Again the tone was light, almost jokey. I knew that he was playing head games with me. Perhaps because he had nothing better to do out here.

I looked up. I met his cool gaze.

‘I was driving fast because … because a friend died. And I was upset. And not paying attention.’

‘How did your friend die?’

‘She died … of natural causes.’

‘And that gives you the right to go twenty miles over the speed limit?’

‘I made a mistake, sir.’

‘Indeed you did. Nice car.’

I stared right at him, looking directly at the number on his badge, taking it down in my head, committing it to memory, ready to call Dwight or Jennifer tomorrow and have them proceed with an official complaint. The cop saw what I was doing.

‘Eyes forward,’ he said, his voice still quiet.

‘Yes, sir.’

But I still had his number in my head.

Silence. I could see that he was sizing up the situation.

‘What do you do back in LA?’

I kept my eyes focused straight ahead. And said:

‘I’m a philanthropist.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Someone with enough money to help those without money.’

I could see him taking that in. I could also see him thinking: if what this guy says is true – if he is a money guy – I am well and truly fucked.

‘You wait here,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’

I watched him in the rearview walk back to the car. I saw him pick up his phone and lift up my license and registration documents and call in the details. I saw him waiting for a response. I saw a bully becoming increasingly anxious that he might have veered into ‘end of career’ territory. I saw him reach behind him in the car and fish around for something in the back seat. In that instant I reached for my phone and punched in his remembered badge number. Then I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. The cop came back up into a proper sitting position, a can of Coke now in his hand. I could see him checking if I was still looking ahead. I could see him reach for his phone. He had a brief exchange with whoever was on the other end of the line. His lips tightened. He ended the call. He sat behind the wheel, tapping my documents against his hand, trying to figure out his next move. Then he got out of the car and came walking back towards me. He knocked on the window. I rolled it down. He handed me my documents.

‘Next time, sir, don’t drive so fast.’

‘Understood, sir.’

He regarded me for a very long time.

‘You’re free to go … even though I know you’re hiding something.’

I kept my hands on the wheel, but still turned my head and met his now troubled eyes.

‘I’m hiding nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m just like everyone today. I’m scared.’