Mason's shoulders had become hunched, and the hands that had looked so confident around the taser now hung awkwardly near his pockets. He spoke rapidly to Vanji, gesturing once toward Francis and then toward the street. She interrupted him. He stopped, looked down, and nodded. From where Francis stood, the exchange looked less like the beginning of an investigation than a supervisor trying to contain a disastrous mistake. He reminded himself not to draw conclusions from appearances alone; that was, after all, part of what had led to this confrontation.
Gradually the patrol cars departed. Neighbors drifted toward their doors, speaking in low voices. Caleb rode away after showing his recording to Harold Price.
Mrs. Alden returned to her porch, though she lingered at the rail instead of going inside. Father Oscar remained near the edge of Francis's lawn until the last patrol car turned the corner. Then he crossed the grass slowly and rested a hand on Francis's shoulder.
"I've lived on this street eleven years," the older man said. "I've seen complaints get handled quietly and disappear even more quietly." Francis looked at him. "I intend to follow through." Oscar nodded.
"Good. And don't relax simply because somebody apologized in front of the cameras." Regina listened closely. The priest's voice was gentle, but there was an unmistakable warning beneath it. "If they treat their own paperwork as more important than what we saw today, you're going to need every witness you can find."
"Would you be willing to make a statement?" Francis asked. Oscar's expression did not change. "Of course." He paused.
"But let everyone get home first. Your wife looks like she could use a quiet hour." Regina tried to smile and could not quite manage it. Oscar squeezed Francis's shoulder, said he would come by whenever they needed him, and headed back across the lawn with the careful steps of an older man who had learned not to hurry when his thoughts were heavy.
Francis looked at the unfinished car. White soap had dried in irregular streaks across the hood. The bucket sat where he had left it, its water cooling beneath the afternoon sun, and the sponge lay on the concrete near the front wheel. The scene was so ordinary that it seemed almost impossible to connect it with the taser, the four officers, and the shouting. He had started the morning intending to wash a car. Now he was trying to understand how the safety of his own home had become a question.
Regina took his hand. "Come inside," she said. "Please." Francis looked once toward the street before following her up the porch steps. Through the open door he could see their kitchen table, the untouched second pot of coffee, and the folded grocery list they had made after breakfast.
He thought of the patrol cars leaving and of Mason's easy declaration that everything had been a misunderstanding. Whatever had happened in the driveway was over for the officers. For Francis and Regina, it was only beginning. Inside, Regina washed her hands even though there was nothing on them. Then she opened the refrigerator, closed it without removing anything, and stood in front of the kitchen sink looking out at the driveway.