A criminal charge couldn't give Daniel Ruiz back every lost workday.
It couldn't erase the stress Jordan Carter experienced.
And it couldn't make Nora Tate forget the message threatening her son.
But accountability could establish that their experiences mattered.
That the law had limits.
And that the people controlling public institutions were not exempt from those limits.
That evening, my mother called.
She had seen the news.
“Renee?”
“Hey, Mom.”
For a moment, she was quiet.
Then asked, “How do you feel?”
I considered the question.
“Relieved.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
Then I added, “And sad.”
My mother was silent.
I continued.
“Because a lot of people were hurt before anybody could stop it.”
She took a breath.
“That happens when people are allowed to forget who they serve.”
I looked toward the window.
She continued.
“But don't forget the ones who spoke.”
I thought about Nora.
Iris.
Daniel.
LaToya.
Evelyn.
Jordan.
And Cole Barrett, who had finally admitted his own wrongdoing.
Then I smiled faintly.
“I won't.”
My mother paused.
Then asked, “Are you coming over Sunday?”
I laughed.
“Yes.”
“Good. I'm making peach cobbler.”
I looked toward the ceiling.
“Mom, you know I can't turn that down.”
“I know.”
Then she added, “And Renee?”
“Yes?”
“Wear something pretty. You've been hiding in those work suits long enough.”
I laughed.
For a moment, I thought about the gold gown.
Still hanging in my closet.
Still carrying a memory I hadn't quite decided how to live with.
“Maybe,” I said.
My mother made a disapproving sound.
“Not maybe.”
I smiled.
“Yes, ma'am.”
When the call ended, I looked toward the closet.
Then stood.
Opened the door.
And carefully lifted the garment bag from the rail.
For several seconds, I simply held it.
The dress inside was clean.
Beautiful.
Perfectly repaired.
It had survived the roadside encounter better than my confidence had.
I ran my hand over the fabric.
Then remembered Camilla, the student from the luncheon, asking whether I ever got scared.
Of course.
I had told her.
The answer was still true.
But fear wasn't going to be the last thing I felt whenever I looked at something beautiful.
I hung the gown where I could see it.
Then returned to my desk.
There was still work to do.
And when the time came to wear it again, I wanted the memory to belong to me.
The trials began more than a year after the roadside stop.
By then, the public had largely moved on.
News outlets had found other scandals.
Other arguments.
Other stories to fill their broadcasts.