The heavy oak double doors at the back of the courtroom swung open with a resounding thud. The harsh sound shattered the quiet sanctuary, followed by the heavy, authoritative stomping of tactical boots on the hardwood floor.
Deputy Harrison entered the room. At fifty-eight years old, Harrison was a Caucasian man with a heavy-set, imposing frame, short greying hair, and a face that was permanently flushed with a mixture of high blood pressure and chronic irritation. He wore the standard-issue black uniform of a courtroom bailiff, a gleaming gold sheriff’s star pinned to his chest. Harrison had worked in this specific courthouse for over two decades. In his mind, he wasn't just a bailiff providing security; he was the apex predator of the room, the true enforcer of order.
Harrison marched down the center aisle, a steaming cup of bad breakroom coffee in his hand, preparing to unlock the holding cells. As he approached the defense tables, his eyes flicked upward toward the bench.
He froze.
Sitting in the massive, high-backed leather chair reserved strictly for the presiding judge was a Black man in a motorcycle jacket. Harrison’s mind bypassed any logical deduction. He didn't consider that the new judge, whom he had not yet formally met, might have arrived early. His ingrained prejudice immediately painted a picture of a brazen criminal, perhaps a defendant who had slipped past security and decided to mock the justice system by sitting on the throne. The blood rushed to Harrison’s face, turning his skin a deep, angry shade of crimson. He dropped his coffee cup into a nearby trash can and placed his hand aggressively on his utility belt, charging toward the bench.
Harrison did not walk up the side stairs to the bench; he slammed his heavy hands down onto the wooden partition separating the clerk's desk from the judge's platform. He leaned his bulky frame forward, completely invading the personal space of the bench.