You arguing with me? The metal detector beeped. Camille Booker stood perfectly still, leather folio under her arm, hands visible at her sides. Behind her, three attorneys had just walked through the checkpoint.
All white, all male, dark suits, expensive shoes, briefcases with brass latches. The detector hadn't made a sound for any of them. Travis Mundy pointed toward a door off the main corridor. His finger jabbed the air twice.
Secondary screening. Move. She followed him into a room with cinder block walls painted institutional beige. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
A metal table sat bolted to the concrete floor. No windows. The door clicked shut behind them. Travis took her folio without asking, opened it, flipped through the contents slowly, reading case names, scanning highlighted passages, legal briefs for Hughes v. Greenfield Properties.
12 tabs color-coded. Every citation verified twice. What's this? You a lawyer?
Law student? I'm here to file. Students use the law library entrance, not the main door. Camille's eyes moved to the sign mounted on the wall behind him.
Black text on white laminate official Durham County seal in the corner. She read it aloud, voice steady and clear. All persons entering courthouse facilities shall be subject to security screening without regard to race, color, or national origin pursuant to North Carolina General Statute 143-422.3. Travis didn't turn to look at the sign.
His jaw tightened instead. He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell stale coffee on his breath and see the razor stubble he'd missed that morning under his chin. "You think you're smart?" His right hand dropped to his belt.
Not the radio, the other side where the holster sat. His thumb hooked through a belt loop near it. Casual, but deliberate. What Travis Mundy didn't know, what he couldn't know as he stood there in his courthouse security uniform with six prior complaints buried in his personnel file was that the woman in front of him had a photographic memory for case law, a Rhodes Scholarship, and a summer Supreme Court clerkship under Justice Sonia Sotomayor on her resume.
He didn't know her father was Fourth Circuit Judge Roland Booker, author of one of the most cited civil rights opinions in recent federal case law. And he definitely didn't know that in exactly 4 months she would file a federal civil rights complaint that would put his name, badge number, and every single one of those six violations on a federal judge's desk. But right now, at 2:47 on a Tuesday afternoon, she just needed to get past this checkpoint and file her emergency motion before the 4 p.m. deadline. The metal detector beeped again behind them.
Another attorney walked through the main checkpoint. White woman, navy suit, clicking heels on tile floor. Travis didn't even glance in that direction. Stay here.
He walked to the doorway and lifted his radio to his mouth. Spoke in a voice too low for her to hear clearly, but she caught fragments. Secondary individual asking questions. He looked back at her twice while he talked, each glance lingering a beat too long.
When he returned, his expression had hardened into something colder. Empty your pockets. Shoes off. Jacket two.
She complied without speaking. Set her phone on the metal table. Keys beside it. Black pen with Duke Law School printed on the side.
Slipped off her flats and placed them next to the phone. Removed her blazer, folded it once, set it down carefully. Travis picked up a handheld metal detection wand from a hook on the wall, ran it over each item on the table with exaggerated slowness. Phone, keys, pen, shoes, jacket.
The wand stayed silent. Not a single beep. Turn around. Arms out to the sides.
She turned, extended her arms. The wand passed over her shoulders, down her spine, across her waist, lingering at her hips. When it reached her lower back, Travis stopped moving. The wand pressed against her spine just hard enough to make her shift her weight forward slightly.
What's this? What's what? This. He pressed the wand harder.
Feels like something hard. That's my spine. His jaw worked like he was chewing something. The wand stayed pressed against her back for three more seconds before he finally moved it down to her waist, then her hips, taking his time with each pass.
When he stepped back, she turned to face him again. "Am I clear?" "For now." She gathered her belongings, phone, keys, pen back into her blazer pocket, shoes back on, jacket over her arm.
When she reached for her folio, Travis picked it up first. What else you got in here today? Legal documents for a case I'm filing. Open it.
She unzipped the folio. Travis pulled out documents one by one. Motion for temporary restraining order. Supporting brief.
Affidavit from Mrs. Yolanda Hughes. Exhibits A through D. Certificate of service. He read the caption on the motion, lips moving slightly as he processed the words.
Emergency temporary restraining order. Sounds like you're trying to get special treatment. I'm trying to prevent an illegal eviction. Travis held up the certificate of service, squinting at the notary stamp.
This real? Yes. He set the document back in the folio, but kept his hand on it. Good luck with that.
She took the folio from under his hand and walked out of the secondary screening room. The metal detector in the main checkpoint didn't make a sound as she passed through it. It never had.
The clerk's office sat on the second floor. Camille took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. Each step measured, controlled, while her mind cataloged every detail from the last 12 minutes. Travis's badge number.
She'd memorized it from his uniform plate. 4792. Duration of screening 11 minutes 40 seconds according to the clock on the wall. Three white attorneys passed through during that time.
Zero secondary screenings. Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she reached the landing. Text from Professor Jamal Washington, her clinical supervisor at Duke Law. How's the filing going?
She didn't respond yet. Wait until the clerk actually stamped the motion. Wait until it was officially filed. Then she'd tell him about Travis, about the secondary screening, about all of it.
The clerk's office had fluorescent lighting that made everyone's skin look slightly gray and walls painted in a shade of beige that seemed designed to inspire hopelessness. A long form Formica counter separated courthouse staff from the public. Behind it, three clerks worked at desks covered in stacks of files. One answered phones in a voice flattened by routine.