In Patricia's racist mind, Bennett's careful browsing wasn't the behavior of a discerning customer. It was the behavior of someone casing the place, looking for opportunities to steal. Patricia had no evidence for this belief, no reason beyond the color of Bennett's skin to think anything suspicious was happening. But her prejudice filled in a narrative that made sense to her warped worldview. 10 minutes passed.
Bennett had now moved to a third section of the store, looking at designer separates, silk blouses and tailored pants that could be mixed and matched for professional settings. She still hadn't made a final selection, just browsing and enjoying the experience of shopping in her own beautifully designed space. But to Patricia, the fact that Bennett had been in the store for 10 minutes without buying anything was proof positive that something criminal was happening. Patricia pulled out her phone and stepped toward a quiet corner of the boutique near the dressing rooms. She kept her voice low as she dialed her husband's number, but her eyes never left Bennett.
"Dennis, it's me," Patricia said quietly when her husband answered. "I'm at Bellacor Boutique on Madison Avenue. There's a black woman in here acting very suspicious. She's been walking around for 10 minutes just looking at things and not buying anything. I think she's planning to steal something.
I don't feel safe. Officer Dennis Patterson was sitting in his patrol car 2 miles away finishing paperwork when his wife's call came through. At 48 years old, Patterson had been a police officer for 22 years and had developed the same racist worldview as his wife through decades of profiling minority communities. When Patricia told him there was a suspicious black woman in an expensive boutique, he didn't question her assessment for even a second. Stay where you are," Patterson told his wife.
"I'm 15 minutes away. Keep an eye on her, but don't confront her. I'll handle it when I get there." Patricia ended the call and slipped her phone back into her purse. Feeling satisfied that she'd done her civic duty by reporting suspicious activity.
She went back to pretending to shop while continuing to watch Bennett like a hawk watching prey. Bennett, still completely unaware that police had been called on her, finally made her selections. She pulled three dresses from the racks. a navy blue cocktail dress, a charcoal gray business dress, and a burgundy evening gown and draped them over her arm. She started walking toward the fitting rooms at the back of the store to try them on, which was completely normal and expected behavior in any clothing boutique, but she never made it to the fitting rooms. The boutique door opened and Officer Dennis Patterson walked in wearing his full police uniform, navy blue with his badge prominently displayed on his chest, his service weapon visible on his belt, his radio crackling occasionally with dispatcher chatter.
He was a tall white man with graying hair, and the confident bearing of someone who'd spent two decades exercising authority without having it questioned very often. Patterson's eyes scanned the boutique and immediately found what he was looking for, a black woman holding expensive dresses. He walked directly toward Bennett with purposeful strides that made other customers step out of his way. Bennett was about 5 ft from the fitting room entrance when she noticed the police officer approaching her. She stopped, confused about why a cop would be in the boutique, and turned to face him.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Patterson said, his tone already carrying an edge of authority and suspicion. I need to speak with you. Bennett looked at him with genuine confusion. Yes, officer. Is there a problem?