"Proof. Actual proof, not a friend covering for you."
"What would you consider proof?"
"Deed, utility bill, anything that connects your name to the address."
"Those documents are in my house."
"Then we'll go inside and get them."
"I am not inviting you inside," Simone replied. "And you do not have a warrant."
Whitmore's jaw moved as if he were chewing something bitter. He disliked the word warrant, disliked the precision of her answers, disliked most of all that she was asking him to explain himself in front of another person. "You lawyers are always the same," he said, though she had not told him she was one. "You think you can quote a few rules and tell police how to do their jobs."
"You don't know what I do for a living."
"Court secretary? Filing clerk? Maybe you clean the courthouse bathrooms and picked up a few phrases."
Eleanor made a sound of disbelief. Simone drew a long breath, and for an instant she thought of reaching for the credential case in her pocket. She could have ended his uncertainty about her professional title, perhaps even ended the encounter, simply by showing the gold seal and watching his manner change. But she was angered by the thought that the same man might continue treating the next woman this way if she lacked something impressive to show him.
"My occupation is not the question," she said. "My right to stand here without being harassed doesn't depend on my job."
Whitmore stepped closer. "How about I tell you what rights you have? You have the right to cooperate. You have the right not to make me angry."
Across the street, a young couple slowed and stopped. The woman raised her phone. Two houses down, a retired attorney named Daniel Carter came onto his porch holding a mug of coffee. He had been born in Trinidad and had spent most of his working life representing clients who believed powerful people could never be questioned. He knew the cadence of a confrontation going wrong even when the voices were too distant to make out every word.
Mills approached from the patrol car. "Derek, can I talk to you for a second?"
"Not now."
"There's no call attached to this address. Dispatch confirmed it. Maybe we should clear."
Whitmore stared at him. "Get back to the car."
Mills glanced at Simone, then at Eleanor with her phone raised, and stepped back. He had told himself that working beside a difficult senior officer was part of learning the job. Standing there, he realized he had been using that explanation to cover the difference between learning and obeying.
Simone set the garden hose down on the grass beside the walkway. Water dripped from its nozzle into a shallow patch of soil. Whitmore's eyes followed it. "Step away from that," he ordered.
"It's a hose."
"Do what I said."
She took one small step backward. He nodded as if he had won something important. "Now, let's see your identification."