Chapter 11

Thirty minutes later, Richard Hale, the most feared defense attorney for judicial misconduct in the South, was sitting across from Shaw in his chambers. Hale read the summons, his face grim."Greg, this is bad," Hale said, tossing the document onto the desk. "They're not asking for a written response. They are ordering you to appear before the full six-member JQC panel on Wednesday morning. That means they think they have a smoking gun. They want your head.""It's a misunderstanding!" Shaw stammered, pacing frantically around the room, the invincible aura of the gala entirely vanished. "The woman was uncooperative. She was trying to play lawyer. I just... I lost my temper for a second. It happens to everyone!""You called a Black litigant 'girl' on the record, Greg," Hale said coldly. "And you made disparaging remarks about low-income housing. The new JQC chairwoman, Alicia Grant, was appointed specifically to clean up this kind of old-school southern prejudice. She is a crusader. She's not going to let this go with a slap on the wrist. She's going to try to strip your robe."Shaw grabbed his hair, his mind racing. The federal nomination. If the White House caught wind of a JQC formal investigation, his nomination would be dead before it even hit the Senate floor. He had to kill this quickly."So, what do we do, Richard? I can't lose the Eleventh Circuit over some nobody with a fence!""We go in on Wednesday, and you act like the most humble, repentant man on God's green earth," Hale instructed firmly. "We argue that you were exhausted, suffering from a medical issue—maybe high blood pressure medication side effects. We apologize profusely. We offer to take sensitivity training. We throw ourselves on the mercy of the panel. But whatever you do, Greg, do not act arrogant. If you go in there acting like you own the place, Chairwoman Grant will bury you alive."Shaw swallowed hard, nodding rapidly. "Okay. Humble, repentant. I can do that. I can handle a panel of bureaucrats."But deep down, a terrible, creeping dread had taken root in his soul. For the first time in his professional life, Judge Gregory Shaw was terrified.Wednesday morning, the boardroom of the Judicial Qualifications Commission was designed to be intimidating: entirely windowless, paneled in dark acoustic wood, and dominated by a massive, semi-circular mahogany desk where the six commissioners sat. It felt less like a conference room and more like an execution chamber.Judge Shaw sat at the respondent's table, dwarfed by the room's imposing architecture. He was wearing his most conservative navy suit, his hands folded neatly in front of him, trying to project an aura of somber respect. Next to him, Richard Hale was reviewing his defense notes, his jaw set tightly.The heavy doors at the back of the room opened, and five of the six panel members filed in: a mix of appellate judges, prominent attorneys, and civilian appointees. They took their seats in absolute silence, their faces grim and unreadable. They did not look at Shaw.

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