Natalie listened, her face an unreadable mask.
When the recording ended, she looked at Keller.
“Captain, I am formally requesting that you take a walk with me.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Natalie stepped off her porch.
For the first time that morning, she left her property.
She walked down her driveway, her fuzzy slippers softly padding against the concrete. Captain Keller walked in lockstep beside her.
Behind them, trailing like chastised children, were Mallory and Cole.
The small procession moved deliberately down the sidewalk of Oakleaf Drive, heading straight for the house three doors down.
Carol Hastings watched them approach.
At first, a massive, triumphant smile spread across her face. She thought the officers were bringing the suspect to her so she could make a positive identification.
She stood tall, adjusting her cardigan, ready to play the hero of Hawthorne Hills.
“Officers, Captain,” Carol called out, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I am so glad you got here so quickly. I was watching from my window. You just can’t be too careful these days with certain people moving around.”
“Mrs. Hastings,” Captain Keller cut in, his voice gruff and devoid of any community-policing warmth, “I need you to listen very carefully and stop talking.”
Carol’s smile faltered.
She looked at Keller, then at the two pale, sweating patrolmen, and finally at Natalie, who stood a mere three feet away, staring at her with terrifying composure.
“I don’t understand,” Carol stammered. “Did you arrest her?”
“Carol, is it?” Natalie spoke up.
Her voice was conversational, yet it carried the weight of a falling gavel.
“My name is Natalie Whitaker. I am the owner of 4420 Oakleaf Drive. I closed on the property three weeks ago. I also happen to be the United States Attorney for this federal district.”
Carol’s eyes widened.
The color drained from her face so quickly she looked physically ill. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
The neighboring couple with the golden retriever, standing a few yards away, suddenly found their shoes incredibly interesting and began awkwardly backing away toward their own home.
“You called 911,” Natalie continued, stepping slightly closer, invading Carol’s meticulously curated personal space. “You tied up emergency resources and dispatched armed agents of the state to my home because you decided I did not fit your profile of a homeowner in this neighborhood. You claimed I was casing the property. You told dispatch I was not the owner, stating it as a verified fact rather than a baseless assumption.”
“I… I was just concerned for the neighborhood,” Carol gasped, taking a step back, her voice shrill and defensive. “I didn’t know. You were wearing sweatpants. You didn’t look like… I mean, you didn’t look professional.”
“I was drinking coffee on my own porch on a Saturday morning,” Natalie countered, her eyes narrowing. “But let’s talk about the law, Carol, since you enjoy involving law enforcement in community affairs. Are you familiar with the state penal code regarding misuse of the 911 emergency system?”
Carol shook her head, terrified.
“It is a Class A misdemeanor to report a crime when you have no factual basis to believe a crime has occurred,” Natalie explained, her tone surgical. “Furthermore, weaponizing the police against a citizen based on assumptions and prejudice opens you up to civil liability under federal civil rights statutes. You did not just make a mistake, Carol. You recklessly endangered my life. If these officers had been a fraction more aggressive, your little phone call could have ended in tragedy.”