Whitmore did not look at him. He bent, snatched the nozzle from the grass, and twisted it until the narrow stream blasted the soil. Simone saw what he was doing and took an involuntary step backward. "Officer, put that down," she said.
He aimed it at her face.
The first impact stole her breath. Water struck her forehead, nose, and mouth with such force that she raised both hands to shield herself. She stumbled backward, tripped over the border of the rose bed, and fell onto her side in the wet grass. When she rolled away to breathe, Whitmore moved the stream after her.
"Maybe now you'll learn some respect," he shouted. "Who's paying for that house, huh? You think I believe your story? You're either somebody's maid or somebody's thief."
She managed to say, "Please stop," but the next stream broke the words apart. The world had narrowed to cold water, pounding breath, the smell of crushed roses, and the shock of realizing that a man she had expected to recognize the law was openly disregarding it. She heard Eleanor scream her name. She heard Marcus yelling into his phone for somebody to call for help.
Mills reached Whitmore's arm and grabbed it. "Derek! That's enough!"
Whitmore jerked away, spraying water across the porch and the edge of the driveway. "Don't touch me, rookie."
"She's down. She can't breathe. Stop."
Daniel Carter left his porch and came as far as the fence. "Officer, turn off the water! We can all see what you're doing!"
Other voices joined his. A woman in running clothes stepped forward and began narrating the time on her phone. The young couple shouted that they had the incident on video. Marcus's live audience climbed into the thousands, and messages streamed past too quickly for him to read.
At last, after nearly a minute, Whitmore released the nozzle. The sudden silence felt enormous. Water streamed over Simone's face and down her neck as she struggled into a seated position. She was shaking, coughing, and trying to get her bearings in a yard that had been peaceful less than an hour earlier.
Her briefcase had fallen from the porch bench where she had set it before watering; papers protruded from its partially open flap, some wet from the spray that had swept across the steps. The red geraniums had been knocked from their pots. Petals floated in the puddles along the path. Looking at the wreckage, she felt a wave of humiliation more painful than the ruined garden.
"Maybe that washed the attitude out of you," Whitmore said. He threw the hose down beside her and turned his head toward the people filming. He seemed to expect them to agree with him, or at least to look away.
They did neither.
Simone placed her hands on the grass and slowly stood. Her knees were unsteady, her blouse clung to her shoulders, and cold water dripped from her hair onto her cheeks. She looked directly at the man who had attacked her and saw no sign that he understood the seriousness of what he had done. She reached for the credential case in her back pocket.