Samuel’s jaw tightened.
“He slammed you into a wall.”
“Yes.”
“He called you—”
“I heard him.”
“You’re asking me to be calm.”
“I’m asking you to be procedural.”
“That is your version of calm.”
“Exactly.”
Samuel walked toward the small window.
Rain streaked the glass.
After a moment:
“What if the victim had been a courthouse cleaner?”
Vanessa’s eyes moved toward him.
“What?”
“What if there were no marshals around the corner?”
She said nothing.
“What if it was a law student who took the wrong elevator?”
“Or a public defender?”
“Or somebody delivering documents?”
“Would we know?”
Vanessa looked at her bruised wrist.
“That’s why procedure matters.”
Samuel turned.
“I want every complaint he’s ever had.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“No?”
“You want every relevant complaint.”
“There’s a difference.”
Samuel shook his head.
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’m told.”
The door opened.
The physician returned.
“Radiology is ready.”
Vanessa stood.
Then stopped.
Her silver case folder remained on the examination table.
For a moment she stared at the United States seal.
The folder contained materials for a sealed hearing concerning corruption in a federal procurement contract.
Nothing connected to the officer.
Nothing that would magically expose him as part of some criminal conspiracy.
Reality was rarely that convenient.
But the officer had nearly ripped it from her arms without knowing what it contained.
A restricted judicial file.
Protected information.
Names of cooperating witnesses.
Sealed evidence.
Samuel noticed where she was looking.
“I’ll have chambers secure it.”
Vanessa picked it up herself.
“No.”
He sighed.
“You have one working arm.”
“I have two.”
“One is angry.”
“My arm is not angry.”
“You are.”
“That too.”
They walked toward radiology.
Vanessa passed a mirror.
She stopped.
The red suit.
Straight black hair.
Pearl earrings.
No robe.
No visible security escort.
No outward signal saying important person.
Just a fifty-two-year-old Black woman carrying documents through a courthouse.