In the wake of the DOJ investigation, Maya had consolidated the cases of 32 separate victims of the Kensington Heights precinct into a massive civil rights lawsuit. But today was not about the civil suit. Today was Miller's criminal sentencing. Miller had pleaded guilty to one count of deprivation of rights under color of law, a desperate plea deal designed to avoid a drawn-out trial. He had absolutely no hope of winning.
Judge Bradley, a stern man with white hair and zero tolerance for police corruption, looked down from the bench. Mr. Miller, you have entered a plea of guilty. Before I hand down my sentence, does the legal representative for the victims wish to make a statement? I do, your honor. Maya said, her voice projecting clearly and powerfully through the cavernous room.
She stepped out from behind the podium, making direct eye contact with Miller. The disgraced officer couldn't meet her gaze, staring firmly at the floor. Your honor, for years the citizens of this city were told that the badge Derek Miller wore was a symbol of safety. Maya began, her tone measured but vibrating with righteous anger. But safety is subjective.
For the wealthy residents of Kensington Heights, Derek Miller was a shield. But for the men and women I represent, working-class citizens, minorities, people simply trying to exist in spaces where they were deemed undesirable, Derek Miller was a weapon. Maya gestured to the rows behind her, filled with the very people Miller had terrorized. He stripped them of their dignity. He illegally seized their vehicles, bankrupting families who couldn't afford impound fees.
He placed them in handcuffs for the crime of standing on a sidewalk while having the wrong skin color. He operated with total impunity, believing that his badge insulated him from consequence. He only faced justice because he accidentally targeted a man with the power to fight back. But justice cannot be a luxury reserved for federal judges. It must be the baseline for every citizen.
Maya paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the courtroom. We are not asking for vengeance, Your Honor. We are asking for a precedent. A precedent that declares that no one, absolutely no one, is above the law. She returned to her seat, sitting down next to her father.
Harrison reached over gently, placing a hand on his daughter's shoulder. It was a subtle gesture, but it conveyed a lifetime of pride. Judge Bradley adjusted his reading glasses, glaring down at Miller. Mr. Miller, do you have anything to say for yourself? Miller stood up on shaky legs.
Tears streamed down his pale face. Your Honor, I am sorry. I was following the culture of my precinct. I thought I was doing what my superiors wanted. I lost my career.