The question was so simple that Whitmore had no defense prepared for it. He began talking about an accident and an officer's need for respect, but his wife stepped away before he finished. She looked at Simone, who was standing in the doorway under Eleanor's towel, and spoke quietly enough that the reporters had to lean closer to hear her.
"I'm sorry for what he did. I know that doesn't fix anything."
"No," Simone replied, "it doesn't. But his actions are not yours."
Jennifer shook her head. "We have children. They're going to watch this. I don't know how to explain it."
"Tell them the truth in a way they can understand," Simone said. "Tell them no one gets to hurt someone because of how they look."
Jennifer nodded through tears. She walked back to her car, turned once toward her husband, and then left without speaking to him again. He watched her go with an expression Simone recognized from courtroom hearings in which defendants suddenly understood that consequences extended beyond a fine or sentence. She had seen that look often. It did not tell her whether the person felt remorse for the harm or only fear of the loss.
James arrived shortly afterward. He stopped on the walkway when he saw the muddy lawn, the broken geranium pot, the tape beginning to mark areas investigators needed documented, and finally his wife standing in the doorway. His face went tight with anger. Then she reached for him, and the anger changed into something far more helpless.
"I saw enough of the video," he whispered as he held her. "You should never have had to go through that."
"I know."
"Are you hurting anywhere?"
"My side. My shoulder. Mostly I'm cold."
He kissed her damp forehead and held her a little tighter. Behind them, the neighborhood continued moving through the tasks of preserving evidence and answering questions. For the first time since Whitmore had crossed the fence, Simone let someone else carry the weight of the immediate moment.
James looked once toward the patrol vehicle. Simone felt his body stiffen and placed her hand against his chest. "Let the investigators handle it," she said.
He lowered his eyes to hers. "I will."
Inside, the familiar warmth of the kitchen felt almost unbearable. The coffee she had poured that morning was still on the counter, untouched and cold. Vivaldi had finished hours earlier, leaving only a quiet room and the muffled sound of radios from the street. Simone changed into dry clothes while James arranged a medical examination and made a call to her chief judge to explain she would not be in court that afternoon.
When she came downstairs, he had made tea. She sat at the kitchen table and tried to drink it, but her hands trembled enough to spill a few drops on the saucer. James took the cup and steadied it without commenting. She found herself staring at the roses through the window and wondering when she would be able to stand among them again without remembering a uniform approaching the gate.