Do not promise the answer before the looking is done.
One autumn afternoon, long after the cameras left, I returned to the 4th District Courthouse for a records-retention hearing connected to the final reform order. Judge Carter had retired, so another judge presided.
The lobby had changed slightly.
New cameras covered the corridor.
A sign near security explained procedures for sealed court materials.
The marble column looked exactly the same.
I arrived early and sat on a bench across from it.
A young woman came through the entrance carrying two bankers' boxes and a messenger bag. She looked nervous and kept checking a court notice in her hand.
A deputy approached her.
I felt my body tense before I could stop it.
The deputy said, "Ma'am, those boxes are marked confidential. Are you delivering to chambers?"
She nodded.
"Judge Benton. I was told not to leave them at the public counter."
"Okay. Let me verify the order, and I'll have someone escort you so you don't have to carry both upstairs."
The woman visibly relaxed.
"Thank you."
The deputy called the clerk.
Verification took less than a minute.
Nobody touched her boxes without permission.
Nobody asked why someone like her had confidential material.
Nobody told her that questions were obstruction.
Nobody put a hand near a weapon.
I watched her disappear toward the elevators with a court employee carrying one of the boxes.
That was what change looked like most of the time.
Not a villain being dragged away.
A stranger being treated correctly when nobody thought the moment mattered.
Lieutenant Ames, now captain of courthouse security, walked over and sat beside me.
"You looked ready to audit that whole interaction."
"Occupational disease."
He smiled.
"How's the wrist?"
"Fine."
"Really fine or Elena fine?"
I looked at him.
Apparently Romero had spread that distinction.
"Really fine."
Ames nodded toward the column.
"First time you've sat here?"
"Yes."
"Why today?"
I considered lying.
Then I didn't.
"I wanted to see if it still felt like his hallway."