Just pointed at the secondary screening room. 8 and 1/2 minutes.
October 3rd, Travis again. 11 minutes.
October 10. Today, 11 minutes 40 seconds. Pattern established. Every single visit.
Every single time Travis Mundy was on duty. Every single time. Secondary screening. Average duration 9 minutes 30 seconds.
She opened a new document and formatted it as a spreadsheet. Columns, date, time, officer name, badge number, reason given, duration. White attorneys observed passing through without screening. Filled in all five incidents.
Under the last column, she noted September 12th, 4 September 19th, 2 September 26th, 3 October 3rd, 5 October 10th, 3. Total 17 white attorneys who'd passed through security while she was detained. Zero secondary screenings. She saved the document, backed it up to three different cloud services.
Then she pulled up North Carolina General Statute 143-422.3. The statute Sharon had ignored when Camille read it aloud. She copied the full text into a new document. All persons entering courthouse facilities shall be subject to security screening without regard to race, color, or national origin.
Security protocols shall be applied uniformly to all visitors. Any deviation from uniform application requires documented justification and supervisory approval. Documented justification. Supervisory approval.
Travis had never documented anything, never called a supervisor until today when Sergeant Morrison told him to clear Camille through. She added that to her notes. Her phone buzzed. Text from Mrs. Hughes, did you file it?
Camille typed back. Yes. Hearing is set for Tuesday, October 17th. Three dots appeared immediately.
That's after Friday after they evict me. I know. I'm filing a motion tomorrow to move the hearing earlier. And if that doesn't work, I'm filing an immediate appeal.
The three dots appeared again. Disappeared. Appeared. Finally.
Thank you for fighting. Camille set her phone down and looked at her timeline spreadsheet. Five incidents, 17 white attorneys, 9 and a half minutes average delay. Not enough data yet for a federal civil rights complaint, but getting there.
She closed her laptop and went to bed, set her alarm for 5:30 a.m. The advancement motion needed to be perfect. Tuesday morning arrived cold and gray. Camille dressed carefully. Navy suit, white blouse, minimal jewelry, professional, serious, the kind of presentation that said, "I belong here." without having to speak the words aloud.
She arrived at the courthouse at 8:20, 40 minutes before the hearing. Plenty of time. Travis Mundy stood at the security checkpoint. When he saw her approaching, something shifted in his expression.
Not quite a smile, more like satisfaction. Secondary screening. No preamble this time. No pretense.
Just the command. She followed him to the room. Same routine. Empty pockets.
Remove shoes, belt, jacket, watch, earrings. But this time, before he picked up the wand, she pulled out her phone. What are you doing? Taking notes.
She opened the notes app, typed October 17th, 8:21 a.m. Officer Mundy, badge 4792. Secondary screening, sixth consecutive visit. Put that away. North Carolina is a one party consent state.
I'm allowed to document my own interactions with government officials. Travis's hand moved to his radio. I said, "Put it away." She lowered the phone, but didn't turn it off.
Just held it at her side, screen facing her thigh. Turn around, arms out. The wand passed over her shoulders, down her spine. Slower this time.
When it reached her lower back, Travis stopped, pressed the wand against her vertebrae hard enough that she had to step forward to keep her balance. What's this? My spine. Doesn't feel like a spine.
Officer Mundy, unless you have medical training that qualifies you to diagnose skeletal abnormalities through a security wand, I suggest you move on. His jaw clenched. The wand stayed pressed against her back for three more seconds. Four.
Five. Then he moved it down to her waist, her hips, taking his time with each pass. When he finally stepped back, she turned to face him. Her phone was still in her hand, screen visible.
The notes app showed her entry, timestamped. Am I clear? You think you're clever, don't you? Travis set the wand down on the table, leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
Walking in here with your law school attitude, your filing, your cases. You think any of that matters? I think the Constitution matters. And North Carolina General Statute 14342.3 matters.
You know what I think? He pushed off the wall, took a step closer. I think you're making trouble where there doesn't need to be trouble. I think you're the kind of person who looks for problems, creates them if they're not there.
Camille held his gaze. I think I'm the kind of person who notices when the law isn't being applied equally, and I think you're the kind of person who doesn't like being noticed. Silence. Travis's hand moved to his belt.
Not the radio this time. The other side where his other equipment hung. His thumb hooked through a belt loop near it. You should be careful.
Courthouse isn't always safe. Lots of people coming through. Some of them not stable. Would be a shame if something happened.
The threat hung in the air between them. Not quite explicit. Plausibly deniable, but unmistakable. Camille's thumb moved on her phone screen.
One tap, the voice recorder app activated. Is that a threat, Officer Mundy? His eyes flicked to her phone, registered what she'd done. His expression hardened.