“So when you realized that you’d missed your period, what did you do?”

  Nova wanted to bury her head in her arms. She wanted the questions to stop. She could feel her mama’s eyes on her. “I waited. To see if I’d start bleeding. Prayed.”

  “And you didn’t tell anybody?”

  Nova shook her head. “We got a nurse at school. She started asking me stuff. Because I’d get sick in class in the mornings. Go lie down in her office after I threw up.”

  “Was that Cocheta Bass?”

  Nova nodded. “She got me a test. The kind where you go into the bathroom and pee on it. It turned blue.”

  “And Ms. Bass, the nurse—she was the one who took you to see Dr. Gaines?”

  “Yeah.”

  “At her office.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many times?”

  “Just the one time. I was supposed to go back for a checkup, but I got sick and Mama called the ambulance. They took me to the hospital. That’s when everybody found out.”

  “Okay,” said the lawyer, “let me make sure I’ve got this. Before you went to the hospital, Nurse Bass knew you were pregnant. And Dr. Gaines knew. But nobody else?”

  Nova’s head jerked up. “Nobody. I never told nobody about it.”

  Nova’s stomach hurt so much she was just about doubled over in the chair. She couldn’t be honest with the lawyer. Or her mama. She couldn’t say what really happened.

  Because all hell would break loose if she did that.

  CHAPTER

  41

  Mary Stone

  BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  I was meeting with Arch Pearce. The collections attorney who tried to steal my family’s land.

  Circumstances were different this time around. We were still meeting in an office, across a desk.

  But on this occasion, it was my office. My desk.

  Pearce held up a manila folder. Which he’d described as the Wilton v. Mary Stone file. “So! I showed my client the documentation you provided. And the written statements from you and your sisters, and the neighbors. He found them to be pretty convincing.”

  I can keep a straight face. “Well, that’s gratifying. I guess.”

  “Right! Caleb—Mr. Wilton—he’s willing to unilaterally amend this offer. The one I made in the original letter, sent by registered mail. You first saw a copy of it at my office.”

  I raised my brows. “I’m familiar with it. You’re talking about that part of the letter where you demanded one hundred ninety thousand dollars?”

  He gave a sheepish chuckle. “Yeah. That feels out of range, in light of what you’ve shared. I’m authorized to settle for a payment of twenty thousand.”

  I didn’t just laugh. I howled. The man was hilarious. “Arch, I’m not paying your client a damn dime. You know that.”

  “But it would resolve the issue, Judge. Wilton couldn’t come back later to make another claim.”

  “Let him come. I’m ready to take him on. Arch, I think your client Wilton is a liar, who never had dealings with this mysterious Abraham Stone. Or alternatively, Abraham Stone is a phony who conned your client.”

  I leaned forward. Placed my elbows on my desk. Toyed with a letter opener shaped like a dagger. “Either way, it’s not on me. In law school, I had this commercial law professor. He beat something into our heads. He’d say: ‘He who deals with the bad actor is lost.’”

  “Yeah, I had him, too.”

  “Then you know.”

  I wasn’t blowing smoke. Wasn’t just talk, trying to get a more attractive offer. Arch Pearce couldn’t make an offer I’d accept. He and his client would never make me surrender, no matter what terms he laid out.

  That being the case, I was ready for Pearce to dislodge himself from that chair and get out of my office. Wished I were wearing a wristwatch, so I could pull back my sleeve and stare at it. Toss that “gotta go” trick right back in his hungry face.

  But I didn’t need it. Luna saved me. The office line buzzed. When I picked up, Luna said, “Your sister’s here, Judge.”

  Uh-oh. My sister? At the courthouse. “Which one?”

  “Miss Jordan.”

  Took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting her, though the timing was ideal.

  “Arch, we’ll have to cut this off. Something’s come up.”

  He took the hint. Picked up his file folder and left, passing my sister in the reception area.

  Jordan sidled into my office, looking peaked. It worried me. I rose from my chair, half inclined to press my palm to her forehead, like I did when she was little. Check for fever.

  She said, “Nellie told me to come. She can’t leave school, or she’d be here herself.”

  “Sit on down,” I said.

  Jordan shut the door before she sat. Perched on the edge of her chair. Acting for all the world like there was trouble, that she was gonna break some terrible news.

  I tensed up. “What’s the matter with Nellie?”

  “It’s not Nellie, it’s about the nurse. School nurse.”

  Gave my head a shake. Ashamed to admit, but I was wondering what awful thing they were going to say the woman had done.

  “Yeah, so? What about her?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Jordan’s voice was flat when she said it. Like she didn’t believe it.

  I could hardly believe it myself. “Dead? Cocheta Bass? The woman’s just in her forties! Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Nellie heard all about it. Cocheta didn’t come to school this morning. And they couldn’t get her on the phone. She’s been living alone in that little house outside of town, since her divorce last year.”

  “Right.” I was aware of the divorce. Not amicable. It was a bloodbath. I should know, it was filed in my court. I signed the judgment, divided the property. “I know the place. I drive right by there.”

  “They sent the assistant principal—Lyssa Simpson—to check on her. Because they were worried about Cocheta.”

  Another pause, while Jordan blinked back tears. I was getting agitated, running low on patience. “What, Jordan? Tell me what happened!”

  Jordan grimaced. “Mary, Lyssa found her hanging. Cocheta was hanging from a tree behind her house.”

  I recoiled. “Sweet Jesus.”

  The news knocked me flat. Rendered me silent, too. Because the mental image of Cocheta Bass’s demise was so triggering that words failed me.

  CHAPTER

  42

  I knew for a fact that showing up at an active crime scene was the last thing I should be doing. Especially when the victim was a listed witness in a case before me.

  But to hell with all that.

  When I pulled up to Cocheta’s house on the outskirts of town, two police cars were blocking the driveway. I parked at the edge of the yard and got out of my car. As I headed across the front lawn, a cop held up his hand to stop me. “Sorry, Judge. Sheriff says not to let anybody back there.”

  The cop was Buddy Hopkins. Rookie on the force. I went to school with his parents. Attended his baptism. I held up my hand. “Don’t worry, Buddy. I’ll tell him you tried to hold me back.”

  I walked up the gravel driveway past the garage. Behind the house was a thick stand of Alabama pines and red maples. Yellow scene tape was strung around four of the tree trunks, marking off a space about fifteen feet square. I saw Mick Owens, the local sheriff, talking with two deputies in the middle of the square. A police photographer was aiming his camera into the trees.

  That’s when I looked up and saw her.

  My God!

  Cocheta was still hanging there.

  Mick saw me coming and hustled over to intercept me. “Mary! Damn it! You can’t be back here! The ME hasn’t even shown up yet.”

  Mick and I had history. One look at my face and he knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

  I ducked under the tape and walked straight over to the tree. It was one of the maples. Cocheta was hanging from a branch about ten feet up. Her feet were dangling in front of my face. She had one shoe on. The other was lying in leaves below her. Her neck was cocked to one side with a thick rope around it. The other end was tied around the trunk. Her face was twisted and ashy.

  Her eyes were open and bulging. Her hands were tied behind her back.

  This was no suicide. Somebody lynched her.

  Somebody wanted to leave a message.

  I turned into the brambles and threw up.

  As I was bent over, I felt a hand on my back. It was Mick. “Mary, go back to town. Let me finish up here. I promise I’ll give you the full report.”

  I stood up and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. “How long has she been up there?”

  Mick looked up at Cocheta’s corpse. “Probably since last night or real early this morning. People saw her at the Quick Serve between ten and eleven. We’ll get a better time frame from the ME.”

  I shook my head. “I know this abortion case has people fired up. But who would do this?”

  “Mary, we don’t know this has anything to do with the case.”

  Mick was right. I was jumping to conclusions. Bad habit for a judge. “What about the ex?” I asked. “It was an ugly divorce.”

  “Macon PD informed him. And it looks like his whereabouts last night are accounted for.”

  “Hey, Sheriff! Take a look over here.” It was the photographer. He had moved around the other side of the tree. The underbrush was thicker there.

  Mick headed over. I followed right behind him.

  The photographer pointed to the trunk of the tree.

  At about eye level, I saw a marking in red spray paint.

  It was a big K. The color of blood.

  “Looks fresh,” said Mick.

  I looked down. Sure enough. Some excess spray had misted the leaves below.

  I stared at the letter. Turned it over in my mind. What did it mean?

  K for Killer? Maybe somebody blamed Cocheta for her part in the abortion.

  K as in short for the Greek word kilo, meaning thousand? Did Cocheta owe somebody money?

  Or maybe K for Klan? The group that’s been stringing up people of color down here for more than a hundred and fifty years.

  CHAPTER

  43

  Back in court. A week had passed, and Sheriff Owens was still investigating the death of Cocheta Bass. He’d called a press conference, a rare event in Bullock County—though it was becoming more common. The sheriff said they still had no suspects, but that he wanted to reassure the community: There was no cause for alarm.

  People were not comforted by his rhetoric. Plenty of folks in the county were alarmed. I was included in that number. Because I was well acquainted with the sheriff, had the opportunity to observe his investigative skills over the years.

  Mick Owens wasn’t stupid. He did just fine handling a case that was open-and-shut. Where the suspect was caught red-handed or confessed during interrogation. But in a challenging case?

  That man couldn’t find his ass with both hands.

  I sat at the bench the following Tuesday, looking down at the counsel tables. The DA, Robert Reeves, sat in his customary spot. On that occasion, he had AAG Eleanor Lindquist seated beside him.

  At the defense table, Benjamin Meyers sat with Dr. Bria Gaines. She appeared to be composed, listening and nodding as Meyers spoke softly to her. She was changing, though. I could see it. Like she was aging before my eyes. Her face had the haggard look that comes from stress and uncertainty and sleepless nights. Didn’t surprise me that she was suffering. If the doctor wasn’t scared, I’d be concerned. Might have to question her intelligence.

  But Dr. Gaines was smart. She knew what the stakes were.

  I cleared my throat to get their attention. After all parties raised their eyes to the bench, I said, “I see that counsel for defendant has filed a motion in the case of State of Alabama v. Bria Gaines, Case No. CR194317. Defendant is here in person and with counsel, Benjamin Meyers. The State is represented by District Attorney Robert Reeves and Assistant Attorney General Eleanor Lindquist.”

  They were quiet. Waiting.

  I said, “Mr. Meyers, you have filed a motion in limine to exclude witnesses. For the record, please identify the witnesses you allege should not be permitted to testify at trial in the instant case.”

  He stood. “Starla Jones and Nova Jones, Your Honor. For the reasons set forth in the motion.”

  I was entirely familiar with the substance of his motion. A motion in limine is a request made prior to trial to exclude certain evidence or testimony. He wanted to keep Nova and her mother off the stand. A helluva ask, you understand. I needed to hear his justification, to have it on the record. “And what are the grounds?”

  “Your Honor, I’ve uncovered information confirming that the prosecution witnesses are being compensated in exchange for their testimony.”

  “Objection!” It was a female voice, ringing out in righteous indignation. The AAG, Lindquist, was on her feet, rather than Reeves. Which was interesting. Made me wonder who was in charge.

  She spoke with the air of a person whose good name had been besmirched. “The defense is making grave allegations of misconduct, Judge. Allegations which are baseless. We’re putting the defense on notice that the State will not permit opposing counsel to abuse our witnesses. The claims in the motion are highly inflammatory. The State believes that these false statements constitute defamation.”

  I focused on the defense table. Meyers appeared unaffected by Lindquist’s accusations. His client, though, was troubled. Bria’s mouth trembled, and she covered it with her hand.

  The doctor was torn. And she was not alone. I had conflicting sympathies in this case, too.

  I kept my manner brisk, all business. “Mr. Meyers, what evidence do you have to support the claim that the witnesses are being compensated for testimony?”

  He opened a file folder. Pulled out two stapled documents. “Your Honor, to substantiate our claims, I submit witness statements from two individuals who have been endorsed as witnesses by the State. The first is the statement of Nova Jones, whose name appears in the charge against my client. And the second statement was taken from her mother, Starla Jones.”

  Lindquist took a step toward the bench. “Those statements are not sworn, Judge. Not taken under oath. And Mr. Meyers didn’t ask our permission to speak with the clients. He didn’t even let us know he’d contacted them. We should have had the opportunity to be present.”

  She was speaking out of turn. I ignored her. “Mr. Meyers, what did the witnesses tell you regarding compensation?”

  “They said they were receiving donations. Food deliveries on a regular basis. Clothing donations. Even cash. To cover rent and sundry expenses.”

  That was a serious allegation. The DA’s office couldn’t provide its witnesses with cash support. If the claim was true, the prosecution had to answer for it.

  I turned directly to the DA. “Mr. Reeves?”

  Before the DA could reply, Benjamin Meyers stepped right up to the bench. “Judge, one more thing. The DA failed to disclose this. Neither Reeves nor Lindquist revealed this crucial information to the defense. That’s a Brady violation, Judge!”

  Damn.

  It was getting deeper and deeper. The Brady rule requires the prosecution to disclose evidence favorable to the defendant’s case. If the State suppresses exculpatory information, it’s a violation of due process. Could be a basis for throwing out the whole damn case.

  Reeves was on his feet. “We didn’t know!”

  Eleanor Lindquist echoed the words as she joined Benjamin Meyers in front of the bench. “We didn’t know, Judge! Neither the DA’s office nor mine had any idea that this was going on. After we received the defendant’s motion, we looked into it. And apparently the Victory Baptist Church has been providing some assistance to Starla and her children. As part of the mission of the church. We had no part in it, Judge.”

  Reeves stepped up. “Judge, we asked Reverend Erskine to be present today, in case we need his testimony. He’ll back us up, I assure you.”

  Lindquist said, “He’s waiting just outside the courtroom, Judge.”

  Well, shit. Erskine. I was in no mood for that. Lindquist marched down the aisle to the courtroom entrance. Prepared to prove it, I expect.

  The DA said, “And Starla and Nova Jones are waiting in my office. We can put them on the stand. They’ll testify under oath that we have not provided any compensation whatsoever.”

  The AAG opened the courtroom door, and Erskine entered. Wearing his full pastoral regalia: the black suit, white clerical collar.

  “He’s prepared to testify, Judge,” Lindquist said.

  I looked to Benjamin Meyers. “Well? It’s your motion.”

  Meyers walked back to the counsel table. Bent down to confer with Dr. Gaines.

  That’s when Pastor began to volunteer information. “Judge Stone, I apologize if my parishioners have caused any trouble in this court case. I assure you, that was not our intent. We were just trying to do the Lord’s work. Looking out for the fatherless children.”

  I took a breath. Because I intended to cut the man off, shut him up.

  He was too quick for me.

  “Your Honor! We’re humble Christians at Victory Baptist, we don’t know all the twists and turns of the laws of the government. My parishioners just had one aim. They were trying to provide charity to a single mother. ‘For now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three. But the greatest of these is charity.’ That’s the King James Version.”

  Jesus. I frowned down at Benjamin Meyers. Was he gonna make me do his job?

  Apparently not. Meyers shot a look at Erskine, said, “Your Honor, defense objects and asks that this man’s statements be removed from the record. This witness hasn’t been sworn.”

  The sound of Erskine’s laughter bounded off the courtroom walls. “This man doesn’t know me, Judge. I don’t need to take an oath in order to speak the truth.”