Chapter 1: Move It!
“MOVE IT!”
Marjorie Bell stormed toward the stationary Rolls-Royce, pointing a lightweight foam baseball bat at its pristine hood.
The luxury car sat behind temporary barriers on a quiet American suburban street that had been closed for a fictional presidential motorcade. Security personnel stood beside dark vehicles. Cones marked the controlled perimeter. A security camera watched from above the intersection.
Marjorie saw none of that as a reason to stop.
She saw a car sitting where, in her mind, it had no right to be.
“I told you this car doesn’t belong here!” she shouted.
A security officer several yards away immediately raised an open hand.
“Ma’am, step back.”
Marjorie ignored him.
She was in her early sixties, physically imposing, dressed in a bright yellow-and-orange outfit that made her impossible to miss. Her scarlet-red hair, streaked with orange and yellow, seemed almost as loud as her voice.
“I live here!” she yelled. “I’ve already warned them!”
She lifted the foam bat.
The officer took a step forward.
“Ma’am, put that down.”
Instead, Marjorie swung once toward the Rolls-Royce.
The headlight broke apart with a sharp crack.
It looked dramatic, but the vehicle was a theatrical production car and the headlight was a harmless breakaway prop. Nothing real had been damaged.
Marjorie pointed the bat at the car.
“THEN MOVE IT!”
The officer’s expression hardened.
Two uniformed police officers approached from farther down the street.
One of them looked at Marjorie, then at the broken-looking headlight, then toward the temporary security sign behind her.
Marjorie followed his gaze.
The sign clearly marked the street as a restricted area.
She lowered the bat slightly.
The officer stopped several feet away.
“Ma’am,” he said, “who gave you permission to enter this security area and interfere with the vehicle?”
Marjorie’s chin rose.
“I don’t need permission.”
“Why not?”
“Because I live here.”
The officer looked at the sign again.
Then he looked directly at her.
“That answers where you live,” he said. “It doesn’t answer who authorized you to interfere.”
For the first time, Marjorie’s certainty wavered.
But she did not retreat.
She tightened her grip on the bat.
“I’M THE ONE WHO LIVES HERE!”
The officer held out his hand.
“Then let’s start with you stepping behind the barrier.”
Marjorie had wanted the car moved.
Now she had a much bigger problem: whether she would obey a boundary she had never believed applied to her.
