Arthur looked over his shoulder nervously. Across the hall sat David Henderson, a broad-shouldered Black man in his late 30s, wearing a slightly faded but neat suit. David was the owner of Henderson Construction, a small independent contracting firm. He looked exhausted, rubbing his temples while looking over a stack of invoices.
He had done the work perfectly, but the Carmichaels had purposefully changed the architectural plans halfway through the build, caused the delays themselves, and then used their massive legal fund to starve David out, refusing to pay the $150,000 they owed him. It was a classic predatory tactic used by wealthy developers to get free labor out of small, minority-owned businesses.
"The issue, Richard," Arthur whispered urgently, leaning in, "is the judge. We were randomly reassigned this morning because Judge Peterson called out sick. We are now in front of Judge Valerie Jenkins."
Brenda rolled her eyes. "And who cares? You're getting paid enough to handle any judge, Arthur."
"You don't understand," Arthur stressed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his forehead. "Judge Jenkins is brilliant. She is ruthless, and she has zero tolerance for corporate bullying. She used to be a prosecutor. She looks straight through the paperwork and focuses on character. If she sniffs out that you two intentionally sabotaged Henderson to steal his labor, she won't just rule against us—she'll hit you with punitive damages that will make your heads spin. You both need to be on your absolute best behavior: polite, humble, respectful."
"I am always respectful," Richard scoffed, oblivious to the utter irony of his statement less than 15 minutes after assaulting a woman in a parking garage. "Judges love me. We're tax-paying job creators. She'll see that Henderson is just a lazy, incompetent laborer trying to get a handout. Let's just go in and get this over with."
Meanwhile, behind the heavy mahogany panels of the courtroom, tucked away in the private judicial chambers, Valerie Jenkins was transforming. She took off her damp trench coat and carefully unwrapped the silk scarf from her head, letting her thick, gorgeous natural curls fall perfectly into place. She slipped on a pair of sharp, black-rimmed glasses that framed her piercing brown eyes.
Finally, she took the heavy black judicial robe off its hanger and slid her arms into the sleeves. With every button she fastened, the casual, polite woman from the parking garage slipped further away, replaced by an immovable pillar of the law.
Her head clerk, a bright young man named Timothy, knocked softly and entered the chambers, holding a tablet and a stack of case files.
"Good morning, Your Honor," Timothy said cheerfully. "Rough weather out there. Dave in security said you had an issue in the garage."
"You could say that," Valerie murmured, her eyes cold as she adjusted her collar. "Did he send the footage?"
"Yes, Judge. It's loaded onto your bench monitor, and I have the morning docket here. First up is a civil dispute: Carmichael Development Group v. Henderson Construction."