Right now, Morton's voice carries across the sidewalk like a whip crack. Dorothy looks at him steadily, then at the growing crowd of witnesses. Her dignity intact, she kneels gracefully and places her designer handbag on the concrete. The contents spill out like evidence in a courtroom. Her engraved invitation catches the light.
Justice for All Gala. Honorary board member Dorothy Williams. Table 1. Her donor identification badge lands beside it. The gold lettering unmistakable.
A laminated card identifies her as a volunteer literacy instructor. Another shows her Chicago public schools retirement credentials after 40 years of service. Her checkbook reveals a balance that would make Morton's annual salary look like pocket change. Morton doesn't even glance down. I bet you don't even belong in this neighborhood, let alone at some fancy gala with important people.
The crowd grows thicker. A live stream on Instagram already has 300 viewers. Comments flood in. This is disgusting. Someone call the mayor.
That lady looks like somebody's grandmother. Dorothy rises slowly, her knees protesting. At 72, kneeling on concrete hurts, but she won't give Morton the satisfaction of seeing her wince. Officer, I believe you're making a serious mistake. Her voice never waver.
It's the same tone she used with disruptive students, firm, but never harsh. Behind her calm exterior, her mind races. She thinks about her late husband, James, who taught her that responding to hatred with hatred only creates more darkness. Collins steps closer, finally looking at the evidence scattered on the sidewalk. Her training kicks in.
Something's wrong here. This isn't how arrests are supposed to happen. "Brad, maybe we should—" "We get people like you trying to sneak into these events all the time," Morton cuts her off, his voice rising. Fake invitations, stolen IDs, whatever it takes to get close to wealthy folks. Judge Hernandez pushes through the crowd.
Officer, that woman is Dorothy Williams. She's a pillar of this community. Morton spins around, his face flushed red. Ma'am, I don't care if she's the Queen of England. She's trespassing.
The judge pulls out her phone, calling the police chief directly. Her fingers shake with anger as she dials. Margaret Peterson joins her. I'm calling my husband. He sits on the police board.
But Morton is beyond reason now. The crowd, the phones, the witnesses, they all fuel his determination to prove he's in control. In his mind, backing down now would be admitting weakness. Dorothy watches him carefully. She recognizes the look in his eyes.