"And you're saying you live here?"
"I'm not saying it, I'm telling you. I own this home. I've lived here for 6 years."
Then Judge Williams says the words that should have ended this encounter immediately. "Officer, I'm a municipal court judge. I work at the downtown courthouse. You can verify that right now if you'd like."
The body cam captures what happens next with perfect clarity.
Officer Moss laughs. Not a polite chuckle, a full dismissive laugh. He shakes his head and looks back toward his patrol car as if sharing a joke with an invisible audience. "A judge," he repeats. "Right. Sure you are."
"Excuse me?"
"Ma'am, we hear that all the time. Everybody is a lawyer, a judge, a city councilman when we show up. You can drop the act."
Judge Williams doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to. "I am not acting. My name is Tamarra Williams. I am a sitting judge in this county. That is my real identification, and if you would take 30 seconds to verify it, this conversation would be over."
Officer Moss holds up the ID again, squinting at it under the porch light. "This looks fake."
"I assure you it's not."
"Did you buy this online? Amazon? One of those websites?"
Behind Judge Williams, her father steps forward. His voice is shaky, but firm. "What is going on out here?"
Officer Moss ignores him completely. His focus stays locked on Judge Williams. "Ma'am, I'm going to need you to be straight with me. Where did you get this ID?"
"From the Ohio Bureau of Motor Vehicles, like everyone else."