Rachel understood.
“I'll call OPR and Civil Rights.”
“Carefully.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Firewall me from anything I should not see as complainant.”
Another silence.
Then, softer, “You know this could become a recusal issue.”
“I do.”
“Then maybe you shouldn't be directing anything.”
She was right.
I hated that she was right.
“Fine. You take it.”
“Take what?”
“Any federal assessment.”
“You're recusing?”
“From anything related to Rollins personally. Effective now.”
“Put it in writing.”
I almost ended the call.
Then she said, “Arthur.”
“How's your wrist?”
I looked at the bruising.
“Ugly.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“It's fine.”
She knew better than to push.
“See you tomorrow.”
I hung up.
Downstairs, the hose was still where I'd left it.
The hydrangeas had been watered into submission.
I shut off the spigot.
Then I picked up the newspaper Rollins had made me drop.
It was damp along one edge.
I carried it inside.
That small act mattered more than it should have.
Maybe because it returned the morning to me.
Maybe because I knew nothing else about the day would.
By Monday afternoon, there were satellite trucks outside the county police headquarters.
By Tuesday morning, my driveway had been photographed from across the street by half a dozen cameras.
By Tuesday night, cable panels were debating a three-minute segment of body-camera footage that had leaked to a national network despite the county's refusal to release the complete recording.
The clip began with Rollins saying, “You don't look like the homeowner.”
It ended with him closing the rear cruiser door.
Nothing before.
Nothing after.
Enough to ignite the country.
Not enough to explain it.
Chief Holt called me.
“I didn't authorize that release.”
“Because the edit hurts you too.”
She was quiet.
“Thank you for noticing.”
“Find the leak.”
“We are.”
“And release the complete footage as soon as legally possible.”
“County counsel is reviewing.”
“You're taking criticism for not speaking publicly.”
“I've noticed.”
“People think you're protecting the officer.”
“Other people think I'm using my office to destroy him.”
“Does that bother you?”
She sounded surprised.
I leaned back in my office chair.
“Marian, people who say public criticism doesn't bother them are usually lying or selling something.”
That drew a tired laugh.
Then she said, “Internal Affairs found another complaint.”
I straightened.
“Older?”
“Three years ago. It wasn't in the active discipline summary Carter reviewed.”
“Transferred archive. Different precinct.”
“What happened?”
“Traffic stop. Black male physician. Rollins detained him after he questioned a vehicle search.”
“Body camera?”
“Corrupted file.”
“We also found commendations.”
“That matters.”
“You want those too?”
“I want all of it.”
“You're unusual for a complainant.”
“I'm not asking as a complainant.”
“Then who are you asking as?”
I looked through the office windows toward Pennsylvania Avenue.
“That is exactly the problem.”
I ended the call twenty minutes later and drafted my formal recusal memorandum.
At 4:40 p.m., Rachel entered my office holding a thin red folder.
“I shouldn't show you this.”
“Then don't.”
I looked up.
“That was not a test.”
“What's in it?”
“A pattern analysis.”
I pointed toward the folder.
“Does it involve Rollins?”
“Then take it out.”
“Rachel.”