You are making a mistake, Raymond said. I am telling you that clearly as a citizen and a homeowner. You are going to want to remember this moment. I've heard that one before, Puit said and turned to his radio. Dispatch, this is unit 7 Foxtrot.
I'm at 4117 Maplewood Court, Cedarwood Heights. I have an uncooperative male subject refusing to identify himself. Requesting a backup unit. He released the mic and looked at Raymond with an expression that was almost pleased. You had your chance.
Raymond spoke clearly and deliberately, projecting his voice at the level he had used in courtrooms and precinct briefings for two decades, not shouting but carrying, ensuring that the words reached every recording device and every witness on the street. I am not resisting. I have not committed any crime. I am a resident of this property. I have been entirely cooperative within the lawful bounds of what I am required to provide.
I am formally requesting a supervisor be dispatched to this location. This is an unlawful stop. Puit took a step forward and grabbed Raymond's left arm. The grip was rough and purposeful. The grip of a man who has made physical contact with citizens in this way before and who has faced no lasting consequence for it.
He attempted to turn Raymond toward the car to initiate the compliance position. And Raymond did not swing and did not shove and did not run. He planted his feet. He let his body become what it was 220 lbs of muscle and 22 years of defensive tactics training. Standing entirely still and making no threatening movement of any kind, simply refusing to be repositioned by a man with no lawful basis for doing so.
Stop resisting, Puit said, his voice rising. I am standing perfectly still, Raymond said. Puit's grip tightened. His other hand went to his belt and produced his baton, an extendable steel rod that caught the morning sun as he extended it. The sound of the baton snapping open was loud and sharp in the quiet of the cul-de-sac.
Marcus Tilman stopped breathing across the street. Dorothy Wills made a sound that was not quite a word. The raised baton was the line. Not for Raymond's sake. He had been cataloging this encounter with the professional detachment of a man gathering evidence for a case he intended to win, and he had not lost that detachment for a single moment.
The raised baton was the line because of Sandra, who had moved to the front window, and whose silhouette he could see in the glass, and because of every person on this street who was watching, and because Puit had a baton in the air in a residential driveway on a Saturday morning. Aimed at a man who had not done anything except own a car and a house in the wrong zip code according to officer Kyle Puit's specific brand of wrong. Raymond made no movement toward the officer. He did not need to. Put the baton down.