The patrol car winds through the neighborhood streets. In the back seat, Judge Williams speaks. Her voice is steady, but there's an edge to it now. Not anger, but the sharp clarity of someone who knows exactly what's happening and exactly what it means.
"Officer, I need you to hear me clearly. My name is Tamarra Williams. I am a municipal court judge. I sit on the bench at the Franklin County Courthouse. My chambers are on the third floor. I have colleagues who can verify my identity. I have staff. I have court records. I am telling you this because you are making a mistake that is going to have serious consequences."
Officer Moss adjusts his rearview mirror. His voice comes through the partition speaker, distorted, but clear. "You can tell all that to the desk sergeant."
"I've been telling it to you. You're choosing not to listen."
"Ma'am, everyone says they're somebody when they get arrested."
"I'm not somebody. I'm a specific person with a specific job that can be verified in under 60 seconds. Why won't you verify it?"
No response.
"Is it because you don't believe me, or is it because you don't want to believe me?"
Still nothing.
Judge Williams leans back against the seat. The cuffs bite into her wrists. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them and speaks directly into the camera above the partition.
"For the record, I asked this officer multiple times to verify my identity. I provided my identification. I told him my occupation. He refused to check. He refused to call dispatch. He laughed at me, and then he arrested me on my own front porch in front of my elderly parents without probable cause, without a warrant, and without any legal justification."
Officer Moss glances into the rearview mirror. "You done?"
"No, I'm just getting started."