"Afternoon," he said. "Got a call about a suspicious individual at this address. You live here?"
Simone looked at him with the quiet, measured patience of a woman who had spent years in federal courtrooms. "I do. I moved in this morning. Is there something I can help you with?"
Lawson said, "Can I get your ID? Need to verify."
Simone said, "May I ask what the specific concern was that prompted this visit, Officer?"
Lawson told her that a neighbor had called, that someone reported a suspicious individual casing the property.
Simone looked at him for a moment. Then she said, "Casing the property I own?"
And Lawson said, "That's what was reported."
The home security camera above Simone's front door was recording everything. So was Lawson's body camera. So was Durbin's. So was a second security camera mounted on the garage: four separate recording devices capturing every word, every expression, every second of what was about to unfold.
Simone set her clipboard down on the porch railing calmly, deliberately, as if she had all the time in the world.
Then she said, "Officer, I want to be cooperative with you, and I will provide my ID. Before I do, I want to note for your body camera, and for mine—because that camera above you has been recording since you pulled up—that it is currently 2:19 in the afternoon. I am standing on the porch of my own home. I have committed no crime. I have engaged in no suspicious activity, and I am being approached because a neighbor observed a Black woman overseeing a moving truck and found that concerning. Is that an accurate summary of the situation?"
Lawson stiffened. "I didn't say anything about race, ma'am."