“I’m asking you.”
Mercer looked insulted.
“She got in my face.”
The city attorney immediately said, “Do not say that again.”
“She did.”
Sloan’s face changed.
“No.”
Mercer looked at him.
Sloan continued.
“I watched the video twice.”
“She never moved toward you.”
Mercer felt suddenly isolated.
That made him angrier.
“So everybody’s turning on me now?”
Nobody answered.
Mercer looked toward the dark television mounted on his office wall.
Every local station had already interrupted afternoon programming.
A headline crawled beneath the footage.
ATLANTA-AREA POLICE CHIEF RECORDED STRIKING FEDERAL JUDGE IN PUBLIC PARK
Mercer grabbed the remote.
Turned it off.
Silence did not improve the room.
Across the street, Judge Amara Bennett sat inside her chambers while a nurse held an ice pack against her cheek.
Amara hated ice packs.
Not medically.
Symbolically.
They made injuries feel theatrical.
She held it for two minutes, then placed it on the desk.
Her law clerk, Rebecca Lin, stared at her.
“You should go to the hospital.”
“I’m not going to the hospital for a slap.”
“Your glasses cut your nose.”
Amara touched the tiny line near the bridge.
“Barely.”
Rebecca crossed her arms.
“You are the worst patient alive.”
“I’m not your patient.”
“Worse.”
Amara almost smiled.
Then the door opened.
Lena Morris entered after being cleared by courthouse security.
She no longer had the camera in her hands.
A technician from her station had already copied everything.
“You all right?”
Amara nodded.
“You?”
Lena blinked.
“He didn’t slap me.”
“Still.”
Lena sat.
“I’m okay.”
For several seconds the two women were quiet.
They knew each other professionally.
Not socially.
Lena had covered Amara’s confirmation hearings when she became a federal judge at forty-one, then her elevation to chief judge six years later.
She had covered major corruption trials in Amara’s courtroom.
She knew the judge’s reputation.
Precise.
Controlled.
Unimpressed by performance.
Some attorneys called her cold.
Lena never agreed.
Amara was not cold.
She simply refused to turn seriousness into theater.
Tonight, however, something in her composure looked different.
Personal.
Lena asked:
“Why were you sitting out there alone?”
Rebecca looked toward the judge.
Amara sighed.
“That may become complicated.”
“How?”
Amara removed her glasses and cleaned them slowly.
“I was waiting for someone.”
Lena frowned.
“Who?”
A knock interrupted them.
The deputy marshal entered.
“Judge, Officer Price is downstairs.”
Amara’s expression changed.
“Alone?”
“With counsel from the police union.”
“Did he ask to see me?”
“Yes.”
Amara looked at Lena.
Then Rebecca.
“Give me ten minutes.”