Early March 1996, Sunset District, Detroit.
In front of a slightly old but Victorian-style terraced house with a small garden, the atmosphere was tense.
A woman in her early thirties, with a pale face, tightly gripped an old double-barreled shotgun, the stock pressed against her shoulder, her finger on the trigger guard, trembling slightly.
Strapped to her back was a crying baby, and standing by her leg was her eldest son, Billy, about seven or eight years old. The little boy clutched a baseball bat tightly, like an enraged little beast, baring his teeth and letting out dissonant roars at the crowd in front of him.
"Get off my property! You vultures! Get away!" Martha's voice was sharp with excitement.
Surrounding the fence were five or six people.
Leading them was Doug, the manager in charge of asset recovery from the bank.
