“You assaulted a police officer.”
“No, I didn't.”
Officer Mills had reached the fence by then.
“Derek,” he said quietly. “Let it go.”
Whitmore ignored him.
He bent down.
Picked up the garden hose.
And twisted the nozzle.
Simone saw the movement.
Her eyes widened.
“Don't you dare.”
Whitmore squeezed the trigger.
Fifty Seconds
The water hit Simone like a wall.
She gasped.
The force drove into her face and chest, stealing her breath before she could scream.
She raised her arms.
“Stop!”
But Whitmore followed her with the stream.
“You think you can assault me?”
The water struck her again.
Simone stumbled backward.
Her foot caught the edge of the flower bed, and she fell onto the grass.
The crowd erupted.
“Stop!”
“What are you doing?”
“Turn it off!”
But Whitmore kept spraying.
Water flooded Simone’s face.
She could not see.
Could not breathe.
She turned away, but the stream followed.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
Her blouse clung to her skin. Her hair was soaked. Her lungs burned as she struggled to inhale.
“Please!”
Eleanor screamed.
“She can’t breathe!”
Officer Mills ran forward.
“Derek, stop!”
For a moment, Whitmore hesitated.
Then, finally, he released the trigger.
Silence fell over the street.
Simone lay on the grass.
Water dripped from her hair and clothes.
Her briefcase had fallen open nearby. Papers floated in puddles. Case files—documents she had prepared for court—were soaked beyond use.
Whitmore threw the hose aside.
“Maybe that’ll wash some of that attitude off you.”
The crowd exploded in outrage.
Every phone was pointed at him.
But Whitmore barely noticed.
He was looking at Simone.
Expecting her to cry.
To run.
To break.
Instead, she slowly pushed herself to her feet.
Her knees trembled.
Her body shook from cold and adrenaline.
She wiped water from her face and looked directly into his eyes.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet.
“Officer Whitmore.”
He smirked.
“Yes?”
“You have just made the worst mistake of your life.”
He laughed.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
Simone reached into her back pocket.
Her fingers closed around a small metal case.
She pulled it out.
Water ran down its surface.
Then she opened it.
The gold seal caught the morning sunlight.
Whitmore's smile disappeared.
The neighborhood became completely silent.
Simone held the credentials up between them.
“My name is Dr. Simone Lauron.”
Whitmore stared.
“I am a federal judge for the United States Court of Appeals.”
The color drained from his face.
And for the first time that morning, Officer Derek Whitmore understood what fear felt like.
The Wrong Question
Whitmore took a step backward.
“That’s fake.”
His voice was weak.
“It has to be.”
Officer Mills pulled out his phone.
His fingers moved quickly across the screen.
Then he froze.
“Oh, God.”
Whitmore turned toward him.
“What?”
Mills held up the phone.
A photograph filled the screen.
Simone Lauron.
Black judicial robes.
An American flag behind her.
The same face.
The same woman standing before them, soaked and trembling on her own lawn.
“She’s real,” Mills whispered.
Whitmore stared at the screen.
Then at Simone.
His mouth opened.
No words came out.
Simone watched him carefully.
And suddenly, something became clear.
“If you had known who I was,” she said, “you wouldn’t have done this.”
Whitmore swallowed.
“That’s not—”
“Isn't it?”
He looked away.
Her voice became stronger.
“If I had been a secretary, would it have been acceptable?”
“No.”
“If I had been a nurse?”
“No.”
“If I had been unemployed?”
“No.”
“If I had simply been a woman watering flowers?”
Whitmore said nothing.
Simone stepped closer.
“You didn’t assault me because you didn't know I was a judge.”
She held up the badge case.
“You assaulted me because you thought I was powerless.”
His eyes filled with panic.
“Your Honor, I’m sorry.”
Simone looked at him.
“No. You’re frightened.”