Francis had thought the encounter ended there. It was an unpleasant exchange, but he had encountered enough bad tempers in public service to know that one argument did not necessarily define a person. He had not filed a complaint. He had not mentioned his occupation. He had simply loaded the groceries into his sedan and driven home. Now the same officer was walking up his driveway on a Saturday morning, and Francis felt the first faint warning that the grocery store argument had not been forgotten.
"Morning, officer," he said, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans. "Is something wrong?" Mason did not answer immediately. He moved with exaggerated slowness, one hand resting on his duty belt, eyes tracking the house and then returning to Francis. The officer's uniform was immaculate, and his dark sunglasses concealed his eyes until he pulled them off and hooked them into his shirt. He stopped several feet away, close enough that Francis could see a faint smile flattening into a hard line.
"Got a call," Mason said. "Suspicious person in the area." Francis glanced at the bucket, the sponge, and the soap running down the car. "In my driveway?"
Mason looked at him as though the question were an admission of guilt. "Description matches. Black male. Athletic build.
This neighborhood." He spoke the last words slowly, inviting Francis to hear what he was not saying aloud. There was no explanation of a reported crime, no information about an actual victim, and no indication that Francis had been observed doing anything besides washing a car.
"I live here," Francis replied. "I've lived here two years." Mason tilted his head. "That's what they all say."
The words were so casually contemptuous that Francis felt his jaw tighten before he deliberately relaxed it. He had heard versions of the sentence in different cities, usually from people who imagined an address or profession made someone less likely to belong in a particular place. He resisted the temptation to ask whether Mason would have said the same thing to one of the white homeowners across the road. He wanted facts before he made accusations.
"Did somebody report a specific offense?" he asked. "A break-in, a trespass, anything I might be able to help you with?" Mason's gaze sharpened. "I ask the questions here." Francis nodded.
"All right. Then I'm happy to answer them." For several seconds Mason appeared irritated that the response offered him no argument. He raised his shoulder microphone, pressed the transmit button, and requested additional units at the address. "Just a precaution," he added.
That was when Francis understood that this would not end with Mason checking his identification and leaving. A request for backup could be entirely appropriate when an officer faced uncertainty or danger. But nothing in the quiet driveway explained why one officer needed three more for a man washing a vehicle in full daylight. Mason did not appear concerned for his own safety. He appeared eager for an audience of colleagues. Francis looked once toward the kitchen window, hoping Regina had not noticed the flashing lights.
"Backup for what?" he asked. "I haven't done anything." Mason gave him a slow smile. "Then you have nothing to worry about. Stand right there and don't make sudden movements."