“You saw it?”
“Through the window.”
Adrian nodded.
“Then write down what you remember before you forget.”
The boy looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Memory changes.”
Adrian put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
The boy pushed it back.
“You already paid.”
“That’s not for the coffee.”
The boy shook his head.
“I can’t take money for saying what happened.”
Adrian looked at him carefully.
Then smiled.
“Good answer.”
He took the twenty back.
“What’s your name?”
“Luis.”
“Thank you, Luis.”
Adrian returned to the car.
He drove another forty-seven minutes.
His new apartment was almost empty.
Boxes filled the living room.
The bed had sheets but no blanket.
Adrian washed his face.
The cut looked worse under bathroom lighting.
He placed ice against it.
At 1:43 a.m., he sent one email.
To Chief Judge Eleanor Graves.
Subject:
Conflict Disclosure - Urgent.
Judge Graves responded twelve minutes later.
CALL ME.
Adrian did.
She answered immediately.
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
He told her.
She listened without interrupting.
When he finished, she asked, “Names?”
“Sergeant Grady Wells. Officer Nolan Pike.”
Silence.
Adrian heard papers moving.
Then Judge Graves said something he had not expected.
“Grady Wells is scheduled in your courtroom tomorrow.”
Adrian sat upright.
“For what?”
“United States v. Daniels.”
Adrian remembered.
A suppression hearing.
Highway narcotics interdiction.
Two officers conducted a vehicle search after an alleged consent.
The defense claimed consent had been coerced.
Adrian closed his eyes.
“Of course.”
Judge Graves said, “You cannot hear it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll reassign it.”
“Thank you.”
“You should not come in.”
Adrian looked toward the garment bag hanging from the bedroom door.
“I’m coming in.”
“You were assaulted five hours ago.”
“I’m still a judge tomorrow.”
“You’re also a human being.”
“I know.”
She sighed.
“You really are Elijah Ross’s grandson.”
Adrian smiled faintly.
“You remember him?”
“I remember you talking about him every third conversation.”
She paused.
“Adrian, this is serious.”
“I know.”
“Do not contact those officers.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not access their case.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not discuss the hearing with counsel.”
“I won’t.”
“And take photographs.”
“Already did.”
Graves went quiet.
“Of course you did.”
Adrian slept one hour and fifty-three minutes.
At six thirty, he showered.
He shaved carefully around the cut.
It remained visible.
He put on a white shirt.
Gray tie.
Dark suit.
Then he opened the garment bag.
The black judicial robe felt heavier than it had the day before.
He slipped it over his shoulders.
For several seconds he looked at himself in the mirror.
His grandfather would have laughed at the solemn expression.
Stop admiring yourself and get to work.