Maribel.
Elijah stood near the back eating cake when Pike approached.
“Judge.”
“Gerald.”
They shook hands.
Pike had retired from courthouse security the previous year.
His hair was almost completely white.
“You still get in before everybody?”
“Almost every morning.”
“Still wear those sweaters?”
“Sometimes.”
Pike laughed.
Then became serious.
“I still think about that morning.”
“So do I.”
Pike looked toward the hallway.
“I almost put my hands on a judge.”
Elijah shook his head.
Pike stopped.
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Making the title the important part.”
Pike stared.
Elijah smiled slightly.
“You almost put your hands on somebody you had not bothered to identify.”
Pike absorbed it.
Then nodded.
“Right.”
“The judge part is why everybody noticed.”
Pike exhaled.
“You’re still correcting me.”
“Professional defect.”
They shook hands again.
Elijah watched him walk toward Briggs.
There was no perfect resolution.
Pike could not erase that first morning.
Malik could not recover years spent becoming accustomed to proving himself inside his own workplace.
No training program could eliminate every assumption.
People did not work that way.
Human beings carried habit.
Fear.
Pride.
Experience.
Bias.
Shortcuts.
Procedure existed partly because nobody should be trusted to be perfectly objective every minute of every day.
Ten years after his appointment, Courtroom Four looked almost unchanged.
The gallery seats had been reupholstered.
Security scanners downstairs were newer.
Kathleen had finally retired after threatening to do so for seven consecutive years.
Elijah still arrived early.
One Monday at 7:31, he entered wearing a dark burgundy sweater.
The new senior bailiff, Monica Alvarez, arrived shortly after.
“Morning, Judge.”
“Morning.”
She checked the emergency exit.
Then stopped.
“You know your picture is part of security orientation?”
Elijah looked up.
“My what?”
She laughed.
“Your first-day story.”
He closed his file.
“What exactly are they teaching?”
Monica tried not to smile.
“You sure you want to know?”
“Yes.”
“They say if you see a Black guy wearing a sweater behind the bench before eight, don’t assume he came in looking for a bathroom.”
Elijah stared.
“That is absolutely not the lesson.”
Monica laughed.
“I know.”
“What is?”
Her answer came immediately.
“Verify before escalating.”
Elijah nodded.
“Much better.”
Monica continued her rounds.
Elijah looked down at the morning docket.
Twenty-four cases.
Ordinary Monday.
He loved ordinary Mondays.
At 8:48, he went into chambers.
The robe hung from the same brass hook.