“That could be fake.”
The older man looked toward the deputy’s radio.
“You called it in.”
“No confirmation yet.”
“There was.”
The deputy’s jaw tightened.
The older man had heard dispatch.
So had the younger courthouse officer standing several yards away.
The credential number had returned valid.
The commission appointment had returned valid.
The deputy simply did not like the answer.
A Black man he had never seen before had arrived at a side entrance with restricted documents and expected access to a closed hearing room.
The deputy had decided something was wrong before the first database check finished.
After that, each new fact became something else to explain away.
The older man looked toward the patrol car.
“My identification was verified.”
The deputy shook his head.
“You people always think flashing some badge means the conversation is over.”
The younger courthouse officer flinched.
So did one of the attorneys on the steps.
The older man’s expression barely changed.
“You people?”
The deputy realized what he had said.
For one second.
Then pride stepped in before judgment could.
“People who think titles make them untouchable.”
The older man nodded slowly.
“I see.”
The deputy pointed toward the black portfolio.
“What’s in there?”
“Restricted hearing material.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because that is what it is.”
“For who?”
“The commission.”
“What commission?”
“You read my credential.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
The older man looked at him.
There was no fear in his expression.
That bothered the deputy.
Not because fear was required.
Because fear was familiar.
Arguments were familiar.
Insults.
Panic.
Pleas.
The older man gave him none of those.
Only answers.
Measured.
Exact.
The deputy mistook that restraint for superiority.
“You think you’re better than everybody standing here?”
“No.”
“That suit says otherwise.”
The older man glanced down at the dark fabric.
Then back up.
“The suit has not spoken.”
A few people in the growing crowd reacted.
One suppressed a laugh.
The deputy heard it.
His face reddened.
He stepped closer.
“Stand up.”
The older man began rising.
The deputy immediately shoved one hand against his shoulder.
“Slow.”
The older man steadied himself.
“You told me to stand.”
“I told you to stand when I tell you.”
The older man’s face tightened.
That was the first visible crack in his patience.
The younger courthouse officer stepped forward.
“Maybe we should—”
The deputy turned.
“I have it.”
The younger officer stopped.
He was twenty-six.
Two years on the job.
The older deputy had fifteen.
Hierarchy did the rest.
The Black man watched that exchange carefully.
Then looked back at the deputy.
“You should listen to him.”
The deputy’s eyes narrowed.