As an expanse of ghastly clouds veiled the light of the afternoon, the city of Chicago neared the brink of anarchy. Even the murky sky’s soft drizzle had not extinguished the burning anger of the mobbing protestors below. Amid a frenzy of picket signs and police barricades the formidable Cook County Courthouse towered over the screaming chants that demanded justice.

Inside the building, the elderly judge Warren Hayes emerged from his chambers cloaked in a black robe and entered a crowded but dreadfully silent courtroom.

“All rise!”

Lean and over six feet tall, he stepped past the court stenographer and nodded toward the bailiff. Despite the growing animosity of the public outside, and their assertions that he was a “sell-out,”  “house negro,” and “tyrant,” he emitted  an air of pride. As one of the few Black judges to preside in this courthouse, and with over 25 years of experience, he surmised it a privilege for anyone to have their case heard by him–an honor even. He strode past the quivering defendant, and with a glare of omniscient grandeur, sat facing all in attendance. “You may be seated,” he grumbled to a room of people who hadn’t stood for his entrance to begin with.

His deep brown eyes surveyed the tense room. To the right, twelve empty seats of the jury box were still littered with ten days-worth of crumpled notes and shortened pencils. The dismissed jury, composed of eight women and four men, six Blacks, four Whites, one Latino, and one man who adamantly identified himself as ” multi-racial,” had fulfilled their duty around noon when they returned with a verdict after only three hours of deliberating. They had left in a hurry and were allowed to use the building’s east exit to avoid the news media. The court’s gallery was divided into three factions: the mostly Black crowd of people who demanded fair and swift justice that never seemed to come; their rivals consisting mostly of police officers who donned their crisp uniforms in support of one of their own; and in the rear, a slew of ravenous news reporters and journalists who would devour each word that would come out of the judge’s mouth. To the left, sat a seemingly indifferent counsel member, and next to her sat the defendant, Sergeant Jaret Whatley. Whatley, broad shouldered, Caucasian, and dressed in a dark gray suit that appeared to be one or two sizes too small, stared at the judge in anticipation. His buzz cut had grown out a bit and his once piercing blue eyes now seemed dull and void.

As Judge Hayes opened his mouth to deliver the sergeant’s sentence, he recounted the impactful testimony given by the young victim Kevin’s family and questioned himself, How could something like this happen in this day and age? To an aspiring athlete with a scholarship? To the valedictorian of his class? He peered into the audience and found the face of the victim’s brother. Young, Black, and so full of life. Yet, full of anger and grief as well. It was just two days ago when he last took the witness stand. His testimony, along with everyone else’s, was still fresh, still vivid in the judge’s mind.