That was precisely why bad law enforcement angered him.
He understood the damage it could do to every officer who tried to do the job correctly.
He had not grown up wealthy.
James was raised on Atlanta’s west side by parents who measured money carefully and education obsessively.
His father, Samuel Mitchell, spent thirty-one years repairing elevators in downtown commercial buildings.
His mother, Evelyn, taught elementary school until rheumatoid arthritis pushed her into early retirement.
They did not have connections.
They had expectations.
James attended Howard University on scholarships, work-study, grants, and money he earned during summers.
At Emory University School of Law, he spent more nights in the library than he later cared to remember.
He served on law review, clerked for a federal judge, then accepted a position at a private firm where the salary was larger than anything anyone in his immediate family had ever earned.
He lasted twenty-two months.
The work was prestigious.
The money was excellent.
The purpose felt thin.
When a former clerkship mentor mentioned an opening at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, James applied.
He took a significant pay cut.
His father called him insane.
Then, after James won his first major trial, Samuel bought three copies of the Atlanta newspaper and mailed one to every relative he could think of.
James kept one folded inside a desk drawer for years.
Fifteen years later, he was considered one of the office’s most dependable senior prosecutors.
Meticulous was the word colleagues used most often.
He hated sloppy reasoning.
He hated conclusions that outran evidence.
He hated when investigators became so attached to a theory that every new fact was forced into it rather than allowed to challenge it.
“You don’t get to fall in love with your suspicion,” James told young prosecutors.
“The evidence is allowed to tell you that you’re wrong.”
Nathan Cross had apparently never learned that lesson.
That Saturday began with nothing more dramatic than an empty refrigerator.
James had spent most of the previous week preparing for a complex public-corruption trial.
Takeout containers had accumulated in his kitchen.
His fruit bowl held one tired lemon.
He was almost out of coffee.
At 1:48 p.m., he made a list on his phone and drove his three-year-old BMW 5 Series to Whole Foods on North Highland Avenue.
The car was nice.
James liked cars.
He also understood exactly how much work had gone into being able to buy one without debt.
He had driven an aging Honda Accord until he was forty-three.
His colleagues teased him about it.
When he finally bought the BMW, he paid a large portion in cash and financed the remainder at a rate he negotiated so aggressively that the salesman eventually laughed and asked whether James cross-examined witnesses for a living.
“Unfortunately for you,” James answered, “yes.”
The BMW was registered to him.
Insured to him.
Maintained carefully.
There was nothing mysterious about it.
At Whole Foods, James spent forty-one minutes shopping.
Spinach.
Salmon.
Chicken breasts.
Brown rice.
Coffee.
Greek yogurt.
Fresh berries.
Sparkling water.
A loaf of sourdough.
Two bottles of wine he planned to bring to a colleague’s dinner the following week.
He paid at 2:38 p.m.
The receipt showed every item.
Security cameras captured him wheeling the cart out of the front doors at 2:41.
Another camera showed him walking directly toward his BMW.
At 2:42, he pressed the key fob.
The lights flashed.
The trunk opened.
James began loading groceries.
Those small details would become important later.
Not because anyone should need surveillance footage to prove grocery shopping was legal.
Because Nathan Cross would later tell investigators that when he arrived, James’s behavior appeared inconsistent with an ordinary customer.
The cameras would show otherwise.
At 2:43 p.m., Atlanta dispatch received a call.
The caller refused to provide a full name.
“I’m in the Whole Foods parking lot,” the person said. “There’s a man checking cars.”
The dispatcher asked, “What do you mean checking cars?”
“He’s around vehicles. Looking around.”
“Did you see him pull any door handles?”
“I think so.”
“You think so, or you saw it?”
Pause.
“I’m pretty sure.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Black male. Maybe fifties.”