My landlord threw a pair of heavy black MMA gloves onto my shoes and threatened to put me in the hospital right in front of my eight-year-old sister.
The polished marble hallway of the County Municipal Courthouse felt cold at 8:30 AM the following morning. I stood stiffly, wearing my cleanest ironed button-down shirt, the collar a little tight. Maya sat quietly beside me on a long wooden bench, her small hands gripping a coloring book, crayons scattered on the seat beside her.
The double doors at the far end of the hallway swung open. Marcus arrived, accompanied by Officer James Albright, a Police Housing Mediator. Albright was a tall, calm man in a neat uniform. Marcus, however, looked ready for a hostile courtroom battle. He clutched a thick binder of property documents to his chest, his face red and set.
He refused to make eye contact with me, his gaze sweeping over the polished floors, the ornate ceiling, anywhere but in my direction. He paced back and forth near the double doors, muttering under his breath, occasionally adjusting the grip on his papers.
Officer Albright approached my attorney, Samuel Carver, who was standing a few feet from us. Albright’s voice was calm, methodical.
“Mr. Carver,” Officer Albright said, “the court mediator prefers to review any documentary evidence in the conference room before we go before the magistrate. It often helps streamline the proceedings.”
Marcus’s pacing faltered for a moment, his head snapping towards Albright, a flicker of surprise on his face. He seemed to have expected an immediate, public confrontation. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it.
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