"What are you doing here?"
She glanced at the wet rosebush, then back at him. "I'm watering my garden. Is there a problem?"
He looked past her to the front windows. "Your garden? This your house?"
"Yes, it is. Why do you ask?"
Whitmore stepped across the low decorative fence instead of using the path. The movement was unnecessary and unmistakably deliberate, a small trespass that announced whose wishes he considered important. His boot pressed a newly planted border flower into the soil. Simone saw it happen and felt a small flash of irritation she immediately pushed aside.
"I'm going to need identification," he said. "Something proving you live here."
"Is there a report of a burglary?" Simone asked. "Has someone complained about me?"
"I'm asking the questions."
"And I'm trying to understand why an officer is demanding identification from me while I water plants on my own property."
His expression closed. "Don't make this difficult, ma'am."
Simone knew the distinction between an officer being free to ask a question and a person being legally required to comply. She also knew that explaining that distinction to an irritated man with a badge could turn an ordinary morning into something dangerous. She kept her voice steady. "I haven't committed a crime. If you have a lawful basis for detaining me, please tell me what it is."
Whitmore's eyes moved over her jeans and blouse again. "We've had suspicious activity around here. Homes worth a lot of money. People coming through who don't belong."
"I belong here. I live here."
"That's what you say. Are you the homeowner or the help?"
The words changed the space between them. Simone had heard remarks like that before, in subtler forms and in rooms where educated people were careful to hide their contempt beneath polished language. She had been asked whether she was in the right courtroom, whether she needed directions to the administrative office, and whether she could fetch a lawyer's coat. But those incidents had not involved an armed officer standing in her flower bed.
"What makes you think I might be the help?" she asked.
Whitmore gave a short laugh. "Don't play games. I know this neighborhood."
Eleanor appeared at the adjacent fence. "Officer, Simone lives there. She and her husband have been here five years. I'm right next door."
"Ma'am, stay out of this," Whitmore said without looking at her.
"I'm only telling you that there's been some mistake."
He turned sharply. "One more interruption and I can cite you for interfering. You understand?"
Eleanor's mouth opened, then closed. Her hands shook as she took her phone out of her cardigan pocket. She knew her own age, knew the limits of her health, and knew she could not physically stand between a younger man and her neighbor. But she could press a button, and she did.
Simone watched her and felt gratitude mixed with dread. The last thing she wanted was for Eleanor to become another target. She tried once more to calm the encounter. "Officer, my neighbor has verified that I live here. Is there anything else you need?"