In those minutes, Elijah was simply an elderly citizen standing beside a car.
And that should have been enough.
His position on the Court didn't create his dignity.
His education didn't create it.
His reputation didn't create it.
His expensive office didn't create it.
His title didn't create it.
Those things changed how Sullivan saw him.
They should not have changed how Sullivan treated him.
One evening, Elijah sat in his chambers after most of the building had emptied.
On his desk was the same black credential holder Grant had opened in Milfield.
He picked it up.
For decades, that identification had opened doors.
Security checkpoints.
Government buildings.
Private entrances.
Rooms most Americans would never see.
But the incident in Milfield had taught him something strange.
Sometimes the most revealing thing about a credential wasn't what happened when you showed it.
It was what happened before anyone knew you had it.
Naomi appeared at the doorway.
"Justice Carter?"
"Yes?"
"Your car is waiting."
Elijah closed the file he had been reading.
"Thank you."
He put on his jacket.
The credential remained on the desk.
Naomi pointed toward it.
"You're forgetting something."
Elijah looked back.
Then smiled.
"No."
He picked it up and placed it in his pocket.
"I'm just trying not to mistake it for who I am."
They walked toward the elevator.
Outside, Washington was settling into evening.
Cars moved through the streets.
People hurried toward trains.
Tourists took photographs.
Workers headed home.
Thousands of strangers passed one another without knowing who anyone was.
Elijah liked that thought.
Because a just society couldn't depend on everyone carrying credentials proving they deserved respect.
Most people would never possess an impressive title.
They shouldn't need one.
A person's rights should not become more valuable after someone learns his occupation.
A citizen should not need power in order to be protected from power.
And respect that appears only after status is revealed isn't really respect at all.
The elevator doors opened.
Elijah stepped inside.
For decades, courtrooms had addressed him as:
"Justice Carter."
That evening, he thought about the man standing beside the road in Milfield before anyone recognized him.
No robe.
No courtroom.
No title.
Just Elijah.
And that man had deserved exactly the same dignity.
The doors closed.
THE END