I glanced at the backseat. Empty car seat. Faded logo on his door: Midwest Medical Supplies—Overnight Delivery. The guy smelled like stale coffee and twelve hours of warehouse dust. I saw the tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face before he could wipe them away.
“Look, Officer. I know I was flying. I know. Just write it. Write it fast.” He finally turned to look at me, and I’ll tell you right now, I felt that look right in my sternum. “I just need to get back on the road before she… before she thinks I lied. I promised I’d be there after my shift.”
A semi-truck blew past, rocking the cruiser and the sedan on its shocks.
I had the ticket book in my left hand. It was open. The pen was in my right.
But something in my chest locked up. Training said: Enforce the code. But twelve years on the road tells you something different. It tells you that sometimes a man speeding isn’t running from something. He’s running to something. And if he doesn’t get there in time, the ticket is the least of his debts.
I looked up the highway toward the city glow. The traffic was clotting up near the 670 interchange. A wreck on the scanner earlier. Even at the speed limit, with the construction lanes pinched down to nothing, he was forty minutes out. Forty minutes might as well be forty years when you’re racing a beeping monitor.
I slammed the ticket book shut and shoved it back in my pocket.
“Mr. Harper.”
He flinched like he was expecting the worst.“Don’t lose my bumper,” I said, my voice low and hard. “You see these lights flash blue, you stay glued to ’em. You hear me? You don’t stop for red. You don’t stop for traffic. You stay on my six until you see the Emergency Room sign. That’s an order.”
His mouth opened. Nothing came out but a shaky breath that fogged the cold air.
