James glanced toward Maya. "Not yet, buddy. But we're getting closer."
Marcus pressed another block into place. "I don't want people watching us anymore."
His father had no ready reply. He was helping uncover a network that had used fear to control entire neighborhoods, yet his own son had become afraid of windows and parked cars. The distance between public justice and private recovery was becoming the most difficult part of the case to measure.
The next several weeks brought a different kind of pressure. The first rush of publicity faded into longer articles, hearings, and rumors that spread through Baltimore faster than anyone could correct them. People wanted to know when Mitchell would be convicted, whether Morrison had been arrested, and why the federal government had allowed the unit to operate for so long. Some residents asked why James had not intervened earlier if he had witnessed so much. The questions were painful, and many were fair.
James attended a small meeting with community representatives after Carter cleared him to speak about the limits of his role. He did not arrive in a suit or a federal jacket. He wore the same kind of gray shirt neighbors remembered from the porch repairs, but the familiarity felt altered. People were polite and cautious, their eyes lingering on him in a way they had not before. He had become both the neighbor they knew and a reminder that someone had been documenting parts of their lives without telling them.
Robert Johnson was the first to speak. "You came to my house," he said. "You ate dinner with my family. You helped Trey with his science fair bridge. Was any of that real?"
James took his time. "The friendship was real to me. So was the work on your house, the dinner, and what I thought of your family. I understand why my not telling you the truth makes those memories feel different."
"You were recording us?"
"I was gathering evidence about a specific suspected criminal operation under legal authorization," James answered. "I wasn't building files on people for having barbecues. There are details I can't disclose while the case is active, and I won't pretend that asking you to trust that is easy."
Robert stared at the table. "My son called you Uncle James."
"I remember," James said. "He doesn't have to keep calling me that. He can decide what he wants to feel about me. So can you."
The honesty was harder to offer than an easy defense would have been. Robert remained quiet, but he did not leave. Later he stood beside James outside the church hall and told him that Mrs. Washington's porch steps still needed another coat of paint. James asked whether he would be welcome to help. Robert looked at him, then said, "Bring your own brush."