an armed robbery suspect out of Wayne County. And right now, you're resisting a lawful order." I hadn't resisted. I hadn't moved an inch, except to breathe. I was forty-four years old. I wore my hair in neat, shoulder-length box braids. That morning, I had put on a simple navy blue cotton blouse, faded bootcut denim jeans, and a medium-wash jean jacket that had seen better years. To Sheriff Dalton Voss, I was simply an unaccompanied Black woman passing through his rural kingdom—someone without family money, without political capital, without local roots, and, most importantly, without the means to fight back against a badge and a gun. He did not know that my name was Amara Whitlock. He did not know that for the past six years, I had held a presidential commission as an appointed United States District Judge for the Northern District of Georgia.
He certainly did not know that inside the structured leather handbag resting on the vinyl seat