Whitmore’s boots hit the sidewalk hard, deliberate. His hand rests on his belt, near his gun, near his cuffs. Simone glances up, sees the uniform, the badge. She straightens, turns off the hose spray. “Good morning, officer. Can I help you?” Her voice is calm, professional, the same voice she uses in court, but her pulse quickens. She’s done nothing wrong. Still, her hands tighten on the hose. Whitmore stops at the low decorative fence, doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t ask. Steps right over it, onto her property, onto her lawn. His shadow falls across the rose bushes. “What are you doing here?” His voice is cold, flat. Simone blinks. “I’m watering my garden. Is there a problem?” “Your garden?” He looks at the house, then back at her. His eyes narrow. “This is your house?” The way he says “your” makes her skin prickle. “Yes, I live here. Why are you asking?” Whitmore takes another step closer, invading her space, making himself bigger. “Ma’am, I’m going to need to see some identification.”
Simone’s heart pounds. She’s a federal judge. She knows the law better than most attorneys. And right now, this officer has no legal reason to demand her ID. “Officer, I’m on my own property. I don’t have to show you identification.” Whitmore’s face hardens. “Ma’am, don’t make this difficult.” “I’m not making anything difficult. I’m asking why you’re here.” He steps closer. She can smell his cologne. Cheap. Overpowering. His hand stays near his belt. “We’ve had reports of suspicious activity in this neighborhood. I need to verify that you live here.” “Suspicious activity? I’m watering flowers.” “Exactly. You don’t look like you belong in this neighborhood.” The words hang in the air, sharp, ugly. Simone’s jaw tightens. She’s heard versions of this her whole life, but never on her own front lawn. “What does someone who belongs here look like, officer?” Whitmore’s eyes flash. “Don’t play games with me. Are you the homeowner or the help?”
Eleanor Henderson’s voice cuts in from next door. “Officer, Simone lives there. She’s been my neighbor for five years.” Whitmore turns. His voice rises. “Ma’am, step back. This is police business.” “Police business? She’s watering her own garden.” “One more word and I’ll cite you for interfering with an investigation.” Eleanor’s mouth opens, closes. She pulls out her phone instead, starts recording. Simone forces her voice to stay level. “Officer, I’m happy to answer reasonable questions, but you’ve given me no legal justification for this stop.” “Legal justification?” Whitmore laughs. It’s not a pleasant sound. “You want to give me legal advice now?” “I’m simply asserting my rights.” “Your rights?” He moves closer still, inches from her face. “How about I tell you what your rights are? You have the right to cooperate. You have the right to not piss me off. That clear enough?”