The sneak preview of False Flag continues.
(THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM A WORK OF FICTION. THE USE OF THE N-WORD BY CHARACTERS IN THE WORK DOES NOT MEAN THE AUTHOR TALKS OR THINKS THAT WAY.)
3
Y MINUS 20
SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA
Trooper Jason Macmillan, 29 and fit with a full head of brown hair under his Smokey-the-Bear hat, turned his halogens on bright, then adjusted his side spot onto the little Chevy S-10 pulled over in front of him. After the make was run on the vehicle’s owner and radioed back to Macmillan, he got out of his cruiser and approached the S-10’s passenger window.
He turned on his big Maglite and shined it through the rear window into the cab. He didn’t see anything incriminating inside.
But that was kind of the point: he couldn’t see everything inside.
The driver rolled his window down. Already squinting from the bright light of the cruiser’s headlights and side spot in his mirrors, Joe Tasper was now completely blinded when Trooper Macmillan fixed the Maglite’s beam directly in his eyes.
“Driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance,” Macmillan said. “And please turn your engine off, sir.”
“I’ve got battery problems,” Tasper said. “If I shut it down, I’ll need a jump to get going again.”
“Do me a favor and shut it down,” Macmillan ordered. “Then please comply with my request, sir.”
Tasper turned off the ignition, dug out his wallet and leaned over to open his glove box. Macmillan rested one hand on his holstered sidearm. He’d never had to pull his gun in the line of duty, but could never tell when the opportunity would arise. Tasper handed over his papers and Macmillan took them, relaxing just a bit.
“The reason I pulled you over is that your windows are illegally tinted,” Macmillan said.
“I just bought the truck today,” Tasper replied. “I was on my way to get a new battery for it. I can take the tinting off Monday after work. You’ll give me a jump when you’re done, right?”
“You sit tight here,” Macmillan said, waving the license, insurance card and registration form. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“The store is gonna be closed in a half hour,” Tasper said. “I have to get there quick to get the new battery.”
Macmillan ignored him and returned to the comfort of his patrol car. He called in the additional info, but Tasper’s record was clean, except for normal traffic citations, and his story checked out about buying the pickup that day.
Macmillan took his time filling out the ticket. When he went back to the suspect’s vehicle, he asked to see the bill of sale, then looked it over. He questioned the suspect about why someone in northwest Texas had driven so far to buy a truck in Louisiana, but failed to trip him up or get him to admit anything. Macmillan added a seatbelt violation to the citation and got the suspect to sign. The suspect asked again about getting a jump start, but Macmillan ignored him and returned to his patrol car.
Normally he waited for the suspect to drive away first, but knowing Joe Tasper wouldn’t be able to start his vehicle now, MacMillan drove away without waiting. He decided to come back this way at the end of his shift and see if the S-10 was still sitting here. Who knew? Maybe it would be abandoned and he could schedule it for impound.
It turned out to be Trooper McMillan’s lucky night. A county mounty called for backup on a resisting arrest code. MacMillan floored the accelerator, flipping on his light beacon, and got the Crown Victoria rolling down the fast lane at 120. The incident site was only a few miles away. He would get some stick time tonight.
MaQuon Lutrell was pulled over for a “no turn on red” violation. The sheriff’s deputy asked to search his car. MaQuon had a bag of weed under the passenger seat and didn’t want to go back to jail. He heard people say that cops couldn’t search a vehicle without either a search warrant or the driver’s consent, so he didn’t give his consent. The deputy asked what he was hiding and the conversation soon turned into an argument.
When the deputy ordered him to get out of the car, MaQuon feared it might get ugly. And it did.
The scenario ended with the deputy and an increasing number of arriving cops beating on him with police batons. One of the arriving cops was a young State Trooper.
The beating took place in a well-lit area on a street connecting residential and industrial areas. Across the street, hiding behind a cluster of bushes, was a group of preadolescent boys. They were friends from school who got together to hang out one last time since Mrs. Thatcher was moving tomorrow and would be taking her son, Arden, with her to Texas.
The boys laughed and joked among themselves, watching the black grown-up getting the crap beat out of him. Arden bragged that he would be a cop one day himself, and get paid to beat up niggers.