Officer Dennis Patterson’s expression didn’t change at all. He didn’t believe Bennett for even a fraction of a second. “Nice try,” Patterson said coldly, “but lying about who you are and impersonating a business owner just made this a lot worse for you. You’re under arrest.” Bennett’s eyes went wide with shock and fury.
“I’m not lying. I’m the owner. Ask the manager. Check the business registration. Google my name right now.”
Patterson pulled his handcuffs from his belt. Turn around and put your hands behind your back. This is illegal. Bennett’s voice rose. I’m telling you the truth.
I own this boutique. You’re making a massive mistake. Turn around now. Patterson ordered, his voice hard and final. The three dresses Bennett had been holding fell from her arms and landed on the boutique floor as Patterson grabbed her wrist and forced her arm behind her back.
The metal handcuffs clicked closed around her right wrist with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the silent store. He grabbed her other arm and cuffed it as well, pulling the restraints tighter than necessary. You’re arresting me for shopping in my own store. Bennett said loudly, making sure everyone could hear. This is false arrest.
This is racial profiling. I’m the owner. You should have left when I gave you the chance. Patterson said, grabbing Bennett by the arm and starting to pull her toward the exit. Bennett resisted, planting her feet.
I’m Amara Bennett, the owner. Someone call Peter. Call the manager. He’ll tell you. Patterson yanked her forward roughly.
Customers pulled out their phones and started recording. Jennifer stood frozen, her face showing the first hints of doubt about what was happening. Patricia Patterson moved toward the exit, ready to leave before things got more complicated. Bennett was pulled past the displays she had personally selected, past the elegant fixtures she had chosen, past the customers she had hoped to serve. She was being dragged out of her own business in handcuffs while protesting her identity and demanding that someone verify the truth.
Patterson reached the glass front doors and pulled them open. Bennett was halfway through the doorway, still protesting, still demanding they check her identity, when the door opened from the outside and a white man in his early 50s carrying shopping bags stepped into the boutique. Peter Prescott, the general manager of Bella Corps Boutique, stopped dead in his tracks. He looked at Officer Patterson, then at the woman in handcuffs being forcibly removed from the store. Then his eyes focused on the woman’s face and recognition hit him like a physical blow.
“Oh my god.” Peter said, his shopping bags falling from his hands and hitting the floor with a loud thud. “Why is the owner of this boutique in handcuffs?” Everything stopped. Peter Prescott dropped his shopping bags and rushed forward, positioning himself directly between Officer Patterson and the exit.
