Gallagher squinted. "Gardening? He's got a trowel, Jenkins. He's planting something."
"Bull," Jenkins sneered, throwing the cruiser into park. "He's casing the joint, checking the mail to see if they're out of town. Look at how he's dressed. You think a guy who looks like that lives in a six-million-dollar house? Come on. Get out."
Roland heard the heavy thud of the cruiser doors. He turned, wiping sweat from his forehead, and watched the two officers approach. Jenkins walked with an aggressive swagger, one hand resting on his utility belt. Gallagher trailed a few steps behind, visibly uncomfortable.
"Morning, officers," Roland said, calm and unbothered. "Can I help you?"
"Step away from the mailbox, buddy," Jenkins ordered, closing the distance until he stood at the edge of Roland's own lawn.
Roland raised an eyebrow, but did not move. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Put the gardening tool down and step back. What are you doing here?"
Roland let out a slow, measured breath. Over thirty years, he had met every version of Bradley Jenkins. He knew the type intimately. For men like this, the badge was not a duty; it was a shield for their prejudice, a weapon for their worldview.
"I am tending to my garden," Roland said evenly, setting the trowel down. "Is there a problem?"
"Yeah, there's a problem," Jenkins said, stepping onto the grass, invading Roland's space. "We've had thefts in this neighborhood—packages walking off porches. And now I find you hanging around a property that clearly isn't yours, digging through the mail."
Roland's posture straightened. Even in sweatpants, he carried the weight of a man who had briefed presidents and interrogated hardened criminals. "I assure you, officer, I am not digging through the mail. This property is, in fact, mine."