowly so her driver’s side window slides open as if Janine has all the time in the world.
The policeman is big, burly, and surly.
“Crap,” Janine mutters.
Janine wills her hands to not shake as she pulls her wallet out of her purse and finds the fake ID.
“I didn’t think I was speeding, sir,” she says in a high-pitched voice, sounding as subservient and docile as possible.
The cop just grunts. “Registration.”
Janine thumbs through the glove compartment, praying fervently that her partner had obtained a car that included its registration.
“Here!” she says, not able to hide the triumph in her voice.
The uniformed man surveys the paper, looking at it, then down at Janine, several times.
“Out of the car, ma’am.”
“What?” Janine’s voice escalates an octave.
“Step out of your vehicle, NOW.” The cop’s voice is loud, forceful.
Janine swings her long legs out of the car, high heels tapping on the hard top as the officer leads her to the back of her gray sedan.
“What’s in the trunk?” he asks.
“Oh, that’s just dry ice for my kid’s school project,” Janine lies, sweat making her silk blouse cling to her back.
“Open the trunk,” the policeman demands.
Does he use any sentences with more than four words? Janine wonders vaguely.
“I don’t know how,” she stalls. Then she briefly considers kicking him in the shins. Maybe that would delay him enough to …
The cop grabs the keys out of her hand and clicks one of the buttons.
The trunk pops open.
The policeman’s eyes grow wide. So wide that Janine briefly hopes his eyes just might pop out.
But then, the indescribable thing in the trunk moves . . .
Thanks to Google Images.