On the morning of the hearing, Faith arrived at the Fulton County Municipal Courthouse forty minutes early, wearing a navy dress and carrying a manila folder of evidence. Hollister arrived shortly after. Recognizing her, he didn't slow his pace. He walked directly into her, slamming his shoulder against hers.
The manila folder flew from her hands. Papers scattered across the marble floor.
Faith didn't raise her voice. She knelt and began collecting her papers in silence. Hollister paused, turned back, and placed the heavy, polished toe of his service boot directly onto a photograph of the intersection. He twisted his heel, wrinkling the image.
"Oops," Hollister said loudly. "Probably doesn't matter anyway. Judges around here don't look too hard at evidence from folks like you."
Faith didn't look at his face. She looked at his boot, memorizing the scuff marks on the toe.
From the doorway of Courtroom 3B, a sixty-eight-year-old clerk named Coretta Banks watched the exchange. Disgusted by what she saw, Coretta quietly reached into her cardigan pocket and pressed Record on her phone.