CHAPTER 1: The Shakedown On Highway Nine
Deputy Ryder did not turn his patrol car’s flashing strobes on when he forced my faded pickup onto the gravel shoulder of Highway Nine. He simply swerved his heavy cruiser within inches of my front fender, cutting off my exit lane until my tires threw up a cloud of limestone grit.
I cut the engine, my seventy-year-old hands resting flat across the cracked steering wheel. I had done nothing wrong, but in this corner of Crawford County, innocence was merely a negotiation you usually lost.
Ryder stepped out into the humid midday heat, resting one heavy palm on his service holster as he walked up to my open driver-side window. He didn't ask for my registration or proof of insurance. He leaned his forearms against the weathered steel of my door frame, blocking the breeze, his breath carrying the sour tang of convenience-store coffee.
"Step out, Walter," he said, his voice flat, carrying the casual authority of a man who believed the asphalt belonged to his family. "You know how this works when you're hauling scrap across town lines."
I opened the door slowly, stepping out onto the uneven ditch. Standing between my truck and his idling cruiser, Ryder reached straight into my unbuttoned canvas vest, his fingers catching the worn leather corner of my wallet before I could lift an arm to stop him.
"You owe me right now," Ryder demanded, flipping the bifold open and pulling out three folded one-hundred-dollar bills—every cent of the emergency fuel money I had drawn against my monthly pension check that very morning.
I didn't step back. My boots sank slightly into the wet gravel, but my spine stayed rigid. "I paid the city already," I answered calmly, meeting his shielded eyes behind dark aviator glasses. "The scrap yard filed the tax permit at the clerk's counter at eight this morning. You’ve got no legal cause to touch that leather."
"Consider it an administrative escort fee," Ryder said with a sharp, humorless grin. He folded the bills tight, jammed the green paper deep into his breast pocket beneath his brass nameplate, and snapped my empty wallet shut against my chest.
He turned on his heel, walking back toward his cruiser. He thought my quiet posture was submission. He thought an old widower with grease under his fingernails had nowhere left to turn. He completely mistook my silence for defeat, never noticing my left thumb pressing the side button of the scarred flip phone buried deep in my pocket, nor did he realize where we were standing.
When Ryder had cut me off, he had angled his patrol car directly behind my tailgate. Through his windshield, framed squarely between his sun visors, the little green operation light on his department-issued dashcam was glowing steady and bright, recording the entire asphalt stretch in high definition.
Ryder climbed into his air-conditioned cab and slammed the heavy door, throwing gravel against my tires as he accelerated back onto the blacktop.
I stayed on the shoulder until his exhaust fumes cleared. Then I pulled my flip phone out and dialed the Crawford County clerk's records desk.
"County Administration, this is Marsha," the familiar voice answered after three rings.
"Marsha, it's Walter Briggs," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor running through my forearms. "I need you to tell me who handles the daily digital upload from the sheriff's road division."
There was a long, uneasy hesitation on the other end of the line. The clerical pool knew the sheriff's deputies took their cut, but nobody ever asked for the audit trail out loud.
"Walter," she whispered, her voice dropping an octave. "Ryder’s cousin runs the county IT server in the basement. Every dashcam file auto-archives at midnight, but anything marked an unverified traffic stop gets purged by sunrise."