They yanked me to my feet.
My knees trembled slightly, but I locked them rigid.
I brushed a stray clump of hair off my blazer, adjusting my lapels with slow, deliberate precision.
I didn’t utter a single word as they shoved me out the heavy steel service doors into the chilly morning air.
They slammed it shut behind me, the deadbolt echoing with a heavy thud.
I stood in the alleyway for exactly two minutes, letting the cold air bite my raw, exposed scalp.
Then, I pulled my phone from my pocket.
A message from Maya was already waiting:
“I have it all, Judge. Are you okay? I’m calling the police.”
“No,” I texted back immediately.
“Meet me at the private judicial entrance. Bring my robe.”
Twenty minutes later, I walked into my private chambers.
Maya was pacing, tears streaming down her face as she saw my mangled, bloody head.
