Sergeant Antoinette Webb had barely finished greeting me when Bettina Whitmore stepped backward into the flower bed she had previously threatened to fine me for neglecting.
Her pink fleece caught on the rosemary bush, but she did not seem to notice the branch pulling at her sleeve.
The plastic grocery bag in my hand stretched beneath the weight of two jars of pasta sauce.
Cody stared at Webb as though she had suddenly begun speaking a foreign language.
“Chief Okafor?” Bettina repeated.
I placed the bag gently beside my front steps because the glass jars had begun pressing against my fingers.
“That is my job,” I told her.
“You never said you were the police chief,” she said.
“You never asked what I did for a living.”
Cody looked toward the patrol car and then toward his mother, searching for instructions that did not arrive.
Webb kept her expression professional and asked everyone to move away from the driveway entrance.
She had responded to a report alleging threats, and she intended to determine whether any crime had occurred without allowing my position to decide the answer.
That distinction mattered more to me than the surprise on Bettina’s face.
For twenty-seven years I had worn a uniform in one department or another, and I knew how quickly a badge could turn a disagreement into a contest of authority.
I did not want my driveway to become another example of that failure.
“Sergeant, please treat me as the reporting party’s neighbor,” I said.
“I will have another supervisor review the call after you secure the immediate scene.”
Webb nodded once and requested the dispatch recording through her radio.
Bettina recovered enough confidence to point at Cody.
“My son was frightened, and this man intimidated him,” she declared.
“What exactly frightened him?” Webb asked.
Cody swallowed and gestured toward my vehicle.
“He wouldn’t give me the groceries.”
For a moment the only sound came from a sprinkler ticking in the next yard.
Webb looked at him without smiling.
“Were those groceries yours?” she asked.
“They’re community supplies,” Cody said.
“Who told you that?”
He looked at his mother again.
Bettina hurried to explain that Briarwood Court had a neighborhood wellness initiative and that certain deliveries could be redistributed at the board’s discretion.
Cecily Farr stepped onto my porch holding the folder she had brought for our scheduled meeting.
“That would be an interesting policy,” she said, “because the bylaws contain no such provision.”
Bettina’s eyes fixed on the company letterhead visible above the folder’s top page.
