“That fertilizer I recommended working out like magic.” “Thank you.” This is their routine. five years of it. Weekly tea on Sundays. Emergency calls when packages arrive. Eleanor watched the house when Simone and James went to Hawaii last month.
Simone waters the geraniums next. She hums along to the music still playing inside. Her mind is already running through today’s case. Complex civil rights lawsuit. police misconduct allegations.
She needs to stay sharp. She doesn’t hear the patrol car slow down across the street. Doesn’t see officer Derek Whitmore behind the wheel watching her. Whitmore is 38, buzzcut, square jaw, 1five years with Portland PD.
He grips the steering wheel. His jaw tightens.”You see that?” he says. His partner, Officer Ryan Mills, looks up from his phone.
Mills is 24, fresh-faced, only 8 months out of the academy.”See what?” “Black woman.” “Expensive house.” “Doesn’t add up.” Mills shifts in his seat.”Derek, come on.” “It’s just someone watering their garden in Laurelhurst.” “This neighborhood.” Whitmore puts the car in park.”Something’s off.” “I’m checking it out.” The captain said, “We need to be careful.
The community liaison office.” “The liaison office can kiss my ass.” Whitmore opens his door. I’ve been doing this job for 1five years.”I know it’s suspicious when I see it.” Mills watches him cross the street. Doesn’t follow.
His stomach twists. This feels wrong, but Whitmore is the senior officer. Mills is still on probation. Whitmore’s boots hit the sidewalk hard, deliberate.
His hand rests on his belt, near his gun, near his cuffs. Simone glances up, sees the uniform, the badge. She straightens, turns off the hose spray.”Good morning, officer.” “Can I help you?” Her voice is calm, professional, the same voice she uses in court, but her pulse quickens.
She’s done nothing wrong. Still, her hands tighten on the hose. Whitmore stops at the low decorative fence, doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t ask. Steps right over it, onto her property, onto her lawn.
His shadow falls across the rose bushes.”What are you doing here?” His voice is cold, flat. Simone blinks.”I’m watering my garden.” “Is there a problem?” “Your garden?” He looks at the house, then back at her.
His eyes narrow.”This is your house?” The way he says your makes her skin prickle.”Yes, I live here.” “Why are you asking?” Whitmore takes another step closer, invading her space, making himself bigger, ma’am, I’m going to need to see some identification. Simone’s heart pounds.
She’s a federal judge. She knows the law better than most attorneys. And right now, this officer has no legal reason to demand her ID.”Officer, I’m on my own property.” “I don’t have to show you identification.” Whitmore’s face hardens.
