He glanced toward the doors when they opened.
His first reaction was annoyance at the interruption. His second was concern at Morrison's appearance. His third came when he saw Webb trailing behind Amelia with a face the color of ash.
"James," Sterling said. "What happened?"
Morrison closed the doors behind them. "Code Seven. Downtown branch. Potential civil rights and reputational exposure."
Every board member stopped moving.
Code Seven was not an everyday phrase. Amelia had created the protocol after a regulatory crisis at another institution years earlier. It required immediate preservation of records, legal notification, executive response, and a pause on ordinary chains of command when an event created significant legal or ethical risk.
General Counsel Marcus Reed uncapped his pen.
Dr. Patricia Williams, the board's only other Black member, looked from Amelia to Webb and immediately seemed to understand that the issue was not a teller error.
Sterling pointed toward empty chairs. "Sit."
Amelia set her briefcase beside one of them but remained standing.
"Before anyone says anything," she said, "legal should preserve every internal security recording from 2:40 p.m. forward, including lobby audio where available, manager workstation logs, security radio traffic, and employee messages related to the incident."
Reed was already typing. "Preservation hold is going out now."
"Also preserve customer-facing footage posted publicly. Do not contact the people who recorded it except through counsel or communications. I don't want anyone accused of pressuring witnesses."
"Understood."
Morrison looked at Webb. "Your phone."
Webb hesitated.
Amelia intervened. "Not without proper procedure. He is still an employee entitled to the same process we would owe anyone else. Legal can issue the required preservation notice."
Sterling studied her. Even after what had happened downstairs, she was protecting the process.
That mattered to him.
Amelia connected her tablet to the conference display. Within seconds, Sarah Martinez's live stream appeared on the screen, captured from a public social media page. The viewer count had risen again. Comments streamed along the side faster than anyone could read.
"This began at approximately 2:49," Amelia said. "The footage you are about to see is incomplete at the beginning because the customer recording started after the interaction had already begun. The branch security system will give us the full sequence later. I am showing this now because the public version is already shaping perception, and because the conduct visible here is serious on its own."
She pressed play.
Webb watched himself appear on the large screen.
People like you need to understand your place in a professional environment.
No one in the boardroom moved.
The words sounded uglier in playback than they had in the lobby. Detached from adrenaline, stripped of Webb's internal justification, they became plain.
The video continued.
I haven't raised my voice once.
Your aggressive body language says otherwise.
The board watched Rodriguez approach, hesitate, and obey. They watched Lisa attempt to intervene too late. They watched Amelia being guided toward the exit while customers raised phones.
Then they heard the five words.
James. Code Seven. Downtown. Now.
Morrison looked down at the table.
The video reached the moment he ran into the lobby and called Amelia by name.
A board member from the risk committee whispered, "Dear God."
Amelia paused the footage.
The still image showed Webb standing behind his desk, shoulders high, mouth slightly open, while Morrison faced Amelia with visible alarm.
"Current public view count across copies is already above forty thousand," she said. "It will be much higher by the end of the hour."