"We need the actual evidence," Diana said. "Not just what Griggs wrote after the fact. I'll request the dispatch call, the reports, body-camera recordings, and the identity of the supposed fugitive."
"And the search?"
"We'll challenge it on the facts. A private house doesn't become searchable because a captain says the words probable cause. If they had no warrant, we'd need to examine whether they had a genuine, immediate justification to enter. Right now their paperwork doesn't describe one."
By dawn, Marcus was back on Brookside Street. Without Angela there, their front door looked like a wound in the house; one corner hung crookedly, and splinters lay on the welcome mat. A neighbor had covered the opening with plastic sheeting to keep insects out overnight. Inside, drawers stood open and family photographs had been left face down among scattered books, but the damage was less extensive than Marcus had feared from Angela's description of the noise. He photographed every room before touching anything and asked the neighbors who had entered afterward to note what they had moved.
The Martinez family came over with a thumb drive containing copies of their footage. Their daughter Elena had captured Griggs pushing Angela, while Mr. Martinez's recording showed Holt ordering an officer to enter before anyone produced a warrant. Jimmy Parker had filmed the moment Holt stepped on Angela's phone from his upstairs window. Marcus thanked them all, then asked them to preserve the original files and not edit their copies even if they later chose to post excerpts online.
Mrs. Carter crossed the street carrying coffee in a thermos and a plate of toast wrapped in foil. She stood in the damaged doorway without speaking for a long moment, her eyes moving from the broken lock to the photograph of Angela and Marcus on the mantel. "This is because of me," she said at last.
"No, ma'am," Marcus answered. "It's because somebody in uniform decided your right to stay here was an inconvenience. Angela didn't make him do that. Neither did you."
"But they were trying to get to my house, and she stood up for me."
"That's what she would do for anybody on this street. We need the papers you've been keeping, Mrs. Carter. Not to make you leave, but to help you stay."
At Mrs. Carter's kitchen table, Marcus found six months of letters organized in envelopes tied with ribbon. The earliest offered market value for her property, which she had no intention of selling; later letters described rising neighborhood crime, future redevelopment, and the risk of being left behind. A handwritten note from Colin Braddock said his firm could expedite her relocation if she made a decision by Friday. Beside it lay the notice of the municipal inspection that occurred the day after Holt had visited her.