Did not block them.
Did not yell.
I simply stood beside my damaged car and called police.
Cynthia arrived before the officers did.
Her Mercedes came around the corner far too fast and stopped partly across my driveway.
She jumped out wearing white tennis clothes and sunglasses.
“Trevor!”
Her son immediately became twelve years younger.
“Mom, he’s freaking out.”
Cynthia rushed toward him.
“Are you okay?”
I almost laughed.
Her son was standing beside my smashed Lamborghini holding no injuries whatsoever.
Apparently he was the emergency.
“I called police,” I said.
Cynthia turned.
Her expression changed immediately.
“You did what?”
“Your son vandalized my car.”
“He told me there was an accident.”
I pointed toward the bat.
“With that?”
Cynthia looked at it.
Then at Trevor.
“What happened?”
Trevor shrugged.
“We were playing.”
“With a baseball bat beside a Lamborghini?”
“He hit a ball,” Cynthia said.
Trevor looked at her.
Even he seemed surprised by the speed with which she invented that.
“There’s no ball.”
Cynthia looked around.
“Maybe it rolled away.”
I stared.
“Cynthia.”
“What?”
“My security cameras recorded everything.”
That stopped her.
Only briefly.
Then she crossed her arms.
“How much damage could there possibly be?”
I looked at my car.
Windshield.
Mirror.
Door.
Quarter panel.
One wheel had a visible gouge.
Trevor had also apparently climbed onto the hood before I came outside. I could see a shallow dent and shoe marks across the paint.
“A lot.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He’s seventeen.”
“Exactly.”
“That is old enough to know a metal bat damages a car.”
Cynthia lowered her voice.
“You’re a grown man with a Lamborghini, Marcus. Do you really want to ruin a teenager’s future over a stupid mistake?”
The audacity almost impressed me.
Her son destroys my property.
And somehow I am the one threatening his future.
“I want the damage paid for.”
“Fine.”
She reached into her handbag.
“I’ll give you five hundred dollars.”
I actually thought I had misheard.
“What?”
“Five hundred.”
“For what?”
“The windshield.”
I looked at her.
“This is not a Honda Civic windshield.”
Her lips tightened.
“That was unnecessary.”
“It was factual.”
“I’m trying to resolve this privately.”
“No.”
“Marcus.”
“The police are already coming.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You really are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I looked at Trevor.
Then his friends.
Then the Lamborghini.
“No.”
I said it quietly.
“I was enjoying my Saturday before your son took a baseball bat to my car.”
A patrol car arrived three minutes later.
Officer Elena Ramirez stepped out with another officer, Jake Holloway.
They separated everyone.
That mattered.
Cynthia tried to stand beside Trevor during his initial explanation.
Ramirez stopped her.
“Ma’am, I need to speak with him first.”
“He’s a minor.”
“You can be present, but you cannot answer for him.”
Cynthia looked deeply offended by the concept.
Trevor told the first version.
They had been playing baseball.
The bat slipped.
The second strike occurred when he tried to catch it.
The mirror broke because his friend bumped into him.
Officer Ramirez looked at the vehicle.
Then at Trevor.
“Where’s the baseball?”
Trevor hesitated.
“Down the street.”
“What direction?”
He pointed west.
One of his friends pointed east.
Ramirez wrote something down.
Then I showed her my security footage.
The camera over my garage had captured everything.
At 7:12, the three boys walked into my driveway.
No baseball.
Trevor pointed at the Lamborghini.
They talked for roughly thirty seconds.
The microphone picked up parts of it.
One friend said:
“Your mom’s gonna kill you.”
Trevor laughed.
Then:
“She hates this car more than I do.”
At 7:14, Trevor climbed onto the hood.
His friends took photographs.
He jumped down.
At 7:15, he picked up the bat they had brought with them.
He tapped the rear panel lightly.
Once.
Then harder.
His friends laughed.
Then he swung into the mirror.
The mirror snapped.
One friend said:
“Bro!”
Trevor laughed harder.
Then:
“He can afford it.”
At 7:17, he hit the windshield.
Once.
Then again.
No accident.
No baseball.
No ambiguity.
Officer Ramirez watched the entire clip.
Then looked at Trevor.
“Do you want to change anything in your statement?”
Trevor had gone pale.
Cynthia interrupted.
“This is ridiculous.”
Ramirez turned.
“Ma’am.”
“He made a mistake.”
“Please let me finish.”
“He is a child.”
Ramirez looked at Trevor.
“He’s seventeen?”
“Yes.”
“Then he is a juvenile.”
Cynthia relaxed slightly.
Officer Ramirez continued:
“That does not mean property damage disappears.”
Cynthia’s face hardened again.
“What happens now?”
“We document everything. Because of the apparent damage value, this may be referred for juvenile charges. The final charging decision is not mine.”
“You’re arresting him?”
“I did not say that.”
“You're putting handcuffs on my son over a windshield?”
“No one has mentioned handcuffs.”
Ramirez’s patience remained impressive.
“We need to establish the damage amount.”
Cynthia turned toward me.
“This is your chance to be reasonable.”
I said nothing.
What Cynthia did next became much more expensive than anything Trevor had done with the bat.