Nora replied, her voice dropping to a whisper that cut like a diamond. "And you are currently disgracing it. Step back." Something inside Dempsey snapped. The last shred of his professional restraint disintegrated, burned away by the fury of being defied by a black woman he perceived as entirely beneath him.
He reached out with his left hand, his thick fingers grabbing roughly at the lapel of Nora's tan wool coat, yanking her forward. Nora did not flinch, but her eyes went dark, dangerous, and incredibly cold. "Take your hand off me." She commanded, the full weight of the bench behind her words. "Shut your mouth."
Dempsey roared. With his right hand, fueled by 15 years of unchecked aggression and a total certainty of his own immunity, Richard Dempsey brought his palm back and slapped Nora Montgomery squarely across the face. The sound was horrifying. It was a sharp, wet crack that echoed violently down the long, empty corridor, bouncing off the frosted glass and the marble floors. The sheer kinetic force of the blow snapped Nora's head to the side.
The impact knocked her heavy brass ring of keys from her grip, sending them clattering loudly onto the polished stone floor. For a span of 3 seconds, the hallway was dead, suspended in a vacuum of silence. Dempsey stood there, his chest heaving, his palm burning, a triumphant sneer beginning to form on his lips. He expected her to cower. He expected tears, apologies, or at least the satisfying sight of a broken spirit.
Nora did not fall. She stumbled back a half step, her hand coming up to touch the corner of her mouth. When she pulled her fingers away, there was a small smear of red. Her lip was split. She slowly turned her head back to face him.
There were no tears in her eyes. There was only a terrifying, absolute stillness. A storm of biblical proportions was gathering behind her dark eyes, a cold fury that promised total annihilation. Before Dempsey could open his mouth to bark another order, the heavy oak doors of courtroom 302, located directly behind Nora, swung open with a loud groan of hinges. Out stepped William Bill O'Connor, a veteran court bailiff with 30 years of service.
Bill was a massive, burly man with silver hair and a usually jovial demeanor. He had heard the shout and the unmistakable sound of a physical strike through the heavy wood. His hand was already resting instinctively on the butt of his service weapon as he scanned the hallway to assess the threat. Bill's eyes landed on Officer Dempsey, whose hand was still partially raised, and then shifted to the woman standing in front of him dabbing blood from her lip. The color instantly drained from Bill O'Connor's face.
His jaw went slack, his eyes widening in absolute, unadulterated horror. The air in the hallway seemed to drop 10°. Bill completely ignored Dempsey. He rushed forward, his hands outstretched, his voice trembling with a mixture of profound shock and deep, deferential panic. "Judge Montgomery," Bill gasped, his voice cracking as it echoed down the silent corridor.