That sort of thing. 2 Minutes. Oliver didn't blink. No. No.
No. You don't have a warrant. You don't have probable cause. And I'm not giving consent to a search of my own property. Branson's jaw tightened.
He wasn't used to no, especially not a calm no. Especially not a no that came with legal vocabulary. Gerald from the sidewalk. If he's got nothing to hide, why won't he let you look? That tells you everything right there.
Moore stepped forward just slightly, just enough to enter Branson's peripheral vision. She spoke quietly, almost under her breath. Kyle, maybe we should wait for the documents. Branson didn't respond. Not to her.
Instead, he unclipped his radio and keyed the mic. Dispatch, this is unit 214. I'm at 4812 Catalpa Lane on a trespass call. Subject is uncooperative. Requesting a plate run on a Ford F150.
He read off Oliver's license plate. Also requesting backup. Situation is unclear, uncooperative. Let that word breathe for a second. Oliver was sitting down, hands visible, voice even.
He provided his ID. He explained his presence. He told the officer his attorney was enroot. He exercised his fourth amendment right to decline an illegal search and the official police radio description of all that uncooperative. Moore wrote something in her notebook.
She didn't show it to Branson. The minutes that followed were the longest kind of quiet. The kind where everyone's standing still but everything's moving underneath. Oliver sat on his step, hands on his knees, eyes forward. Branson stood six feet away, arms crossed, waiting for dispatch.
Gerald paced the sidewalk like a dog on a chain, back and forth, back and forth, muttering. Denise stood behind the screen door, phone steady, recording. She hadn't said a word yet, but her presence alone was changing the math. Branson had clocked the phone the moment he arrived. He knew he was on camera, and knowing you're on camera doesn't always make people behave better.
Sometimes it just makes them more careful about how they misbehave. 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.