But first, the roses need water. She glances at the photo on the refrigerator. Her and James on their anniversary. Her husband, Dr. James Laurent, cardiothoracic surgeon. He left for the hospital at 6:00 a.m. Wednesday surgeries always start early. Simone walks to the front door, opens it. The morning air hits cool and fresh. She breathes deep. This is her favorite part of the day. Before the courtroom, before the gavels and legal briefs, just her and the garden. She grabs the green garden hose coiled by the porch steps. Turns on the spigot. Water rushes through. She adjusts the nozzle to a gentle spray. The roses drink it in. She moves slowly, carefully. Each plant gets attention. The soil darkens as water soaks in.
“Good morning, Simone.” Eleanor Henderson waves from next door. She’s 78, white hair pinned up, wearing a floral house dress, her own garden hose in hand. “Morning, Eleanor,” Simone calls back. “Your roses are looking beautiful.” “Oh, yours put mine to shame, dear.” Eleanor laughs. “That fertilizer I recommended working out like magic.” “Thank you.” This is their routine. Five years of it. Weekly tea on Sundays. Emergency calls when packages arrive. Eleanor watched the house when Simone and James went to Hawaii last month. Simone waters the geraniums next. She hums along to the music still playing inside. Her mind is already running through today’s case. Complex civil rights lawsuit. Police misconduct allegations. She needs to stay sharp.
She doesn’t hear the patrol car slow down across the street. Doesn’t see Officer Derek Whitmore behind the wheel watching her. Whitmore is 38, buzz cut, square jaw, 15 years with Portland PD. He grips the steering wheel. His jaw tightens. “You see that?” he says. His partner, Officer Ryan Mills, looks up from his phone. Mills is 24, fresh-faced, only eight months out of the academy. “See what?” “Black woman. Expensive house. Doesn’t add up.” Mills shifts in his seat. “Derek, come on. It’s just someone watering their garden in Laurelhurst.” “This neighborhood.” Whitmore puts the car in park. “Something’s off. I’m checking it out.” “The captain said we need to be careful. The community liaison office—” “The liaison office can kiss my ass.” Whitmore opens his door. “I’ve been doing this job for 15 years. I know it’s suspicious when I see it.” Mills watches him cross the street. Doesn’t follow. His stomach twists. This feels wrong, but Whitmore is the senior officer. Mills is still on probation.