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“I’d like to see him immediately.”
“I’ll need to check with the processing officer,” he said, reaching for his phone. “Officer Peterson is handling the case.”
A door to the side opened, and a man in his mid30s emerged. Officer Peterson, I presumed from the way he approached with clipboard in hand and an heir of bureaucratic authority. “Mrs.
Sullivan, I understand you’re here about the juvenile involved in the assault on Officer Miller,” he began, his tone suggesting this was a routine matter hardly worth disturbing his night shift. “That’s Judge Sullivan,”
I corrected him calmly. “Federal Judge Margaret Sullivan retired from the First Circuit Court of Appeals.
And I’m here about my grandson, who I understand has been accused by a man he’s known for less than 4 months. With no witnesses present.”
The change was immediate and striking. Officer Peterson’s posture stiffened, his eyes widened slightly, and his grip on the clipboard tightened enough to whiten his knuckles.
Recognition flashed across his face, the kind that comes when a name from legal textbooks or departmental warnings suddenly materializes in human form. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,”
he stammered, his previous confidence evaporating.
“We—the paperwork didn’t indicate any connection to—I mean, Officer Miller didn’t mention that the juvenile was related to—”
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