She opened her eyes.
“This is not the first complaint about Miller.”
I stared.
“What complaints?”
Her face changed.
She realized she had said too much.
“Margaret.”
“Personnel matters.”
“I am a sitting judge assaulted inside courthouse by same officer.”
“Josephine.”
“What complaints?”
She exhaled.
“Two attorneys reported aggressive behavior.”
“What kind?”
“One public defender said he grabbed her client outside courtroom after misidentifying him.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“What happened?”
“Internal review.”
“Outcome?”
“Counseling.”
My anger sharpened.
“The other?”
“A woman from family court.”
“Attorney?”
“No.”
“Party.”
“She said Miller accused her of recording where prohibited, took her phone, and threatened arrest.”
“Was she recording?”
“No.”
“Outcome?”
“Informal warning.”
I stared.
Margaret rubbed her forehead.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“That nobody treated the earlier complaints like predictive information.”
She said nothing.
“Was race involved?”
“The public defender’s client was Black.”
“The family court woman was Latina.”
There it was.
Not proof.
Pattern.
Enough to ask.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“Because judges are not automatically briefed on every employee complaint.”
“Was court administration told?”
“Yes.”
“And Captain Ellis?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“You need to let investigation happen.”
I stood.
Margaret stood too.
“I am letting it happen.”
“No, you’re interrogating me.”
“I’m asking why a man with previous complaints about misidentification and escalation was still assigned unrestricted courthouse duty.”
“And that is exactly why you cannot preside over anything connected to him.”
I stopped.
She was right again.
Worse.
I had not yet considered recusal.
My legal mind was moving faster than my personal one.
Miller could face criminal investigation.
Administrative discipline.
Civil litigation.
Perhaps more.
I could not become judge and victim simultaneously.
I sat again.
“Fine.”
Margaret softened.
“Josephine.”
“I said fine.”
She came around desk.
For a moment she looked less like chief judge and more like the woman who had mentored me when I was thirty-two and exhausted after losing three felony trials in one month.
“You don't have to turn this into doctrine today.”
I looked at her.
“I know.”
“You can be angry.”
“I am.”
“You can be hurt.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don't need to make it useful immediately.”
That was harder.
Usefulness had been my survival mechanism for most of my life.
When my father died, I organized his papers.
When my mother had cancer, I researched every protocol.
When I lost cases, I wrote better motions.
When clients cried, I built arguments.
Emotion became work.