He looked toward the phones.
“I am protecting the process from your anger.”
The deputy said nothing.
That was the first useful thing he did all morning.
The investigators separated the scene quickly after that.
Witnesses were identified.
Phone numbers collected.
Videos requested but not seized.
Courthouse security copied exterior surveillance footage.
The patrol car was photographed because several restricted photographs had been thrown across its hood.
The empty water bottle was bagged.
Not because pouring water on someone automatically transformed a plastic bottle into dramatic evidence.
Because process mattered.
The commissioner stood beneath the courthouse awning while a clerk brought him towels.
The woman looked embarrassed.
“I’m sorry.”
He took one.
“For what?”
She hesitated.
“For what happened.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“No.”
“But…”
She looked toward the deputy being escorted toward one of the SUVs.
“I work here.”
The commissioner understood the feeling.
Institutional shame.
The strange belief that being part of an organization made you somehow responsible for every person wearing its uniform.
He dried his face.
“Then do your part when the review begins.”
She looked surprised.
“My part?”
“If investigators ask what you saw, tell them exactly what you saw.”
“Not more.”
“Not less.”
She nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“That is enough.”
A second clerk arrived carrying a plain dark jacket.
“Someone upstairs said you might want this.”
The commissioner looked at his soaked ceremonial jacket.
Then at the borrowed one.
He smiled faintly.
“Apparently I’ve been demoted in wardrobe.”
The clerk laughed nervously.
Good.
People needed to breathe again.
He changed inside a small courthouse office.
Removed the wet jacket carefully.
Set it over the back of a chair.
His shirt underneath was damp across the shoulders.
One of the state attorneys stood near the doorway.
“You are not chairing the individual segment.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I agreed.”
“You’re a direct complainant now.”
“I know.”
“You can’t sit there pretending you’re not angry.”
The commissioner looked toward her.
“I am not pretending.”
“Good.”
She crossed her arms.
“How angry?”
He considered.
“Enough that recusal is obvious.”
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
He looked toward the wet jacket.
Then:
“But the district-level review continues.”
“Yes.”
“The supervisory portion too.”
“Yes.”
“Training.”
“Yes.”
“Complaint closure.”
“Yes.”
“Stop duration.”
“Yes.”
She smiled slightly.
“You’re still chairing those?”
“I did not become incompetent because someone poured water on me.”
“No.”
She studied him.
“You could take the afternoon.”
“I could.”
“Will you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
The commissioner looked through the office window toward the courthouse hallway.
“Because there are twenty-three complaints waiting inside a folder.”
She said nothing.
He continued.
“I had authority before what happened outside.”
“I will not use what happened outside to enlarge it.”