“And then? Was he prosecuted?”

  I sipped my whiskey before I answered. Grimaced when I felt the fire burn its way down to my belly. It made my shoulders twitch with an involuntary shiver. “There wasn’t any physical evidence. Too much time had passed—you know how it works. They didn’t do a rape kit. What could they find on a victim who was raped five weeks prior?”

  “But your testimony—”

  “Would have been all they had as evidence. The sheriff went out and talked to him. He denied it. Sheriff told my mama, it would have been a swearing match. My word against his.”

  “You would have convinced a jury. Even at fifteen.”

  I shrugged. No point in arguing what a jury would have made of it. It was ancient history now. “He left the area not long after. So that was the end of it, see? They dropped it.”

  Loucilla poured more whiskey. We both drank. I confess, with every sip it was getting easier to swallow that liquid fire.

  I relaxed in the chair. Let out a deep sigh. That was probably the whiskey. I could smell the liquor on my own breath. Good thing I wasn’t driving anywhere. And my chores were done, livestock fed, tractor put away.

  “Loucilla, I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed in the guest room.” Loucilla wouldn’t be fit to drive, either.

  “Good. I’ll help you.” She knocked back another swig. “My cat can live without me for one night.”

  I was glad she was staying. I felt vulnerable, didn’t want to be alone.

  She got to the heart of it. “So you never got justice. And you never got over it. And this case is triggering you. Because of the child, Nova Jones.”

  I toyed with the glass. “When I look at Nova Jones? I see myself. Me at fifteen. Nova’s younger, but still. The trauma she’s going through, I feel like it’s me, back when.”

  That was when I heard my rooster crow. In the twilight, just getting dark. Foghorn did that sometimes, when he was startled. By a predator. Or a light coming at him. Like headlights from a car.

  I listened. Got up, walked to the window. Didn’t see anything.

  I walked back to my chair. Shook off the paranoia. The rooster had a brain the size of two peanuts. No way I’d let him throw a scare into me.

  Lou’s voice was soft, reasonable. “Mary. Have you ever thought of pulling out of the case?”

  I sat up straight in that kitchen chair. “Loucilla! Hell no. I got to see this through.”

  “But that’s just the thing, Mary. My point exactly. You don’t have to do it yourself. You are not the only circuit judge in the state of Alabama.” She raised her hand, palm up, like she knew what I was going to say. “You’re the best, that’s for certain! But there are other judges who can step in.”

  “Well, here’s the problem with that. I don’t want to turn it over to anyone else. I don’t trust anybody in the world with this case. It’s got to be me.”

  “But if it’s eating you up, Mary—”

  “I’m a grown woman. An experienced judge. I can set my personal feelings aside and do my sworn duty in the courtroom. My duty to all parties involved.”

  As I spoke of setting feelings aside, I swung my arm, making a dramatic gesture. The whiskey again.

  We wouldn’t be making a run for dinner, not that night. And there was no food delivery service out in the country in rural Alabama. No Grubhub, no Uber, no rideshare.

  I checked the freezer. Two frozen chicken potpies. Kardea Brown’s brand, my favorite. Excellent. Good save.

  I popped them in the oven on a cookie sheet, because crust browns better in an oven than a microwave. Set the oven at 350 degrees, didn’t take trouble to preheat. My oven ran hot.

  “We’ve got forty minutes until dinner is ready.” I gave the bottle a questioning look. “You want another drink?”

  “Oh, hell yeah.”

  Good. Me too.

  CHAPTER

  54

  Mary Stone

  BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  Showtime.

  Standing in my chambers, I opened the door to the courtroom. Ross had been waiting for the cue. My bailiff called out, “All rise!”

  Stepping out, I climbed the steps to the bench, took my place. “You may be seated.”

  The DA and his co-counsel, Eleanor Lindquist, sat at the counsel table positioned closest to the jury box. They gave off a confident vibe in their navy blue business suits, the weight of the cloth and the width of the pinstripes identical. I wondered whether they’d plotted out the color-coordinated clothing. It felt kinda weird.

  At the defense table, Benjamin Meyers was projecting positive energy, a noble strategy. But one glance at Bria Gaines confirmed that she wasn’t feeling it. Dressed all in black, with her eyes downcast, she looked like she was attending a funeral.

  Her own funeral.

  I sat up straight in my high-backed chair and surveyed the courtroom gallery, trying to get a feel for the panel we’d summoned by random selection.

  Lord have mercy. Prospective jurors were crammed into my courtroom, elbow to elbow, hip to hip. We’d summoned two hundred prospective jurors to the courthouse that morning. Ross had packed about a hundred into the courtroom—a tight squeeze. The remainder waited outside: in the hallways, the basement, any place they could find an empty chair.

  There is a set of jury instructions, statements of law and procedure, that the judge is required to read aloud to the jurors, or prospective jurors, at designated times.

  “Good morning, y’all. I surely appreciate you coming to the courthouse this morning in response to your call for jury duty. We’re set to try a criminal case. The State of Alabama has charged Bria Gaines with the Class A felony of performing an abortion. The case will be tried by a jury. And that’s why y’all have been called in. Our justice system can’t function without your participation and cooperation.”

  Some of my lines are written ahead of time. Doesn’t mean I can’t add my own two cents.

  Time to walk around, I thought. The citizens were restless, nervous, edgy. I needed to put them at ease. Otherwise, we’d never find twelve people who were willing to stick around for the trial. Plus two extras, just in case.

  Rising, I left the bench and walked down the center aisle that divides the spectator area in half.

  “I’m Judge Mary Stone. For the past six years, I’ve served Bullock County as circuit judge. Let me fill you in on my job in this courtroom. It’s my responsibility to make sure this case is handled fairly. There are two sides in this criminal case: the prosecution and the defense. Just so you know, my role here isn’t to make either side happy.”

  A pair of young people—one man, one woman—exchanged a look when I made that claim. Then the woman rolled her eyes.

  The hell? I paused, waited for her to focus on me. Gave her a stern glare before I moved on. “My role—my only role, you might even call it my obsession—is to ensure a fair trial. To protect the rights of the parties and see to it that the law and procedure are followed. And that’s precisely what I’m going to do.”

  I’d reached the back of the courtroom, near the closed doors. When I turned to face them, most folks had shifted around in their seats, or peered over their shoulders, to see what I was doing.

  Good. Loosened them up a little.

  Next job: Loosen up their tongues.

  “To have a fair trial, we’re going to need to pick a jury. And we’ll be asking questions to help us do that job. I’ll make inquiries. I get to go first; one of the perks of being a judge, right?”

  Pause for a chuckle. It got a small laugh, which was fine. I wasn’t trying to bring the house down; this wasn’t stand-up comedy. A woman’s life was at stake.

  “The DA and the defendant’s attorney will have the opportunity to ask questions, too. It will take a while, so let’s all settle in. Try to get comfortable. I know those wooden benches are pretty hard. You’d think after a hundred and fifty years, somebody would’ve thought about padding the seats.”

  Another chuckle followed me as I returned to the bench. Instructed the potential jurors regarding voir dire. Placed them under oath. The questions began.

  “I’ll start. I’ve already introduced myself. The State is represented by the DA, Robert Reeves, and Assistant Attorney General Eleanor Lindquist. Anybody in this room acquainted with the DA, or his co-counsel? Or related to them?”

  We lost some panelists. No surprise there. Reeves was a native of Union Springs. A distant cousin of Reeves was in the room. I excused her immediately. Some neighbors, people who knew Reeves from school, and others who knew his wife. Four guys sitting together, from Reeves’s weekly men’s prayer breakfast group. Good God, I thought—what were the odds of that? I almost said it out loud.

  No one claimed to know Eleanor Lindquist. Same with Benjamin Meyers, the defense attorney from Atlanta. But the defendant herself—a different matter. A couple dozen hands went up.

  I called on the nearest one first: a man seated in the second row. “Yes, sir? Your name, please. And the number you were assigned.”

  “Judge, I’m Abram Wagoner. They gave me the number 17.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wagoner. How are you acquainted with the defendant, Dr. Gaines?”

  He wore a conflicted expression. “She wasn’t my doctor. It was my wife, Charlaine. I took her to see Dr. Gaines two or three times before she passed.”

  I nodded. “So sorry for your loss, Mr. Wagoner.” Watched him as he cut a quick look in Dr. Gaines’s direction. She had turned in her seat and faced him. I couldn’t see her expression.

  I said, “Mr. Wagoner, will the fact that Dr. Gaines cared for your wife keep you from being fair and impartial as a juror in this trial?”

  “I don’t know. The doctor was mighty good to my wife. Done more for her than anyone else around here.”

  The DA was on his feet. “Your Honor, the State requests that juror number 17 be removed. Clearly, he can’t serve.”

  I hated to let him go. “Mr. Wagoner. If I instruct you to listen to the evidence presented in this case and base your verdict solely on the evidence presented in court—because that’s what the law requires—are you saying you absolutely would not be able to follow the instructions of the court?”

  He grimaced, clearly distressed. “I just don’t know.”

  Reeves was already moving my way. “Request to approach the bench, Your Honor.”

  I waved the lawyers forward. Reeves and Lindquist duked it out with Meyers, in whispers, while the court reporter hunched beside them, taking down every word.

  At their insistence, we had to drag number 17 to the bench for further questioning. By the time we were done, Mr. Wagoner was so confused he could barely recall his own name.

  I didn’t excuse him at that point. Figured if I let Wagoner get away, there would be a run for the door, and we’d lose the entire panel.

  As the man returned to his seat, I gave the courtroom a tight smile. “Let’s continue, y’all. Refreshing your recollection! The question before you is: Does anyone on this panel know Dr. Gaines personally?”

  The hands shot up this time. Twice as many waved in the air. Four dozen, maybe. Almost half of the room.

  For the first time, I experienced a panic of self-doubt. Maybe I’d made a mistake. I should have let another judge handle it, let the case go to Montgomery or Birmingham, like the DA had suggested. Keeping it in Bullock County would come at a price.

  And that price would be paid by Dr. Bria Gaines.

  CHAPTER

  55

  We broke for lunch shortly after twelve o’clock. Barely three hours into jury selection, and I was already mortally exhausted.

  The panelists were dropping like flies. All kinds—Black, white, old, young, male, female. They were snatching at any pretext to be excused from serving on that jury.

  Most folks fell into that category: people intent on escape. But I’d picked up on a handful that leaned to the other extreme. Citizens who desperately, fervently wanted to be on the jury. Were overly eager to serve. They had an axe to grind. It was clear to me that they’d already made up their minds, before a shred of evidence had been presented in court. They were determined to snare a seat in the jury box.

  I wanted those people gone. They had no business taking part in the case. I couldn’t entrust them with any power over a jury verdict.

  It was a relief to see the clock tick past twelve. I declared a recess, sent them all away for an hour. Hopefully, they’d be able to get some lunch and be back on time. We didn’t have a wealth of dining options in Union Springs, and the streets of town were teeming with people.

  I’d anticipated that. Thought ahead and brought my own lunch. I had tossed a couple of hard-boiled eggs into a Rubbermaid container, with an apple and a hunk of cheese. Put that in a grocery bag with two cans of Diet Coke. I was really looking forward to popping a silver can.

  I’d barely had time to pull the makeshift meal from the mini fridge I kept in the corner of my office when the door opened. A full camera crew marched into chambers, led by my sister Nellie.

  Nellie greeted me with a breezy “Hey, Mary.”

  “Nellie!” My voice was sharp. “What are you doing back here?”

  The smile dropped right off her face. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re doing the photo shoot.”

  “What photo shoot?”

  She scuttled around my desk, like she wanted us to speak privately, without being overheard. “The one we’ve talked about for the last six months. You’ve got to have a TV ad. You know your opponent will. I heard he’s already buying up time slots during the evening news hour.”

  It came to me, then: my campaign. Nellie was right, we’d discussed campaign materials. Just conversation, thus far, about TV, direct mailings, some billboards on the highway. Yard signs. We’d need film to get them made. A photographer, a crew. But today?

  “Your timing is way off, Nellie. We’re picking the jury for the Gaines trial.”

  Nellie grabbed my robe from the coatrack, shook it out. “Actually, the timing is fortuitous. Couldn’t be better. Kenny and his crew, they’re freelance. They’re at the courthouse today to get trial footage to sell. So they have time to work you in, right now.”

  I let her help me into the robe and zip it up. She dabbed at my forehead with a tissue.

  “You got lipstick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Purse or desk?”

  “Both.”

  I watched as Nellie pulled my desk drawer open with a jerk. Two lipsticks rattled in the pen tray.

  She grabbed one, pulled the top off, squinted down the tube. “This will work. It’s a matte, nice natural tone. You don’t want anything too bright, too wet. Gotta look dignified.”

  I didn’t argue. Partly because she was right. I needed the footage. I didn’t want to look flashy. And the faster we could get around to it, the sooner they’d all leave. I wanted to eat a hard-boiled egg and wash it down with aspartame.

  At Nellie’s direction, I sat at the bench. The photographer tinkered with the lighting while Nellie worked on my hair. The commercial director walked up to the bench and handed a file off to me.

  “Smile!” A young woman was snapping still pictures with a Canon.

  I did try to smile but suspected I had a caught in the headlights expression.

  I was still gripping the file folder I’d been given. I opened it, curious to see what it contained. In truth, I expected to see a bill for services rendered.

  But no. It contained a short script. I quickly scanned the lines.

  Slapped that file down on the bench. With Nellie’s brush tugging at my scalp, I was close to losing my cool.

  “What the hell?” I lifted the page, read aloud. “‘I’m Judge Stone, and I’m tough on crime.’ Who came up with that? It sounds like I’m the county DA’s puppet! It’s not accurate, you understand me? Because I’m tough on everybody. Everyone! That’s what I intend to say.”

  The director squinted through round tortoiseshell glasses. “Judge, I seriously advise you to just go along. Deliver the script exactly as it was written. Okay?” He waved Nellie away, saying, “Hair’s fine. She looks good. Let’s see if we can get this on the first take. Judge Stone, are you ready?”

  “No. Not ready for this.”

  Off somewhere to the side, Nellie groaned. I kept my gaze on the man in charge of the ad. “I prefer to be authentic. That’s how I want to proceed with this.”

  He gave me a sad kind of smile. “But do you want to win, Judge? Be reelected? If so, you need to go with the script. Just read it aloud.”

  “I don’t think you know me very well.” I was about to say more. He cut me off.

  “Maybe not, but I know about political ads. If you want to keep your job, you need to show your support for law-and-order constituents. Businesspeople, property owners. Criminals don’t vote, you know what I’m saying? You’re going to need the endorsement of the chamber of commerce. You can’t win this race without it. In local elections, they control the votes and the money.”

  I should’ve eaten that apple. Maybe if my blood sugar had been stable, I’d have held on to my temper and controlled my tongue.

  Because I slapped both hands on the bench and said, “Fuck that. People in this county know me. I’m running on my record.”

  I tore the script in two before walking off the bench and back into chambers.

  CHAPTER

  56

  Picking a jury is damned hard work.

  The process took three days. Over that time, we examined most of the prospective jurors we’d summoned to the courthouse. I asked questions. I gave the attorneys for the prosecution and the defense the opportunity to inquire.

  We directed the questions to the group as a whole. When it was necessary, we examined jurors individually, separate and apart from the others.

  I was careful to listen to the panelists, to take a reasonable approach. If they were sick, or infirm, or had pressing reasons to bow out, I let them go. If they had attitudes inconsistent with an open mind—people who believed, for example, that a person charged with a crime must be guilty of something—I dismissed them for cause. If they’d already made up their minds and wouldn’t base a verdict on the evidence alone, I showed them the door.