Yet, the fury burning in Marcus’s chest was tempered by a cold realization that witnesses were gathering, watching from the safety of passing yellow cabs and the glass doors of nearby coffee shops.
"Pick up your crap," Marcus had shouted, his voice shaking with restrained rage, though the words tasted like ash.
Now, standing in the sudden vacuum of sound that followed their explosive exchange, Marcus had to decide whether to salvage the papers or let them blow into the gutter.
Callahan didn't move to help. The veteran cop simply adjusted his dark blue cap, his grey eyes narrowing as he stared down the younger black man with an expression that carried decades of institutional arrogance.
"You think you own this zip code just because you drive a foreign car?" Callahan muttered, his voice gravelly and low, pitched just beneath the rising hum of downtown traffic.