Chief Judge Pendelton walked to the high leather chair beneath the bronze seal of the United States, remained standing for a moment as his sharp blue eyes swept across the county’s lawyers and the uniformed brass in the front row, and then sat down, gesturing curtly for the courtroom to be seated.
The silence in the room was so total that the hum of the ventilation ducts overhead sounded like a wind tunnel.
"For the record in Morales et al. versus the County Sheriff’s Department, Case Number Two-Twenty-Six, Civil, Fourteen-Eighty-Two," Chief Judge Pendelton began, his deep baritone rolling through the microphones without preliminaries, "as Chief Judge of this District, I have entered an administrative order this morning temporarily reassigning this afternoon’s evidentiary proceedings to my own docket."
At the county table, Marcus Thorne rose halfway out of his chair, looking bewildered. "Your Honor, if I may inquire—is Judge Sterling ill?"
Chief Judge Pendelton looked down over the top of his half-moon reading glasses at the county’s lead lawyer.
"Judge Sterling is in excellent health, Mr. Thorne," Pendelton said coldly. "However, approximately twenty minutes ago, this Court was formally apprised of an law-enforcement incident that occurred at ten-fifteen this morning on State Route One-Sixty involving the judicial officer originally assigned to this litigation."
In the first row behind the defense rail, the Undersheriff stiffened, turning his head sharply to whisper into the ear of the Patrol Commander, who looked equally blank.
"Because the roadside incident in question directly involved uniformed personnel of the defendant Sheriff’s Department operating a highway checkpoint," Chief Judge Pendelton continued, every word dropping like a block of granite onto the mahogany tables, "Judge Sterling has properly requested temporary recusal under Title Twenty-Eight, United States Code, Section Four-Fifty-Five, in order to preserve the absolute and unimpeachable appearance of judicial impartiality."
Across the aisle at the plaintiffs' table, David Chen and Elena Rostova exchanged an electric, wide-eyed glance.
Marcus Thorne’s face had gone noticeably pale beneath his courtroom tan. He had no idea what had happened on Highway 160 yet, because his phone had been switched off inside his briefcase since ten-thirty in accordance with courtroom rules.
Before Thorne could open his mouth to ask for clarification, the heavy double oak doors at the rear of the courtroom swung open.
Every head in the gallery turned.
Walking down the center aisle with her jaw set and her spine straight came Lieutenant Teresa Morales, followed closely by twenty-five-year-old Deputy Ryan Miller, whose face was the color of wet chalk, and finally Sergeant Greg Halstead.
Ten minutes after Judge Sterling had ridden away from the checkpoint, Lieutenant Morales had called the Patrol Commander’s emergency line; the Undersheriff’s chief of staff had intercepted the call in the hallway outside the courtroom and ordered all three officers to drive straight to the federal building on I Street at code-three speed to brief the county attorneys before the hearing began—only for them to arrive four minutes after the doors had closed.
Sergeant Halstead took four steps down the carpeted center aisle, his campaign hat crushed under his arm, and stopped dead in his tracks.
He saw the high walnut bench, the giant bronze eagle on the wall, the uniformed federal marshals standing by the doors, and the row of pale county officials sitting behind the defense table.
And then Halstead’s eyes shifted three feet to the right of the center aisle, to the reserved bench immediately behind the courtroom bar rail.
Sitting quietly in the corner seat, entirely alone, was Kendra Sterling.
The black leather jacket, the armored boots, and the full-face helmet were gone. She wore a tailored charcoal-gray wool business suit over a crisp white silk blouse, with black leather court pumps on her feet and her long braids pinned up into a sleek, formal crown at the back of her head.
Her hands rested calmly in plain sight on top of the polished oak bar rail in front of her. And because she had deliberately folded the cuffs of her charcoal suit jacket back by one inch, the raw, angry crimson rings and bruised abrasions left by Halstead’s stainless-steel handcuffs were clearly visible against the brown skin of both wrists to anyone within twenty feet.
Halstead stared at her.
Kendra turned her head slowly and looked back at him.
She did not glare. She did not smirk. She simply looked at him with the same quiet, steady, devastatingly impartial eyes she had turned on him when he asked who the hell she thought she was on the side of the road.
Not a single word passed between them. None needed to.
At the front of the room, Chief Judge Pendelton motioned the three arriving officers toward the side bench and picked up the thick folder of existing motions in Morales v. County Sheriff’s Department.