Instead, he was standing in a security office investigating an altered access record.
He turned toward the courtroom.
"Who is sitting in my courtroom?"
Lewis looked confused.
"The attorneys. The clerk. The jury."
"The jury?"
"Yes."
"Who is presiding?"
Lewis froze.
The judge stared at him.
"Who is presiding over my courtroom?"
Lewis looked at his assistant.
The assistant quickly checked the internal schedule.
"No one."
The judge's expression changed.
"What?"
"The courtroom is empty."
"Impossible."
"The hearing was postponed."
"By whom?"
The assistant looked at the screen.
"There's a note."
"What note?"
"Judicial scheduling."
The judge stepped closer.
"Read it."
The assistant swallowed.
"Proceeding delayed due to a security concern."
The judge looked at Dawson.
Then at Lewis.
Then back at the screen.
"Who entered that note?"
The assistant checked.
His face went pale.
"Your chambers."
The judge said nothing.
Someone had accessed his chambers system.
Someone had delayed his hearing.
Someone had sent an officer to stop him from entering.
And someone had used Dawson's credentials to delete a visitor record.
The judge slowly closed his briefcase.
"Now we have a problem."
No one disagreed.
Because the slap had been only the beginning.
The real question was who had needed the Chief Judge out of his courtroom at exactly 8:15 that morning.
And the answer was waiting behind a locked door on the fourth floor.
A door that only three people in the entire courthouse were authorized to open.
One of them was the judge.
One was his clerk.
And the third was a person the judge had trusted for nearly twelve years.
When the judge reached the fourth floor, his clerk was standing outside his chambers.
Her face was pale.
"Judge..."
He stopped.
"What happened?"
She looked toward the hallway.
"I think someone was inside your office."
The judge stared at her.
"Why?"
"Your desk."
"What about it?"
"Everything was moved."
He opened the door.
His office looked almost normal.
That was what made it frightening.
Nothing had been obviously stolen.
No drawers were open.
No papers were scattered.
His computer was still on the desk.
His books were still on the shelves.
His chair was still in place.
But one thing had changed.
His briefcase.
He had left it in his chambers before coming downstairs.
Now it was standing beside the window.
The judge approached slowly.
He opened it.
The documents inside were untouched.
His calendar was there.
His legal notes were there.
His reading glasses were there.
Then he noticed the envelope.
It had been placed on top of everything.
His name was written on it.
Nothing else.
He opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
A photograph of him entering the courthouse that morning.
Taken from across the street.
On the back were six words.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED OUT OF THIS.
The judge stared at the photograph.
Then his clerk whispered:
"What does it mean?"
He folded the photograph.
"I don't know."
But he did.
At least partially.
Someone had known he was coming.
Someone had watched him arrive.
Someone had known his schedule.
Someone had known the exact courtroom he was supposed to enter.
And someone had decided that the best way to delay him was to provoke a confrontation outside the courthouse.
The officer's slap had not been the objective.
The delay had been.
The humiliation had been useful.
The camera had been unexpected.
The judge looked at his clerk.
"Call my chambers security."
She nodded.
Then he stopped her.
"No."
She turned.
"Judge?"
"Don't use the courthouse phone."
Her expression changed.
He lowered his voice.
"Use your personal phone."
She nodded.
The judge walked to the window.
Across the street, a black sedan was parked at the curb.
The engine was running.
He watched it for several seconds.
Then the vehicle pulled away.
The judge reached for his phone.
He took a photograph of the street.
And for the first time that morning, his calm expression disappeared.
Because he knew exactly what he was looking at.
The driver was Lieutenant Mark Harris.
The same man who had supposedly warned Officer Dawson about him.
The same man who had allegedly ordered her to keep him away from the courtroom.
And the same man who had now left the courthouse without permission.
The judge looked at the clock.
8:29.
He whispered to himself:
"Why me?"
There was no answer.
Not yet.
But there would be.
And when the answer finally came, it would reveal that the slap outside the courthouse was never really about the judge.
It was about what was inside his courtroom.
And what someone desperately needed to prevent him from seeing.
The judge stood alone in the middle of his chambers, staring at the black sedan disappearing into the morning traffic.
For several seconds, he didn't move.
Then someone knocked softly on the door.
He turned.
His clerk, Emily Parker, was standing there with her phone in her hand.
"Judge?"
"Yes."
"I called the chambers security office."
"What did they say?"
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.