Keene changed topics.
He asked about Naomi Ellis's recordings. He asked about Jonah's screenshot. He asked whether whistleblowers might have personal grievances. I agreed that they might.
"Then why rely on them?"
"I don't rely on motive. I rely on corroboration."
"Meaning?"
"If a disgruntled employee gives me a document, the employee's feelings do not authenticate the document. The server does. If an officer with a clean record gives me a claim that the metadata disproves, the clean record does not make the claim true."
Keene paused.
"So you distrust everyone equally?"
"I verify everyone equally."
That line appeared in the newspaper the next morning, which annoyed me because it sounded far more polished than it had felt in the moment.
Judge Ortiz ultimately upheld the core audit authority while narrowing several categories of personal data that required additional safeguards before review. He ordered continued preservation of disputed records and appointed a special discovery master to oversee how restored body-camera footage would be disclosed in affected criminal cases.
Vale's legal challenge had not destroyed the audit.
It had made the process better defined.
That did not mean the city was calm.
Defense attorneys began filing motions in dozens of cases involving officers named in the findings. Prosecutors had to review whether previously undisclosed footage or evidence discrepancies were material to convictions. Some cases remained sound. Others did not.
The district attorney, Renee Alvarez, created a separate conviction-integrity team to examine affected prosecutions.
She held a press conference and said something that drew criticism from both sides.
"An officer appearing in an audit does not automatically invalidate every arrest they ever made. But when the government learns that evidence may have been withheld or records altered, we have an obligation to examine each affected case rather than protect old outcomes for the sake of convenience."
Victims' families worried convictions would be overturned.
Civil-rights groups worried prosecutors would minimize misconduct.
Police officers who had done nothing wrong worried their testimony would be treated as contaminated by association.
Everyone wanted a simple category.
Good department.
Bad department.
Good cops.
Bad cops.
The records refused to cooperate.
One officer in Vance's unit had resisted a report change and documented his objection by email. Another had gone along with two questionable edits and then later reported a third. A supervisor ignored complaints but had no connection to missing cash. An evidence clerk stole money but had never touched body-camera files.
Corruption was not one stain spreading evenly across every person.
It was a network of choices.
Some deliberate.
Some cowardly.
Some criminal.
Some merely careless.
The work was to separate them.
That principle was tested hardest by Officer Vance.
Six weeks after the courthouse confrontation, he requested a meeting with me through Miriam Cho.
I said no at first.
There was no investigative reason for us to speak directly. He had grabbed me, threatened arrest, and tried to seize the case I was carrying. Whatever explanation he wanted to give could go through prosecutors.
Cho agreed.
Then Vance sent a written statement through counsel addressed to me personally.
I almost refused to read it.
Romero told me the choice was mine.