“I hate that you are walking this road,” he said.
“I know,” I told him. “And I know you understand it.”
We moved into his study. His son’s picture sat behind him on a shelf, and when my eyes landed on it he didn’t miss it. He watched my face change, and I watched him swallow something down.
We sat, and after a moment I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees, and my hands clasped tight enough to hurt. “I would not have come here if this were only about grief.”
His expression shifted instantly. He was a judge, but he was also a man who knew what that sentence meant.
“The hearings are dragging,” I said, and I didn’t soften it. “Delays keep stacking up. Every time this gets pushed back it feels like my sons’ lives are being treated like a scheduling inconvenience. This is not another case on a crowded calendar. My boys are at the center of it, and the court is letting it drift.”
“The court has to remain impartial,” he said carefully, and his voice had that official weight to it. It was the weight he used when he needed to remind people there were rules.
“I agree,” I replied, and my tone stayed calm, but my anger sat right behind it. “But impartial does not mean letting power stall the process until the public forgets why they were angry. Impartial does not mean pretending the Mensahs are not being handled differently.”
Thomas held my gaze. “You cannot prove that.”
“I don’t need to prove it,” I said, leaning forward more. “I need to stop it.”
He was quiet.
“The judge on this case is stalling,” I continued. “Every hearing turns into another delay. Meanwhile the man who put bullets in my sons is breathing freely, sleeping in his own bed, and living his life like my boys were nothing but a bad day.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened slightly. “So you want the case reassigned.”
“Yes,” I said. “I want her off the case.”
The words sat between us, and I could feel him weighing them, not as a judge, but as a friend deciding what kind of line he was willing to cross.
“She is slowing it down,” I said again. “She is letting it drift. She is giving them time. She is giving them comfort. I am done pretending this pace is acceptable.”
Thomas folded his hands together and looked down for a moment as if he was searching for the correct answer.
“You control assignments. You control the docket. If you decide this case needs a different judge, it happens. You know it happens, and I know it happens.”
“That is not something I can do lightly,” he replied.
“I am not asking you to do it lightly. I am asking you to do it because it is necessary. I am asking you to do it because the law is being bent in front of my face, and you and I both know who is doing the bending.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
I didn’t blink. “Do not make me sit back and watch this become a spectacle where my sons are reduced to talking points and the Mensahs are treated like royalty who deserves endless patience.”
Thomas’s lips pressed together. “Roderick.”
“I stood beside you when you buried your son,” I said, and my voice stayed level, but the words were sharp. “I watched you show up to work the next week and keep moving even when it felt impossible. I protected you. I protected your family. I made sure the world did not eat you alive when you were most vulnerable.”
I leaned in. “I need you to show up for me now.”
Thomas stared at me, and the silence between us was heavy with all the things we had done for each other over the years, from the favors, the quiet agreements and the decisions made in private that shaped lives in public.
“You are asking me to intervene?” He asked.
“I am asking you to correct it,” I replied. “Move it to someone who can turn this around.”
He sat there for a long moment. His eyes shifted toward the window, then back to me, and I watched the conflict on his face like a shadow passing over a wall. He wanted to be righteous, but righteousness was a luxury men like us stopped believing in a long time ago.
Finally, he nodded. “I will handle it,” he said. “It will be reassigned.”
