It was based on what he did.
The prosecution presented the timeline of the stop.
The video recordings.
The dispatch communications.
The registration results.
The medical records.
The damage photographs.
And the testimony of witnesses who had watched the encounter unfold.
Ruth testified.
Miles testified.
Lieutenant Brooks testified.
And eventually, I took the stand.
I had testified in court many times before.
As an investigator, I knew how to answer questions carefully, distinguish memory from inference, and avoid exaggeration.
But this was different.
I was not explaining somebody else's suffering.
I was describing my own.
The prosecutor asked me to identify myself.
I gave my name and position.
Then she asked about the afternoon of the stop.
I described the weather.
The highway.
The patrol lights.
The broad shoulder where I'd parked.
The deputy approaching my driver's window.
And the first question he asked.
"Whose car is this?"
I explained that I'd answered honestly.
Then I described how he refused to accept that the vehicle belonged to me.
The prosecutor asked whether I'd threatened him.
"No."
"Did you attempt to flee?"
"No."
"Did you physically resist being handcuffed?"
"No."
She asked what happened when I tried to release my seat belt.
I looked toward the jury.
"Deputy Gity pulled me from the vehicle before I could finish unfastening it."
For a moment, I heard the memory again.
The sharp pressure of the belt.
My shoulder twisting.
My feet striking the pavement.
I took a slow breath.
Then continued.
When the prosecutor asked about Garrett's statements concerning my race and ability to afford the vehicle, I repeated his words as accurately as I could.
Several jurors looked toward the defendant.
Garrett sat beside his attorney wearing a dark suit.
Without the sheriff's uniform, he looked smaller than I remembered.
But the expression on his face was familiar.
The same tight jaw.
The same resentment.
The same disbelief that somebody had the authority to ask him difficult questions.
The prosecutor then showed a photograph of the Phantom.
The windshield was fractured.
The door was dented.
The driver's-side glass was damaged.
She asked how I felt when Garrett struck the vehicle.
I considered the question.
"I was frightened."
"Because of the financial loss?"
"No."
I looked toward Garrett.
"Because I was handcuffed, unable to move safely, and watching an armed officer become increasingly violent."
The courtroom was silent.
The prosecutor nodded.
"Was there anything else?"
I swallowed.
"Yes."
"What?"
"I was afraid he would hurt the woman recording him."
Ruth sat near the front of the courtroom.
I glanced toward her.
She gave me a small nod.
The prosecutor continued.
"Why?"
"Because he threatened her and repeatedly reached toward his holster."
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then the prosecutor asked the question I had been expecting.