“Because I know him too,” I continued, still smiling. “In fact, I signed a warrant for one of his officers last month. My name is Judge Sinclair. I sit on the county bench three miles from this office.” The color drained from Braddock’s face so fast I almost felt sorry for him. Mrs. Pearce’s smug little laugh died in her throat. The video in my pocket was no longer a mother’s desperate story. It was evidence, held by someone who spent every working day deciding what evidence meant.

“You just threatened, on the record, to falsify a disciplinary document, fabricate an assault by a seven-year-old, and blacklist a child to cover up abuse,” I said quietly. “I have that on video too. The camera never stopped.” Braddock shot to his feet, stammering about a misunderstanding, about being under stress. But I had already seen exactly who they were the moment they smiled, certain a single mother could be frightened into silence. Now they were about to learn who I was.