Helen's hand rose slowly to her mouth. Margaret looked from the flash drive to the photograph displayed behind her, then back to Clare. David could hear the ventilation system overhead in the silence.
"Perhaps the board should review that privately," Margaret suggested.
David looked around at the people who had been asked to judge his character in public. "With respect, no. Ms. Whitmore showed this room photographs and a selected video clip. If my conduct can be discussed in front of everyone here, the complete record can be seen in front of everyone here."
Clare stood abruptly. "I don't think that's necessary. This is a community review, not a trial."
"You presented video," David said. "I'm presenting the rest of it."
Margaret hesitated, then nodded toward the computer connected to the projector. "All right. We'll watch the relevant recording."
David walked forward, inserted the drive, and selected the file. Its first frame appeared on the large screen: his Ferrari in the driveway, the moving truck behind it, and three movers carrying furniture through the open front door. The date and time were visible in the corner, and the camera's fixed perspective showed exactly how ordinary the morning had been before Clare arrived.
David rested one hand beside the mouse. He thought about the thin walls of the rented room where he had once been afraid of an unexpected knock, about the years since then, and about a man who could own a home yet still find himself publicly required to prove that he deserved the space he occupied. Then he clicked play.
Morning sunlight filled the clubhouse wall. The recording showed David closing the Ferrari's trunk and turning toward a voice beyond the edge of the driveway. Clare entered from the right with her arm already raised, her finger pointed directly at his chest. There was no uncertainty in her posture, no hesitation, and nothing to suggest a woman tentatively asking a neighbor whether he needed assistance.
"Step away from that Ferrari," the recorded Clare demanded.
Several residents turned toward the real Clare. She stared at the screen with her hands clasped tightly in her lap. David stood near the projector, saying nothing, allowing the recording to proceed at its ordinary speed.
They watched him explain that he had moved into the house. They heard Clare laugh when he said he lived there. The room shifted uneasily when the recording showed David offering to retrieve the registration and Clare refusing to let him open the glove compartment.
"He said he could prove it right there," Frank Dawson murmured.
Clare glanced sharply at him. "You weren't there."
Frank looked back at the screen. "I am watching it now."
The recording continued. The little brass compass appeared when David raised his key ring, swinging beneath the Ferrari key as Clare demanded to know where it came from. A voice from the screen said, "That emblem belongs to Whitmore Mobility Group. Did you take that, too?"
David felt the question land again, even though he knew it was coming. It had been painful on Saturday because of the accusation, and it was painful now because twenty-seven people could hear exactly how much certainty Clare had needed to turn an ordinary keepsake into another possible theft. He kept his face toward the room rather than the screen.
The residents watched Clare call the police, report the Ferrari as possibly stolen, and describe David as a stranger while the movers continued taking his belongings inside. They saw him hold his hands up after she ordered him away from the passenger door. They saw the neighbors gather, door by door, until familiar faces appeared at the edge of the recording.