Officer Terrence Gallagher exited first.
Twelve years on the force.
Three assigned to Harmon Heights.
Forty years old.
Solid build.
Close-cropped hair.
His body camera activated when he opened the vehicle door.
Officer Sandra Meeks emerged from the second cruiser.
Nine years on the department.
She moved toward Daniel's right side.
A third patrol car appeared at the end of the block less than a minute later.
Daniel later learned why.
Seventeen minutes earlier, someone had called police.
The dispatch recording became public during litigation.
A male caller reported "some guy checking cars and houses."
The dispatcher asked for a description.
"Black guy."
"Approximate age?"
"I don't know. Thirty? Forty?"
"Height?"
"Six feet maybe."
"Clothing?"
"Dark pants. Shirt."
"Weapon?"
"Didn't see one."
"What exactly is he doing?"
"Walking around carrying a bag."
"Did you see him enter a vehicle?"
"No."
"Did you see him pull a door handle?"
"I think so."
"You think so?"
"He was standing near a car."
The caller provided no plate.
No exact address.
No clear criminal act.
The description sent over radio was reduced further.
Suspicious Black male, approximately six feet, dark clothing, carrying bag, possibly checking vehicle door handles near Harmon and Delray.
Daniel Brooks was six-foot-one.
Black.
Wearing navy slacks.
Carrying a campaign tote bag.
That was the match.
Gallagher approached.
"Hey. Stop. I need to talk to you."
Daniel had already stopped.
He turned.
Both hands visible.
"Good morning, officer. Is there a problem?"
Gallagher stopped about eight feet away.
"We got a call about somebody matching your description in the area."
Daniel felt the words land.
Matching your description.
He had heard that phrase hundreds of times professionally.
In reports.
Testimony.
Client interviews.
Cross-examinations.
Sometimes descriptions were detailed.
Height.
Weight.
Clothing.
Specific scar.
Vehicle.
Direction of travel.
Sometimes they were barely descriptions at all.
Black male.
White shirt.
Jeans.
Daniel had spent years arguing that a category was not an individualized identification.
Now he stood inside the category.
Gallagher continued.
"I'm going to need you to tell me what you're doing out here."
Daniel inhaled slowly.
"I'm canvassing."
"For what?"
"My congressional campaign."
Gallagher stared.
"My name is Daniel Brooks. I'm running in District 7."
A slight smirk appeared on Gallagher's face.
"Running for Congress."
"Yes."
"Okay."
Daniel gestured carefully toward the lanyard hanging from his neck.
"My campaign ID is right here."
He began lifting one hand.
Gallagher's voice sharpened.
"Don't reach for anything."
Daniel froze.
"I'm reaching for my lanyard."
"Keep your hands where I can see them."
Daniel lowered his hand.
Meeks moved slightly behind his right shoulder.
That movement bothered Daniel more than Gallagher's tone.
He now had one officer in front.
One behind.
The third unit had stopped down the block.
Daniel said, "My hands are visible."
Gallagher looked toward the canvas tote.
"What's in the bag?"