Fifteen minutes earlier, as they left the City Hall luncheon, Mercer had looked at Price’s body camera and said:
“Turn that thing off while we’re walking. I’m tired of every joke becoming public record.”
Price had reached toward it.
Then stopped.
The chief never checked.
The camera had remained on.
It had captured Mercer complaining about federal monitors.
It had captured him saying:
“The biggest mistake we ever made was letting Washington teach rookies they answer to a camera before they answer to command.”
It had captured something else too.
Something Judge Bennett did not yet know.
As Mercer first noticed her on the bench, Price had asked:
“Want me to call patrol?”
Mercer answered:
“No. Sometimes people just need to be reminded who owns the street.”
Those words would become more damaging than the slap itself.
But none of them knew that yet.
Not completely.
The marshals separated Mercer from everyone else.
Amara refused medical transport.
She agreed to let a courthouse nurse examine her privately.
Before crossing the street, she looked at Price.
“Officer.”
He looked frightened.
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“Do not surrender that camera to anyone from your department.”
Mercer snapped, “You cannot direct my officer—”
Amara turned.
“Chief Mercer.”
He stopped.
Her voice remained calm.
“I am not directing your officer as his supervisor.”
She looked toward the deputy marshal.
“I am identifying evidence relevant to a federal proceeding already under my court’s preservation order.”
Mercer went silent.
Price blinked.
The judge continued.
“Marshal, please secure the device through appropriate chain of custody.”
The deputy nodded.
“Yes, Judge.”
Price unclipped the camera.
His hand shook.
He handed it over.
Mercer watched.
Something in his eyes changed.
Fear, finally.
Not fear of physical danger.
Fear of records.
Records remembered what people preferred to forget.
Thirty-five minutes later, Raymond Mercer stood inside his headquarters office while three city attorneys argued over what he should do next.
“Do not call the media,” one said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Do not contact Officer Price.”
Mercer glared.
“He works for me.”
“Not tonight.”
“Excuse me?”
The city attorney shut the office door.
“You assaulted the federal judge overseeing an active consent decree.”
Mercer slammed one hand against his desk.
“I did not know she was a judge.”
The attorney stared at him.
“That sentence is not helping.”
Mercer paced.
“She refused identification.”
“In a park.”
“She was monitoring officers.”
“Legal.”
“She was acting suspiciously.”
“By writing?”
Mercer pointed.
“You weren’t there.”
“No.”
The attorney’s voice became cold.
“But several cameras were.”
Mercer looked away.
Deputy Chief Howard Sloan stood near the window.
He had known Mercer for twenty-three years.
Usually Sloan defended him.
Tonight he said almost nothing.
Mercer noticed.
“You got something to say?”
Sloan looked toward him.
“Did you hit her?”
The room became still.
Mercer frowned.
“You saw the clip.”