The one who made the call. The racist neighbor who's been trying to drive me out of the neighborhood for years. Mariah clarified. The report quotes his 911 call extensively, but conveniently omits his coded language about how people like her don't belong here. David was typing furiously on his laptop.
We need to get the actual 911 recording, the unedited version. I have a contact at the dispatch center, Helen offered. I'll make the call. Mariah stood up, pacing carefully along the familiar path between her armchair and the window. There's more.
Last night, an unmarked police car sat outside my house. They flashed their lights before driving away. Intimidation, David said, his voice rising with anger. They're trying to scare you into silence. It won't work, Mariah said firmly.
Helen's phone rang and she stepped into the kitchen to take the call. When she returned, her face was grim. My contact says the 911 recording has been placed under restricted access. Only senior officers can access it now. More cover up, David muttered.
Mariah took a deep breath. I think it's time to use my position. I have contacts at the Department of Justice. If a federal judge can't get action on this, who can? She dialed a number she rarely used.
Direct to the office of the assistant attorney general for civil rights, Thomas Bennett, an old colleague from law school. Tom, it's Mariah Ellison. Mariah? His voice sounded strained. I was going to call you.
I heard what happened. Then you know why I'm calling. I need the DOJ to intervene. These officers killed my service animal and now the department is covering it up. A heavy silence filled the line.
Mariah, I need to be straight with you. There's been talk at the highest levels. The police union has powerful allies and they're framing this as a judge overreacting situation. Overreacting? Mariah's voice rose.
They shot my service dog. I know, I know, but he lowered his voice. I've been advised to tell you for the good of the judiciary to stand down. The words hit Mariah like a physical blow. Stand down?
She repeated, her knuckles white around the phone. My dog was murdered. Tom, I understand that. But pursuing this could create complications. The optics of a federal judge in a public battle with law enforcement. the optics.
Mariah cut him off. A blind black woman had her service animal executed and you're worried about optics. Mariah, please. I thought I could count on you, Tom. My hands are tied, he said quietly.
I'm sorry. She hung up without saying goodbye. Helen and David watched her, concern etched on their faces. The DOJ isn't going to help, Mariah said flatly. Apparently, I should stand down for the good of the judiciary.
Unbelievable, Helen muttered. Not really, David said. The system protects its own. And right now, those officers are being protected by everyone from their sergeant to the DOJ. Mariah nodded slowly.
You're right. This isn't just about two bad officers. It's about a system that shields them. Later that day, after court had adjourned and her colleagues had gone home, Mariah sat alone in her chambers. The room was silent except for the ticking of the antique clock on her bookshelf.
She reached into her bag and pulled out Justice's collar, holding it tightly in her fist. The metal tags clinkedked softly against each other. For 28 years, she had served on the bench. First as a district judge, then elevated to the federal level. She had believed in the system, defended it, been proud to be part of it.
Now that same system was telling her to look the other way while her dog's killers walked free. They're all connected, she whispered to the empty room. the police, the union, the internal affairs, even the judiciary, all protecting each other. The weight of betrayal settled over her like a heavy cloak. This wasn't just a fight against Briggs and Keller. It was a fight against an entire system designed to shield them.
A system she had been part of, had trusted. Justice's collar felt warm in her hand, the leather worn smooth from years of use. She ran her thumb over his ID tags, remembering the day she'd first fastened this collar around his neck. He had been so young then, eager to serve, to protect. "I won't let them bury this," she said, her voice stronger now.
"I won't let them bury you." The next afternoon, Mariah's doorbell rang. She moved carefully through her living room, counting steps in her mind, a habit that kept her oriented even in familiar spaces. The house felt emptier without Justice's nails clicking across the hardwood floors. "Who is it?" she called. "Helen and David," came Helen's steady voice.
"And we've brought someone we'd like you to meet." Mariah opened the door. She could hear three sets of footsteps, smell Helen's subtle lavender perfume, and detect David's nervous energy in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Come in, Mariah said, stepping back. Who's with you? Rosa Martinez, a new voice answered warm and confident.
Community activist been raising hell in this city for 15 years now. She took Mariah's extended hand, clasping it firmly with both of hers. Judge Ellison, what happened to you and justice is beyond wrong. I'm here to help. Mariah nodded, feeling an immediate connection to Rosa's directness.
Thank you for coming. Please, all of you, let's sit in the dining room. I've got coffee ready. They settled around her table, and Mariah could hear the rustle of papers as David unpacked his briefcase. "I've been working since we last met," David began.
Filed emergency motions to preserve all evidence, but we've hit roadblocks. The department is claiming sovereign immunity on the body cam footage. Sovereign immunity, Mariah repeated, her voice tinged with bitterness. They're hiding behind legal shields meant for legitimate government functions, not coverups. Exactly, Helen agreed.
And Judge Ror was assigned to hear our motion for expedited discovery. He's not being helpful. Alan Ror Mariah's brow furrowed. I mentored him, trained him when he first came to the bench. Well, he's delaying our hearing, David said flatly.