Chapter 3 - The Case in the Trunk
He searched the passenger seat first.
Maps.
Water bottle.
Old gum wrappers.
A cheap phone charger.
He tossed everything around like disorder might turn ordinary objects into evidence.
Then he opened the glove box.
Empty.
His frustration grew.
People like Higgins hated finding nothing because nothing did not confirm the story they had already written.
He moved to the trunk.
I turned my head slightly.
“Deputy, I am informing you again. I do not consent to this search.”
“Face forward.”
The trunk popped open.
For three seconds, he was quiet.
Then I heard his boots scrape gravel.
He had found the black federal transport case.
Heavy.
Hard-sided.
Double locked.
No visible writing he could read.
No markings I had failed to blur.
Just enough authority in its design to make a cautious man stop.
Higgins was not cautious.
He dragged it from the trunk and dropped it onto the dust beside the Honda.
“What’s in the box?”
“Secured material.”
“What kind of material?”
“Material you are not authorized to access.”
He stared at me.
Then he smiled.
The kind of smile a man gives when he thinks someone has finally handed him a reason.
“You moving product through my county?”
“No.”
“Then open it.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“I mean you do not have jurisdiction.”
His smile vanished.
There it was.
The sentence men like him hated most.
You do not have jurisdiction.
May you like
He walked back to his patrol vehicle, opened the rear compartment, and returned with a steel crowbar in his hand.
That was when the situation changed.
