“Especially then,” she said. “Because you don't know who's wrong until you listen.”
Thirty-five years later, I still remembered those words.
They were the reason I became a lawyer.
They were the reason I accepted a judicial appointment.
And they were the reason I refused to let Derek Voss turn what happened in that basement into a story about my supposed attitude.
The morning began with an ordinary problem.
My car would not start.
At 7:12, I stood in my driveway in Columbus, Georgia, holding my keys while the dashboard displayed a warning I did not understand.
My husband, Marcus, had already left for work.
He was an architect, and his firm had an early meeting with a client in Atlanta.
Our daughter, Leah, was away at college.
I called a rideshare service.
The first driver canceled.
The second was twelve minutes away.
I checked my calendar.
The hearing was scheduled for nine.
I had more than enough time.
The proceeding concerned a civil rights lawsuit brought by a former delivery driver named Elijah Turner.
Turner alleged that two county officers had unlawfully detained him, used excessive force, and then submitted inaccurate reports to justify their conduct.
The defendants were Derek Voss and Shane Pruitt.
Their attorneys disputed the allegations.
The case had attracted local attention because Turner had produced evidence contradicting portions of the officers' written account.
My responsibility was not to decide the case based on public opinion.
It was to evaluate the evidence, apply the law, and ensure that every party received a fair hearing.
I had spent the previous evening reviewing motions.
I had also prepared questions concerning the preservation of body-camera footage and discrepancies between the officers' reports.
I did not know that the same officers would encounter me before the hearing.
I certainly did not expect them to become the subjects of a separate investigation before the courtroom doors opened.
The rideshare driver dropped me near the public entrance at 8:18.
The courthouse was busy.
Attorneys moved through the security line.
Court employees carried coffee.
Visitors checked their phones while waiting to enter.
I had chosen to use the public entrance because a maintenance problem had temporarily closed the staff access point.
I wore a dark green suit beneath a long camel-colored coat.
My hair was styled in natural curls that fell just below my shoulders.
I carried a leather briefcase containing my notes and a small handbag with my credentials.
As I approached the entrance, a voice called from behind me.
“Hey. You.”
I turned.
Two county officers stood near a patrol vehicle.
One was tall and broad, with closely cropped blond hair.
The other was shorter, with a square jaw and a dark mustache.
I recognized them from their photographs in the case file.
Derek Voss.
Shane Pruitt.
I stopped.
“Can I help you, officers?”
Voss looked at my briefcase.
“Where are you going?”
“Into the courthouse.”
“What for?”
“I have official business.”
He smiled without warmth.
“Everybody's got official business.”
I glanced toward the entrance.
“Is there a security concern?”
“I'm asking the questions.”
His tone was sharp.
I kept mine even.
“Then please explain why you're stopping me.”
Pruitt stepped closer.
“Just answer him.”
“I have answered him.”
Voss looked at Pruitt.
“See? That's what I'm talking about.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Attitude.”
The word landed with familiar weight.
I had heard it used in courtrooms, police reports, schools, workplaces, and countless conversations where a person asking a reasonable question was accused of being disrespectful.
I looked directly at Voss.
“Officer, I am willing to comply with lawful security procedures. But I need to understand what you're requesting.”
He pointed toward my handbag.
“Identification.”
I removed my judicial credentials.
The card contained my photograph, name, title, and official identifying information.
Voss took it.
He studied the front.
Then he laughed.
“You expect me to believe this?”
“It is authentic.”
He turned it over.
“Federal judge?”
“Yes.”
Pruitt looked at the card.
Then at me.
“You're serious?”
“Completely.”
Voss shook his head.
“Nice try.”
He tore the card.
The sound was small.
Two quick movements.
Then the pieces fell toward the pavement.
For several seconds, I could only stare.
“You have just destroyed federal identification,” I said.
Voss stepped closer.
“You want to keep talking?”
“I want you to contact courthouse security.”
“Hands behind your back.”
I looked at him.
“On what legal basis?”
He reached for my wrist.
“Disorderly conduct.”
I pulled my arm back instinctively.
Not to strike him.
Not to flee.
Simply because he had grabbed me without warning.
That was all he needed.
“Resisting,” he announced.
Pruitt moved behind me.
The handcuffs closed.
And the morning changed.
The courthouse security cameras would later show the beginning of the encounter.
They would show Voss approaching me.
They would show him taking my credentials.