The body cam footage is agonizing. His thumb is resting directly on her printed name. For the next nineteen minutes, the answer to every question he asks is physically touching his hand.
"Where'd you get this badge?"
"From the district attorney's office, where they issue them. My name is on it. You're holding it."
"We've had reports of a female using a fake county credential at this entrance."
"Then read mine and rule me out. Sir, please. I'm asking you to look at what's in your hand."
"You'll get it back when I'm satisfied. Set the boxes down."
She protested clearly on camera in complete sentences. And then she complied, because she had spent nine years telling frightened witnesses that the side of the road is not where you win. She set down the boxes: six weeks of trial preparation on the ground of a public plaza, between a planter and a trash can.
At 8:36, she offered her driver's license as well. He took it. He stacked it with the badge and the bar card. He read none of them.
At 8:39, he radioed in, and this detail matters: he did not radio in her name, because he had never read it. He radioed, quote, "Possible stolen county credential. Female detained at the East Plaza." The dispatcher asked if he had confirmed an identity. On the recording, you can hear him say, "Working on it."
He was not working on it. It was in his hand.
At 8:42, a college student in the public security line held up a phone and started recording. Above the east doors, the courthouse's fixed security camera had the whole plaza in frame, timestamp running. Three cameras now: body cam, phone, and the building's own eyes.
Camille looked at her watch and did the math every commuter knows in their body: eighteen minutes. Elevator, fourth floor, opposing counsel already setting up, three women who had trusted her enough to testify, and a judge who did not wait for anyone.