“Maybe we’re not supposed to sentence whole lives.”
Vanessa looked at him.
“That’s unexpectedly philosophical.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain bad coffee.”
“That too.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“I don’t want his good acts used to erase mine.”
“They won’t.”
“I also don’t want mine used to erase every good act he ever performed.”
Samuel studied her.
“That is generous.”
“No.”
“It’s accurate.”
There was the judge again.
Accuracy before comfort.
Harlan eventually accepted a plea.
Not because he suddenly agreed with every accusation.
Because the video was difficult to overcome.
He admitted that after Judge Cole attempted to identify herself, he intentionally used force without sufficient lawful justification and that his conduct deprived her of rights while acting under official authority.
The plea avoided a longer trial.
The sentencing hearing occurred almost eighteen months after the incident.
Judge Cole did not want to attend.
She went anyway.
Not in a red suit.
Not in a robe.
A charcoal suit.
No dramatic entrance.
Samuel sat several rows behind.
Harlan sat beside his attorneys.
He looked older.
Thinner.
His cropped hair almost completely gray now.
His wife sat behind him.
Vanessa noticed her.
Their eyes met once.
Neither woman smiled.
Neither looked away.
The sentencing judge invited Vanessa to speak.
She stood.
Walked to the lectern.
Harlan looked at her.
For the first time since the courthouse corridor, they occupied the same room.
Without uniforms defining one.
Without a robe defining the other.
Just two people standing inside a courtroom.
Vanessa unfolded one page.
Then put it aside.
“I prepared remarks.”
She looked toward the judge.
“I don’t think I need them.”
The sentencing judge nodded.
Vanessa faced the room.
“Lieutenant Harlan hurt my shoulder.”
“He injured my wrist.”
“Those healed.”
She paused.
“The harder injury was not physical.”
Harlan lowered his eyes.
Vanessa continued.