FLASH FICTION: You have the right to remain silent

Driving at night, with red-yellow lights, flashing by-and-by. Vanilla-blue, sprightly hue, sparkle-lit sky. Music from the fractured, out-of-breath, speakers blare:

“Right Place, Wrong Time.” (Dr. John)

Twitchingly I watch the somber-trot of the crisply ironed gray trousers shift slightly above the spit-shined black boots as Mr. LEO goose-steps to my auto-opened window.

“Sorry, officer. Is there a problem?” I ask. “Was I speeding?”

No response; he stares.

“Is my taillight out?”

He doesn’t smile. Flinch. Or tic.

“Step out of the car, please,” he grit-whispers.

Clint-ly. Flint-ly.

I do.

That’s my first mistake. As my head is pushed smartly into the roof of my car and a blunt object (perhaps a gun) smacks me sharply, I hazily think back to a morning that started so well — then went to hell.

“You have the right to remain silent,” he says.

And I am . . .

Then, faintingly, I remember the tall, cool, green-eyed-lady in the long black dress.

Karma?