The first thing Officer Bradley Miller did after learning he had slapped a Superior Court judge was reach for the radio on his shoulder.

The second was look for a way out.

I watched both happen while blood gathered against the inside of my lower lip.

Senior Bailiff Thomas Gallagher stood between us, one hand extended toward Miller, the other hovering near my shoulder without touching me. At seventy-one, Thomas had the slightly stooped posture of a man who had spent decades standing through proceedings that lasted longer than anyone expected. But there was nothing uncertain about him now.

"Bradley," he said, "take your hand off your equipment."

Miller's fingers stopped near his Taser.

"You need to understand what happened here."

"I understand that Judge Caldwell is bleeding."

Miller looked past him at me.

The change in his expression was remarkable. A moment earlier, I had been a woman he could shove against a wall without consequence. Now he was studying my face as though searching for something that might rescue him from the reality standing in front of him.

"Judge Caldwell?"

"Yes," I said.

He swallowed.

"But you said—"

"I told you exactly who I was."

A woman near the elevator shifted her weight. Somewhere behind her, a cell phone camera was recording.

Thomas turned toward the gathering crowd.

"Please give us some room."

Nobody moved.

I could hardly blame them. In fifteen years as a public defender, I had watched people gather around police confrontations for two very different reasons. Some wanted to help. Others wanted to make sure they didn't become the next person involved.

I looked down.

My briefcase lay open beside the wall. Papers had scattered across the polished floor, some already marked by footprints. A photograph of a damaged apartment building rested upside down near Miller's boot. Beside it lay a motion I had intended to review before the morning calendar.

Those papers mattered. I had spent most of the previous evening studying them.

But they could wait.

"Officer Miller," I said, "please step away from me."

His jaw moved.

"Your Honor, I believed you were a defendant who was attempting to avoid a scheduled appearance."

"You believed I was Maya Reynolds."

"Yes."

"Have you ever met Ms. Reynolds?"

He hesitated.

"No, ma'am."

"Did you have a photograph?"

"I had a description."

"What description?"

"Black female. Approximately forty. Dark clothing. Fourth-floor courtroom."

Thomas lowered his eyes.

I waited.

Miller added, "There was supposed to be an outstanding warrant if she failed to appear."

"Was there an outstanding warrant?"

"She was late."

"That wasn't my question."

His gaze traveled toward the staircase.

"I would have verified."

"When?"

He didn't answer.

I felt a warm trickle along my chin and reached for the folded handkerchief Thomas offered me.

I pressed it against my mouth.

A security supervisor appeared from the stairwell, followed by two courthouse officers. Thomas immediately directed them away from me.

"Have Officer Miller remain here. No physical contact unless necessary. Nobody touches the judge's belongings until they're documented."

Miller stared at him.

"Tommy, come on."

Thomas gave him a look I had seen once before, when a defendant threatened a witness in open court.

"You don't get to call me Tommy right now."

One of the security officers approached Miller.

"Sir, I need you to come with me."

Miller took a step, then stopped.

"Judge, I want to apologize."

I said nothing.

"I had no idea who you were."

And there it was.

Not an apology for striking an unarmed woman. Not an acknowledgment that he had escalated a mistaken identification into an asNextlt.

An explanation that his mistake had been choosing the wrong victim.

I lowered the handkerchief.

"Would it have been acceptable if I were Maya Reynolds?"

His face reddened again.

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Then tell me what you're saying."

His mouth opened, but no words came.

The security officers escorted him toward a nearby office.

As he passed me, I noticed his right hand shaking.

It occurred to me that he might finally be afraid.

I wasn't particularly interested in that fear.

I was interested in what he had been certain of five minutes earlier.

Thomas insisted that I sit down.

I refused until someone photographed the scene.

"Josephine," he said quietly, using my first name for the first time since I took the bench, "you're injured."

"And we're standing in a courthouse full of people who understand how evidence disappears."

He studied me.

Then he nodded.

"All right."

I asked that an independent supervisor document my injuries, that the names of witnesses be collected, and that the hallway recordings be preserved immediately. I specifically instructed Thomas not to make himself the investigator. He had witnessed part of the incident, and his testimony needed to remain separate from the court administration's response.

One of the courthouse officers photographed my cheek, the papers, the fallen briefcase, and the corridor.

I asked for a copy of the incident number.

The officer looked surprised.

"Your Honor, we'll take care of everything."

"I appreciate that. I'd still like the number."

He gave it to me.

I wrote it on the back of a folded court calendar.

Thomas bent to retrieve my belongings once the scene had been documented. I watched him move slowly, his knees stiff from years of service.

"Leave those," I told him.

"I've picked up worse."

"Thomas."

He straightened.

"What?"

"Thank you."

For a moment he looked almost embarrassed.

"That's the job."

"No," I said. "You made a choice."

His expression changed.

He looked toward the office where Miller had disappeared.

"Yes," he said. "I suppose I did."

By the time we reached my chambers on the sixth floor, the pain had spread from my cheek into my jaw.

My judicial assistant, Evelyn Price, rose from behind her desk when she saw me.

Evelyn was fifty-eight, meticulous, practical, and almost impossible to surprise. She had managed my calendar since my appointment to the bench and could detect a missing filing from the sound of a clerk's hesitation.

That morning, she took one look at my face and forgot the folder she was holding.

"Josephine?"

"I'm all right."

"That wasn't what I asked."

"I need you to call the chief judge."

She came around the desk.

"What happened?"

"An officer mistook me for a defendant."

Evelyn's expression hardened.

"And?"

"He hit me."

She stood perfectly still.

Then she reached for the telephone.

"Sit down before I start making decisions for you."

I sat.

The chambers were warm. Rain tapped steadily against the tall windows. On the shelves behind my desk were photographs from law school, a framed certificate from the public defender's office, and a picture of my mother taken at my judicial swearing-in.

She had worn a blue dress that day and held my hand through the reception as though I might still be twelve years old.

Don't let the robe make you forget the woman who needed it, she'd told me.

I had laughed then.

Now I wasn't sure I understood her words until that morning.

Evelyn returned with an ice pack wrapped in a towel.

"Chief Judge Whitcomb is coming."

"Good."

"I've also called for medical assistance."