“Specifically, what outcomes are we talking about?”

  “Well, let’s see. A girl under fifteen, she’d be more likely to suffer from eclampsia. More likelihood of preterm birth—having the baby prematurely. Low-birth-weight infants. Greater likelihood of mortality of the mother.”

  “Just to be clear here, because we’re not all accustomed to medical terminology—a thirteen-year-old pregnant girl is more likely to have a serious health risk, or to die from carrying the pregnancy to term. Correct?”

  The doctor wiped his bald head. “Correct.”

  There was a furious exchange of whispers going on at the prosecution table. The DA was fighting with his co-counsel about something, undoubtedly unhappy over the direction of the cross-ex of their witness. Well, my mama used to say: Tell the truth and shame the devil. I was proud of Doc Thompson for refusing to lie for the DA.

  I was letting the doctor’s answer sink in, register with the jury, when I heard the crash.

  I could hardly believe my own eyes, but I saw it happen. On the left side of the gallery, people shrieked and shouted. They jumped from their seats, brushing glass particles from their clothes, shaking them from their hair.

  The source of the broken glass came as such a shock. Someone outside the courthouse had thrown a brick through the courtroom window.

  CHAPTER

  62

  I sat at the bench, doing my damnedest to stifle my impatience. The janitorial team was giving the task their best effort. They’d swept the broken glass away, wiped it off the wooden benches. Two men were securing a sheet of plywood where the big pane of glass used to be.

  The janitors’ efforts were more commendable than the law enforcement response. Oh, I’d called Sheriff Owens immediately—right after the window was shattered. He’d sent a deputy to follow up. The deputy reported that he talked to the people outside, and many of them speculated about the identity of the troublemaker. People generally agreed that it was a young man. White, wearing a cap or hat of some type, and a KN95 face mask. Pro-lifers thought it was a pro-abortion activist. The Planned Parenthood contingent insisted that the opposite was true. But the deputy couldn’t find any hard evidence. And no one could identify the culprit who threw the brick.

  Unbelievable. Everyone on those sidewalks had a cell phone on their person. Those devices contained cameras capable of taking still photos and video. But we couldn’t run down a picture of the offender.

  The door to the courtroom opened and a white teenage boy stepped inside. “When’s court starting up?”

  I swung around in my judicial chair, inclined to snap at the intrusion. When I saw the boy in my courtroom, wearing a BCHS fleece shirt, I was confused. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “My journalism teacher sent me over here.”

  That sent a jolt of alarm through me. “What on earth for? You’re surely not putting this trial in the school paper.”

  That would be horrific for Nova Jones. The middle school also received copies of the school paper.

  “No, ma’am.” He glanced around the courtroom, like he was checking it out. “I’m covering the trial for my class project. Can I come in and sit down?”

  “No. Not right now.”

  My bailiff was sitting in a chair right outside the jury room, guarding the door. I said, “Ross, has the jury finished eating their lunch?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Judge. They’re visiting inside the jury room. I can hear it.”

  I didn’t intend to let them dawdle; I was impatient to resume the trial proceedings. The stone-thrower who’d interfered with my courtroom by breaking the window was likely feeling triumphant about his misdeeds. “Ross, you and Luna take the jurors to the restrooms. I’m going to let the lawyers know we’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

  To the high school kid, I said, “Fifteen minutes. Wait in the hallway with the other spectators.”

  I made the calls myself, since Luna was tied up with the jurors. In a quarter of an hour, we were all back in place. I’d hoped that the head count in the spectators’ section would be reduced, that the citizens might be inconvenienced by the delay and move along with their lives.

  Sad to say, that wasn’t the case. The courtroom was at full capacity, every seat taken. That white boy in the school sweatshirt had found a spot; he managed to squeeze in at the far end of a bench.

  Once we were back in trial, the DA called Deputy Wallace Greismer to the stand. After the deputy was sworn in, the DA plucked an exhibit off his counsel table. Something on paper, with multiple letter-sized sheets stapled together.

  The DA cleared his throat. The sound served as an alert; it was a nervous tic of his. I edged forward on my seat, wondering what trick he’d try to pull.

  The DA said, “Deputy, I’m handing you State’s Exhibit number 9. Can you identify it, please?”

  The deputy took the exhibit and briefly leafed through the pages. “It’s a witness statement. Taken from Cocheta Bass.”

  Benjamin Meyers was on his feet. “Whoa! This is clearly improper. Your Honor, may we approach?”

  “You may.” As Benjamin Meyers and Robert Reeves came to the bench, the court reporter positioned herself so that she could hear the conference.

  Benjamin Meyers dropped his voice. “Judge, I suspect the DA is trying to slide a written witness statement from Cocheta Bass into evidence. The late Ms. Bass was a school nurse at the middle school in Union Springs. What Mr. Reeves wants to do is a blatant violation of the hearsay rule. The prosecution has prejudiced my client by even making reference to the document.”

  “Mr. Reeves?”

  “Judge, I would argue that the statement must be admitted in Cocheta Bass’s absence. The witness is unavailable. You understand that, right, Meyers? The woman is dead. She can’t testify.”

  I broke into the spat. “Let me see the exhibit.”

  Reeves retrieved the statement from the deputy and handed it to me. It was fairly lengthy. A question jumped out at me: the deputy asking the school nurse to describe “the abortion plot.”

  I flipped to the last page. “This is an ordinary witness statement. Not a sworn affidavit or a deposition.”

  Benjamin Meyers said, “That’s my point, Your Honor. The defense was not present. There was no opportunity for cross-examination. There’s a Sixth Amendment problem here, a constitutional issue. My client has the right to confront and cross-examine the witnesses against her. But Cocheta Bass isn’t available for cross-examination now, and the defense was not present when this statement was taken.”

  “Counsel for defendant is correct on this issue. The objection is sustained,” I said. I offered the stapled statement back to the DA. He snatched it from my hand.

  “You sure you don’t want to reconsider, Judge? This is the evidence that corroborates the testimony of Nova Jones. Without this statement, the case falls entirely on a child’s shoulders. That’s a rough burden to bear.” He lifted his own shoulders in a shrug. “Hope you’re comfortable with the position you’re putting the girl in.”

  There—he’d done it again. Pissed me off, trying to paint me as the oppressor.

  I was barely able to keep my voice down as I responded. “Don’t you go blaming the weaknesses of your case on me, Mr. Reeves. And don’t you dare lay your shortcomings on your thirteen-year-old witness—or the defense, either. You were scheduled to hold a preliminary hearing in this case months ago, which would have preserved your witnesses’ testimony. Cocheta Bass would’ve been available to testify under oath, and subject to cross-examination by the defense. But you persuaded the defendant’s original attorney to waive the hearing. That’s on you, Mr. DA.”

  I dismissed them from the bench with a wave of my hand. To the jury, I smiled and said, “Y’all, I apologize for taking so long up here. You’ll disregard the DA’s last question of the deputy. The defense objection is sustained.”

  “No further questions.” He sounded as snippy as a teenage girl.

  I excused the deputy. As he marched out of court, the DA turned his back to me. He walked to the prosecution counsel table and commenced a whispered consultation with his co-counsel.

  I let it go on for a minute or so. At length, I had to interrupt their private conference.

  “Mr. Reeves, Ms. Lindquist? Is the State ready to proceed?”

  Reeves straightened up. Returned to his seat. And then his face lit up with a smarmy grin. In an artificial tone of courtesy, he said, “We’re ready, Your Honor.”

  Something about the look in his eyes gave me a chill.

  CHAPTER

  63

  You may call your next witness,” I said.

  Assistant Attorney General Eleanor Lindquist rose from her seat at the prosecution counsel table. She’d switched up her look—no business suit that day. Instead, the woman wore a royal blue belted dress with a double row of bright brass buttons adorning the front, from the collar to the conservative hemline. Made her look more approachable than the drab gray and navy suits. And the dress would photograph well.

  Back in my trial practice era, I had to wrestle with those wardrobe issues. Those days were in the past. The black judicial robe I wore spared me all those decisions. Saved a whole lot of my valuable time.

  The AAG said, “The State calls Nova Jones to the witness stand.”

  My bailiff was in position at the far end of the courtroom. He pushed the door open, took a step into the hall. “Nova Jones!”

  I fixed my face, schooled my features. I was worried about that girl. Concerned about the impact the testimony would have on her emotionally. It was hard enough to live through the experience. And now the child would be required to relive it in a huge roomful of people. Hanging on every word and judging her actions. But I didn’t want to convey that. If Nova Jones walked into court and saw my face all twisted up with sorrow and dread, like I was anticipating a bloodbath, it would scare the child.

  I was the judge of this courtroom. I needed to project calm. To help her remain calm.

  She stepped through the door and froze, right in the back of the courtroom. Because it seemed like everyone in the gallery had twisted around in their seats to get a look at her.

  I could see it in her face; she wanted to turn and run. So I stood up, waved her forward.

  “Good morning, Miss Jones! We appreciate you coming to the courthouse today. I expect this is your first time in a court of law. You’re going to come up here and sit in this chair.”

  I pointed at it. And repeated: “You’ll sit up here, right by me.”

  Lindquist, the AAG, was staring at me with a bright, brittle smile. Looked irate. Like I’d stolen her part, by speaking the lines she’d rehearsed for the show.

  My bailiff was speaking to Nova, urging her to walk on down and take the stand.

  For a moment, I thought she might bolt. I could see it in her eyes. It’s happened before, in my courtroom. In an incest case. The little girl took one step inside before she turned and fled. We ultimately had to use video testimony. Which is tricky in Bullock County. We’re low-tech. And there’s the Sixth Amendment to consider. The Confrontation Clause.

  I was thinking of the Sixth as I watched Nova slowly make her way to the bench. She was required to relate the details of her trauma to all these strangers, and she’d have to tell her story directly in front of Dr. Gaines. That was sure to be hard on the girl, a brutal experience. And then they’d order Nova to point the doctor out in court, identify her for the record.

  Finally, Nova arrived in front of the bench. When she looked up at me, I said, “Miss Jones, you’ll need to promise to tell the truth in court. Everyone has to do that. The clerk will administer the oath.”

  Lindquist spoke up. “Judge? I thought I’d ask a few questions first. To, you know, demonstrate her comprehension of the oath. Show the court that she understands the significance of sworn testimony.”

  I exchanged a glance with Meyers at the defense table. He remained silent. “Ms. Lindquist, the defense hasn’t raised an objection to Miss Jones’s competence as a witness. She’s not a child. The witness is thirteen years old, is that correct?”

  Lindquist was still smiling, displaying a shiny mouthful of teeth. “Yes, thirteen, Your Honor. Just a brief exam. For the jury’s benefit.”

  I looked back at Meyers. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. No objection, then. I thought he might accuse the State of trying to bootstrap their witness’s credibility.

  “Ms. Lindquist, I want the record to be clear. The court has not required this demonstration. But the defense does not object to it. All right, then, you can proceed.”

  I turned my attention to Nova. Made sure my voice was warm when I spoke. “Go ahead and sit in that empty chair, Miss Jones. Up here on the stand, by me. You’re going to answer some questions before you take the oath.”

  Nova ducked her head as she stepped onto the witness stand. When she sat, she grabbed the arms of the chair and held on tight.

  In a bright voice, the AAG said, “Good morning! Nova, I’m going to ask you questions about telling the truth. Can you look up, please?”

  Nova raised her head. Her mouth was trembling. I wanted to reach out, wrap her in a hug, like I’d do if one of my nieces was in that kind of state, upset and scared and shaking.

  The lawyer said, “Nova, when people testify in court, they make a promise to tell the truth. Do you know what that means?”

  I saw her release the arms of the chair. She slipped her hands under her thighs, hiding them from view. “Uh-huh.”

  “So you know the difference between the truth and a lie?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her voice was so soft, the jurors might not be able to hear her. I said, “Can you speak up, Nova? I know it’s hard, but those folks in the jury box want to hear what you have to say.”

  She nodded. Repeated it. “I know the difference.”

  Lindquist said, “Is it wrong to tell a lie, Nova?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  The AAG mimed placing one hand on a Bible and raising the other. “Nova, some people put their hand on a Bible to swear to tell the truth. Are you familiar with the Bible?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you go to church?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Victory Baptist.”

  This line of inquiry was spinning out of control. “Ms. Lindquist, it feels like you’re rehabilitating a witness who hasn’t even testified yet. Where are you going with this?”

  Lindquist resented the interruption. Her eyes were chilly as she regarded me. “Just a couple more, Judge. Nova! Does the Bible say it’s wrong to tell a lie?”

  “It’s false witness.”

  The girl was demonstrating biblical knowledge that a lot of people lack. But the questions weren’t making her more comfortable with the witness chair. She swayed to one side and had to grip the arm of the chair again. I feared she was in danger of passing out.

  “I’m cutting this off, Ms. Lindquist.” To Nova, I said, “You feeling all right, Miss Nova?”

  She blinked rapidly, turned to face me. The girl was breathing fast. I could see the fabric of her T-shirt move in time with her heartbeat, like her heart was pounding so hard it wanted to jump outside her chest.

  “Miss Nova, talk to me. Are you feeling faint?”

  She clenched her jaw, didn’t speak. But she shook her head.

  I said, “You sure? I can recess. We can start over again when you feel up to it.”

  The look of despair she gave me spoke more eloquently than words. She would never feel up to it.

  So we needed to proceed, then. I spoke briskly, like it was an ordinary case. “Administer the oath to the witness, please. She’s demonstrated that she understands what it means.”

  Luna stepped up to her. “Raise your right hand, please,” she said. “Do you swear or affirm that you will tell the truth?”

  “I do,” Nova said. She dropped her hand into her lap.

  Eleanor Lindquist picked up a legal pad from the counsel table and positioned herself directly in front of Nova, so the jury could see them both. “Nova, please state your age.”

  “Thirteen.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “Magnolia Apartments. 416 South Street, Union Springs, Alabama.”

  “Nova, did you learn that you were pregnant in the past year?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A direct jump to the heart of the issue. I was surprised that she dispensed with the buildup.

  “How’d you find out?”

  I could see Nova swallow before she answered. Wished I had a bottle of water from my chambers; her mouth was probably dry.

  “The nurse at school. Miss Cocheta. I kept on having to go to her office, because I didn’t feel good. Sometimes I was sick to my stomach. She thought it was a bug at first, a stomach thing. Then she figured it out.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She gave me a test, the kind you take into the bathroom.”

  Nova glanced up at me. I suspected she wasn’t comfortable explaining that she had to pee on the test stick. I gave her a nod, to encourage her to continue.

  Lindquist said, “What happened with the test?”

  “There were two lines. Two lines meant you were pregnant.”

  “Did you know you were pregnant? Before you took the test?”

  Nova shook her head. She was quiet for so long I thought I’d have to tell her to speak up. Finally, she said, “I didn’t want to think about it.”

  “But you knew there was a chance, right? Because you’d been to a party a few months prior. Where the partying got out of control. Right?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Lindquist waited. Walked closer to the stand. “Didn’t you go to a party and have too much to drink? And end up in a car with an older boy?”

  “Objection! Leading,” Benjamin Meyers said.

  I paused for a beat. But he was right, the objection was valid. “Sustained.”