“You can’t do this to me! I own this neighborhood!” Susan screamed, thrashing her shoulders as Miller took hold of her wrist.
“You don’t own anything, Mrs. Vance,” I said, speaking up for the first time since the police arrived. I stepped forward, looking her dead in the eyes. “You’re just a bully who finally picked the wrong driveway.”
Miller spun her around and snapped the cuffs shut over her expensive silk sleeves. The sharp, metallic clicks echoed loudly in the quiet afternoon air.
By now, the commotion had drawn a crowd. Neighbors had stepped out onto their pristine lawns, holding their own phones, recording the great and terrible Susan Vance—the woman who had tormented them for years with petty fines and threats—being marched in handcuffs toward a police cruiser.
Her mascara was running down her cheeks. The clipboard, her ultimate symbol of authority, lay forgotten in the grass.
Tyler had completely abandoned her, walking quickly down the street with his head ducked, pretending he wasn't related to the woman screaming in the back of a police car.
Miller shut the cruiser door, cutting off her hysterical cries. He walked back up to David and me, handing me a business card with a case number on it.
“We’ll get this processed, Mr. Sterling,” Miller said respectfully. “I assume your office will be handling the prosecution?”
“My office will recuse itself due to conflict of interest,” David said smoothly. “But I assure you, the neighboring district will pursue the charges to the fullest extent of the law. Thank you for your professionalism, Sergeant.”
The police cruisers slowly rolled out of the neighborhood, the flashing lights reflecting off the hood of my truck one last time.
The street returned to its quiet, suburban peace. The neighbors across the street were grinning, a few of them giving us subtle waves of gratitude before going back inside.
David looked at me, picked up his coffee mug from the porch railing, and sighed.
“Well,” David said, shaking his head. “I guess I’m going to need a new HOA President.”
I let out a long breath, a massive smile finally breaking across my face. I walked over to the side of my beautiful, untouched vintage Ford, patting the smooth, midnight-blue steel of the fender. It was safe. The bully had been stripped of her power, and my pride and joy hadn't suffered a single scratch.
“I’ll grab the toolboxes from the bed,” I laughed, feeling lighter than I had all day. “Let’s go build that grill, Mr. State Attorney.”