She walked through the glass doors of Bellecor Boutique with a small smile on her face, excited to see her first location after being away for several months focused on expansion. The boutique was beautiful, exactly as Bennett had designed it. High ceilings, elegant lighting, carefully curated racks of dresses and separates arranged by color and style, plush seating areas for customers, and soft music playing in the background. There were about six other customers browsing through the store, most of them white women in their 30s and 40s examining the merchandise with the careful attention that expensive clothing deserved. One of those customers was Patricia Patterson, a white woman in her mid-40s wearing a tennis outfit and carrying a designer handbag who had been browsing the sale rack near the front of the store when Bennett walked in.
Patricia glanced up at the sound of the door chime, and her eyes immediately locked onto Bennett. Patricia watched as Bennett walked past her toward the main dress displays, and something in Patricia’s mind clicked into suspicion mode the moment she saw a black woman entering this expensive boutique. Bennett was completely unaware of Patricia’s attention as she made her way to a display of evening dresses near the back of the store. She ran her fingers along the fabrics, checking the quality and the way the dresses were displayed, mentally noting that the staff had done an excellent job with the merchandising. She pulled out a deep blue cocktail dress and held it up, examining the stitching and the drape of the fabric.
She was genuinely shopping, but also evaluating her own inventory with the critical eye of someone who had personally selected every item in the store. 5 minutes passed. Bennett moved from the eveningwear to the casual dress section, pulling out items, checking price tags, considering what might work for the business events she had coming up. She was acting exactly like any other customer in the boutique, taking her time, being thoughtful about her selections. Patricia Patterson watched her the entire time.
Patricia pretended to examine a blouse while keeping Bennett in her peripheral vision, tracking every move Bennett made through the store. In Patricia’s racist mind, Bennett’s careful browsing wasn’t the behavior of a discerning customer. It was the behavior of someone casing the place, looking for opportunities to steal. Patricia had no evidence for this belief, no reason beyond the color of Bennett’s skin to think anything suspicious was happening, but her prejudice filled in a narrative that made sense to her warped worldview. 10 minutes passed.
Bennett had now moved to a third section of the store, looking at designer separates, silk blouses and tailored pants that could be mixed and matched for professional settings. She still hadn’t made a final selection, just browsing and enjoying the experience of shopping in her own beautifully designed space. But to Patricia, the fact that Bennett had been in the store for 10 minutes without buying anything was proof positive that something criminal was happening. Patricia pulled out her phone and stepped toward a quiet corner of the boutique near the dressing rooms. She kept her voice low as she dialed her husband’s number, but her eyes never left Bennett.
