Only officer on scene who attempted de-escalation. She would be remembered for that. Swanson was walked to the patrol car by two of Ellis's agents, one on each side. His badge was gone. His holster was empty.
His sunglasses, still on his face, suddenly looked ridiculous, like a costume from a role he was no longer playing. Halfway across the gravel drive, he stopped, turned. ""Sir, Mr. Attorney General, I was just responding to a call. I didn't know who—"" Aaron's voice cut through the air. Not loud, not sharp, just final. "You didn't need to know who I was to treat those people with dignity."
Swanson opened his mouth. Nothing came out. "If I had been a plumber, a teacher, a truck driver, you would have done every single thing you did today exactly the same way. The only difference is no one would have come. No SUVs, no sheriff, no consequences.
Aaron held his gaze. That's the problem, officer. Not that you didn't recognize me, that you didn't recognize them. Swanson's chin dropped. His eyes hit the gravel.
The agents guided him into the back seat of a patrol car and closed the door. Through the window, he stared at nothing. His hands sat in his lap like they didn't belong to him anymore. On the other side of the lawn, Victoria Caldwell was being escorted toward a second patrol car by Sheriff Whitfield. She was not going quietly.
This is outrageous. I am a taxpayer. I am a homeowner. I have every right to report suspicious activity in my own neighborhood. Whitfield said nothing.
He walked. I'm calling the governor. Do you hear me? I know people. I will have your badge for this.
Whitfield stopped. He turned to face her with the patience of a man who had heard every kind of threat from every kind of person. "Ma'am, the governor was invited to this wedding." Victoria blinked. "He's seated in row four.
He watched everything." Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out. I suggest you stop talking. He guided her to the car, opened the rear door.
She hesitated, heels planted in the gravel, hands shaking, mascara streaked in two dark lines down her cheeks. For the first time all afternoon, she looked small. Whitfield placed one hand on her shoulder. Not violently, not gently, definitively. She ducked into the backseat.
The door closed. The lock clicked. Through the window, she could see the vineyard, the white chairs, the floral arch, the people she had tried to erase, still there. Bradley Caldwell watched from his second-floor balcony across the property line. He had seen everything.