The heavy oak gavel had barely hit the sound block when the courtroom doors blew open.
"Move, you crooked judge!"
The voice echoed off the mahogany walls, bringing the entire gallery to a dead silence. I looked up from my files. Officer Mark Vance was storming down the center aisle, his hand resting heavily on his utility belt. He bypassed the bailiff, shoved the swinging wooden gate so hard it cracked against the wall, and marched directly up to my bench.
Before I could even stand, Vance reached over the high wood partition, grabbed the collar of my black judicial robe, and yanked me forward.
"This courtroom isn't your church," he spat, his face inches from mine, his breath smelling of stale coffee and raw fury.
I shoved his hands off me, adjusting my collar, my heart hammering against my ribs. "This is my courtroom, and you are out of line, Officer. Step back before I hold you in contempt."
Vance laughed. It was a dark, ugly sound. He swept his massive arm across my bench, sending stacks of confidential case files, manila folders, and evidence photos fluttering to the floor like dead leaves.
"Your courtroom days are done," he sneered. Before I could process what was happening, he grabbed my wrists, twisted them behind my back, and the cold, sharp bite of steel clamped down on my skin. The click of the handcuffs echoed through the stunned room. "Let’s see your attitude without your little wooden hammer."
As he dragged me out of the courtroom, past the gaping mouths of lawyers and defendants, my eyes caught a glimpse of the glass doors at the back. Standing in the hallway, watching me being hauled away in disgrace, was my husband of twenty years, David. He wasn't crying. He wasn't shouting for a lawyer. He was just watching, holding his phone, with a faint, chilling smirk on his face. And right then, I knew. This wasn't a mistake. This was a hit.