A teenager coasted up on a bicycle and stopped beside Eleanor's gate. His name was Marcus Henderson, her sixteen-year-old grandson, who lived with his parents three blocks away and often stopped in to check on her before school. He recognized Simone immediately. After one look at his grandmother's pale face, he pulled out his phone and began a live stream he normally used for school debates, neighborhood events, and the occasional basketball game.
"I'm recording," Marcus said. "Officer, why are you bothering Dr. Laurent?"
Whitmore spun toward him. "Put that phone away."
"I'm on the sidewalk. I'm not interfering."
"Kid, don't test me."
"I'm not moving closer," Marcus said, holding his bicycle with one hand. "I'm just filming what you're doing."
Simone saw the word LIVE at the top of his screen. A number changed from forty-seven to sixty-eight, then crossed a hundred. She remembered all the people who had testified in her courtroom about encounters that left no reliable recording, no unambiguous timeline, and no evidence beyond an officer's report against the person's own account. She hoped fiercely that nobody would need this video, even as she understood why Marcus had started it.
"Last chance," Whitmore said. "Name. Identification. Proof of residence."
"I've already given you my name," she replied. "Simone Laurent."
"That tells me nothing."
"Then tell me whether I'm free to go inside my house."
"You're being detained until I sort this out."
"On suspicion of what?"
"Trespassing. Possibly giving false information to police."
"On my own property?"
He lifted his chin. "That's what I'm trying to determine."
Simone felt anger heat her face. She could hear Eleanor pleading with Marcus not to get too close, Daniel Carter calling for everyone to keep recording, and the distant sound of a delivery truck moving down the avenue. She knew she was running late for work. None of it seemed real enough to compete with the officer who refused to accept a straightforward answer.
"I'm going to get my identification," she said carefully. "It's in my back pocket. I'm telling you before I move my hand."
"Slowly," Whitmore said, his hand settling near his holster. "No surprises."
She shifted her weight, trying to reach around without turning her back. Her heel caught the length of hose that lay across the grass, and the nozzle rolled under her shoe. She stumbled sideways, caught herself, and in the same motion her elbow bumped the handle. A small splash arced from the still-pressurized hose, striking the lower leg of Whitmore's uniform.
It was barely enough water to make a stain the size of his palm. Simone looked down at the darkened fabric and immediately said, "I'm sorry. I tripped."
Whitmore stared at his pant leg. Then he looked at her with an expression that made Mills start running from the curb. "You just assaulted an officer."
"No. That was an accident. You saw me stumble."
"You sprayed me deliberately."
"Derek, stop," Mills shouted. "I saw it. It was the hose."