Her gaze moved across the onlookers and stopped on a figure behind the wrought-iron fence across the street. Clara Jenkins stood clutching a pink floral robe at her throat, her eyes wide behind thick glasses.
When Valerie met her gaze, Clara stepped backward toward the porch.
"David," Valerie said softly, still looking at Clara. "The police did not materialize here by accident. Someone called them."
David followed her gaze.
Valerie crossed the street. The small crowd parted as she passed. She stopped just outside Clara's gate.
"Good morning," Valerie said in a tone that was almost unnervingly pleasant.
Clara swallowed.
"I was only trying to keep the neighborhood safe. There have been break-ins. You can never be too careful."
"You called 911."
It was not a question.
"I didn't know you lived there," Clara said quickly. "The house just sold. I thought you were a prowler."
"You saw me trying to enter my own home and made an assumption without speaking to me, checking with another neighbor, or identifying any actual crime," Valerie said. "That decision brought armed officers onto my property."
Clara clutched her robe tighter.
"I am not prejudiced. I saw someone sneaking around."
"I was looking for a spare key. You saw my skin color and decided the rest for yourself."
Valerie's voice rose just enough for the surrounding neighbors to hear.
"Because of that call, I was handcuffed, shoved against a police vehicle, and placed in danger on my own lawn. If my husband were not the district attorney, what do you think this morning might have become?"
Clara had no answer. Tears gathered in her eyes.
"We are going to live across from one another for a long time," Valerie continued. "I suggest you use that time to examine the assumptions that brought us here. If you direct them at my family, my home, or my guests again, I will use every lawful remedy available to protect them."
Valerie turned and crossed back toward her house, leaving Clara on the porch as several neighbors quietly moved away from her.
Captain Miller was closing the rear doors of his SUV as Valerie reached the driveway.
"I'll handle the paperwork personally," he told David. "Internal Affairs is already being activated. I'll need statements from both of you."
"You'll have them," David said, wrapping an arm around Valerie's waist. "And Robert, tell IA to go deep into Briggs's personnel file. Men do not behave like that for the first time on a random Tuesday. If your department doesn't clean its own house, my office will make sure someone else does."
By 2:00 p.m. that afternoon, the Oakridge Police Department's downtown precinct was buzzing with rumors and panic. The story had spread through the ranks in fragments: Briggs had cuffed the district attorney's wife. Briggs and Evans had been stripped of their badges in the street. The deputy mayor was demanding an investigation.
Deep in the windowless basement of the precinct, inside Interview Room B, Thomas Briggs sat at a steel table sweating through his uniform shirt. His badge was gone. His weapon was gone. Without the equipment and swagger, he looked smaller.