From the doorway, Coretta Banks couldn't hear the whisper, but she saw the flinch. She pressed record again.
Hollister reached his chair. One more shove, he thought. They always crack. Then the judge sees the angry Black woman, not the cop. He rose without permission and walked back toward Faith's table, stopping two feet from her shoulder.
"Stand up when I pass you, ma'am," he barked for the gallery to hear. "That's how we do it in this courtroom."
Faith did not look up. Hollister's jaw tightened, and his right hand began to rise in a fist. Judge Sinclair opened her mouth to call order, but before the strike could happen, she slammed her gavel down, calling a mandatory fifteen-minute recess and ordering Hollister to her chambers.
Faith stepped into the women's restroom and braced both hands on the cool porcelain of the sink. She looked at her own face in the mirror. She did not cry. She had stopped crying on the day the Army chaplain came to her front door with Jamal's dog tags.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four.
When court reconvened, the tension in the room was suffocating. Hollister marched out of the judge's chambers, his ears red, his hands clenched into fists. He had been thoroughly reprimanded, and his pride was bleeding.
Faith walked back to the defense table. During the break, Coretta Banks had quietly handed Evelyn Whitmore her phone, showing her the video from the hallway. Evelyn nodded to Faith.
Faith stood at the defense table, hands folded, and spoke six quiet words. "Your Honor, I brought the footage."
Hollister snapped. The humiliation in chambers, the undeniable dash-cam video, and now the realization that his hallway bullying had been recorded pushed him over the edge. He laughed out loud, a harsh, unhinged sound.
"Your Honor, sit this Black woman back down before she embarrasses herself again," he sneered.