[CASE FILE ITEM: Police officer body-worn camera audio transcript, Redwood City Police Department.]
He was on a ladder adjusting a wireless relay on a light pole at Sequoia Station’s parking structure - a location he’d chosen for its sightlines, mostly, though the shade was a bonus - when he felt a presence behind him. A firm, practiced cough. The sound of boots on concrete.
“You with Public Works?” the officer asked, hands on his belt. Sunlight glinted off the brim of his hat. His nametag said “HERNANDEZ.”
He looked down, one hand still gripping the drill. “Contractor. Network upgrade. Downtown Wi-Fi expansion,” he said, defaulting to the cadence of someone who had answered this question before.
“Badge?” Hernandez asked.
He patted his chest as if realizing he’d forgotten it. “Left it in the truck,” he said. “I can go grab it after I finish this mount. I’m just tightening. Won’t be two minutes.”
Hernandez looked up at the equipment box. “We’ve had people messing with these,” he said. “Kids think it’s funny to spray paint the lenses.”
“I hear you,” he replied. “These things are expensive.” He made sure his posture conveyed annoyance at vandals, solidarity with maintenance.
Hernandez nodded. “All right. Just, next time, wear the badge. Some folks are jumpy.”
“Understood, officer,” he said. He climbed down slowly, as if the ladder deserved respect - which, in his view, it mostly did. Hernandez watched until both feet were on the ground, then turned and walked toward Jefferson Avenue, where the lunch rush was starting at the taqueria. The officer never asked what the box actually did. He didn’t ask - and wouldn’t have known to ask, Jeff suspected - why a downtown Wi-Fi node had coaxial connectors for a camera feed. He had a mental category - contractor, or close enough - and once he could file the man in it, curiosity ended.
He waited until Hernandez was out of sight, then climbed back up and resumed aligning the antenna. He had to rotate it precisely eleven degrees to catch the line of sight to the repeater on the other side of Broadway. The difference, he noted, between two green LEDs and one amber one. The difference, in practical terms, between buffering and smooth playback.
He wondered if Hernandez lived in Redwood Shores or up on Farm Hill, if he went to summer concerts at Courthouse Square, if he’d ever listened to a cover band play “Brown Eyed Girl” while the sun went down behind the Fox Theatre. It occurred to him - idly, the way important things do - that if Hernandez had asked one more question, any question about function instead of form, things might have gone differently.
They didn’t.