Chapter 12 - THE JUDGE WHO BECAME A DEFENDANT
Preston entered a plea of no contest to misdemeanor assault under an agreement approved by the special prosecutor.
He did not ask for dismissal because Brenda attacked me first.
The agreement required:
probation.
anger-management treatment.
community service unrelated to his judicial position.
no direct contact with Brenda.
restitution for uncovered medical costs.
The judge also imposed a suspended short jail term contingent on compliance.
Some people called it too lenient.
Others too harsh.
I stopped reading commentary.
The Judicial Conduct Commission operated separately.
A criminal plea did not determine whether Preston should remain on the bench.
At his public disciplinary hearing, counsel played the video.
Slap.
Fall.
Kick.
Preston watched himself.
He did not look away.
“Why did you kick Ms. Reed?” the commissioner asked.
“I wanted her to suffer after I believed she had harmed my wife and unborn child.”
“Was she an immediate threat at that moment?”
“No.”
“Did your judicial training teach you the difference between stopping danger and punishing someone?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you ignore it?”
“Because I stopped acting like a judge.”
A commissioner answered:
“You also stopped acting within the law.”
“Yes.”
I testified only about what I witnessed.
I did not ask the panel to preserve his career.
That decision belonged to them.
The final recommendation was eighteen months’ suspension from judicial duties without pay, mandatory ethics and behavioral counseling, and review before reinstatement.
Two commissioners recommended removal.
The state supreme court ultimately adopted the suspension, citing his otherwise strong record, immediate admission, lack of attempt to use office, and rehabilitation efforts.
Preston accepted it.
His friends called him lucky.
He said:
“I’m accountable.”
The difference mattered.
At home, his loss of salary changed our budget.
Not dangerously.
Noticeably.
We sold the luxury car he rarely used.
Canceled renovations.
Moved money from discretionary accounts.
Preston began volunteer legal-education work only after the conduct commission approved activities that would not exploit his title.
No courtroom.
No black robe.
For the first time since I met him, he was simply Preston.
It helped our marriage.
It also exposed how much identity he had built from being the calmest person in a room.
“I don’t know who I am when people don’t have to stand when I walk in,” he told our therapist.
“Good,” I said.
He laughed.
The therapist did not.
My own body kept reminding us the family case was not over.
At twenty-eight weeks, I began having nightmares.
Brenda’s hand.
Silence under my palms.
No movement.
I woke and counted kicks compulsively.
Dr. Morris taught me a medically appropriate monitoring routine and warned against turning every hour into a test.
“If you notice a meaningful change, call. You do not need to prove calmness before asking for help.”
That sentence healed something.
The criminal system was evaluating Preston’s violence.
The medical system was allowed to take my fear seriously.
Both could happen at once.
Then the Reed audit found a new set of payments.
Robert had not acted only for himself.
May you like
A sitting member of the old family trust advisory board had received $6 million to approve the North Corridor valuation.
The conspiracy inside the money was wider than our dining table.
