“If they offered you enough money tomorrow, but changed nothing, would you take it?”
“No.”
“How sure are you?”
“Completely.”
“Then decide what you actually want.”
Derek thought about Samantha Martinez driving fifteen minutes out of her way.
Christopher Wilson missing his daughter’s birthday.
Nine complaints.
Three traffic stops of his own in six months.
Then he answered.
“I want the next complaint to matter before number ten.”
On September 15, Derek filed a federal civil-rights lawsuit under 42 U.S.C. § 1983 against McMillan and the relevant municipal defendants.
The complaint challenged the stop and detention and alleged discriminatory treatment.
More importantly, it raised questions about supervision.
Training.
Complaint review.
Early intervention.
The lawsuit incorporated declarations from other motorists whose experiences reflected similar patterns.
Twelve agreed to put their names on sworn statements.
Samantha was one.
Christopher another.
The city initially fought hard.
Motions were filed.
Claims were narrowed.
Certain theories were challenged.
Attorneys argued that individual officer liability had limits.
They disputed whether the municipality itself could be held responsible for McMillan’s conduct.
They argued isolated errors did not establish systemic failure.
Derek’s lawyers responded with data.
Nine complaints.
Repeated counseling.
Statistically unusual stop patterns.
Low citation rates.
Supervisory awareness.
Internal systems that contained warning signs but failed to trigger meaningful intervention.
Then came the video.
It remained the center of everything.
Not because it captured physical violence.
It did not.
Because it captured the evolution of justification.
The changing reasons were visible in real time.
Jurors would not need to choose between two completely unsupported memories.
They could watch.
McMillan said taillight.
The video showed the lights.
He shifted to lane change.
Then weaving.
Then odor.
Then after credentials appeared, a new explanation for the supposed odor.
The city’s lawyers understood what a jury would see.
They also understood who Derek was.
He would make a disciplined witness.
He had testified forty-seven times.
He knew not to exaggerate.
During deposition, when asked whether McMillan physically assaulted him, Derek said no.
When asked whether he had been searched, Derek said no.
When asked whether a gun had been drawn, Derek said no.
When asked whether he feared being shot, Derek paused.
“I feared that the encounter was moving in a direction where a bad decision by either of us could make the situation dangerous.”
The defense lawyer asked, “But nothing happened.”
Derek looked at him.
“A constitutional violation does not have to end in an ambulance before we take it seriously.”
The room went quiet.
Meanwhile, the federal review continued uncovering broader concerns about traffic-stop practices.
Not every officer behaved like McMillan.
The evidence never supported that claim.
Many had clean records.
Some had excellent community relationships.
Sergeant Price, McMillan’s own supervisor, had intervened appropriately in other questionable stops.
The problem was institutional inconsistency.
Data existed.
Complaints existed.
Training existed.
But accountability often depended on whether the right supervisor noticed the right pattern at the right time.
Derek called that “accountability by accident.”
By December 2024, settlement discussions became serious.
The city did not admit every allegation.
Derek did not obtain every reform he initially demanded.
Negotiation rarely worked that way.