But miraculously—it hadn’t resulted in Cocheta getting fired. Because she was hard to replace. The county was short on licensed nursing professionals. A person with her background was in demand.

  So, after her divorce from her no-good, deadbeat husband, she’d taken on a second job. Cocheta worked the swing shift at the Happy Haven Nursing Home, right outside the city limits of Union Springs. Cocheta didn’t relish the sixteen-hour days. She took on the extra work because her son, Holden, had started college the year before. Holden was the first in her family line to attend college. Not a matter of importance to her ex, though. Despite all the promises that Karl Bass had made to step up and help fund their son’s education, that man never had any money to spare when tuition was due, or the housing bill came up.

  She sat at the computer in the nurses’ station, recording her notes on the status of the residents on her floor. A coworker, one of the aides, walked up and leaned over the counter, watching her. Out of the blue, the young woman said to Cocheta, “You know what I think is crazy? That she wasn’t on the pill. I mean, why wasn’t she using birth control? That would’ve fixed everything.”

  Cocheta didn’t answer. The explanation was so obvious, she wanted to scream. Because she was thirteen!

  It was dark outside. Stars were starting to blink; she could make them out through the skylight overhead. Cocheta looked up, checked the time on the wall clock. Almost ten o’clock. She wouldn’t be compensated for overtime. Cocheta typed faster.

  The nurse’s aide kept firing questions. “So how’d it go down? Did the girl come to you at school, tell you she was pregnant? Or did that Bria Gaines get you involved?”

  The mention of Dr. Gaines made an ice pick go to work on Cocheta’s brain. She winced as a band of pain tightened around her head. The product of a guilty conscience. Bria Gaines didn’t get Cocheta involved. It was the other way around.

  But they’d threatened her. Said she’d go to jail. Who would take care of Holden? How would he remain in school if Cocheta was locked up?

  “I can’t talk about it” was all she said.

  Finally, she wrapped up her reports. Unlocked a drawer and pulled out her purse.

  “I’m heading out now,” she told the aide. “When Shakira gets back, tell her to keep an eye on Iona Johnson in 21E. Her C. diff is acting up.”

  “Again?”

  Cocheta walked to the side exit. Her departure was delayed when she encountered a roaming resident who was this close to placement in the memory care unit. After she walked the man back to his room, Cocheta made it to the parking lot.

  She had a sinking feeling when she started up her Toyota SUV and saw that it was low on gas. That meant she’d need to go out of her way, to drive to the twenty-four-hour convenience store on the highway. Just a matter of minutes, but she wasn’t happy about the delay. Cocheta felt like she was out of gas, too. Her energy supply was drained, she just wanted to get home.

  She’d driven about half a mile from the nursing home when the glare of headlights shining in her rearview mirror started to bug her. She took a glance over her shoulder. Looked like a truck was following her, with its brights on. The headlights blinded her, so she couldn’t tell much about the truck, couldn’t guess the make or even the color.

  Wasn’t her husband, though. His truck was a clunker that ran on diesel; you could hear it a mile away.

  She was relieved when the brightly lit QUICK SERVE sign came into view. She turned into the lot, releasing a huge breath as the truck picked up speed and drove on by.

  She only pumped twenty dollars’ worth of regular, because payday was a week away. Then she went inside the store, to kill a little time. Wandered the snack aisle, walked by the coolers of water, soda, and beer.

  The cashier kept an eye on her. He called out, “Can I help you find something?”

  Cocheta almost confided in him. Told him that a truck was following, making her paranoid. But the guy didn’t look particularly sympathetic. These days, people around town were giving Cocheta short shrift, the cold shoulder.

  So she just shook her head. “No thanks,” she said as she headed out of the store.

  Inside her car, she hit the lock button before she buckled her seat belt. Thought about calling somebody, asking for reassurance. But who could she call? It was well past ten o’clock. Nobody wanted to be bothered past ten at night.

  As she pulled out of the lot and onto the highway, she wondered what her ex-husband was up to. Would Karl put someone up to this? Had she made him mad again? It didn’t take much.

  Had she ticked off someone else?

  She’d driven a quarter mile when she saw it. A truck pulled off the side of the road, idling.

  After she passed, its brights came on and it pulled onto the road behind her.

  Cocheta hit the gas, picked up speed.

  The truck stayed right on her tail.

  CHAPTER

  39

  Benjamin Meyers

  MAGNOLIA APARTMENTS UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  Benjamin Meyers knew the ropes.

  Over the past decade, he’d taken countless witness statements. Scores of depositions. He knew how to talk to people. All kinds of people. Old, young. Friendly, neutral, hostile. He had a skill for turning hostile witnesses around. One of his superpowers, some said.

  He stood at the door of a fourplex—an old house chopped into four apartment units. Ancient layers of lead paint cracked like crocodile hide, sloughing off the door’s brass number. A makeshift label—masking tape and black marker—read APT. #3.

  Nobody answered when he knocked, but he could hear people inside, a babel of high-pitched voices, children shouting, arguing, making demands. He knocked again, louder.

  This time, he heard a woman’s voice, her tone shrill: “Nova! You deaf? Get the door!”

  Meyers waited. He heard footsteps, and a second later, the thunk when the dead bolt disengaged.

  The door opened. A tall, Black teenage girl stood there in jeans and a T-shirt.

  It was Meyers’s first face-to-face meeting with the State’s complaining witness. As the door creaked open, he wondered how he would be received.

  One look gave Meyers his answer. Hostile. The girl clearly didn’t want him there.

  Meyers gave her his trademark grin. “Hey, it’s Nova, right? I’m Benjamin Meyers. Pretty sure y’all are expecting me today.”

  The girl cracked the door just wide enough for Meyers to squeeze through. He stepped into the tiny living room—a hive of crawling, rassling, squalling young creatures. He counted four, plus Nova.

  Meyers raised his voice above the din. “Is your mother around?”

  At that moment, Nova’s mom emerged from a bedroom, striking a pose in the doorway. Meyers did a quick assessment. Mom had taken pains with her appearance. Elaborate hairdo. Full makeup. Starla Jones was a remarkably attractive woman, and in admirable shape, especially considering she had birthed all the kids in the room.

  With every witness, Meyers strove to be scrupulously polite, appropriate. “Good afternoon, Ms. Jones. I’m Benjamin Meyers. Counsel for Dr. Gaines.”

  Nova’s mom was showing cleavage, and her jeans were tight. And she was barefoot, with toenails painted bright red.

  She walked over and stuck out her hand. “Call me Starla.”

  Maintain eye contact, thought Meyers. Don’t look down.

  Don’t. Look. It was a challenge. Starla Jones was built like a brick shithouse.

  “Ma’am, I appreciate you letting me come by your home to visit with y’all today. Hope it’s not an inconvenience.”

  “You coming here? No inconvenience at all. You understand why I couldn’t come to your office with Nova. No way I could leave these other ones at home. They’d burn the house down.”

  “Mama, look!” Meyers turned toward the kitchen. One of the kids had clambered up onto the kitchen counter and was crawling across the stovetop. Proudly.

  Starla smacked her hands together. “Tre! You get off that stove right this minute. You could burn your damn hide off! Nova, get that child down from there!”

  “I’m hungry!” the boy wailed. “I want chips!”

  “We don’t got any chips. Nova, get him a cracker.”

  “I don’t want a cracker!” the boy shouted.

  “You can have nothing at all, then. Nova, put him to bed and lock that door.”

  To Meyers, Nova looked doubtful, like she didn’t think lockdown was the answer. After she put the boy on her hip, Meyers saw her grab a Little Debbie pie from a shelf. She slipped the snack to the boy as she carried him down the hall.

  The other kids were still romping in a corner of the room. But their mother’s presence seemed to lower their volume a smidgen.

  “Come sit,” said Starla.

  She led the way to a pair of sticky chairs at a round wooden table.

  Meyers sat down and pulled out his iPhone. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  “No problem at all,” said Starla. She seemed welcoming and cooperative—unlike her daughter. Meyers got the distinct sense that Starla liked attention.

  “Can I get your full name please?”

  “Starla Simone Jones.”

  “Age?”

  “You probably won’t believe me. Twenty-eight.”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe you?”

  “Because I got all these kids, that’s why. And a teenage daughter. A teenager! Of course, I was a teenager when I had her.”

  “How many altogether?” Meyers asked. He’d done a head count, but he wanted to be sure he wasn’t missing anyone.

  “Three girls, two boys. Nova’s the oldest, she’s thirteen. My baby Caden, he not two yet. I just love children. Always have.”

  “Starla, the district attorney has endorsed you as a witness for the State in the case against Dr. Bria Gaines.”

  “That’s right, yes, sir.”

  “And you understand that Dr. Gaines has been charged with a felony.”

  “Oh, hell yeah, I do understand that. She aborted Nova’s baby. Sucked it out, killed it, threw it out like trash. And didn’t nobody ask me nothing about it. The mother! I’m Nova’s mother! Nobody told me shit.”

  “Are you personally acquainted with Dr. Gaines?”

  “Oh, I’ve seen her. Met her.” Starla crossed her legs, leaned forward. Meyers kept his eyes on hers. Her eyes were pretty. Big and brown. Like Nova’s.

  Starla wrinkled her nose. “Dr. Gaines, she’d go to church once in a while. Over to the Victory Baptist. That’s Pastor Erskine’s church, where we belong. But she never helped out, didn’t bring anything for bake sales, nothing like that. Some folks used to say that she thought she was too good for that kind of work. Because of her being a doctor.”

  “So you’re a regular at Victory Baptist? You and your family?”

  “Since Caden was born, yeah. They took care of me. Made a food train, brought a meal every night for weeks. I don’t know what I’d have done if it hadn’t been for Reverend Erskine. He got everyone to pitch in. That man has the true spirit.”

  Meyers made a mental note. Baptist church assistance.

  “Starla, do you think your daughter Nova was physically prepared to bring a pregnancy to term?”

  “Sure she was.” She narrowed her eyes, like she thought it was a trick question. “I was just fifteen when I had Nova. Didn’t hurt me none.”

  “But with your last child, you said you couldn’t have handled it without church assistance, am I right?”

  Starla was impatient, her answer clipped. “Look. I didn’t say she was going to raise it. Nova’s just a kid. No way she could’ve kept it. But she could’ve had it. Delivered the baby. Nova would’ve been fine with that.”

  Meyers glanced over Starla’s shoulder. Nova was standing at the front of the hallway, one foot in the living room. He lowered his voice.

  “Some experts might say that carrying a pregnancy to term at Nova’s age would have negatively impacted her health.”

  “Bullshit.” Starla tugged up on the neckline of her shirt. “I know what you’re trying to do. The cops explained it to me. The only way they’ll let Dr. Gaines off is if Nova’s life was at stake. But Nova was never in danger. You saw her! She’s a real sturdy girl.”

  Meyers looked over to see if Nova was still there. She was. She was listening.

  “Nova’s strong as an ox. And plenty big enough. She’s been wearing my clothes since sixth grade. She’s popping out the seams now. And her feet are too big for my shoes.”

  Meyers glanced up again. Nova was standing with her head down, like she was trying to pretend she wasn’t even there.

  CHAPTER

  40

  Nova Jones

  MAGNOLIA APARTMENTS UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  Nova stared at the rug. She was embarrassed. For herself. And for her mama.

  She’d seen her leaning into the lawyer, trying to flirt with him. She hated when her mama acted that way. Being a Pick Me girl. Showing off her chest.

  If Nova tried any of that, Mama would open up a can of whoop-ass on her.

  Her mama turned around and pointed toward the kids in the corner. “Nova! Settle these rascals down. Get ’em something to eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Nova walked into the kitchen and opened a full loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. There was grape jelly in the fridge; she got that, too. Ever since the DA brought the case about the abortion, they had all the food they needed. Church pantry showed up every week with plenty of groceries for all six of them. Treats, too. Like the Little Debbies and Hostess cupcakes.

  Nova made three sandwiches, cut them into neat triangles and put them on a plate. She walked into the living room and waved the plate like a lure. “Ya’ll want PB&Js?”

  Arbonne ran over. Reba followed, dragging baby Caden along with her. They all piled into the tiny kitchen and grabbed for the sandwiches. Nova walked down the hall to release Tre from captivity.

  “You behave,” she whispered, walking him out, “or she’ll make me lock you up again!” Tre nodded and ran into the kitchen to join his siblings.

  Nova stood by the refrigerator watching them all eat. She wasn’t hungry. Had a bad feeling in her stomach.

  Then she saw the lawyer standing in the doorway.

  “Nova? Can I ask you some questions?”

  She looked past him to her mama, still sitting at the living room table. Her mama gave her a quick, impatient nod.

  “Where?” asked Nova. “Here?”

  “Come sit in the living room.”

  Nova followed him over to the table where her mama was sitting. She picked a chair across from the lawyer, as far away as possible. She felt awkward. She didn’t know how to deal. Didn’t have Mama’s game. Didn’t know how to play a grown man.

  The lawyer put his iPhone in the middle of the table. “I’m going to record our conversation, Nova. That way, down the line, nobody can claim that either of us said something different. Is that okay with you?”

  Nova thought about that. It made her nervous, being recorded. But the lawyer was right. It was better than somebody lying about it later.

  The first questions weren’t hard. Name, age, birthday, where she went to school. The lawyer was making notes on a pad. Then he put down his pen and looked straight at her.

  “Nova, did you get pregnant in the past year?”

  She closed her eyes tight. Couldn’t look at him. Nodded.

  “Nova, you have to say it out loud.”

  She breathed out, a heavy sigh. It was hard. She didn’t want to talk about it. Hurt to think about it. “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Nova. Please remember to speak up.”

  She opened her eyes. The lawyer didn’t look mad. Didn’t sound impatient. But he could be making her the fool. She didn’t trust him.

  “The police report says you got pregnant in December. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nova looked down. Couldn’t bear his eyes on her. Or her mama’s.

  “And you told the police it happened at a party. With older kids?”

  “Yeah.”

  She kept her gaze down on the table. Concentrated on a scorch mark, the black circle a hot pan had made. Wanted the lawyer to go away. Leave her house. Never come back.

  “Do you know who got you pregnant, Nova?”

  “It was dark.” Her answer was loud, like it jumped right out of her. She felt like she could hear her heartbeat. “They gave me weed. And wine. And it was too dark to see.”

  “Who gave you weed and wine?”

  “Older kids. I didn’t know them. Driving around in a car. They not from here.”

  “What about the one you had intercourse with? What do you remember about him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Can you describe him? Size, race, voice?”

  “I don’t remember.” Nova cut her eyes to the side, looking to her mama. Wanting her to help. Wanting her to forgive her. Wanting her to not hate her right now.

  “I told him no, told him to stop. I said he was hurting me.”

  “So you can recall that? That it was painful, and you told him to stop. What did he say?”

  Nova’s breath caught. She wanted to run. Bolt from the room. The memories flooded into her head. What got done to her. What was taken from her. She could remember the pain, the bleeding, and her screaming and begging, please stop.

  And she remembered something else. Crying for Mama. Over and over, she kept thinking while it was happening, I want Mama.

  “Nova? What did he say?” It was the lawyer. Wanting an answer.

  “I don’t know. Can’t remember.”

  “Do you recall when you suspected you were pregnant?”

  “In March.”

  “And how do you remember that?”

  “Dogwoods.”

  The lawyer’s head tilted. “Dogwoods?”

  Nova nodded. “The dogwoods were blooming. That’s when I figured it out. That I didn’t have a period.”

  The lawyer looked confused.

  He didn’t get it. How she always clocked the season by the flowers blooming. Forsythia, pansies, crabapple, redbud, dogwood. The pink and yellow and purple of spring flowering all around while she suffered through those terrible weeks. No one to talk to. Not a soul to rescue her.