“Praise the Lord!”

  “Amen!”

  They were all rising, all getting fired up. Only Bria remained seated, it seemed. She peered around the sanctuary, then peeked down her row, trying to sneak a glance, to see whether other backsliders had kept their seats.

  Only one, besides Bria.

  Nova Jones.

  “The good Lord, in all his wisdom and mercy, has decreed that we humble human beings are his own creation. So! Tell me, brethren. When one of God’s people is intentionally murdered; when that life is taken, before it had the chance to begin. When someone kills a precious baby before it is even born—what do we call that, brothers and sisters?”

  “MURDER!”

  It was a group chant, so beautifully timed, it sounded rehearsed.

  Pastor’s voice began a crescendo. “God gave us his commandments. He gave them to Moses on the mountain. The Sixth Commandment is clear as day. Thou shalt not kill!”

  Bria’s mouth was dry, her heart pounding. Nausea was coming in waves. She had to leave. She couldn’t bear it, could not remain in that sanctuary any longer.

  She stood, tried to scoot in front of the couple who’d made room for her to sit with them. The woman who had reached out earlier to pat her arm made way to let her pass. But the husband was like a column of stone; she couldn’t squeeze past him.

  Her heart raced, making her dizzy. She moved the other direction, pushed past two old women standing to her left. They didn’t try to trap her inside the pew. They scooted back, clutching the pew for support. One of the ladies looked up as Bria surged past. The auntie’s eyes were wet with tears.

  She stumbled out into the center aisle. She didn’t mean to look at anyone. Certainly not Nova Jones, or her mother. Step-by-step, she focused on her escape, keeping her eyes fixed on the brass handle of the church door.

  A woman appeared by some bad magic, just as she reached it. The preacher’s wife, Doreen Erskine, wrapped her hand around the door handle before Bria could touch it. Bria stumbled back a step. Did the woman intend to prevent her departure? Did the Erskines mean to keep her a prisoner in the church sanctuary?

  A hush fell over the sanctuary. She heard bodies shifting in their seats to watch the drama unfold.

  Bria’s mouth was pressed shut. She sent a pleading look to Doreen Erskine, a silent plea. Let me go.

  Doreen Erskine’s face was a frozen mask of condemnation. The pastor’s wife pulled open the church house door, and she uttered two words. “Get out.”

  Bria bolted. As the door closed behind her, she could hear a wave of voices rise again. She couldn’t make out what all they said.

  But as she drove away from Victory Baptist, the pastor’s words were locked inside her head. Refusing to be silenced.

  Murderer. Killer.

  CHAPTER

  52

  Mary Stone

  BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  I rapped the gavel. “Y’all, we’re taking a midmorning break. The court will be in recess for fifteen minutes.”

  Leaving the bench, I moved down the aisle at full speed, determined to make the front of the line to the women’s room.

  My bailiff stopped me when I reached the courtroom door. “Judge, you’re wanted downstairs. County Commission needs to see you.”

  “Now? Today?” I wanted to snatch those commissioners bald. I had no time to fool with them.

  It was six days until jury selection was set to begin in State v. Bria Gaines. Folks all over the circuit were tugging on my skirt. I had a shit ton of matters to resolve before Monday rolled around. Lawyers and citizens were flocking into court, pleading for a moment of my time.

  “Ross, I’ve got five more hearings set before lunch. And the commission needs to see me right now? You serious?”

  He held up his hands, like Don’t shoot. “Judge, I’m just the messenger. But Otis said it’s urgent.”

  “Damn,” I said. Whispered it, actually. Since I was standing in the courtroom in my robe, with a dozen citizens of Bullock County within earshot.

  I craned my neck to get a look at the hallway near the ladies’ room. Six or seven women stood in line outside the door, waiting to get in.

  Hell.

  “Okay, I’ll run down there for a minute. See what the commissioners want. But I’ll be back. If I run over a couple of minutes, you let everybody know, Ross. I’m in the courthouse. I haven’t run off.”

  I took the curved staircase so fast, I was in danger of tripping on the hem of my robe as I made my way down. When I reached the commissioners’ office, the door was closed.

  And locked.

  I twisted that antique brass knob while I pounded the wooden door with my left fist.

  “Anybody in there? This is Mary! Judge Stone!”

  I heard the lock flip when the bolt was turned. The door opened. Otis Post, the presiding commissioner, waved me inside.

  “Sorry about that, Judge. We didn’t want anyone walking in. Seems like there’s reporters sticking their noses into county business these days.”

  Otis locked the door behind me. An unusual precaution in Union Springs. But times had changed.

  Five men sat at the conference table. Three of them were county commissioners. Otis, Tariq Johnson, and Michael Price.

  Sitting at the far end was Reeves, the DA. Which didn’t bode well.

  And the sheriff. Mick Owens leaned over, pulled out the empty chair next to his. “Sit down, Mary.”

  I sat on the edge of the seat, as if I was prepared to jump right out of it. Because I wasn’t at all convinced that I wanted to stick around.

  I looked around that table with my eyes narrowed. “Must be something important going on. Locking yourselves in here. Dragging me off the bench.”

  “It’s a matter of significance,” Otis said. He was shiny with nervous sweat, all the way up to the top of his bald white head. “We want you to reconsider a judgment call you made.”

  “Not a court judgment,” Tariq added, speaking quickly. He was young, one of the up-and-coming Black leaders in the county. “Just a lodging arrangement. More like an administrative matter. Which would rest more squarely in the commission’s domain. That’s what we’re thinking.”

  Michael Price had nothing to add. Par for the course with that dude. He rarely opened his mouth. I often wondered how he managed to get reelected. Maybe it was the passivity. He never said or did anything that could make anyone mad.

  “What are we talking about?” I demanded.

  Reeves answered. “The jury,” the DA said. The commissioners nodded.

  Reeves took a breath. “Judge, you indicated months ago that you intended to sequester the jury. We didn’t hold a hearing, you just announced it in a conference.”

  Five pairs of eyeballs on me. I set them straight. “Yeah. I’m sequestering the jury. I’ve made that clear from the beginning, even when the governor and the attorney general tried to talk me out of it. We’re putting them at the Red Cedar Motel. My bailiff has alerted the management. They’ve set aside enough rooms for us.”

  Otis Post wiped a hand over the crown of his head. “Don’t we have a say in this?”

  I made a noise in my throat. Shook my head. “Hell no, you don’t. This is not a surprise. I didn’t spring it on you. Luna called and left word with y’all when we talked to the motel.”

  Tariq frowned, looking thoughtful. “Judge Mary, you know our finances in Bullock County. We operate on a fine line. If we have to feed and lodge a jury of twelve during this long trial, it’s going to be a burden.”

  “More than twelve. There will be two alternates,” the DA said. “And security, too. Sheriff says he’s been asked to assign two deputies to remain with them.” Reeves sounded huffy about it, like the money would be coming from his own pocket.

  I turned on Reeves. “Why are you discussing this case with me outside the presence of opposing counsel? Where’s Benjamin Meyers? Why isn’t he here? You trying to woodshed the judge, Mr. Reeves?”

  “It’s county business,” Reeves said. Didn’t look a bit sorry.

  Shameless.

  I turned to the sheriff. “And Mick? You got a dog in this fight?”

  The sheriff grimaced, scratched the back of his neck. “I just need to know what y’all decide. So I’ll know how many of my personnel I’ll be devoting to the trial.”

  The DA scooted his chair forward. Had the nerve to point his finger at me. “Judge, sequestration isn’t just expensive. It’s gonna be bad for the trial. Think of all the prospective jurors you’re knocking out of contention! Lots of people’s circumstances prohibit them from being locked away for a week at a time, or longer. Nursing mothers. Single parents. Farmers with livestock to tend to. You should understand that, Judge. How many head of cattle you got on your place?”

  It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t answer him.

  Instead, I checked the clock on the wall. My fifteen-minute recess was over, and I’d never made it to the restroom. Time to wrap up this conversation.

  “Have you men all lost your goddamn minds?”

  The swearing jarred them. Even Michael Price’s eyes bulged. I was glad to see it. Showed the guy was listening.

  I went on: “Y’all know what’s been going on in our community since the DA filed this case. The level of press attention it’s received. The people marching in the streets. Bullets flying, folks trampled. We have to contain this jury, so we’ll know it hasn’t been contaminated. The jury must be sequestered. There’s no way around it.”

  “Who’s supposed to pay?” the presiding commissioner demanded, raising his voice at me.

  I wasn’t about to stand for that.

  I rose from that chair. Looked down at the shiny dome of his head. “Maybe you can pay by economizing on your personal expenses. Quit turning in per diems. Skip some of the state conferences.”

  “What?” “You serious?” They were blustering now, protesting, talking over one another.

  Meanwhile, outside the courthouse, things were getting loud—again. Somebody talking into a bullhorn, accompanied by a couple of other people. We could see them, right through the window of the commissioners’ office. I stepped closer to the window, raised the aluminum blinds to get a clearer view.

  While the man talked into the bullhorn, a woman shook out an American flag. A good-sized one, probably three feet by five feet. She handed it off to the guy with the bullhorn. While he held it up with his free hand, she flipped a butane lighter. Set the flag on fire.

  “Son of a bitch.” Sheriff Owens was out of his chair, looking like he’d be lighting a protester on fire.

  Otis pointed toward the window. His face was as red as the flaming flag. “Sheriff, you get out there and put this down! I want that man and woman arrested.”

  I had to throw cold water on that plan. “Hold on, guys. There’s legal precedent for this. The US Supreme Court ruled in 1989. Texas v. Johnson. What they’re doing is constitutionally protected. First Amendment, it’s political speech.”

  The commissioners weren’t persuaded. I appealed to the DA. “Mr. Reeves, am I correct?”

  The DA nodded. Looking sulky, like a kid.

  Outside, someone on the street was taking issue. Which wasn’t a shocker. Not everyone is familiar with the court’s decision in Texas v. Johnson. The shouting started up. Someone tried to grab the flag away from the guy with the bullhorn—and he used the bullhorn as a club to nail the interloper in the face. Then the fighting started in earnest.

  I grimaced. “Hitting people, now that’s not covered by the First Amendment.”

  I turned away from the window, shaking my head. I hated the sight of more violence in the streets of my town. But it certainly reaffirmed my position.

  “Damn good thing I’m keeping that jury safely tucked away next week.”

  Heading out the door, I could feel the burden of that criminal case bearing down. Like the trial, and everything connected to it, wanted to steal my strength away.

  CHAPTER

  53

  STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA

  Sitting across from me at the kitchen table, my friend Loucilla Payne studied me. Like she was drilling deep inside my head, determined to read my mind.

  “Mary, it’s weighing you down. Like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

  It was Friday evening, and Loucilla and I were having our monthly get-together. But there was no way I could escape to Montgomery for dinner. Thank God, Loucilla had come to me.

  I pushed away from the table. Picked up the glass pitcher of iced tea as a pretext. Filled glasses that were still three-quarters full. I knew Loucilla would break through, crack open my secrets if she had the chance.

  I said, “It’s been hanging over me all this time. I knew the day was coming. Hell, it was my idea to move ahead. I gave them the early trial date. We start picking the jury Monday. Just three more days to wait.”

  I set the pitcher down. Stepped over to the sink, washed my hands. Just had to keep moving.

  Behind me, Loucilla’s voice cut through the sound of running water. “Mary, you’re all wound up. Why are you acting like this? Honey, you’re not the one who’s going to be on trial.”

  I shut off the water. Dried my hands. A truth was burning in my chest, trying to push its way out.

  Loucilla was still trying to reason with me. “You’re not the criminal defendant. You’re not the State’s witness. Mary, you’ve tried all kinds of cases over the years, presided as judge over murders and sex crimes. This case is big, it’s generated lots of attention. But you’re experienced. It shouldn’t be shaking you up this way. It’s getting under your skin.”

  I tossed the cotton dish towel onto the counter. She’d nailed it, described just how it felt. The facts of the case were under my skin like a bad case of scabies. Burrowing under the surface, laying eggs, making me itch like crazy.

  I dragged my chair right next to hers. I didn’t want the table to create distance between us. It was likely that I’d need to cry on her shoulder.

  “It’s strange that I’ve never told you this before. I know I can confide in you. Tell you anything.”

  Loucilla’s face tensed, like she expected a blow. “Mary. What is it?”

  I meant to tell her. And then my throat closed up. I couldn’t answer right away. Had to rub the front of my neck before I could speak again.

  “I was fifteen. End of my sophomore year of high school.”

  She saw where it was going. “Oh, no.”

  The sensation in my throat increased; it felt like hands wrapped around it, choking me. Maybe that was a sign. That I should keep my secret to myself. Keep it locked up.

  “Mary? Girl, come on. It’s all right.” She reached for my hand. “Tell me.”

  It was that contact—her hand gripping mine. I squeezed her hand back, hard. It gave me strength, helped me to speak the words aloud.

  “I was raped, Loucilla.”

  “Oh, Mary. No, no, no.”

  Loucilla pulled me to her, hugged me tight, just like my mama had done, years back. Then I heard her growl. “Don’t tell me! Was it that goddamned sheriff? Owens?”

  I pulled away, leaned back in my chair. “No, Loucilla, wasn’t him. Mick Owens was my boyfriend senior year. This was two years before.”

  “Then who?”

  My mind conjured the recollection, the image of his face. I wished I could block it out.

  “A neighbor, a grown man. He was a tenant farmer living on the old Hood place. I can barely remember his name.”

  Liar.

  We were still grasping hands, hanging on with a death grip. Lou said, “You want to find him? I’ll help you.”

  I shook my head. “That man’s long gone. Dead by now, maybe.” Privately, I’d wished him dead for decades. Sometimes I thought about forgiving him. Hadn’t gotten around to it yet. “I was cutting through his land on my way home from a friend’s house. He came out of his house and chased me down. Said he’d been watching me, that I looked all grown up. He acted like he was drunk, or high on something. Maybe he thought that was an excuse for it.”

  “Did he go to prison for what he did to you?”

  “No! No, nothing like that. He got off scot-free.”

  My friend’s face was savage. “Your daddy should have killed him.”

  “Loucilla, my daddy was already dead. Dropped of a heart attack in the pasture behind the barn, years before.”

  We both fell silent for a minute. I needed something to dull the pain that flared from the recollection. I was thinking about a bottle of Tennessee whiskey I kept in one of my cabinets, behind the Heinz cider vinegar and a tub of Crisco. I wasn’t a regular drinker of hard liquor. It was there for emergencies. Like snakebite.

  Loucilla had started wiping her eyes. Well. If Lou was crying, it qualified as an emergency. Lord help me, I needed a shot myself. I got up, reached behind the Crisco and grabbed the bottle. Set out a couple of juice glasses. The only barware I owned was a set of wineglasses. Didn’t seem right to drink whiskey from a wineglass.

  I poured an inch of the whiskey into each glass. Carried them to the table, with the bottle. Loucilla knocked hers back in one swallow. Reached for the bottle and poured herself a refill.

  Her eyes met mine. “I don’t get it. Why he wasn’t convicted.”

  When I answered that, my voice cracked, like a kid who’s about to cry. “Problem was, I didn’t tell anybody. Not right away. I was so ashamed. It was my first time. A virgin.”

  I shook my head as the rage rolled over me. I’d felt it before, many times.

  And I recalled the other feelings from my youth. The helplessness, the shame, the fear of judgment. It’s no wonder that girls are afraid to talk about it. The world can be a hard, cold place.

  “Did you get pregnant?” Loucilla was clutching the juice glass, blinking wet eyes at me.

  “No. When my period started, I was so thankful, I took it as a sign. That I could just move on, not tell anybody. But Mama could sense something was wrong. She kept after me. I finally broke down, told her what happened.”