I had not seen the case list before arriving.

Had I known David was appearing, I would have reassigned it immediately.

But now there was another matter.

Clara had assaulted me in a courthouse corridor in front of witnesses.

I would not—and legally could not—decide anything concerning that conduct myself.

The rule that mattered most to me had always been simple:

Power is most dangerous when people believe being right gives them permission to misuse it.

That rule applied to judges too.

Especially judges.

“Has Judge Alvarez arrived?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s finishing across the hall.”

“Good. Ask him to take this case after I make a disclosure.”

Rodriguez hesitated.

“Are you all right?”

I looked toward the door.

“My back hurts.”

“I saw what happened.”

“So did half the corridor.”

“Security has the video.”

I nodded.

“Preserve it. Nothing more until another judge reviews the situation.”

He understood.

I put on the robe.

Then I opened the private door.

Rodriguez stepped into Courtroom 4B.

“All rise.”

Nearly sixty people stood.

Clara looked toward the bench casually.

Then she saw me.

I will remember her face until the day I die.

Her eyes widened first.

Then her mouth opened.

The color vanished from her cheeks so rapidly that the red lipstick suddenly looked almost violent against her skin.

Beside her, David closed his eyes.

Not in surprise.

That puzzled me.

It was almost as if he had been waiting for something terrible to happen.

I walked toward the bench.

The black robe moved softly around me.

No limp.

No trembling.

No helpless little old woman.

I sat.

“Be seated.”

Every person in the courtroom obeyed.

Except Clara.

She remained frozen halfway toward her chair.

I looked at her.

“Mrs. Warren?”

Her knees seemed to lose strength.

She sat.

I opened the file before me but did not read from it.

“For the record, I am Senior Judge Helen Mercer Warren. I was asked to cover this calendar because of Judge Hollis’s medical emergency.”

Clara’s eyes darted toward David.

I continued.

“Upon entering, I recognized counsel at the petitioner’s table. Mr. David Warren is my son.”

A murmur traveled through the gallery.

“Accordingly, I will not preside over this matter. Judge Mateo Alvarez will take the bench shortly.”

Clara exhaled so loudly I could hear it.

Relief.

Premature relief.

I looked at the court reporter.

“I am also directing that the courthouse preserve security footage from the fourth-floor east corridor between nine ten and nine thirty this morning. I make no factual finding concerning that footage and will take no part in reviewing any legal issue arising from it.”

Now Clara stopped breathing.

Her fingers tightened around a pen.

Beside her, David stared straight ahead.

I stood.

“Court will recess for ten minutes.”

Everyone rose again.

Clara did not look at me as I left.

But just before the private door closed, I heard her whisper to David.

“You told me she worked here.”

His answer was almost inaudible.

“She does.”

Judge Alvarez had known me for twenty-six years.

He was fifty-eight, broad-shouldered, patient, with the permanently exhausted eyes of a man who had spent too many decades listening to people lie under oath.

He found me in chambers holding an ice pack against my shoulder.