"2:47 this morning," I continued calmly. "You keyed the tank, punched the ignition cylinder, and smiled right at camera two. You even flipped it off." I took another sip. "In the state of Indiana, that constitutes felony criminal mischief. Property damage exceeding three thousand dollars carries a baseline sentence of two to eight years."
His face drained to paper white, then flushed a dark red. He pulled out his phone, his hands visibly shaking. "You're threatening me. I'm calling the police right now."
"Good," I said. "Save me the administrative trouble."
He actually dialed, his voice pitching high with panic. "Yeah, 911? A guy at 42 Larkspur is threatening me over his motorcycle. He's got illegal surveillance cameras. I think he's about to attack me."
Eight minutes later, two county squad cars arrived on the scene, their tires crunching against the gravel. Sergeant Nyland—a professional officer in his mid-fifties—climbed out of the lead car, accompanied by a younger officer named Perez.
Jackson immediately began performing for the uniform. "Officers, thank God you're here. This man has been harassing me for weeks, threatening to kill me over some scratches he's trying to blame on me."
"Sergeant," I said calmly, keeping my hands fully visible on the porch railing. "I have high-definition 4K footage of the incident. The suspect's face is clearly visible, time-stamped, and verified. It's a clear case of felony criminal mischief." I handed him the secure USB drive I had prepared inside.
Nyland took the drive, squinting at me for a second. "Wait a minute. Trudeau? ATF Trudeau? From the Bridgeport Task Force?"
"Retired," I nodded. "I just want to file formal charges."
Recognition changed the entire dynamic of the scene instantly. Nyland took the drive, turning his attention to Jackson, whose confidence completely evaporated. The kid pulled out his phone again, desperately calling his mother.
Deandra arrived seven minutes later in a silk bathrobe, barefoot, her hair uncombed. She screeched into my driveway like an invading army.
"Officers!" she screamed, pointing an acrylic nail at my face. "This man has been stalking my son for weeks! I have a formal log! I have independent witnesses!" She waved a stack of printed papers in the air.
Nyland's tone was completely exhausted. "Ma'am, we have direct video evidence of your son destroying three thousand dollars worth of property."