"What about power?"
Her mother paused.
"Power can make people listen."
"That's good, isn't it?"
"Sometimes."
She looked directly at her daughter.
"But the important question is what you do when people have no choice but to listen."
The girl never forgot that conversation.
Years later, when she entered federal law enforcement, she discovered how often authority magnified a person's existing character.
Some people became more careful when entrusted with power.
Others became more arrogant.
A few treated a badge as permission to stop recognizing the humanity of anyone standing on the other side of a desk.
The blonde officer at Asheford headquarters reminded her of the customers who used to speak down to her mother.
The expensive dress had changed.
The room had changed.
The stakes had changed.
But the expression was familiar.
Who do you think you are?
It was a question she had heard in different forms throughout her life.
Sometimes from professors.
Sometimes from professional colleagues.
Sometimes from strangers who assumed she occupied a position below them.
She had learned that answering with anger often satisfied the person asking.
They wanted proof that she was emotional.
Unprofessional.
Unqualified.
Someone who could be dismissed.
So she had developed another habit.
She listened.
She observed.
She asked precise questions.
And she made sure her answers could withstand examination long after the confrontation ended.
That discipline had helped her become one of the youngest senior financial-crime investigators in her regional office.