"What I'm doing," Mason said, the taser still leveled at Francis's chest, "is teaching you some respect." Behind him, Bellamy shifted his weight, eyes flicking toward Grayson like he expected backup that wasn't coming. Puren had gone still near the cruiser, his hand resting on the open door, knuckles white. Francis took a breath.
He'd carried his credentials in his back pocket every single day since he moved into this neighborhood. Ever since the first time a squad car had slowed down to watch him mow his own lawn. He'd hoped he'd never need them like this. He'd hoped wrong.
"I'm going to reach into my back pocket," Francis said loud and clear, eyes locked on Mason. "Slow. My ID is there. Nothing else."
"Don't you move." "My ID," Francis said again, firmer now. "That's all." Mason's finger hovered over the taser's trigger.
But something in Francis's tone, the total absence of fear made him hesitate. Francis moved his hand back slow, fingers brushing the worn leather of the badge case he'd carried for twelve years. He pulled it out and held it up open, the gold shield catching the morning sun. "Francis Willard," he said.
"Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation." The street went silent. Bellamy's hand dropped away from his holster like it had been burned. Grayson took a full step back, mouth slightly open, staring at the badge like he couldn't quite make his eyes agree with what they were seeing.
Puren let out a breath he must have been holding for a full minute, his shoulders sagging with something that looked a lot like relief. Mason didn't move. The taser stayed up, but his arm had gone rigid, frozen, between pride and panic. "That's..."
Mason started, then stopped. "That doesn't mean anything. Anybody can buy a fake badge." "Run it," Francis said.
"Call it into your dispatch right now. I'll wait." Regina stood frozen on the lawn, phone still recording, tears cutting tracks down her face. Not from fear anymore, but from something sharper, vindication, maybe, or rage, that it had taken this much to make these men see her husband as a person. A man stepped off the porch two houses down, older, broad-shouldered, wearing a cardigan despite the warm morning.
Father Oscar had been watching from his window since the second patrol car arrived. And now he crossed the grass slowly, close enough to see, close enough to remember. "Officer," Father Oscar said, his voice carrying easy and calm across the lawn. "I think you ought to call that in."
Mason's eyes darted between the badge, the gathering crowd, and the phone still pointed at his face. His jaw worked like he was chewing on his own pride, swallowing it down in pieces he didn't want to taste. Finally, he reached for his radio, hand shaking just slightly. "Dispatch," Mason said, voice tight.
"Need a verification. Name's Francis Willard. Says he's FBI." The radio crackled, a pause stretched out long and heavy, the whole street holding its breath together. Copy that.