“That tone works better on defendants than judges.”
“It works on both.”
Vanessa allowed the red blazer to slide from her shoulders.
Pain shot down her left arm.
She inhaled sharply.
The physician examined the shoulder.
Bruising already forming.
No obvious dislocation.
Likely strain.
Possible soft-tissue injury.
She checked Vanessa’s wrist where the officer had twisted it.
Red marks.
Swelling around the thumb.
“X-rays.”
“I have a sealed hearing.”
“X-rays.”
Vanessa looked toward the senior marshal standing near the door.
He did not help.
She narrowed her eyes.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No, Your Honor.”
“You look like you are.”
“I’ve learned not to argue with medical staff.”
“Coward.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
For the first time since the corridor, she almost smiled.
The smile disappeared when she looked at her wrist again.
The physician stepped away to arrange imaging.
The senior marshal closed the door.
For several seconds, he and Vanessa were alone.
His name was Samuel Grant.
He had known her for eleven years.
First as an Assistant U.S. Attorney.
Then as a federal magistrate judge.
Then after her confirmation to the district court.
He had stood in the back of the ceremonial courtroom when she took the oath.
He knew the way she liked courtroom doors positioned during high-security hearings.
He knew she hated being followed too closely by protective details.
He knew she always carried her own files even when clerks offered.
Now he looked at the swelling in her wrist and seemed physically unable to contain his anger.
“Samuel.”
He looked at her.
“You cannot make this personal.”
He laughed once.
“Too late.”
“I mean professionally.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t bury him.”
Samuel stared.
Vanessa continued.
“Preserve evidence.”
“Document.”
“Notify his command.”
“Notify the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”
“Make whatever mandatory referrals exist.”
“But nobody gets to manufacture a punishment because the victim happens to wear a robe for a living.”