Patty Hargrove appeared at the edge of her yard, arms wrapped around herself like she was cold, even though it was 78°. She whispered across the lawn. Gerald. Gerald, come home. Just leave it alone.
Gerald didn't even look at her. Go inside, Patty. Gerald, please. I said go inside. Patty flinched, stepped back, went inside.
The screen door clapped shut behind her. And then, Gerald turned back toward Oliver's property. He wasn't talking to Branson anymore. He wasn't talking to Moore. He was talking to Oliver, and to every neighbor pretending not to listen.
This is what happens. His voice carried across the cul-de-sac like a man giving a sermon. This is exactly what happens when you let just anyone into a neighborhood. First, it's one house. Then, it's two.
Then, property values drop. Then, crime goes up. Then, suddenly, you don't recognize your own street anymore. Oliver looked at him. Steady.
Anyone? You know what I mean. Say it. Gerald's face tightened. His eyes darted left, right, checking who was listening.
Then, he puffed up his chest, and he said it. People like you, okay? I said it. People like you. You don't build neighborhoods, you ruin them.
That's just a fact, and everyone on this street knows it. They're just too scared to say it out loud. The street went dead silent. Russell Whitfield set down his iced tea. His hand was shaking.
The elderly couple on the porch swing stopped swinging. Moore closed her eyes for half a second, opened them, wrote in her notebook again. Denise pushed the screen door open and stepped onto the porch. Her phone was raised at eye level now. No more hiding behind the door.
That camera right there, she said, pointing to the Ring doorbell above the front door, has been recording audio and video since 6:00 this morning. And my phone has been rolling since you opened your mouth. I'm also an attorney. So, please, keep going. Gerald's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.
But, whatever was about to come out, it died somewhere between his brain and his tongue. For the first time all morning, Gerald Hargrove had nothing to say. But, it was already too late. Every word was on tape. Every slur, every accusation, every people like you.
All of it. Stored on a ring server and two phone cameras, time-stamped, geotagged, and ready for whatever came next. Somewhere down the street, a second squad car turned onto Catalpa Lane. Backup had arrived. But so had someone else.
A black sedan pulled around the corner. Quiet, clean, tinted windows. It slowed to a stop behind the second squad car, and the driver's door opened. A man in a Saturday polo and pressed khakis stepped out. Gray hair, reading glasses hanging from a cord around his neck, leather folder under his arm.
Glenn Caldwell, Oliver's attorney, right on time. Gerald saw the sedan, saw the polo, saw the gray hair, and he smiled. Because in Gerald's world, a well-dressed older white man showing up could only mean one thing. Reinforcements. He had no idea what was in that folder.