The mention of the name Nova Jones made her chest tighten. Bria was devastated to know that the girl was forced to endure unrelenting public scrutiny. As a doctor, she was worried about Nova’s health and welfare, and the toll that the case would have on the child.

  It was a weird jumble of emotions. Confusing, sometimes, to feel overwhelming sympathy and concern for the prosecution witness whose testimony would send her to prison.

  The lawyer was still giving his speech. Wearing a thoughtful expression, Meyers raised his index finger, shook it at the ceiling. “When a thirteen-year-old girl becomes pregnant, there’s a story there. Not a love story. Not Cinderella at the ball. No happily-ever-after. Y’all know this is true. A tragic fact of life. Did the DA bother to tell you that story? Ladies and gentlemen, he did not.”

  He took a breath and released it before he said, “What else is he keeping from you?”

  Bria had heard enough. He hadn’t finished his opening statement, but she was impressed. He’d shown what he could do. The man was good. Really good. She felt obliged to be up-front with him.

  She needed to be direct. He had just started up again when she interrupted him.

  “Mr. Meyers, you’re extremely talented, there’s no question about that. And you’ve clearly done your homework. But the idea of handing over this case, and my life, my fate, to a complete stranger? It scares me.”

  She turned to Chuck, sitting in the seat beside her. “Chuck, you’re the first friend I made when I moved to town. I know you’re sincerely dedicated to helping people with legal problems. I admire that. I trust you to have my best interest at heart.”

  Bria’s life had been upended. She didn’t want to go to prison, God knows; she wanted the best representation she could afford. But she had to cling to the true friends who stood by her.

  He smiled at her, a rueful grin. Chuck said, “We’re good friends, Bria, and I’m proud to have your trust. So you should trust me when I tell you, you need to let me withdraw so you can hire this guy.”

  She glanced from Chuck to Meyers, and back to Chuck again. Her friend said, “I’m dead serious.”

  That did it.

  Bria rose from her seat, extended her hand to Meyers. When he gripped it in a firm handshake, she said, “Okay, Mr. Meyers. If you really want this hopeless case, it’s yours.”

  He was smiling at her again. It made Bria feel edgy. She said, “I don’t even know if I can afford you.”

  Meyers said, “I’d take your case for nothing. Do it for free.”

  And the crazy thing about that? He actually sounded like he meant it.

  CHAPTER

  25

  Mary Stone

  BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  I was sitting at the bench, taking a guilty plea from a local miscreant who habitually broke into parked vehicles by busting the windows in the wee hours of the morning. Then he’d get inside the vehicle, take a backpack, laptop, jacket. Or dig in the console, take something from the glove box. Steal whatever he could find, even if it was just a handful of change. Take a nap, maybe. Jerk off, if he had the urge.

  In Alabama, that’s a felony. Property crimes are strictly enforced. The law of FAFO. Fool around, find out.

  “Mr. Wagner, you’ve been charged with seven counts of the Class C felony of unlawful breaking and entering a vehicle. Are you withdrawing your plea of not guilty and entering a plea of guilty to these charges?”

  “Yes, Judge.” He sounded sulky, resentful. Bad attitude. I made a mental note.

  “And you are pleading guilty because you are guilty?”

  “Yeah.”

  The public defender nudged the defendant, whispered something. Likely advising him to speak respectfully in court.

  “Mr. Wagner, please describe for the record what happened on the thirty-first of August of last year.”

  His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, as if he was asking the Lord to give him strength. That man should have started praying some years back. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen him in my courtroom.

  “So me and a friend was hanging at his place. We didn’t have no money, wasn’t doing nothing. He thought we ought to go out, bip some cars. Maybe make some cash.”

  Make some cash. Like he was engaging in honest work. “You used an expression: bip. Tell us what that means. For the record.”

  “Bip. Bipping cars. You bust out the window. So you can open the door, get in there, and get what’s inside.”

  “How many cars did you ‘bip’ on the early morning of August 31?”

  “I don’t know. A lot.” The attorney whispered in his ear again. “Seven. We hit seven cars.”

  I folded my hands on the bench. Asked a follow-up question, to check all the boxes. “When you broke the car windows and entered into those seven vehicles on August 31, did you do so with the consent of the owners of those vehicles?”

  “Huh?”

  “The people who owned those cars. Did they consent to you breaking the windows, getting inside to steal? They give you permission to do it?”

  “Oh. Nah, no. We didn’t have nobody’s consent.”

  I looked at the DA. “Is there a plea bargain agreement in this case?”

  Reeves was present. His mood had improved in recent days; he wasn’t sending me any deadly looks. He stood up, holding a legal pad. “There is, Your Honor. In exchange for his plea of guilty to counts 1 to 4, the State has agreed to dismiss counts 5 to 7 and recommends a three-year sentence of imprisonment.”

  The door behind the bench opened. No way to ignore it—that was my chambers door. I glanced over. Luna was leaning out, peering at me. Which is not something I’d usually see. Luna doesn’t interrupt court proceedings. She knows better.

  I turned my attention back to Reeves. “What is the State’s position on probation?”

  “We stand silent, Your Honor. The State takes no position.”

  So. It would be up to me. Without any argument from the prosecution, one way or another. I’d ultimately decide whether the man would go to prison or go home. But there were preliminary procedures in this situation. I would need to order a pre-sentence investigation by the Office of Probation and Parole.

  I heard a whisper.

  “Judge Mary!”

  I swiveled in the chair. “Luna? What on earth?”

  She grimaced with embarrassment, gripping the edge of the wooden door. “You have a phone call!”

  I dropped my voice; no need to shout at my clerk in front of the whole courthouse. “Luna. I’m in the middle of a felony guilty plea. Take a message.”

  I swiveled back, facing the courtroom. The attorneys were exchanging a look. I saw the DA shrug, as if asking Who knows?

  That whisper again. “It’s the governor!”

  Wow. That was a first.

  I paused for a moment, trying to decide. What was proper procedure in a situation like this? I didn’t have personal experience contending with high state officials.

  Then I caught the defendant, Ray Wagner, rolling his head back, like he was bored.

  This was my courtroom. Where justice was served. And I was dealing with the specific crime and punishment of a man standing before me.

  “Luna, tell the governor I’m on the bench,” I said. I sat up straight. Adjusted the gavel so that the handle was within easy reach, as it should be.

  I looked over my shoulder at my administrative clerk. She was pretty flipped out. She’d recover. The governor would recover, too.

  “He can leave a number. I’ll call him back.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  After I wrapped up the guilty plea and left the bench, I was breathing hard. Like I’d just run up two flights of stairs. Or had stepped on a copperhead in the barn.

  I charged into chambers, with Luna at my heels. She said, “Oh, Judge—thank the Lord, you got here in time. The governor’s office is calling back in just a few minutes.”

  “Already?” I’d never spoken to the man before, now he was calling me every ten minutes. I closed the door and checked my face in the office mirror, to make sure I didn’t look a sight. “Is it a Zoom call?”

  “No, a conference call. On the landline. With you and the governor and the Alabama attorney general.”

  The state attorney general? Shit. It was getting worse and worse.

  I unzipped the robe. No need to stay in uniform for an old-fashioned conference call, where no one could see me. “What’s the number, the ID info?”

  “His secretary is setting it up. Very old-school. We don’t dial. They call us.”

  “Wow.” It had been a while since I’d had a meeting that way. “Okay, then. I’ll wait.”

  Luna left my office and was back at her desk before I had the presence of mind to ask. I called out, “Luna, what’s the governor calling about?”

  She didn’t shout out the answer. She stepped back to my doorway and whispered, “State v. Bria Gaines.”

  I tipped back in the big chair and closed my eyes. I wanted to take a moment to center myself, but I didn’t have that luxury. My desk phone rang. I hit the speaker and Luna’s voice came through. “Governor’s office on line two.”

  I pushed the line and said, “This is Circuit Judge Mary Stone.”

  A female voice responded. “I’ll connect you.”

  A moment later, I heard two men laughing. About what, I had no clue. I coughed, to give them a heads-up, before I said, “Judge Stone here.”

  “Judge! This is Governor Bert Lamar, up in Montgomery. We’ve got General Dick Winston on the call—he’s on the road, driving to Nashville for a meeting. You still with us, General?”

  The dude wasn’t a general. Never even served in the military. That was a phony courtesy title that some people used to buddy up to the state AG. I wasn’t one of them. Dick Winston and I had some history. Of the bad variety.

  “I’m here. How you doing, Mary?” Winston asked.

  “Fine.”

  I didn’t elaborate. There was an uncomfortable silence. The governor broke it off pretty swiftly.

  “Judge Stone—may I call you Mary? I feel like I already know you. Because I’ve heard so many excellent things about you.”

  Really? Privately, I was skeptical. But I behaved myself, answered politely. “Thank you, Governor, that’s very gratifying. Sure, you can call me Mary.”

  “And you call me Bert.”

  I said, “Right.” But it was BS. I wasn’t calling the man nothing.

  “I’m serious, now. I know what’s going on in your circuit, the talk gets back to me. What a fine job you’re doing on the bench. Folks say you’re fair. Your courtroom is orderly, because you’re no-nonsense! Making efficient use of the limited facilities y’all got in your circuit. Everyone gives you high marks, Mary. Five gold stars!”

  It was flattering. I’d have liked to believe that he was sincere. But I’d been an outsider in Alabama’s power circles too long to be fooled.

  My suspicions were confirmed when the AG chimed in. “Mary, I was telling the governor you do a hell of a job with what you’ve got. Hell of a job! But there’s limitations, you know what I mean.”

  The governor’s voice boomed through the speaker. “That’s it, limitations. Some matters outside of your control. Up here at the capital, we’ve had serious discussions regarding those problems. That’s why we think it would be best for you to recuse yourself from that abortion case—State v. Gaines. Seems like the trial should be moved to Montgomery or Birmingham.”

  I kept my voice steady. “Explain to me exactly why y’all believe I’m not qualified to preside over State v. Gaines.”

  “Not qualified?” “Nooo! It’s not that!” “Nobody’s saying that!”

  They were both speaking at once, garbling their fervent denials. The governor backed off and let the AG take over. Dick Winston had been a trial lawyer, back in the day. He talked fast, trying to make his case.

  “It’s got nothing to do with your qualifications or your legal background, Mary. Your record is stellar, stellar! It’s just that doggone county you’re stuck in. You know what I’m talking about. Your courthouse hasn’t been updated, your security can’t provide the protection you need. And the town lacks the necessary amenities for an event like this is shaping up to be.”

  Governor Lamar jumped back in. “You’ve got no hotel! Where will the media stay? How can you sequester a jury? Union Springs hasn’t got a decent goddamned hotel anywhere in the city limits!”

  They were giving me a headache. I rubbed my temples. “We’ve got a motel to house a jury. It’s not part of a major chain, but—”

  The governor cut me off. “Where will folks eat? All you’ve got to offer is one little ole McDonald’s. They gonna run out of Big Macs the first day!”

  The AG piled on. “It will create a hardship for the community, Mary. They’ll be overwhelmed. And it will be a burden on your judicial circuit. You know this case is going to be a hot potato. It will eat up all your time.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but the governor was faster. “Isn’t there a school located near the courthouse? An elementary school? That’s problematic.”

  I glanced out the window: There it sat, Union Springs Elementary School. The kids were out for recess. If I cracked the window open, I’d hear them on the playground.

  The governor’s voice became warm, persuasive. Buttery, almost. “Let us take this burden off your back. You recuse, and we’ll bring it up here.”

  “To Montgomery,” the AG said. Made sense he’d want it at the Alabama State Capitol building, where he had his office. He could keep the case tucked in his vest pocket.

  The governor went on. “You can see the advantages, Mary. The merits of making the switch. In Montgomery, we have circuit judges with more years on the bench. More experience with major cases.”

  I’d still been watching the little kids on the school playground. That comment pulled my eyes away from the window. “I appreciate your concern, gentlemen. Thanks for the offer. I’m turning it down.”

  A moment of shocked silence before the governor said, “Don’t you want to take some time to think about it, Mary?”

  “Don’t need to. My mind’s made up. It’s set.” I let them hear it in my tone. Firm, decided. I’ll show you who’s no-nonsense, I thought.

  I heard a disgruntled sigh blow through the speaker. The governor said, “Well, then. If that’s your final word. I guess we can end this call, right?”

  “Right,” I echoed. “Y’all have a good day.”

  I would’ve cut off the call. But my cell phone was sitting on my desk, right in front of me. I was distracted when the cell phone screen lit up with a text, looked like it was from my friend Loucilla. So I reached for the cell phone instead of punching the button to end the call on the landline.

  I heard the governor say, “You still there, Dick?”

  “Yep.”

  One second passed, maybe two. “Goddamn! That fucking bitch!”

  Psychic abilities weren’t necessary to realize the governor was talking about me.

  Dick Winston replied, “I tried to warn you, Bert. I’ve put up with shit from that uppity bitch for years.”

  I decided it was time to speak up. “Umm, guys? I’m still here.”

  Neither of the men spoke. No apology, reply, regrets. I heard two metallic clicks as they individually terminated the call.

  There was a tentative knock on the door. I composed my face, sat up straight in the chair. “Yes?”

  Luna peeked in. “I saw the light go out, from your call with the governor. Everything okay?”

  “Sure.”

  She grimaced. “They were pretty loud, Judge. I couldn’t help hearing it. You all right? You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  She looked doubtful. I was going to have to convince her. “Seriously, Luna, I’m fine. It’s good to know where you stand with people. They asked me to do something. I turned them down. So they called me names. That’s nothing new. Same old shit.”

  “But it’s terrible!”

  I waved a hand in dismissal. “It’s over, and I’m glad. What else can they do to me?”

  CHAPTER

  27

  After that telephone scuffle with the governor, I was on high alert, poised for trouble to start. But May passed without any kind of major incident. School let out, and it appeared that we might have an ordinary summer in Bullock County.

  Traditionally, the courthouse is quiet in June and July. The temperature heats up and people slow down. Folks don’t have the energy to duke it out in court. Their kids are running the streets of town all day, and those summer days are long. The sun doesn’t set until eight o’clock and twilight keeps the sky lit past nine.

  It was a Friday afternoon in the middle of June, and the end of the workweek had me in good spirits—except that I was missing the Oyster House.

  Since the Bria Gaines case had put me on people’s radar, Loucilla and I had to switch up our long-standing meeting day. Changed locations, too, moving around and trying out new restaurants. A change of habit is healthy, Loucilla claimed, but the novelty didn’t hold much charm for me, and I wondered whether we might hazard a return visit without attracting unwanted attention.

  As I turned off the farm road and into my gravel drive, Foghorn trotted out of the barn to greet me. Before I reached the farmhouse, I had to hit the brakes and let the car idle while he picked his way across the path. Damned rooster thought he owned the place. You know what people say about cats. Same thing was true with Foghorn: He was just letting me live in the house rent-free.

  While I waited for the rooster to pass, I gazed over at the farmhouse. The pots of red geraniums I’d planted lent a bright pop of color to the front porch. The place looked good, tidy and neat, with a recent coat of paint and a fairly new roof. I take pride in the little house that has stood on this spot for a century. I tell anyone who’ll listen that the place is structurally sound, thanks to craftsmanship and materials—minus the ancient wiring and plumbing—that are just plain superior to what builders use now. They don’t make them like that anymore.