Tanya tells them both the same thing: "I'm doing my job. Nothing more."
But the pressure doesn't stop. Anonymous emails arrive at her office account:
"You think you're untouchable because of your job? You're not."
Another one: "Your kids aren't safe. Watch your back."
County security traces the IPs: VPN services, dead ends. They recommend precautions. Tanya declines personal security, but agrees to office monitoring.
The worst part isn't the threats to her; it's what's happening at home. Jordan stopped decorating: the Christmas lights sit in boxes in the garage, half-finished, abandoned. He won't talk about it, won't explain, just says he doesn't feel like it anymore.
Julian is worse. Tuesday, he refused to go to school. Wednesday, he went, but came home early: stomachache, headache. Thursday, his teacher called: Julian had a panic attack during recess, sat in the corner hyperventilating; the school counselor had to intervene.
Friday afternoon, Tanya picks him up early, brings him home, sits with him on the couch. He's 10 years old; he should be thinking about video games and basketball and what he wants for Christmas.
Instead, he asks, "Mom, can I be white?"
The question breaks her. "Baby, no. Why would you ask that?"
"Because if I was white, that lady would have believed me. She would have known we lived there. The police would have believed me, too."
Tanya has no answer, no words that make this better.
Julian continues, quieter now: "I hate being Black. I hate that people look at me and think I'm bad. I didn't do anything wrong, but everyone thinks I did."
"Not everyone thinks that."
"Enough people do."
That night, Tanya can't sleep. She sits at her kitchen table, reviews everything: the articles, the threats, the union's press conference, her sons' faces. She thinks about stepping back, letting this go. The board wants her to, the union wants her to, even her allies are wavering.
If she stops now, her sons get peace; the pressure ends; life goes back to normal; Jordan and Julian can just be kids again. But if she stops now, nothing changes: Patricia faces no consequences, Hayes keeps his badge, the next Black family moves to Riverside Oaks and the same thing happens.
Her phone buzzes: text from Carmen. "Call me. I found something. You need to hear this."
Tanya stares at the message. She could ignore it, could tell Carmen to stop digging, could make this all go away. Instead, she calls back.
Carmen's voice is steady on the phone: "I got the body cam footage. Full recording. Hayes talked to Patricia before approaching the kids. You need to hear what she said."
"Send it to me," Tanya says.
"I will. But there's something else: I filed a request for your original footage request, the one you submitted as county administrator. They told you about a technical issue, that footage wasn't available. They lied. The request log shows your submission was received, logged, assigned, then marked fulfilled with a note about technical limitations. But the footage exists. I got it through the Tribune's separate request. Someone deliberately blocked you."