No debating that. Nor the weight of the past.

  Every day I climbed the double curved staircase toward the courtroom where I presided at the oak bench. Hearing and deciding cases inside that historic structure where my people weren’t permitted to vote for damn near one hundred years after the courthouse was built in 1871. My great-grandpa and great-great-grandpa couldn’t vote because the Klan wouldn’t let them. One grandpa couldn’t afford to pay the poll tax they imposed; the other’s vote was blocked by a literacy test. None of the women in my family could cast a vote in my current workplace before the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

  At nine thirty this morning, I would be handing down a sentence.

  My administrative clerk, Luna Young, lingered in the open doorway, her mouth turned down in a worried frown. She was young, barely thirty, but I’d observed her air of maturity when I hired her. She’d also demonstrated a gift for handling people in tough situations. A judge’s clerk has to conduct communications with attorneys, law enforcement, and the public. I was lucky that Luna possessed more tact than I generally exhibited.

  When I walked past Luna’s desk, she said, “Judge Mary, you’ve got the sentencing set in State v. Gray today.”

  Luna didn’t need to provide a reminder of the murder charges against Ferrell Gray, the contentious jury trial over a case where the evidence of guilt was overwhelming.

  At trial, the defendant had been hard to control, disrupting the proceedings with violent outbursts on more than one occasion. I was tempted to remove him from the courtroom. Threatened to do it at least twice, informing him that he could watch the case unfold on a monitor inside the county jail.

  The jury had found him guilty and recommended punishment, but imposing sentence is the judge’s job. That was the dilemma that had kept me awake the night before. Trying to decide whether I should impose the penalty that the jury recommended.

  The death penalty.

  CHAPTER

  4

  I stepped into chambers, dropped my briefcase beside the desk. Through the door, I called to the clerk. “Get the sheriff on the line for me, Luna. I’m going to request some extra security at the sentencing hearing today.”

  Luna sped into chambers and was standing beside my desk before I had time to hang up my robe. “The sheriff’s already been here,” she said. “He told me to give you this letter. Warned me not to look at it. He said you should read it before you go into court.”

  Luna handed me a plastic bag protecting a plain paper envelope. My name was scrawled on the front, below a distinctive return address: Ferrell Gray, Bullock County Jail.

  Settling into my chair, I opened the envelope and saw a sea of blue ink scribbled across the front and back of two sheets of paper.

  I scanned the letter quickly. And then I set both pages on my desk pad and slowly reread it. Gave it a thorough review.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I muttered.

  Luna said, “Is it something terrible? I never saw the sheriff bring a letter to the courthouse before.”

  That was true. It was a harbinger of ill tidings. Mick Owens and I went way back. He was the sheriff of Bullock County and did not, as a rule, deliver the mail.

  Hastily, she added, “You can tell me to mind my own business. But I can’t believe someone about to be sentenced would have the nerve to write a personal letter to you.” Her head shook in disbelief. “That man’s crazy.”

  “Yeah, it’s to me, no question. The salutation reads: ‘To Judge Stone, you fucking whore.’”

  Luna slapped her hand over her mouth. When she remained in the doorway, I asked, “You want to hear more?”

  She shook her head no. Then changed her mind, I guess, because, with her mouth still covered, she nodded at me.

  I summarized the high points. She’d be making copies in a minute and could read the whole thing from start to finish.

  “He devotes an entire page to my personal appearance. Unflattering comments, you feel me? The description ‘ugly bitch’ is repeated in three places, and he spells it differently every time. Damn.” I clicked my tongue in disapproval.

  “He says I’m too dumb to be a judge—even though his spelling and grammar would shame a third grader. Attributes my incompetence to my race, which he describes with the old-time slur.” That word, he could spell.

  “It’s a scandal, Judge,” Luna said.

  I turned to the second sheet of paper. “Well, there’s more. He informs me that he has made a deal with the devil. Satan himself is now Ferrell Gray’s ally, apparently. And that forms the basis for his threat.”

  “He threatened you? Oh, no, he did not.”

  “He did. He says if I follow the jury’s recommendation and sentence him to death, the devil will see to it that I die a gruesome death. Which the defendant describes in some detail.”

  I winced as I read the second page a final time. Recalling the brutality of the deaths the defendant had inflicted on the elderly couple he’d murdered when the old folks interrupted his burglary of their home, I knew that Ferrell Gray didn’t require the devil’s assistance to commit unspeakable acts.

  I blew out a deep breath. Our system places tremendous power in the hands of the judiciary. The delicate balance can get thrown off when personal emotions come into play.

  Luna lingered in the door of my chambers. I picked up the envelope and letter. Extended the documents across my desk for her to take.

  “I need three copies, Luna. Be sure to get the front and back of both those pages. Envelope, too.”

  I was glad she pulled the door shut behind her. I had some thinking to do.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Every courtroom has its own vibe. I learned that as a trial lawyer in Alabama, but it’s true everywhere. That vibe produces an atmosphere inside the courtroom, like an electrical charge in the air. Everyone in the gallery can almost smell it.

  The judge is responsible, you understand. Whether the atmosphere in court is good or bad is determined by the person in charge. If the courtroom is relaxed and people are courteous to one another and to the public, the judge has set a standard for that behavior. On the other hand, if a court operates with a bailiff who’s a bully, and a docket that never starts on time, and a court reporter who’s surly to lawyers and snaps at witnesses? That’s the judge, too. Shit’s rolling downhill, staff is copycatting the judge’s attitude.

  In most US courtrooms, all interested parties are in place before the judge arrives. The judge’s appearance is announced with pomp and ceremony. The bailiff shouts “All rise!” and people jump to their feet. That’s how it’s done.

  But it’s not necessarily standard procedure in my courtroom. Not always. Sometimes, I like to be the first person to the party. Helps me get in the right headspace.

  So when folks started drifting into court, taking their seats in the spectators’ gallery, I was already seated. In the big rolling chair at the raised wooden bench, I was suitably attired in my black robe zipped up and topped with a bright yellow scarf—my substitute for a man’s necktie.

  Bullock County Courthouse has a huge courtroom, designed when it served a wide variety of purposes. Back in the day, there was a function in addition to upholding law and order by enforcing the criminal law and serving up justice in civil cases. Because the courtroom also provided entertainment to the masses. The public would turn out for jury trials to see the show. Jury trials are live theater, in which the script is written as the drama unfolds.

  The defendant didn’t have a cheering section, no family willing to claim him, not that we’d seen at trial. But journalists had picked up on the sympathy for the childless murder victims and wanted to report on the sentencing to curiosity seekers inside and outside the courtroom.

  The defense attorney, Bradley Tyler, was a member of the death penalty team in the Birmingham public defender’s office. He walked in with a stoop that was probably related to the weight of his occupation.

  I called out to him. “Good morning, Mr. Tyler.”

  He was startled to see that I already occupied my perch. Still clutching his briefcase, he took a step toward the bench. “Am I late, Your Honor?”

  “Late? No! I’m early.”

  That comment generated a chuckle from my bailiff, Ross Carr, who’d put up with my idiosyncrasies for almost six years.

  “Mr. Tyler, you’re from out of town. You don’t know all my quirks.”

  The lawyer set down the briefcase. “No, ma’am. But I appreciate the restraint and professionalism you’ve shown in this case. I know it’s been a tough one. I understand why you’re held in such high regard. I’m familiar with your reputation. Before we tried this case in Bullock County, I asked around.”

  First-class bullshitter. Trying to butter me up. Hopes I’ll show some mercy today. That will not happen.

  That suspicious voice in my head was familiar. A symptom of the impostor syndrome I couldn’t shake. I was among the first Black women in the state to be elected to the circuit bench. And in law school at the University of Alabama, even though I ranked at the top of the class, it never felt like I got the respect I deserved. Yeah, I still suffered from self-doubt. The habit had a way of sticking with me.

  I worked hard to conceal it. Particularly when the DA was in court.

  Robert Reeves, district attorney for the 3rd Judicial Circuit of Alabama, walked in late. As he set his laptop on the prosecution counsel table, he didn’t apologize. Didn’t even meet my eye. I was debating whether to call him out for it.

  My bailiff interrupted my thoughts. “You ready for me to bring the defendant in, Judge?”

  I nodded, rising from my chair. Decided that the morning called for ceremony. “Ross, I’ll be in chambers. Let me know when everyone’s ready.”

  A few minutes later, I walked back into court as Ross called out, “All rise! Circuit Court of Bullock County is now in session, Judge Mary Stone presiding.”

  The public defender jumped to his feet. All of the people gathered in the gallery stood up. Even the DA waited for leave to sit down.

  “Y’all be seated,” I said. “We’re here in the matter of State v. Ferrell Gray, Case No. CR193878. The State appears by District Attorney Robert Reeves. Defendant appears in person and by counsel Bradley Tyler.”

  Two uniformed deputies sat within snatching distance of the defendant. I was glad to see it. Ferrell Gray was the kind of dude who could put a courtroom at risk.

  I gave the folks in court a minute to get settled before I made my announcement.

  “I received a letter from the defendant this morning. I have copies of the correspondence to share with the parties.”

  When I picked up the folder containing the copies Luna had stapled together, my bailiff stepped up to take it from me. I signaled to him with a shake of my head as I descended from the bench. I didn’t need Ross’s assistance.

  I personally hand-delivered the copies: one to the DA, one to the defense. I was glad to have an excuse to leave the bench. I prefer to move around the courtroom, like I did as a trial lawyer. Thinking on my feet was always my strong suit.

  After the public defender skimmed the letter, he turned to his client, demanding in a stage whisper, “Did you write this?”

  I leaned against the empty jury box, curious to learn Gray’s response, but he didn’t reply to his lawyer. He twisted in his seat and directed a question to me.

  “How come I don’t get a copy?” the defendant asked. “You got a problem with me taking a look at it? This is my trial, ain’t it?”

  Ferrell Gray would test the patience of a saint.

  And I was no saint.

  CHAPTER

  6

  I fought back the urge to approach the table where the defendant sat. Had the sound judgment to stand back. “Mr. Gray, I suspect you already know what the letter says. You wrote it, didn’t you?”

  “Hell yeah,” Gray said, just as his lawyer snapped, “Don’t answer that.”

  Bradley, the defense attorney, shook his head with some combination of frustration and disgust. Couldn’t blame the man for that, not in his position. Bradley stood and said, “Judge, in light of this information, it’s obvious that the sentencing can’t proceed.”

  “It’s not obvious to me,” I said.

  Bradley remained on his feet, but he started to look panicky. “Respectfully, Your Honor, the defense requests that you recuse yourself.”

  “Why would I do that?” I reached around and rubbed my lower back. It was still bothering me.

  “Because your receipt of the letter—a letter purporting to be from the defendant in this case, though his responsibility for the document hasn’t been proven—will make it impossible for you to be fair and impartial.”

  I stared the man down for a moment before I asked, “And why do you think I won’t be fair?”

  I heard the rattle of chains as the defendant lifted his handcuffed wrists to flip me the bird with both hands. As he tried to stand up—his belly chain appeared to cause some difficulty—he proclaimed, “I want a new judge! I’m a white man. I can’t get any justice from this affirmative action bitch they hired!”

  The defendant was unfamiliar with the judicial process. I wasn’t hired. I was elected. In Alabama, circuit judges are elected to six-year terms of office by the registered voters of the counties in their circuit.

  As the deputies jumped up to ensure that Gray remained in his seat, the public defender said, “Judge Stone, I apologize for that outburst.”

  The outburst wasn’t over, not yet. While the deputies wrestled Gray back into his seat, the defendant continued to utter insults that were, thankfully, mostly incomprehensible. His lawyer appeared to be sincerely distressed.

  “It’s not your fault,” I told the public defender. I felt the urge to move, so I stepped closer to the defense counsel table, but took care to keep a safe distance from the criminal defendant when I addressed him. “Mr. Gray, you need to quiet down. You’re not helping your cause.”

  That was when the DA decided to weigh in. “Your Honor, the law on this matter—”

  I swung around to face him. “You think I’m not acquainted with the law on this issue?”

  He blinked, continued in his nasal voice, “I just want to contribute the State’s position—”

  “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

  The DA was getting under my skin, as he tended to do. It was time to create some distance. I strode back to the bench. Climbing up the three wooden steps that led to my chair was well-timed in this instance. It demonstrated my authority.

  As I sat, I said, “Defendant’s motion is overruled.”

  Ferrell Gray snatched his attorney’s copy of the letter and flung it to the floor. “The devil gonna burn you alive! You’ll be screaming when your flesh is on fire!”

  To the court reporter, I said, “Marlena, did you get all that?”

  When she nodded, I said, “I have ruled. The law is on my side. In Alabama, judges are obligated to recuse themselves when they’ve behaved badly. To be clear: That’s when the judge has behaved badly.”

  “You’re an ugly whore!” Gray shouted. His lawyer grimaced, looking away. He was embarrassed.

  I said, “This is just what I’m talking about. See? In this case, the wrongful behavior is all on Mr. Gray’s part. The defendant has behaved badly, but I won’t permit him to use that as a basis to go judge shopping. If you have any dispute on this issue, I recommend that counsel check out ex parte Bentley, an Alabama appellate decision that’s on all fours with our situation in court today.”

  The DA smirked, looking satisfied. Well, that would be short-lived.

  “Mr. Gray, please stand,” I said.

  The defendant snarled. “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to pronounce sentence in your case.”

  The defense attorney stood and whispered an entreaty to his client to do likewise. But the defendant didn’t want to comply with traditional procedure at sentencing. It required the assistance of both deputies to pull Ferrell Gray into a standing posture.

  “In the case of State of Alabama v. Ferrell Gray, on counts 1 and 2, I hereby sentence you to life imprisonment without possibility of parole.”

  I didn’t drag it out, didn’t make long pauses for dramatic effect. But the statement packed a punch. The defendant lost his balance and fell back against the chair with his mouth sagging open.

  And the prosecutor’s face had turned scarlet. “Your Honor, the sentence doesn’t reflect the jury’s recommendation.”

  “That’s true, Mr. Reeves. Because it’s my decision to make. As the prosecution is well aware. And Mr. Gray, lest you’re confused by today’s events, you can’t tempt me to sentence you to death with threats and insults and abuse. Because I believe in the sanctity of human life. Even your despicable life is sacred.”

  I keep a good-sized wooden gavel on the bench. Sometimes I hit harder than I should, just for personal satisfaction. This was one of those occasions.

  “You’ll be transferred to the Alabama Department of Corrections to serve out your sentence for the remainder of your natural life. Court is adjourned.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA

  Saturday morning, 4:30 a.m. My alarm went off while the rooster was still sound asleep with his head tucked all snug under his wing.

  I jabbed that snooze button, thinking: I. Do. Not. Want. To. Get. Up.

  No.

  As I stared up in the darkness, the cussing started. I muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

  And then I lay there, waiting, bracing myself for the alarm. Knowing it would shriek again in a couple of minutes.

  “Shit. Shit. Son of a bitch.” Louder that time, with feeling.

  I couldn’t abide the wait. Grabbed my phone and turned off the alarm, because snoozing wouldn’t save me. I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen. Filled the industrial-sized copper-bottomed pot with water and put it on to boil before I drank my first cup of coffee. Made that pot of coffee strong, inky black. I had work to do.