My picture was on the front page. Sweet Jesus—I saw my face above the fold.

  The photo was fairly recent; I wore a sweater I’d ordered online. It was a shot of me and Loucilla sitting at a bar in Montgomery. Loucilla was holding a martini glass. My beverage wasn’t visible. The readers wouldn’t know I’d been drinking iced tea.

  But the picture didn’t bother me much. There’s no prohibiting a grown woman from occupying a barstool. Not even in the Black Belt of Alabama.

  No, it was the headline that unnerved me. In bold caps, it jumped out at me.

  GAY AGENDA IN ALABAMA ABORTION CASE

  I felt the preliminary jab of a headache. I slid into my chair, pulled a pair of reading glasses out of my desk drawer.

  There wasn’t much of a story. Hell, what could they actually substantiate? After rehashing the facts of Dr. Bria Gaines’s charge, the tabloid detailed my regular dinners with my best friend—whom they described as a “well-known lesbian activist from Montgomery.”

  As for me? “Circuit Judge Mary Stone, who has been assigned the criminal trial, is running for reelection on the Democrat ballot. Judge Stone is single, never been married.”

  That was all true. Hell, I couldn’t even sue the tabloid for defamation.

  I stared at the newsprint littering my desk. Other stories in the tabloid were devoted to actors in rehab; the breakup of a major star’s marriage; a rapper sued for harassment. I wasn’t just a local officeholder anymore. I’d joined that cluster of tabloid fodder. Somehow, I’d become a public figure. The kind of person people could feel free to insult and deride. The object of unbridled speculation and scandal.

  Damn, I wasn’t looking for that kind of notoriety when I signed on for this gig. I wanted to dispense justice. Decide cases, resolve conflicts. But here it was. Staring me in the face. Literally.

  The shit was getting deeper around here with every day that passed. I had to make a call. Couldn’t sit around feeling sorry for myself. I was not the person most wounded in the scenario. Not by a long shot.

  I hit Loucilla’s name in my contacts. She picked right up. Didn’t say hello.

  “I’ve already seen it,” she said.

  “Damn! I didn’t know you were a subscriber. No wonder you always know all the dirt on everybody.”

  “I don’t subscribe,” she said, her voice dry. “I was at the grocery store. In the checkout line. Buying tampons.”

  “Girl! You still using tampons?” I asked, sounding impressed.

  “Yeah. Just like I’m younger than springtime. Maybe that detail will make the next issue. I could earn a buck that way. You think a well-known lesbian activist can get an endorsement deal from a company that makes feminine hygiene products?”

  It wasn’t funny. I could hear that edge in her voice. I know Loucilla. She was shook. Much more troubled than she’d let on.

  “I’m sorry, Lou. So sorry to drag you into this.”

  “The hell you say? I’m just fine. Maybe I’ll write a book about it. Now that you’ve made me famous, I could get a publisher to respond to a query for a change. What about you, Mary? How are you getting along down there?”

  I had to think about it for a minute before I answered.

  “I’m fine, too. More than fine, actually. I checked my calendar and a special setting is opening up on my docket. Maybe we can get this case moving, have us a trial.”

  The prospect of a speedy trial was sounding better all the time.

  Loucilla rang off. I shouted through the door, didn’t bother to pick up the office line.

  “Luna! Get the DA and Benjamin Meyers into court. You tell them the judge says we gotta talk.”

  CHAPTER

  50

  BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  I did that trick of mine. Took my seat at the bench before the hearing was scheduled. I wanted to see them all as they walked in. To get a feel for the situation. See where everyone’s head was. It’s lots easier to read people when they’re not quite ready for you, not prepared to be seen.

  The DA arrived a little early. Maybe he was anticipating my move. Reeves walked in with a bounce in his step. Smile on his face. Looked like he’d won a hand pay at the casino.

  That was interesting.

  I called to him before he took his seat. “Will the AG’s office be assisting you today, Mr. Reeves?”

  He paused with his hand on the back of his chair. “Why do you ask, Judge?”

  The DA was already riling me. Getting my back up, and we hadn’t even begun. He was showing disrespect without cause. He had no reason to push back. I’m entitled to know who’s appearing in my court. “I want it for the record. The docket entry will need to reflect who’s representing the prosecution today.”

  “Well,” he said, setting his laptop on the table. “That would be me.”

  Then he smiled. Not at me, you understand. A private smile, like he knew something I didn’t know.

  I was chewing on that, debating whether I should light into him now or later, when Ben Meyers entered the courtroom, with Dr. Gaines following behind.

  I almost gawked. Had to pull a poker face, fast. Swiveled my chair to face my computer screen, tapped the keyboard like I was doing court business.

  Faking it, in fact. I couldn’t even see what was on the screen. The sight of Bria Gaines walking into court was burned into my brain.

  That poor woman.

  It was crushing her. I could see it from my first glimpse. She couldn’t mask it. It had gone on too long, gone too far. Her eyes were swollen and puffy from lack of sleep. She was gaunt, her face hollowed out, cheekbones prominent.

  She wasn’t eating, that was apparent. The weight loss wasn’t confined to her face. Her dress hung off her, like she was a kid wearing her big sister’s clothes. Reminded me of Jordan playing dress-up in my church clothes, when I was a teenager and she was in kindergarten.

  As the defense settled in, I gave them the side-eye. Sneaked a glance at their table. Bria tried to compose herself, was working hard at it. She sat straight in her chair. Held her head up high.

  But when she uncapped her pen, her hands shook so violently that she dropped it on the floor. It rolled under the counsel table. She scooted her chair back, like she meant to get down there on her knees and hunt for it. Her lawyer stopped her. Found her a fresh pen. She shot him a grateful look.

  And then both of her hands disappeared from view. Hiding them on her lap, I suspected. She was self-conscious about the tremor.

  I caught the DA checking Bria out. I could see his smug expression as he turned back to his laptop.

  My face grew hot. I knew what was happening. The DA was easy to read; I’d had lots of practice.

  Reeves wasn’t blind. He could also observe the physical changes Dr. Gaines had undergone, could see the impact his case was having on the defendant. He viewed it as a victory. He was breaking Bria Gaines down. That was part of his case strategy. To make her crumble.

  Bria Gaines is a confident Black woman—or was, when the whole process began.

  To somebody like Reeves, a confident Black woman is trouble. It’s a character trait he doesn’t want to deal with. Makes him uncomfortable. Not just Reeves. All the people who think like him.

  They love it when we break.

  The vibe in court was confirming my instinct. That this case needed to go to trial. But I needed to see Bria’s reaction, hear what her lawyer had to say.

  I gave the gavel a rap, to get everyone’s attention.

  “I’d like to thank y’all for coming in today. You’re probably wondering why we’re here, since we don’t have any outstanding motions.”

  Nobody said anything. Not a surprise, I hadn’t asked them to speak.

  I went on. “The case of State v. Bria Gaines is on my jury docket, but we don’t have a firm date for trial, not at this time. Which isn’t unusual. Felony cases of this magnitude tend to languish for a long time before being tried before a jury.”

  Reeves shrugged. Meyers nodded an acknowledgment. No response from Dr. Gaines.

  “It happens, though, that I’m looking at an opening on my trial docket. A case was set for jury trial—a personal injury case, multiple parties. That big explosion on the highway. Y’all surely recall when that happened.”

  Ben Meyers had caught on. He was whispering to Bria.

  “The parties have recently informed me—they’ve reached an agreement on settlement. Which frees up two whole weeks on my calendar.”

  I tapped my keyboard, pulled up my court calendar. There it was: a two-week stretch of blank space. No case numbers, case names, notations of matters to be heard and decided. By me.

  “So! You know what I’m about to ask.”

  Reeves jumped to his feet. “The State is always ready, Your Honor!”

  Irritation buzzed in my ears. “Excuse me?”

  “We’re ready for trial at any time.”

  I snapped. “What are you doing out of that chair?”

  He sidestepped, like he had more to say. “I just want to reassure the court that the State can be ready to go whenever the court wishes.”

  If I were inclined to ask the Lord for favors, I would have sent up a prayer to grant me patience. “Mr. Reeves, I wasn’t asking you. I know the State can be ready for trial. Because you have all the power of the government on your side. You have county law enforcement ready to offer whatever assistance you desire. And in this particular case, you have even more power. You got the whole damn state tied up in this case. We’ve got the Alabama attorney general’s office and the governor of Alabama popping up in the Bullock County Courthouse like a Whac-a-Mole game. Governor is saying—again—that the National Guard is on its way.”

  Reeves sat. Good.

  I turned to the defense table. Ben Meyers had scooted his chair right next to Bria Gaines’s. They sat elbow to elbow. She was wide-eyed. Like she was afraid she’d be the next one in line for a tongue-lashing.

  “I need to hear from the defense. The defendant has a constitutional right to a speedy trial. We all know that, right? But I was a defense attorney back in the day. And I know that the defense sometimes prefers delay. Particularly when the defendant is out on bond.”

  There are a number of advantages to delay, from the defense perspective. Delay can weaken the State’s case. Over time, witnesses’ recollection may fade. Witnesses might move away, become unavailable to appear at trial. Sometimes the prosecutor’s interest in or appetite for the case will fade.

  If Ben Meyers wanted more time for Bria, he’d get it. But I needed to see her face. If the waiting was going to destroy her, I had to fight that.

  It was a tough call for them to make. Was it more brutal, more painful to proceed? Or to wait around?

  Meyers spoke softly to her. I didn’t try to eavesdrop. Seemed like she trusted him. I saw her nod a couple of times. She whispered something in his ear.

  At length, Meyers stood and said, “The defense has no objection to the trial setting.”

  I had to be certain.

  “Dr. Gaines?”

  She looked up, startled. She hadn’t expected me to address her directly.

  “Your Honor?”

  “This setting’s just two weeks off. It’s unexpected, I know that. You’re comfortable with it? You sure?”

  I saw her neck move when she swallowed. But her voice was stronger when she answered.

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’m ready to have my case heard. I want to take it to a jury.”

  “All right, then. Mr. Reeves, Mr. Meyers, we’ll conduct a pretrial conference the week before jury selection. My clerk will be in contact with y’all, to nail down the exact time for that.”

  I stood. They stood.

  “Court is adjourned.”

  As I left the courtroom, the voice in my head was loud.

  Sure as hell hope this isn’t a horrible mistake.

  PART

  THREE

  CHAPTER

  51

  Bria Gaines

  VICTORY BAPTIST CHURCH UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  It was Sunday morning, just eight days before her trial would begin at the Bullock County Courthouse. And Dr. Bria Gaines was late for church.

  The timing was intentional. Bria had been a member of Victory Baptist since she’d moved to Union Springs. She’d joined the church straightaway; it was how she was raised, in a family of serious, Bible-thumping Christians.

  The congregation had embraced her, back when she joined. They’d praised God for bringing her to town. Flocked to her clinic for medical care.

  After the felony charge was filed against her, Bria stopped attending services. She stayed away for a number of reasons, any one of which provided sufficient cause. Fear of rejection, ostracism, the cold shoulder. Or the opposite: She dreaded a verbal confrontation. Accusations, insults. The very real possibility that her church family might kick her out of the fold, excommunicating her from their community of faith.

  The prospect of those reactions had been sufficient to discourage her from crossing the threshold. But when she got out of bed on that particular Sunday, with her trial a week away, Bria decided that she needed to return. Her soul felt battered, weary, restless. She longed for the feeling of peace she’d always received when sitting in the wooden pew with her head bowed.

  In eight days, when jury selection began, Bria would need courage and strength. The kind of fortitude that only a higher power could provide.

  Give it up to the Lord, her heart told her.

  She could hear the congregation singing as she left her car and walked up to the front entrance. Bria had missed the call to worship and the responsive scripture reading. They’d moved on to the first hymn: “How Righteous Is Our God.”

  The timing of her arrival was perfect. Everyone was on their feet. Singing, hands raised. Some with eyes shut, moving with the spirit. She couldn’t have picked a better moment to slip in unnoticed.

  Or so she thought.

  Bria intended to take a seat in the back. Wasn’t easy, not that Sunday. The church was packed. Reverend Erskine generally commanded good attendance, but this was a record-setting crowd. Like Easter morning, they’d placed folding chairs at the end of each row, to provide additional seating.

  While the churchgoers sang the final verse of the hymn, Bria managed to find a single bare space in the pew, a spot just large enough for her to slide in. That inconspicuous spot in the back was a blessing. She hadn’t come to church to be recognized. She wasn’t seeking fellowship. She was looking for God.

  She wanted to pray. To petition the Lord to give her the strength to withstand the rigors of the trial that she would have to endure in the coming days.

  As she slid into the back row, the organ music hit the final notes: Amen.

  Everyone took their seats. Reverend Erskine had taken his place at the pulpit. He stood there, a forbidding figure in black and white.

  His solemn face broke into a beaming smile. “On this beautiful Sabbath morning, brothers and sisters, let’s turn to welcome one another, for the passing of the peace.”

  The sound of pews creaking, bodies moving. A babel of voices rose up as members leaned over for hugs and handshakes, exchanging friendly greetings.

  Bria Gaines was seated directly beside a young couple with two children between them. The younger child bounced in his seat, exclaiming, “Mama! It’s Dr. Bria!”

  That sweet voice made Bria smile. “Good morning,” she said to him. She turned to the boy’s mother, seated close beside her, and whispered, “A pleasure to see y’all this morning.”

  The woman would not meet her eye when Bria spoke to her. Didn’t even incline her head in Bria’s direction. But the woman gave a light touch, a friendly pat, to Bria’s arm.

  The woman’s demeanor made Bria’s spirit plummet. Her reaction was physical; she had to clutch the wooden pew in front of her for balance. Why had she decided to attend that morning?

  After the volume of voices had peaked, Reverend Erskine lifted a black-bound Bible. “Please stand for the reading from the Old Testament.”

  Folks took to their feet. A hush fell over the congregation. Bria bowed her head, closed her eyes. Hoped Pastor had chosen an uplifting verse. Something to carry her through the coming days.

  “Jeremiah chapter 1, verse 5. ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born, I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.’”

  An elderly woman raised her arms, crying out. “Praise be!”

  “You may be seated,” Erskine said. He waited for the congregation to get settled. Then he placed his hand over his heart. “Brothers and sisters, the words of this book have inspired my sermon for today. God tells us in the Book of Jeremiah that he is the true Creator of every baby in a mother’s womb. ‘Before I formed you in the womb,’ God says. The Lord God made us all! Can I get an amen?”

  “Amen!” The chorus of voices was so loud, Bria jerked in her seat.

  “The Book of Psalms says the same thing. Gives us the same powerful guarantee! Psalm 139, verse 1—‘For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.’”

  A woman across the aisle from Bria jumped to her feet, raising her arms. “Praise Jesus!”

  Bria recognized the voice. A knot of dread exploded in her chest as she leaned forward to peek down the row.

  It was Starla Jones, occupying the back row, on the opposite side of the sanctuary. Starla’s brood took up most of the pew. She’d brought all five children with her.

  Nova sat on the far end, near the narrow stained-glass window. Staring straight ahead. Not watching her mother as she danced, moving with the spirit, with her arms reaching up to heaven.

  Two of the Jones kids were rassling on the pew, fighting over a paper copy of the church bulletin. Nova didn’t shush them, didn’t intervene. She sat in the pew like a bronze statue, unmoving, facing the pipe organ.

  Reverend Erskine’s voice rose. A sheen of perspiration made his face glisten. “The Good Book confirms it. From the Book of Psalms: ‘I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made, your works are wonderful.’ Do you hear that, brothers and sisters? Each and every one of us, we are fearfully and wonderfully made!”