"Obstruction of a lawful investigation."
"I have not obstructed anything. I answered every question your officer asked. I provided every document requested. I asked what legal basis justified a search of my property. Asking that question is not obstruction."
"We can discuss that at the station."
The handcuffs came out.
Across the road, the older man walking his dog lowered his phone slightly, then raised it again. He spoke once, clearly, in the direction of the officers:
"She's been doing everything right. You all know that."
Nobody responded to him.
The cuffs closed around her wrists. The steel was cold. The sound of it was specific—a small mechanical click that carried a particular kind of weight for anyone who had ever heard it applied to someone who had done nothing wrong.
She stood straight. She looked at the officer who had made the stop, then at the sergeant. Then she looked at the bystanders who were recording, and she understood that the recordings were not incidental; they were the most important thing that happened on this road today.
She said, clearly enough that the recordings would capture it: "I am a sitting judge of the United States Federal Court for this district. I am asking that the reason for this arrest be clearly stated on camera."
The officer who had made the stop looked at her for a moment. Then he laughed—a short, dismissive sound. "Sure you are."