Miller glanced at the silver BMW in the open garage. He saw the manicured lawn. For a split second, doubt flickered in his eyes, but then Marcus spoke again.
"You have no probable cause. You have bias. And if you put hands on me, you will be facing a 1983 civil rights violation suit personally."
That was the wrong thing to say to a man like Kyle Miller. It challenged his power. Instead of making him think, it made him angry. He decided right then that he didn't care about the law. He cared about winning.
"Turn around," Miller said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "I'm done asking."
The sound of a screen door slamming drew their attention. From the house next door, Mrs. Gable stepped out onto her porch. She was seventy-four years old, a retired school principal who had lived on Sycamore Lane for forty years. She held her smartphone up, the camera lens pointed directly at Officer Miller.
"Marcus," she called out, her voice shaky but loud. "Marcus, are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Martha," Marcus said, never taking his eyes off the officer. "Please keep recording. Do not stop recording."
"Back inside, lady!" Miller shouted, pointing a finger at her. "This is police business. Do not interfere."
"I am on my own property, young man," Mrs. Gable retorted, the steel of a lifelong educator entering her voice. "And I am filming you harassing my neighbor. Mr. Thorne has lived here for twelve years!"
Officer Miller ignored her. The audience only fueled his need to establish dominance. He unclipped his handcuffs, stepping aggressively toward Marcus. "Hands behind your back. You are under arrest for obstruction."
"On what grounds?" Marcus asked, not resisting, but not complying.
Before Miller could lay a hand on him, the distinct wail of a police siren pierced the quiet neighborhood. A black-and-white SUV came tearing around the corner of Sycamore Lane, tires screeching slightly before pulling to an abrupt halt directly behind Miller's patrol car.