"You're lucky this is a courtroom," Jackson whispered. "If this were a theater of war, the rules of engagement would already be met."
He turned and walked out. The door clicked shut behind him. Reed collapsed against the sink, sick to his stomach.
Court would resume in exactly one hour.
Court resumed at exactly 1:00. The air felt heavier now, baked in by the afternoon sun hitting the tall, dust-streaked windows.
"The defense calls Officer Thomas Stanton," Bradley announced.
Stanton stood, adjusted his tie, shot his cuffs, and marched to the witness stand, eyes locked on his lawyer, refusing to look at the gallery. He swore on the Bible and sat down. Bradley approached the podium, needing to rebuild his client's image, to turn the brute back into a public servant.
"Officer Stanton, how long have you served with the department?"
"Twelve years, sir."
"In those 12 years, how many traffic stops would you estimate you've conducted?"
"Thousands, easily."
"And during those thousands of stops, what is your primary concern?"
"Officer safety," Stanton answered smoothly, the rehearsal paying off, his voice steady. "There is no such thing as a routine traffic stop. You never know who's behind the wheel. You never know what's in the glove box. It's the most vulnerable position an officer can be in."
"Take us to the night of August 14th. Why did you pull Mrs. Hayes over?"
"She drifted over the yellow line twice. I suspected an impaired driver."
"When you approached the vehicle, what did you observe?"
Stanton leaned into the microphone. "The driver was uncooperative. I issued a lawful command to keep her hands on the wheel. She ignored it."
"Did she tell you she was reaching for her registration?"
"She was speaking, but traffic was loud. I couldn't hear her clearly. All I saw was a sudden, furtive movement toward the glove compartment. In my training, a furtive reach into a concealed area is a pre-assault indicator. People hide weapons in glove boxes."
"So, what did you do?"
"I utilized constructive authority. I extracted the suspect from the vehicle to neutralize the potential threat."
"You dragged a 72-year-old woman out by her hair," a voice muttered from the gallery.
It wasn't loud, but in the tense silence it carried. Judge Wallace's gavel cracked down.
"Silence in the gallery, or I will clear this room!"
Bradley didn't miss a beat. "Officer Stanton, did you intend to break Mrs. Hayes's collarbone?"
"Absolutely not. It was an unfortunate result of a dynamic, rapidly evolving situation. The pavement was wet. She slipped during extraction. I was operating strictly within the department's use of force continuum."
"Thank you, Officer. Nothing further."
Bradley sat, wiping sweat from his forehead. It was the best he could do: wrap violence in sterile bureaucratic language.
Clark stood. He didn't bring a notepad. He walked slowly toward the center of the room. "Officer Stanton, let's talk about this rapidly evolving situation. You're 6'1", 210 pounds. You bench press regularly, don't you?"
"Objection," Bradley called. "Relevance."
"Goes to disparity of force, Your Honor," Clark said.
"Overruled. Answer the question."
"I stay in shape for the job, yes."
"Mrs. Hayes is 5'3". She weighs 115 pounds. She was wearing a floral dress." Clark tilted his head. "Did she look like a tactical threat to you, Officer?"
"Size doesn't matter when a firearm is introduced, sir. A bullet from a frail suspect kills you just as dead."
"Ah, a firearm. The firearm she didn't have."
"I didn't know that at the time."
"Right. You just saw a furtive movement." Clark walked to the evidence table, lifted a heavy black flashlight, and set it down again with a deliberate thud. "You blinded her with this. She told you she was reaching for her registration, and she pulled out exactly what she said she would, and your response was to rip her out of the car by her scalp."
"I followed my training!" Stanton barked back, his temper flaring.
"She wasn't complying. She wasn't moving fast enough for your ego," Clark countered. "You wanted total submission, and she had the audacity to be an old woman with a sticky glove box latch."
"Objection! Argumentative!" Bradley was on his feet.
"Sustained. Mr. Clark, rein it in."
Clark took a breath, smoothing his crooked tie, and looked toward the back of the gallery. Jackson was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, staring a hole directly through Stanton's chest.