Courtroom 3B was half full. Judge Margaret Sinclair presided from the bench, reading glasses resting low on her nose. Faith’s attorney was a pro bono civil rights lawyer named Evelyn Whitmore—tall, unhurried, and razor-sharp. Evelyn had taken the case for a dollar and a handshake.
Hollister took the stand first, swore to tell the truth, and immediately began to lie.
I've done this dance a thousand times, he thought. Evidence never beats a badge in this county. He testified that Faith had blown through the stop sign at twenty-two miles per hour. He testified she had been combative. He testified she smelled of alcohol. Three lies in under ninety seconds.
When Whitmore rose to cross-examine, she didn't argue. She simply played the traffic camera footage on the courtroom monitor.
The timer on the screen ticked: 3.8 seconds. A complete, unambiguous stop. No lurching. No rolling.
"Your Honor, this is exactly what I was talking about," Hollister interrupted, his face flushing. "These people bring doctored video and play victim. I know what I saw."
Judge Sinclair tapped her gavel. "Officer, you will speak when spoken to."
Whitmore then pulled up Hollister's personnel record. Forty-one civilian complaints in twelve years. Four allegations of excessive force. "Officer Hollister," she asked plainly, "is there a pattern here?"
Hollister leaned into the microphone, his voice dripping with venom. "You people stick together, don't you?"
The courtroom went dead silent. Judge Sinclair removed her glasses. "Officer, that is your second warning. There will not be a third."
During a brief pause in the proceedings, Hollister was dismissed from the stand. As he walked past Faith's table, he leaned down. His mouth moved close to her ear, and he whispered a single word—the oldest, ugliest racial slur in the American language.
Faith’s right hand trembled once under the table. Just once. She placed her left hand over it and pressed down until it stopped. She did not breathe out for six seconds.