And during conversations with county officials who wanted simple numbers that would fit neatly into an annual summary.
I never promised that more reporting meant every problem was solved.
But I refused to treat fewer recorded complaints as proof of success when the process itself discouraged people from being heard.
The most meaningful change came from people who had once given up.
Evelyn Brooks eventually received a formal review of her original complaint. Because some evidence was no longer available, investigators couldn't establish every disputed detail to the required standard. The outcome was more limited than she hoped.
But the department acknowledged that her original allegation had been improperly classified and that the failure to investigate promptly had deprived everyone of evidence that should have been considered.
Evelyn called my office after receiving the explanation.
I didn't discuss restricted details of the case with her.
But I listened when she described what the acknowledgment meant.
"For a long time, I thought they decided I wasn't worth listening to."
I looked toward the window.
"I'm sorry the process failed you."
She was quiet.
Then said, "At least somebody finally checked."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then she added, "I still don't know whether that officer understands what he did to me."
I took a breath.
"I can't tell you what's in his mind."
She sighed.
"I know."
Then her voice softened.
"But I know my daughter won't have to think I imagined the whole thing."
After we ended the call, I sat quietly for several minutes.
I thought about how often accountability is described as a single dramatic moment.
A badge taken away.
A courtroom verdict.
A powerful person exposed.
But sometimes the part that matters most to someone who's been harmed is far less dramatic.
A record corrected.
An allegation properly examined.
A letter acknowledging that the process should have been different.
A person finally being told that their experience deserved a serious response.
Those things don't automatically heal what happened.
But they can return a measure of dignity that was taken away when someone in authority decided the complaint wasn't worth investigating.
My mother attended a community meeting with me the following spring.
She sat near the front, wearing a pale-blue blouse and the small silver earrings my father had given her on their twentieth anniversary.
I spoke about the department's progress, the limits of the available data, and the work that remained.
When the meeting ended, she stood beside me while several residents approached with questions.
One woman thanked me for explaining the complaint process clearly.