The heavy driver's door opened with a metallic creak. Officer Megan Doyle stepped out, her hand resting habitually on the heavy duty belt at her waist.
"What are you doing walking around this neighborhood?" Doyle demanded. Her voice was sharp, lacking any preamble or basic courtesy.
Camille looked at the center of Doyle's chest. A small, glowing green light indicated that her body camera was active and recording. Good, Camille thought. Let it record everything.
Then she looked directly into the officer's eyes.
"Am I being detained?" Camille asked. Her voice was smooth, highly educated, and completely devoid of fear.
Doyle’s frown deepened, carving harsh lines around her mouth. She was clearly thrown off balance. People who looked like Camille, walking in neighborhoods like Hawthorne Ridge, usually responded with stammering apologies or nervous explanations. They did not respond with precise legal terminology.
"I asked you a question," Doyle snapped, stepping closer, attempting to use her physical presence to intimidate.
"And I asked whether I am free to leave," Camille replied, her tone unwavering.
Doyle stopped three feet away. The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to cut.
"People have reported suspicious activity," Doyle said, her hand inching closer to her radio.
"What activity?" Camille asked.
"A woman matching your description has been walking around and looking at houses."
Camille slowly turned her head, gesturing gracefully down the long, sweeping curve of the street. "I am walking on a public sidewalk. Looking at things is not a crime in the penal code."
"That doesn't answer my question," Doyle said, her voice rising in volume.