The footage arrives at 9:07 a.m.
Sealed drive. Evidence tag crisp. The clerk drops it without a word, just a quick glance that says *you're still doing this?* then leaves.
I don't plug it in right away.
I take off my glasses first—thick black frames, the ones that make my face look smaller—and clean them with the hem of my robe. Habit. Delay. The lenses are smudged from yesterday's sweat and today's dread. I put them back on, world sharpening into painful focus.
My coffee tasted like ash and burnt beans. I drank it anyway.
When I finally connected the drive, my fingers trembled so much the USB clicked against the port twice before finding its mark. The video opened.
Warehouse. High angle. Timestamp thin and white in the corner.
Figure enters at 22:14. Hood up. Face away. Body language stiff, like he knows he's being watched.
I pause. Zoom in.
Pixels smear. Compression artifacts bloom ugly across the frame. Exported at least twice. Maybe three times.
I scrub frame by frame.
At 22:16 the figure pauses near the shelves.
I freeze the image.
My vision swims.
[ EDITED ]
The word didn't speak. It pressed. It felt like a heavy thumb pushing into the soft spot behind my eyes.
I yank the glasses off. Rub the bridge of my nose until it hurts.
"This is stupid," I mutter to the empty room. "You're seeing things. Hearing things. You're cracking."
Burnout. Panic. Whatever you want to call it. I've read the articles. Judges burn out. They hallucinate. They break.
I put the glasses back on. The world snaps back into cruel clarity.
I note it anyway. Chain of custody. Export logs. Original source. The pen scratched angry, jagged lines across my pad. Ink bleeds a little.
By the time court starts, my temples pulse in time with my heartbeat.
—
Prosecutor is smiling today.
He was relaxed, wearing a silk tie the color of deep ocean water—the kind of color a man wears when he expects to be thanked for his presence. Behind him, the warehouse manager sat close enough that I could see a single vein pulsing at his temple.
The defendant stood when I entered. His hands shook worse than mine. He didn't look at me; he looked at the floor as if waiting for it to open up and swallow him whole.
I take the bench. Robe settles like lead.
"C-court is now in s-session."
Stutter hooks early. Tongue catches like barbed wire.
Prosecutor rises smooth.
"Your Honor, the state submits the original footage as requested." He slides it forward. Emphasizes original like it's a gift.
I adjust my glasses. "P-please s-state the c-chain of c-custody."
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. "Retrieved by company security at 23:40. Logged the following morning. Transferred to our office—"
"N-names," I interrupted
"The footage was retrieved by company security, transferred to our office, and—"
"D-dates," I say.
He pauses. Just long enough.
"—retrieved at 23:40. Logged the following morning."
The gallery murmurs.
I mark it down.
"W-who a-accessed the f-file b-before t-transfer?"
The warehouse manager shifts in his seat.
He's called again, sitting close enough now that I can see a vein pulsing at his temple.
"Standard protocol," the prosecutor answers. "Security personnel."
"N-names."
Another pause.
"Your Honor," he says smoothly, "this is procedural overreach."
My vision blurred at the edges. The pressure behind my eyes intensified, a rhythmic thumping that matched my heartbeat.
[ CONCEALED ]
The word floats—not above him this time.
I press my thumb hard into the bench edge. Pain grounds me.
Above the witness.
Clear. Solid.
"P-procedure," I say, "i-is not o-overreach."
A cough ripples through the room. Someone laughs, then stops when no one joins.
The manager's jaw clenches.
"Answer," I say. Softer now. Worse.
Names spill out. Two. Then a third he hesitates on.
I write them all down.
My pen slips from my fingers.
It hits the floor with a sharp crack.
For a moment, the room tilts.
Blood drips.
I didn't realize what it was until I saw a dark, red bloom hit the white pages of my notes. A single drop. Then another.
The clerk gasped. The prosecutor froze mid-sentence.
I reached up, wiping my nose with my sleeve. The black fabric of my robe smeared with a dark, wet crimson.
"I-I'm f-fine," I say.
I'm not.
But I keep going.
I looked the manager directly in the eye. Through the red haze in my vision.
I leaned forward, the wood of the bench pressing against my chest. "W-witness," I continue, voice thin as wire, "d-did y-you a-authorize a-any e-edits t-to t-the f-file?"
"No," he says quickly.
[ FALSE ]
The word didn't appear this time, but the certainty slammed into me like a physical blow. My stomach twisted.
I force myself to breathe. In. Out.
"Y-you're u-under o-oath," I say.
"Yes."
"Y-you're a-aware t-that a-altering e-evidence—"
"I said no!" he snaps.
Prosecutor's smile vanishes.
I lean forward. Glasses slip a fraction. I push them up.
"Y-you s-said the f-footage w-was u-unmistakable," I say. "Y-you a-also s-said it w-was h-handled by m-multiple p-people."
I glance at the screen. Then back at him.
"W-which p-part d-do y-you w-want t-this c-court to t-trust?"
The manager opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at the prosecutor. The prosecutor looked at the floor.
My head throbs. Vision doubles for a second. I think I'll black out.
Instead I smile. It surprises everyone.
Including me.
"C-court will r-recess," I say. "E-evidence w-will be s-subjected to i-independent a-analysis."
Prosecutor stands. "Your Honor—"
"D-denied."
The word lands clean. No stutter.
I strike the gavel.
The sound echoes longer than it should.
—
I make it back to chambers before my legs give out.
The door barely closes before I'm on my knees, retching into the trash bin. Nothing comes up. Just bile and air.
My hands shake uncontrollably. There's blood on my cuff again.
I pressed my forehead against the cool linoleum floor. I stayed there until the world stopped spinning.
Concealed. The whisper was faint now. Satisfied.
"Shut up," I whispered back.
It quiets.
When I finally stood, the mirror caught me.
My glasses were crooked. My face was the color of bone. My robe was ruined. I looked like a man being eaten from the inside out by a truth he wasn't strong enough to carry.
Then I sit.
Adjust my glasses.
And prepare to do it again tomorrow.
Because stupid or not—
broken or not—
I saw something.
And I can't unsee it.
~⚖️