Sheriff Calvin Reddick.
Reddick was sixty-two, broad-shouldered, silver-haired, and had served as sheriff of neighboring Briar County for nearly eighteen years. He was respected by local politicians, regularly appeared at charity events, and had built a reputation as a law enforcement administrator who could handle difficult situations without attracting public controversy.
He was also the man who had personally recommended Derek Voss for his courthouse assignment.
I knew that because his recommendation letter had appeared in the administrative records during the investigation.
What I did not know was why he had met Voss privately three days before my assault.
The photograph was dated.
A handwritten notation identified the location as the Briar County Sheriff's Office.
Beneath it were five words.
Ask why they chose her.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I examined the other pages.
The first was a copy of an internal personnel memorandum.
The second contained a list of telephone calls.
The third appeared to be an excerpt from an old complaint file.
And the fourth contained a signature.
Calvin Reddick's signature.
I sat very still.
Because the complaint file was not about me.
It concerned my mother.
Gloria Ellison.
My mother had worked at the federal courthouse for thirty-one years, but before that, she had spent six years employed by a private cleaning contractor that served several county government buildings.
One of those buildings was the Briar County Sheriff's Office.
The complaint was dated October 1992.
I was nine years old.
The document described an allegation that a supervisor had improperly withheld wages from several cleaning employees.
The supervisor was identified as Calvin Reddick.
At the time, Reddick had been a young administrative lieutenant.
According to the complaint, my mother and three coworkers had questioned discrepancies in their pay.
The complaint alleged that Reddick threatened to terminate their contracts if they continued raising concerns.
I had never heard this story.
Not once.
My mother had told me about difficult supervisors, long shifts, and unfair treatment.
But she had never mentioned filing a formal complaint against a man who later became sheriff.
I looked at the final page.
The complaint had been marked closed.
No disciplinary finding was recorded.
A notation stated that the contractor had resolved the matter internally.
Then I looked at the anonymous message again.
Ask why they chose her.
My stomach tightened.
I wanted to believe the photograph and documents had an innocent explanation.
A sheriff could meet with an officer for countless legitimate reasons.
An old employment complaint did not prove a connection to a much later assault.
And an anonymous note was not evidence of a conspiracy.
But I could not ignore the possibility that someone wanted me to investigate that connection.
I reached for my telephone.
Then I stopped.
I was a federal judge.
I was also a victim and witness in the criminal case that had recently concluded.
If someone was attempting to draw me into a new investigation, I needed to be careful.
I could not become a private detective.
I could not interrogate witnesses.
And I could not use my position to obtain records.
I placed the envelope in a folder, photographed its contents for my own reference, and contacted the attorney who had represented my interests during the earlier proceedings.
Her name was Rebecca Sloan.
She answered on the third ring.
“Naomi?”
“Rebecca, I received something unusual.”
“How unusual?”
“An anonymous envelope containing documents about Derek Voss, Sheriff Calvin Reddick, and my mother.”
There was a pause.
“My mother,” I repeated.
Rebecca's voice became serious.
“Don't contact anyone named in those documents yet.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good. Tell me exactly what arrived.”
Rebecca came to my house that evening.
She examined the envelope without making assumptions.
Then she read the complaint.
Her expression changed.
“Have you ever seen this before?”
“No.”
“Did your mother tell you about it?”
“No.”
She looked at the photograph.
“Do you know when this meeting took place?”
“Three days before the assault, according to the notation.”
“Can you verify that?”
“Not independently.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Then we treat it as an unverified claim until the original records are authenticated.”
I leaned back.
“Do you think someone is trying to tell me Reddick was involved?”
“Possibly.”
“Or trying to make me believe he was.”
“Exactly.”
I looked toward the kitchen.
My mother was staying with us for the weekend.
She was reading in the guest room.
I lowered my voice.
“Rebecca, why would anyone send this now?”
“I don't know.”
“Voss has already been convicted.”
“Yes.”
“Pruitt too.”
“Yes.”
“The department has implemented reforms. The courthouse has changed its procedures. Why reopen everything?”
Rebecca studied the anonymous note.
“Maybe the sender believes the investigation missed something.”
“Or maybe someone wants to create another scandal.”
“That's possible too.”
She closed the folder.