The Untouchable’s Wake-Up Call: When Privilege Meets Justice

I’ve seen a lot in my 43 years on the bench, but nothing prepared me for the day a 24-year-old kid walked into my courtroom, wearing sunglasses that cost more than most people make in a month, and told me I couldn’t touch him. He was wrong. Dead wrong.

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It all started on a Tuesday morning in October. Case number 4721B. The courtroom was packed that day—three traffic violations, two small claims cases, and one parking dispute before lunch. Nothing unusual. Nothing that suggested the day would end up going viral on every social media platform known to man.

When the bailiff called the next case, “Trevor Ashford Montgomery III,” even his name sounded expensive. The doors opened, and in walked this kid.

I say “kid” because that’s exactly what he was, despite being 24. Trevor wore a white Gucci sweater worth $2,000, Balenciaga sneakers, and a Rolex Daytona worth $85,000. His hair was styled with that carefully messy look that took an hour and $300 worth of product to achieve. And those sunglasses? Ridiculous Tom Ford frames that he kept on indoors, even as he approached the bench. Behind him walked his lawyer, Marcus Chen, one of the most expensive defense attorneys in the state, wearing a custom-tailored suit and carrying an Hermes briefcase.

But it was the person sitting in the front row that really caught my attention. A woman in her 50s, wearing hospital scrubs with the name Sandra Mitchell embroidered on the pocket. Sandra was a nurse, visibly exhausted, even from the bench. She had just finished a double shift at Providence General—16 hours on her feet taking care of COVID patients. She hadn’t gone home to sleep. She came straight to court because she couldn’t afford to miss work again.

The charge was simple on paper—hit and run, property damage, failure to stop at the scene of an accident. Trevor Montgomery had rear-ended Sandra’s 2008 Honda Civic at the intersection of Maple and Fifth Street on September 23rd at 10:47 p.m. The police report stated he was going 45 miles per hour in a 25 mph zone. The crash was brutal, spinning Sandra’s car completely around and smashing it into a fire hydrant. The impact totaled her car, deployed the airbags, and left Sandra with whiplash and a concussion. She spent hours in the ER, the same ER where she worked. But she couldn’t afford the ambulance ride because she didn’t have insurance after her hours were cut during the pandemic.

The worst part? Trevor didn’t stop. He didn’t check if Sandra was okay. Security camera footage from a nearby store showed his Lamborghini Huracan stop for maybe three seconds, then drive off. The license plate was clearly visible. UNCCHBL. “Untouchable.”

Officer Maria Rodriguez tracked Trevor down within two hours at his estate—12,000 square feet in the hills. When he finally answered, he denied everything. He claimed someone else had taken his car. He couldn’t even remember which restaurant he’d gone to that night. His lawyer, Marcus Chen, backed up his story, saying his client was the victim here, and someone must have used his vehicle to commit the crime.

But the evidence was clear—Trevor had been driving the car. His face was visible on security footage, and the damage on his Lamborghini matched the paint transfer from Sandra’s Civic. Still, Trevor stuck to his story. It was a lie, but he thought it would work because of who he was.

When he walked into the courtroom, he was still smirking. He took his seat, and I asked him how he pleaded. “Not guilty,” he said. His lawyer immediately moved to dismiss the charges, claiming the evidence was insufficient. Jessica Ramirez, the prosecutor, wasn’t having it. She presented security footage, phone records, and paint analysis—all showing Trevor was the driver.

But then, Trevor leaned forward to the mic and said, “I will never forget this. I think there has been a huge mistake. I would never drive in that neighborhood. I don’t even know where Maple Street is. That’s not the kind of area people like me go to.”

Those four words—”people like me”—hung in the air like a bad smell. If you’re watching this and believe everyone deserves equal justice, no matter their bank account, hit that like button right now and drop a comment telling me what you would say to this kid.

What I wanted to say would’ve gotten me removed from the bench. But instead, I stayed calm. “Mr. Montgomery,” I said, “the location of the accident is irrelevant. What matters is whether you were driving the vehicle and whether you left the scene.”

He shrugged. “I already told the police. I didn’t do it. Maybe it was one of our staff. We have a lot of people who work for us. Housekeepers, gardeners, personal assistants. Any of them could have taken my car.” His lawyer was visibly frustrated, but it was too late. The damage was done.

And then Jessica Ramirez dropped the next bombshell—911 dispatch logs showed Trevor had been pulled over for speeding just 30 minutes after the accident. He was clocked at 92 mph in a 45 mph zone. He had claimed to be at home, but the police body cam footage from the stop showed his Lamborghini and his face clearly. His response? “My dad runs this state.”

Trevor had just admitted his guilt. But what happened next was the moment that everyone had been waiting for—the moment when Trevor’s privilege really showed. He leaned forward and said, “You cannot do this to me. Do you know who my father is? My family knows everyone. My father has won three Academy Awards. He’s friends with the governor, senators, everyone. You can’t touch me. I’m untouchable.”

The courtroom went silent. The room felt like it had frozen. But I didn’t raise my voice. I took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Montgomery, you are right about one thing. I am just a municipal court judge in a small city. I wear the same three suits because I can’t afford more. I drive a 15-year-old Toyota. I pack my lunch. By your standards, I am nobody.”

I paused, leaned forward, and looked him dead in the eye. “But in this courtroom right now, I am the only one who matters. And you just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

And then I sentenced him.

I found him guilty of all charges—hit and run, reckless driving, leaving the scene of an accident, and added a charge of contempt for his behavior in court. I sentenced him to 180 days in county jail, full restitution to Sandra Mitchell for the value of her car, medical expenses, and lost wages, plus 1,000 hours of community service.

Trevor’s lawyer objected, but I didn’t care. His father wasn’t going to fix this. I wasn’t going to let his money or his name change the verdict. The courtroom erupted in applause as Trevor was escorted out in handcuffs, still shouting about his family’s wealth and influence.

Two hours later, a man walked into the courtroom—a simple man, no entourage, no speeches, just a father who was horrified by what his son had become. Gerald Montgomery, the three-time Academy Award-winning director, walked in and apologized. He admitted that he had given his son everything but had failed him.

Trevor’s father handed over $100,000 to Sandra Mitchell as an apology, not because it was enough to fix his son’s mistakes, but because he recognized that his son’s actions were beyond fixing with money. Trevor’s sentence remained, but his father showed more humility than his son ever would.

Trevor spent 162 days in jail, and when he got out, he worked a minimum wage job at a car wash. Every paycheck, 75% went to Sandra Mitchell until he paid her back. It took him 18 months, but he did it.

Sandra used the money to buy a new car, pay off medical bills, and save for her boys’ college education. Trevor learned a hard lesson—one that money and privilege couldn’t shield him from.

And that’s the story of how one spoiled rich kid thought he could bend the law until it snapped back into place.