Vivian's triumphant smile faltered. She blinked, looking from Julian to the police cruiser, then to the chief, who looked as though he might be physically sick. "That... that is impossible," Vivian stammered. "The Hendersons moved out. I did not see moving trucks."
"My relocation was handled privately due to the sensitive nature of my employment with the State of Illinois," Julian replied, taking a step toward her. The sheer authority radiating from him made Vivian shrink back. "And you are the one who initiated the emergency response?"
"I... I thought you were a burglar," she squeaked, her bravado evaporating.
"Because I was fixing a jammed smart lock on my own front door?" Julian asked, his tone inquisitive but heavily laced with legal peril. "Or because I am a Black man standing in Crestwood Hills?"
"That has nothing to do with it," Vivian gasped, clutching at the collar of her robe.
"It has everything to do with it," Julian said, his voice dropping to a frigid whisper. "You bypassed any attempt at verification and escalated directly to a 911 dispatch, providing false information of a crime in progress. Your reckless assumption just facilitated a gross civil rights violation."
Julian turned his attention back to Chief Langston, pointing a long finger toward Vivian. "Chief, please ensure this woman's information is recorded. I will be subpoenaing the 911 dispatch audio in the morning. She is now a material witness in a civil rights inquiry, and I intend to explore civil litigation against her for initiating a false police report that resulted in my physical injury."
Vivian let out a sharp, panicked gasp. "Civil litigation? You cannot sue me. I was protecting the neighborhood."
"You will be hearing from my attorneys by the end of the week. I suggest you retain counsel," Julian said dismissively, turning his back on her completely.
Vivian stood frozen for a second before spinning around and speed-walking back to her house in a state of absolute terror. Julian looked at the two patrol officers. Pierce looked like he was going to cry. Vance looked like a man standing on the gallows waiting for the trapdoor to open.
"Officers," Julian said, "get off my property."
Vance did not need to be told twice. He turned, grabbed Pierce's sleeve, and hurried toward the patrol car. Langston began to turn as well.
"Not you, Chief," Julian said softly. Langston froze. "You and I are going to step inside. We have a great deal to discuss."
Julian gestured toward the open front door of his home, where the smart lock now glowed a welcoming, serene green. The interior of 4420 Oakwood Drive was a stark contrast to the violence and chaos that had just unfolded on the driveway. It was impeccably designed and minimalist, with dark hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings, and abstract art hanging on pristine white walls. The scent of expensive cedar and fresh paint lingered in the air.
Chief Langston stood awkwardly in the grand foyer, feeling distinctly out of place in his rumpled uniform. He watched as Julian Hartwell walked over to a wet bar tucked into an alcove, poured himself a glass of sparkling water, and took a long, deliberate sip. Julian did not offer the chief a drink. He did not ask him to sit.
"Mr. Hartwell," Langston began, desperate to seize control of the narrative before the silence suffocated him entirely. "I want to assure you, personally, that Officer Vance will be suspended without pay, effective immediately. By tomorrow morning, I will have his badge on my desk.
He will be terminated. Officer Pierce will face severe disciplinary action and retraining. I will personally oversee it."
"Stop talking, Chief," Julian interrupted, his tone conversational but absolute. Langston snapped his mouth shut.
Julian walked over to a sleek, glass-topped dining table and rested his hands on it, leaning forward slightly. The ambient light from the chandelier cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the bruise forming on his left cheekbone. "Do you think I care about Derek Vance?" Julian asked, tilting his head. "Do you think firing one arrogant, hot-headed patrolman solves the problem?"
Langston swallowed hard. "Sir, it was an isolated incident of poor judgment."
"Do not insult my intelligence," Julian snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. "I have spent recent months reviewing the internal data of the Crestwood Hills Police Department. I was dispatched by the Attorney General because your department's use-of-force complaints have spiked dramatically in recent years. Your traffic-stop disparities are statistically indefensible, and your Internal Affairs Division clears the vast majority of civilian complaints without disciplinary action."
Julian took a step closer to the chief. "Vance is not an anomaly, Victor. He is the culture. A culture you cultivated.
A culture you protected. He felt entirely comfortable assaulting a man who was completely compliant, completely passive, and who had already provided identification. Why? Because he knew you would not punish him. Because he has done it before. Has he not?"
Langston's silence was a deafening confirmation.
"I moved here quietly," Julian continued, pacing slowly around the edge of the dining table. "I wanted to observe your department from the ground up before I initiated my formal audit. I wanted to see how this city operates when it thinks nobody is watching. Well, I got my answer almost immediately."
"Mr. Hartwell, please," Langston pleaded, his hands sweating. "If you take this public, if the Attorney General uses this to justify a federal consent decree, it will destroy the city. The mayor will gut the department. Morale will collapse."
"Morale?" Julian laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "You are worried about the morale of men who slam innocent homeowners against cars? Let me tell you what is going to happen, Chief."