According to Miller's account, he had approached a woman matching the description of a defendant believed to be avoiding court. The woman had refused repeated lawful instructions, attempted to escape detention, and struck his arm. He claimed he used an open-handed defensive maneuver to prevent further assault.
He described the blow to my face as minimal force.
He described my injury as minor.
And he listed Maya Reynolds as a potential witness to the incident.
"How could she have witnessed it?" I asked. "She wasn't in the hallway."
"We don't know whether she was," Margaret replied.
"She was supposedly already in court."
"Her location at the exact time hasn't been verified."
I reached for my notepad, then stopped.
The instinct to build a defense came automatically. Fifteen years of representing people accused of crimes had trained me to search for the difference between an officer's written account and the sequence of events the evidence could support.
But I wasn't the attorney in this case.
I was the injured person.
That distinction mattered, even if I disliked how little control it gave me.
Margaret placed the statement on my desk.
"The county prosecutor has been notified. Because you're a sitting judge, I've requested that any criminal investigation be assigned outside our usual local chain. The department's administrative review will be separate."
"Good."
"We'll ask another judge to deal with any related court matters."
"Also good."
She watched me.
"Don't try to do their work."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Josephine."
I gave her a tired look.
"I know what you're thinking."
"I know what you used to do when you were a public defender. You'd walk into my courtroom with six pages of questions and a witness who had suddenly discovered an urgent appointment."
"Only when I had a good reason."
"You always thought you had a good reason."
"Often I did."
For the first time that morning, Margaret almost smiled.
Then she grew serious.
"Let the evidence speak."
"I will."
She stood.
"And go to the hospital."
The emergency physician found no fracture but diagnosed a facial contusion and a split inner lip. My left ear rang intermittently. She advised me to return if the ringing worsened or I developed dizziness, vomiting, or changes in hearing.
A nurse photographed the injuries for the medical record.
While she worked, she asked what had happened.
"A police officer struck me."
Her hands paused for less than a second.
"Do you want that documented exactly?"
"Yes."
She resumed typing.
"Then that's what I'll write."
There was no dramatic exchange. No declaration of sympathy. Just a woman doing her job carefully.
I found that unexpectedly comforting.
When I returned to the courthouse shortly after noon, I entered through the public lobby again.
Evelyn had offered to arrange a private entrance.
I declined.
The security officer at the metal detector recognized me immediately. His face tightened.
"Your Honor, you can go through the staff entrance."
"I know."
He glanced at my cheek.
"I'm sorry about what happened."
"Thank you."
He stepped aside.
I waited until the man ahead of me finished removing his belt and placing his keys in a plastic tray.
Then I put my own briefcase on the conveyor.
A courthouse is a strange place to learn how quickly a story can change.
By lunchtime, the fourth-floor confrontation had acquired several versions.
In one, I had been walking in a restricted area.
In another, I had been aggressive toward an officer who was only trying to do his job.
A third claimed Miller had apologized immediately and that I intended to have him fired because he had embarrassed me.
Evelyn showed me none of these reports voluntarily.
I found them when a local television station called my chambers asking whether I wanted to respond to the allegation that I had "used my position to interfere with routine police work."
I asked who had made that allegation.
The reporter said it came from a person familiar with the department's preliminary account.
I declined to comment on the facts and referred her to the agency responsible for the investigation.
When I hung up, Evelyn stood in the doorway.
"That didn't take long."
"No."
"Do you want me to stop the calls?"
"Screen them."
She nodded.
"And no statement?"
"Not until the investigator has the evidence."
Evelyn crossed her arms.
"You're going to hate that."
"I already do."
At 2:15, an attorney named Daniel Mercer called.
Daniel was a former colleague from the public defender's office, two years younger than me, with a dry sense of humor and the ability to appear half asleep while noticing every contradiction in a courtroom.
He had remained a public defender after I was appointed.
We hadn't spoken at length in several months.
"Josephine," he said, "are you somewhere private?"
"Yes."
"Are you all right?"
"More or less."
"I heard what happened."
"Apparently everyone has."
"I represent Maya Reynolds."
I sat down.
There was a pause.
"Then you shouldn't tell me anything about her case."
"I'm not calling to discuss privileged information."
"All right."
"I'm calling because your name is being attached to a story about my client, and I think there's a misunderstanding that could hurt both of you."
I glanced toward my closed office door.
"Daniel, you know I can't have an off-the-record conversation about a pending matter."
"I know. I'm asking whether your personal attorney would accept a call from mine. Maya has concerns about how she's being represented in the officer's statement."
"Does she have an attorney for that issue?"
"She will."
"Then that's how we handle it."
"Good."
I hesitated.
"Daniel?"
"Yes?"
"Was she in the hallway?"
A silence followed.
Then he said, "I can't answer that in this conversation."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize for asking a question. Just let me decline it."
Despite everything, I smiled.
"You're still insufferable."
"You trained me."
After we disconnected, I called a private attorney.
Her name was Rebecca Shaw, a civil rights litigator I respected because she was exceptionally careful about promising clients what the law could actually deliver.
When I described the incident, she didn't interrupt.
When I finished, she asked two questions.
"Is the original hallway video preserved?"
"I've been told it is."
"And have you made a complete written account while it's fresh?"
"Not yet."
"Do that now. Don't rely on what other people say happened. Write down your exact recollection, including anything you aren't certain about."
I looked toward the notepad on my desk.
"All right."
"One more thing, Josephine."
"Yes?"
"You're going to have to let somebody else represent you."
"I know."
"No. I mean really let me."
I spent the next hour writing.
I recorded Miller's first words. The location of the elevator. The position of his hands. The pressure on my upper arm. The exact sequence of what I remembered saying before he struck me.
I wrote that I had knocked his wrist away when he reached for me again.
I wrote that I had refused to turn around.
I wrote that the incident happened in front of other people.
And I wrote something I was reluctant to admit.
I had believed that telling Miller I was a judge would stop him.
For a moment, I had relied on the same hierarchy of credibility that I had spent much of my career criticizing.
I wasn't proud of it.
But leaving it out would have been dishonest.
By the time I finished, the daylight had faded. Rain streaked the glass, making the city outside appear distorted.
Thomas knocked softly.
"Can I come in?"
"Of course."
He carried a paper cup of coffee and a small cardboard box.
"I found this under the radiator near the elevator."
He placed the box on my desk.
Inside was a metal pen, one I had carried since my first felony trial as a public defender.
I picked it up.
"Thank you."
"Your mother gave you that, didn't she?"
"After I passed the bar."
Thomas nodded.
"I remembered."
He sat when I gestured toward the chair.
For a while, we said nothing.
Finally, I asked, "How long have you known Miller?"
"About eight years."
"Do you know him well?"
"Well enough."
Thomas turned his coffee cup between his hands.
"He's been at the courthouse before. Testified in criminal cases. Transported defendants a few times."
"Any problems?"
"Nothing I can testify to from memory without checking the records."
I looked at him.
"That sounds carefully worded."
"It is."
He glanced toward the door.
"I've spent forty years watching people learn the difference between what they know and what they think they know. It's an important distinction."
"Did he recognize you?"
"Of course."
"And he reached toward his Taser anyway."
Thomas didn't answer immediately.
"He was angry," he said.
"That doesn't excuse it."
"No."
He leaned forward.
"Josephine, when I got there, he was already holding your arm. I heard him tell you to turn around. I saw the handcuffs."
I nodded.
"I can't testify to the slap. I didn't see that happen."
"I understand."
"But I heard him say something after I called you Your Honor."
"What?"
Thomas looked directly at me.
"He said, 'Nobody told me she was a judge.'"
I waited.
"Not 'I didn't know.' Not 'I made a mistake.' He said nobody told him."
I thought about the distinction.
Someone had given Miller a name and a description.
Someone had apparently told him where to look.
And according to the court record, the woman he was looking for wasn't missing at all.
The next morning, Rebecca came to my chambers with a legal pad and a thin folder.
Her first instruction was simple.
"You're taking time away from the bench."
"I have cases scheduled."
"They can be reassigned."
"I'm not seriously injured."
"You're a witness in an investigation that may affect proceedings before this court. That's enough reason to take leave while we sort out the conflicts."
I disliked the logic, mostly because it was sound.
Rebecca opened her folder.
"The independent investigator has requested your interview for tomorrow. We will cooperate fully."
"Good."
"The department has placed Miller on administrative leave pending its review."
"All right."
"And Maya Reynolds's attorney contacted me."
I straightened.
"What did he say?"
"Only that his client wants her own statement taken independently. She's worried about being named in Miller's report."
"Does she claim she witnessed the incident?"
"That's precisely what she wants clarified."
Rebecca slid a printed page toward me.
It was a copy of the court's public docket for Maya Reynolds's morning appearance.
The entry showed that Maya had checked in with the courtroom clerk at 8:47 a.m.
The confrontation in the hallway had occurred at approximately 9:06.
"Is that enough to establish where she was?" I asked.
"No. Checking in doesn't mean someone remained in the courtroom."
"Right."
"But there's another issue."
Rebecca pointed to a notation in the margin of a supplementary incident record.
The document identified the source of Miller's information as a dispatch notification regarding a defendant who had failed to appear.
The notification was timestamped 8:52 a.m.
Five minutes after Maya had checked in.
"How could a failure-to-appear notification be sent before her appearance was even called?" I asked.