It was a sweltering Tuesday in July on the A2 motorway, Madrid South exit. The asphalt seemed to melt under the relentless 2:30 p.m. sun, distorting the air with heat waves that made the horizon dance. Officer Carmen Ruiz, of the Civil Guard Traffic Unit, adjusted her sunglasses and looked at the radar. A black BMW had just sped past like a ghost, registering 142 kilometers per hour in a 90 km/h zone
Routine. She’d done it thousands of times in her three years of service. She turned on the blue lights, the siren let out its short, authoritative wail, and she gave chase. The black vehicle didn’t try to flee; it slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder with a docility that contrasted sharply with her previous career. Carmen parked the patrol car behind it, checked her immaculate uniform—an armor that concealed more than it revealed—and approached the driver’s window, ticket book in hand, ready to hear the usual excuses: “I didn’t see,” “I’m in a hurry,” “The speedometer isn’t working.”
