"HEY, YOU! HANDS UP, NOW! STEP AWAY FROM HIM!"
"YOU SEE I'M TRYING TO STOP THEM FROM FIGHTING?"
"SHUT UP! WE JUST GOT A CALL ABOUT A BLACK MAN BEATING UP A WHITE WOMAN!"
"TRUE? ARE YOU BLIND? CAN'T YOU SEE I'M ONLY TRYING TO STOP THEM?"
"REPEAT MYSELF: HANDS UP AND GET ON YOUR KNEES, NOW!"
"YES, OFFICER, ARREST THEM! THIS BLACK MAN AND THE OTHER WOMAN WERE ATTACKING ME!"
"That's it."
"No, he's not."
"You're under arrest for assault."
When two women started fighting on a residential street and nobody stepped in, Dwayne Cole, a black man who had just moved to the neighborhood, did what any decent person would do and walked into the middle of the fight to break it up.
Only to have Carol Stevens, a white woman in her 50s, call 911 from her window and tell police, "A black man is beating up a white woman."
Then, when Officer Kyle Bennett and his partner arrived, Bennett drew his weapon, ordered Dwayne to his knees, and handcuffed him while Carol pointed and said, "That's him."
And Patricia Mills, the white woman Dwayne had been holding back, told officers that Dwayne and the black woman had been ganging up on her.
Dwayne was dragged to the station in handcuffs, saying nothing more after his protests were ignored.
What Officers Bennett and Marsh, Carol Stevens, and Patricia Mills didn't know—what they would soon find out—was that the black man they had just arrested and accused wasn't just a regular citizen. He was the city's newly appointed police chief.
Dwayne Cole had moved to the Eastfield neighborhood 2 weeks ago, and in those 2 weeks, he had barely introduced himself to more than a handful of people on his street.
He was 46 years old, and he had spent the past 20 years in law enforcement, working his way from patrol officer to detective to deputy chief before being appointed as the new police chief of the Harlow City Police Department.
He wasn't scheduled to officially report for duty for another week, and he had used the time before his start date to settle into his new home and learn the neighborhood he would now be living in.
He ran every morning without fail, the same 5-mile loop that took him through the residential streets surrounding his house, and it was something he had done for the past 15 years, regardless of the weather or what was happening in his life.
That Saturday morning was cool and clear, and Dwayne was coming around the final stretch of his run with about half a mile left to go when he heard the shouting.
It started as loud voices, the kind that carried through the still morning air and made heads turn. And as Dwayne came around the corner onto Maple Street, he saw them immediately: two women, both in their 40s, standing in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a row of houses, and the argument between them had already gone well past the point of words.
The black woman, who Dwayne would later learn was named Denise Crawford, was pointing her finger at the white woman in front of her, her voice high and sharp.
The white woman, Patricia Mills, was pointing right back, and her voice was just as loud.
Dwayne slowed his pace and looked around the street.
There were three people on their front porches watching. Two people across the street had stopped walking and were filming on their phones. A man in a car had slowed down to look.
Nobody was moving toward the fight. Nobody was doing anything.
Then Patricia shoved Denise hard in the chest.
Denise stumbled back, caught herself, and came forward swinging. And in less than 2 seconds, the two women were locked in a physical fight, grabbing each other's hair and pulling, pushing, shouting at the tops of their voices.
Dwayne looked around the street one more time, saw that nobody was making any move to intervene, and made his decision.
He moved toward them quickly, keeping his body controlled and his voice calm, but loud.
"Hey, stop! Break it up!"
He pushed in between them, using his body as a barrier, and reached out and grabbed Patricia from behind, wrapping both arms around her to pull her back away from Denise.
Patricia was still swinging, trying to get past Dwayne toward Denise, and Dwayne held firm, talking steadily as he worked to create distance.
"Stop fighting it! It's over! Calm down!"
Denise, now a few feet away with Dwayne physically between them, was still in fighting stance, still shouting, her chest heaving with adrenaline.
Patricia was fighting against Dwayne's grip, her face flushed red from the exertion of the fight and the anger still running through her.
Dwayne held her steady and kept his voice authoritative. "It's done. Walk away."
Across the street, on the second floor of a yellow house with white shutters, a window curtain moved.