"Marcus Hayes," the Mayor said loudly, making sure his voice carried to the other neighbors who had now begun peering out of their windows, "is the man who spent twelve hours straight in the pediatric ICU last month saving my newborn granddaughter's life when she stopped breathing. He is a hero in this city. He is a pillar of this community. And he has every right to enjoy his home without being harassed."
The Mayor turned back to the officers. "I want her cited for misusing the emergency line. We do not tolerate racial profiling and neighborhood harassment in this city."
Chapter 7: Justice Served Cold (and Ribs Served Hot)
The officers nodded. They asked Barbara to step over to their cruiser to take her statement and issue her a heavy citation, which carried a hefty fine and a mandatory court appearance. As she was escorted away, completely humiliated in front of the very neighborhood she tried to rule, she kept her head down, tears of embarrassment stinging her eyes.
Back on the patio, the tension evaporated like water on a hot grill.
"Sorry about the drama, Thomas," Marcus said, shaking his head with a tired smile.
"Don't apologize to me, Marcus," the Mayor said, taking a massive bite of his food and closing his eyes in bliss. "Good lord, these ribs are incredible. What is in this sauce?"
"Family secret," Marcus chuckled.
The jazz music played on. The sun continued to shine. And for the rest of the afternoon, the Hayes family ate, laughed, and celebrated their new home, joined by the Mayor and his security guard.
As for Barbara, she spent the rest of her Sunday sitting in her living room with the blinds tightly shut, holding a yellow citation ticket, finally learning the hardest lesson of suburban life: sometimes, if you play with fire, you are the only one who gets burned.