It was a crisp, clear morning in Pine Grove, a small town nestled in the rolling hills of Upstate New York. The streets were quiet, just beginning to stir as the day unfolded. People went about their routines, unaware of the events that were about to unfold.
Among them was Officer Greg Collins, a well-known figure in Pine Grove—tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of self-assuredness that came from years of patrolling the same streets. Collins was a man who prided himself on knowing every corner of his town. To him, nothing happened in Pine Grove that he didn’t know about.
As Collins patrolled the quiet streets that morning, his eyes scanned the familiar surroundings: the local coffee shop, the grocery store, the row of modest houses. All perfectly ordinary. But then, something caught his attention. Parked just outside a small convenience store was a sleek black sedan. There was nothing particularly unusual about the car itself, but something felt off to Collins. He didn’t recognize it, and in a town like Pine Grove, that meant something. Most people here drove pickup trucks or older cars—nothing like the polished, unmarked vehicle he was looking at now.
Collins slowed his patrol car as he passed by, glancing into the sedan’s tinted windows. He could barely make out the figure of someone sitting in the driver’s seat—a Black woman, alone, just sitting there. His instincts kicked in. In his experience, people just didn’t sit in their cars without a reason. She had to be up to something, he thought. He pulled his cruiser over a few hundred yards ahead, watching the car in his rearview mirror. There were no plates on the front, and he couldn’t see the rear plates from his angle. Suspicious, he radioed into dispatch, keeping his voice casual.
“Unit 9, this is Collins. Checking out a suspicious vehicle outside Sam’s Market on Elm. No plates visible. I’ll check it out. Over.”
The dispatcher responded with a quick confirmation, and Collins exited his cruiser. He adjusted his belt, making sure his badge was visible and his holster was within easy reach. As he approached the car, he could feel a sense of anticipation rising in his chest. Something about this felt off. Why was she sitting there? Why here? He knocked on the window, the sound sharp and authoritative.
The woman inside—a tall, poised figure—slowly lowered the window, meeting his gaze with calm, steady eyes. She was in her late 30s, early 40s maybe, and dressed professionally in a tailored black suit. Her skin was dark, her hair pulled back into a neat bun, and her expression was cool, almost unreadable.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Collins said, his voice firm but polite. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
The woman didn’t flinch. She glanced briefly at Collins before answering, her voice measured and composed.
“Good morning, officer. I’m just waiting here, doing some work.”
Collins frowned. “Work, huh? Can I ask what kind of work?”
“I’m with the government,” she replied. “I’m on duty.”
The response was so matter-of-fact that it threw Collins off for a moment. The government? “What department, exactly?”
She didn’t blink. “CIA.”
For a moment, Collins was silent. He wasn’t sure what he had expected her to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. He scanned her face, searching for signs that she was lying, but she remained calm, unbothered by his scrutiny.
“CIA, huh?” he repeated, his tone now more skeptical. “Mind if I see some ID to back that up?”
The woman nodded, her expression still unreadable. “My credentials are in my bag. May I reach for them?”
Collins hesitated. He’d been in situations before where people claimed all kinds of things to get out of trouble. He wasn’t going to be fooled by a story, no matter how confident she seemed. He narrowed his eyes, his hand resting on his belt near his holster.
“Go ahead,” he said, watching her closely.
Slowly, the woman reached into the passenger seat, where a black leather bag sat. She unzipped it carefully, pulling out a sleek black wallet. She handed it to Collins, who opened it to find a CIA badge and identification card, complete with her name, rank, and photograph. Her name was Nicole Johnson.
Still, Collins wasn’t convinced. He’d seen fake IDs before, and something about this whole situation didn’t sit right with him. A Black woman in an unmarked car in Pine Grove, claiming to be a CIA agent? It didn’t add up. Not here, not in his town.
“Miss Johnson, I’m going to need you to step out of the car,” he said, his voice now edged with authority.
Nicole raised an eyebrow, her composure still intact. “I’ve shown you my ID, officer. Is there a problem?”
Collins stiffened. “I’m just doing my job, ma’am. Step out of the car, and we can sort this out.”
Without a word, Nicole complied. She opened the door and stepped out, standing tall and composed, her hands visible at her sides. Collins eyed her warily, still not convinced. She didn’t look nervous or guilty, and that bothered him. People usually showed some sign of fear or anxiety when they were caught doing something wrong. But not her. She was too calm.
“I’m going to have to search the car,” he said, already moving toward the driver’s door.
Nicole didn’t move. “You have no probable cause for a search, officer. I’ve complied with everything you’ve asked, and I’m on official government duty.”
Collins ignored her, his hand already on the door handle. “I’ll decide that, ma’am.” As he opened the door and began searching the car, Nicole remained still, her eyes following his every move. She knew where this was going. She’d seen it too many times before. This wasn’t about her credentials or her compliance. It was about something else, something deeper. She’d hoped that by following every step of the law, she could avoid this, but she should have known better.
After a few minutes, Collins emerged from the car, his face flushed with frustration. He’d found nothing suspicious, nothing illegal. Still, he wasn’t satisfied. He turned back to Nicole, who was standing with her arms crossed.
“I’m going to need to have you come with me to the station,” he said, his tone sharp.
Nicole’s expression didn’t change. “On what grounds, officer?”
Collins hesitated for a fraction of a second before responding, “You’re acting suspiciously, and I need to verify your story.”
Nicole’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t argue. She knew what this was really about. “Fine,” she said coolly, “but you’re making a mistake.”
Collins escorted her to his patrol car, cuffing her hands behind her back. He could feel the tension in the air, but he was convinced he was doing the right thing. In his mind, there was no way a Black woman like her was really with the CIA—especially not in a place like Pine Grove.
As they drove to the station, Nicole remained silent. She didn’t try to defend herself or argue with Collins. She’d been through this before, and she knew that nothing she said would change his mind. He’d already decided who she was the moment he saw her.
When they arrived at the station, Collins marched her inside, handing her off to one of his colleagues as he began to process the paperwork for her detainment. As he typed up the report, a phone call came through to the station. It was from a high-ranking official in Washington, D.C. Collins listened as the voice on the other end of the line confirmed Nicole’s identity as an active CIA agent, one who was currently on a highly sensitive mission.
The color drained from his face as he realized what he had done. He’d arrested a federal agent on duty without cause, simply because of his own suspicions and biases. The gravity of his mistake hit him like a ton of bricks. He had humiliated a woman who was not only innocent but someone who had been serving her country in ways he couldn’t even imagine.
Nicole was released immediately, her composure still intact as she walked out of the holding area. She glanced at Collins as she left, her eyes cold and unflinching. She didn’t say a word, but the look on her face said everything. She didn’t need to tell him how wrong he was—he already knew.
Collins stood there, watching her walk away, the weight of his actions pressing down on him. He’d made a mistake, a mistake that would haunt him for the rest of his career.
As Nicole stepped outside, she took a deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs. She’d done nothing wrong, yet she’d been treated like a criminal. But she wasn’t surprised. It was just another day in America, another reminder that no matter how far she had come, some people would always see her as less.
