She was right: my judicial office gave me no investigative role. But as a citizen, I could appropriately report credible evidence of possible federal crimes.
The following morning I brought the letters to Chief Judge Harold Brennan. We copied and logged them before he forwarded the originals to the Northern District of Georgia’s United States Attorney and the FBI Atlanta public corruption squad. I documented my family connection and pledged to recuse myself from resulting cases.
I expected my involvement to end there.
Three weeks ago, however, Lorraine fractured her hip in a fall.
I took a week off to help her recover. Brennan knew my whereabouts and half-jokingly advised caution.
“Pell County isn’t Atlanta, Amara,” he said. “Be careful.”
On my fourth day there, I left Lorraine dozing beside her physical therapist on the porch, collected prescriptions at Pruitt’s Pharmacy in Halvorsen Springs, and stopped at the Magnolia Diner for its excellent catfish.
