Marlene was carrying something inside a folded cloth.
She moved beside the support.
Then spent several minutes working around one section of the frame.
The camera was too far away to show exactly what she did.
That was probably good.
I didn’t want to know how.
What mattered was what happened after.
At 7:24, Marlene straightened.
She looked directly at my green chair.
Then she took three steps toward it.
She grabbed the chair by the back.
Moved it several inches.
And carefully positioned it beneath the tank’s path.
Nobody spoke.
I felt suddenly cold despite the afternoon heat.
Officer Perez replayed it.
Marlene moved the chair again.
Not far.
Maybe eight inches.
But enough to center it where the tank later landed.
Laura sat down on the patio step.
“That wasn’t property damage.”
Officer Lewis looked toward her.
“No.”
Laura’s voice shook.
“She wanted him there.”
Officer Perez kept watching.
The recording continued.
Marlene stood beside the chair.
Then pulled out her phone.
She made a call.
The camera did not capture everything she said.
Wind pushed through the leaves.
A delivery truck passed behind the houses.
But several words were clear.
“No, he sits here.”
Pause.
“Every afternoon.”
Another pause.
Then:
“Tomorrow won’t matter if he can’t show up.”
Officer Perez stopped the video.
Nobody moved.
Laura looked at me.
“Show up where?”
I already knew.
The courthouse.
Two months earlier, Marlene Bishop’s son had almost killed a man.
His name was Ryan Bishop.
Twenty-seven.
He didn’t live with Marlene anymore, but he visited often.
Ryan drove a black pickup with oversized tires and a damaged rear bumper.
I knew the truck because he parked half across my driveway whenever he visited.
On the night of May 11, I was driving home from my sister’s house.
It was raining.
At approximately 10:40 p.m., I stopped at the intersection of Clark Avenue and Benton Road.
A cyclist was crossing ahead of me.
I remember the reflective strip on his backpack.
Then a black truck came through the turn too fast.
The truck struck him.
Not head-on.
The side of the vehicle clipped the bicycle.
The cyclist went down.
The truck stopped for maybe two seconds.
Then drove away.
I followed long enough to read part of the license plate.
When the truck passed beneath a streetlight, I recognized it.
Ryan’s.
I called 911.
Then returned to the cyclist.
His name was Thomas Avery.
He survived.
A broken leg.
Shoulder injuries.
A concussion.
Nothing that would make a dramatic television scene.
But enough to keep him out of work for months.
Ryan denied being there.
He said his truck had been parked at his mother’s house all evening.
Marlene backed him up.
She told police she had watched a movie with Ryan until almost midnight.
The problem was that my doorbell camera captured Ryan arriving at Marlene’s house at 11:03.
Twenty minutes after the crash.
The partial plate matched.
Damage on his truck was consistent with the collision.
Police eventually charged him with leaving the scene of an accident and related offenses.
My testimony mattered because I was the only eyewitness who could identify both Ryan and the truck.
The preliminary hearing had been delayed once because Ryan changed attorneys.
Then again because of scheduling.
The new hearing was tomorrow morning.
At nine.
Marlene had spent weeks asking me to change my statement.
At first, politely.
“You saw a black truck,” she said one afternoon.
“A lot of people have black trucks.”
“I saw Ryan’s.”
“It was raining.”
“Yes.”
“People make mistakes.”
“I know what I saw.”
Then she became emotional.
“He’ll lose his job.”
“Thomas almost lost his ability to walk.”
“That was an accident.”
“Driving away wasn’t.”
After that, she tried sympathy.
Ryan had struggled after his father left.
Ryan had anxiety.
Ryan had finally found stable work.
Ryan was scared.
I listened.
But none of it changed what happened.
One evening, Marlene appeared at my door holding an envelope.
There were five thousand dollars inside.
I didn’t count it.
She told me the amount.
“For the inconvenience.”
I stared at her.
“What inconvenience?”
“Court. Police. All of it.”
“You’re offering me money to change my statement?”
“No.”
She lowered her voice.
“I’m asking you to be less certain.”
I closed the door.
The next morning, I called the prosecutor.
After that, Marlene stopped speaking to me.
Until the tank fell.
Officer Perez asked me to send the footage directly to the department.
Then she called for a detective.
Marlene had returned inside her house.
Within forty minutes, an unmarked vehicle arrived.
Detective Samuel Ortiz watched all three camera angles.