"Are they putting items into a vehicle?"
"No, they're just rummaging through everything. I think they're scouting the house, seeing what they can take. This is a very nice neighborhood. We've had problems with break-ins."
The lie comes easy. There haven't been any break-ins.
"What's the address?"
Patricia gives the address—her own neighbor's house. She's reporting activity at Tanya Davis's home, a home she's walked past a hundred times, a home with a welcome mat and a mailbox that says Davis Family in neat letters.
"And you're certain these juveniles don't live there?"
"Absolutely certain. I know every family on this street. These boys don't belong here. This neighborhood doesn't have those types of families."
The dispatcher pauses, just for a second. "Officers are en route."
Patricia hangs up, walks to her front door, opens it, steps onto her porch. She wants to watch this.
Three minutes and twenty seconds later, a squad car turns onto Riverside Oaks Drive. Lights off, no siren, just the low rumble of the engine.
Officer Brandon Hayes steps out. He's 34, nine years on the force. He sees two Black kids with their hands full of Christmas lights and decorations. He sees exactly what Patricia wanted him to see.
"Hey! You two! Come here!"
Jordan looks up, confused. "Us?"
"Yeah, you! Come here! Now!"
Jordan and Julian walk toward the officer, slow, careful. They've never been in trouble; they don't know what they did wrong.
"What are you doing here?" Hayes asks.
"We're decorating," Jordan says. "For Christmas."
"Decorating what?"
"Our house." Jordan points behind him. "That's our house."
Hayes looks at the house, looks at the boys, doesn't believe them. "Whose house?"
"Ours! We live here. We live at 1247 Riverside Oaks Drive."
"You live here?" Hayes's hand moves to his belt, rests near his radio. "Who's your parents?"
"Our mom, Tanya Davis. She's at work."
"Uh-huh. You got any ID?"
Julian's eyes go wide. "We're ten!"
"Then how do I know you're telling the truth?"
"We can show you inside," Jordan offers, his voice shaking a little. "We can show you our room."
"Stay right there. Don't move."
Hayes walks toward his patrol car, reaches for his radio.
That's when Patricia Brennan steps off her porch, crosses her lawn, stands on the sidewalk with her arms crossed—watching, waiting. She wants to see this.
That's when Tanya's car turns onto Riverside Oaks Drive.
She sees the squad car first, then she sees her sons standing on their own lawn, hands visible, a police officer ten feet away. She sees Patricia Brennan on the sidewalk, smiling.
Tanya's foot hits the brake. The car jerks to a stop in her driveway. Tanya steps out of her car. She doesn't run, doesn't shout. She walks across her lawn with the same calm she uses in county board meetings, but her heart is hammering.
"Officer?" Her voice is steady, professional. "Is there a problem?"
Hayes turns, looks at her. "Ma'am, do you live here?"
"I do. This is my home. These are my sons. What's the issue?"