“His office used to have a locked cabinet behind the conference room. I don't know whether it's still there.”
“Did you see the notebook?”
“Twice.”
“What was in it?”
“Names. Case numbers. Amounts. Sometimes a word beside a name.”
“What kind of word?”
Vale swallowed. “Cooperative. Difficult. Reliable.”
The investigators exchanged a glance. They did not ask Vale to retrieve anything. They documented his account and pursued the proper legal process to determine whether the notebook existed.
The subsequent search uncovered a ledger in a locked cabinet in an office used by Mercer. It contained shorthand entries that corresponded to several disputed property cases. The handwriting needed examination, and some abbreviations were ambiguous. But the ledger's dates matched electronic corrections, and a few pages included initials that investigators could connect to officials who approved Northline payments.
One entry listed Daniel Price's case number beside the figure 3000. Another referenced a dismissed narcotics case and a property envelope that had been recorded as empty. Investigators traced that case to a woman named Iris Coleman, who had spent two years trying to recover cash seized during a search of her brother's apartment.
Iris worked at a daycare and cared for her mother on weekends. When investigators called, she thought they were asking about her brother's old charges. She was reluctant to speak until they explained that the inquiry concerned the property records, not a new allegation against her family.
“I kept calling,” she said during the interview. “They kept transferring me.”
“Do you have any letters?” Daniel Cho asked.
“A whole box.”
She brought it to the interview the next morning. Inside were copies of money orders, court notices, handwritten notes from telephone calls, and envelopes marked RETURN TO SENDER. She had organized them by month. The investigators photographed each page and asked which statements reflected things she personally heard.
Iris pointed to a note dated two years earlier. “Someone told me the money had already been returned. I asked to whom. They couldn't answer.”
“Did you receive any of it?”
“No.”
“Did your brother?”
“He was in custody then. He couldn't have picked it up.”
The records gave investigators another way to test the ledger. They showed not just missing money but a false administrative account of where the money had gone.
By November, the financial inquiry had expanded beyond the original six transfers. The outside prosecutor announced that investigators were examining potential theft, falsification of public records, and improper contracting. No one was declared guilty at a press conference. The announcement named the agencies involved and explained how affected residents could submit documentation.
Naomi watched from chambers. Ruth had brought her lunch, which sat untouched beside the court calendar.
“You're doing it again,” Ruth said.
“Doing what?”
“Reading the same paragraph six times.”
Naomi closed the report. “I keep thinking about the cases that came through this building while those records were being changed.”
“Then let the review do its work.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Naomi smiled faintly. Ruth was one of the few people who could ask her that question without receiving a lecture.
The judicial review team had identified dozens of cases requiring further examination. Some involved discrepancies with no bearing on guilt or innocence but serious implications for property restitution. Others raised questions about the credibility of officers whose testimony had supported convictions. Judges from neighboring jurisdictions were assigned where conflicts required it. Defense attorneys received access to relevant records under protective orders when necessary. Prosecutors reassessed cases instead of waiting for every challenge to reach a hearing.
One afternoon Gabriel Ross called Naomi's chambers about a man whose hearing had been delayed repeatedly. Naomi referred the issue to the assigned judge and court administrator rather than intervening personally. Afterward she sat with Ruth and reviewed the process for urgent requests.
“People will say you're keeping your distance,” Ruth observed.
“Good. Distance is part of doing this properly.”
“Does it feel proper?”
“No. It feels frustrating.”
Ruth laughed. “That's probably how you know you're following the rules.”
Outside the courthouse, a small group of residents gathered with signs asking for a transparent audit. Naomi could see them from her window. She did not go downstairs. She understood why they wanted answers, but she could not become their public advocate while also holding judicial authority over matters connected to the investigation.
That night she walked through her neighborhood with Camille. The air had cooled, and leaves gathered along the curb. A neighbor called out to ask how she was feeling. Naomi thanked him and kept walking.
“I miss being nobody,” she told her daughter.
“You were never nobody.”
“You know what I mean.”
Camille nodded. “You miss buying groceries without somebody telling you what they think about the police.”
“Exactly.”
They walked another block. Naomi's cheek had healed, but she still sometimes touched it when a loud voice surprised her. She disliked that reflex. Camille noticed and said nothing.
“Do you regret going to the park?” Camille asked.
“No.”
“Even after everything?”
Naomi considered the question. “I regret what happened. That's different.”