She thanked him, although the word tasted bitter. She would not demand that colleagues abandon caution. She also would not allow caution to become a silent accusation simply because it was more comfortable than defending due process in public. Walking down the corridor afterward, she passed a group of law clerks who stopped speaking as she approached. Only one looked up, and the look held pity mixed with fear.
At the foot of the courthouse steps, protest signs had begun to appear. Some demanded accountability. Others displayed her booking photograph with words suggesting that a Black woman in a judicial robe was an offense in itself. Nia believed sincerely that people had a right to protest even when their opinions hurt.
What disturbed her was the repetition of identical signs and the presence of several men who appeared to direct the groups rather than participate in them. She had seen similar coordination outside contentious hearings. This time the target was her home and career.
By late afternoon, her address was circulating online. A talk-radio host told listeners that concerned citizens knew where to find Judge Whitaker if they wanted to express their views. She had never hidden the neighborhood where she lived, but the sudden invitation frightened her more than she wanted to admit.
One neighbor, Mrs. Bell, called to say strangers had parked outside and photographed the house. Another offered to collect the mail. Nia thanked them both and turned off the television.
She arrived home shortly before dusk. The keypad housing on her front gate sat slightly crooked, and the door to the side garden was unlatched. Inside, nothing obvious was missing. Yet two books had been pulled from a shelf and replaced in the wrong order, a framed photograph hung at an angle, and the cushion of her reading chair had been turned backward. On the coffee table lay a printed photograph taken from the viral arrest video, her face circled with a red marker.
Nia stood in the doorway, her keys still in her hand. The familiarity of the room made the disturbance more intimate. Somebody had touched the photograph of her parents. Somebody had stood where she had stood on countless quiet evenings and made small changes meant to prove that no place was safe. She wanted to call the police, but the memory of Halverson's expression made her fingers hesitate over the number.
She called Alyssa first. Then she photographed the room from the doorway and did not touch the printout. Alyssa arranged for an independent evidence technician to document the scene and encouraged Nia to report the entry through formal channels as well. They were not going to surrender the official process entirely to the people abusing it. A report number, even an inadequate one, would still be part of the record.
When two officers finally arrived, one suggested that the gate might have been damaged by weather. He asked whether she was certain she had not moved the books herself. His younger partner touched the small camera on his chest and joked that electronics were unreliable around old buildings. Alyssa, who had arrived while they were examining the living room, looked at him without smiling.