“Oh, Judge. You know I can’t reveal that. We have to protect whistleblowers. It’s important, we believe, or they’d never come forward. But that’s not the point.”

  “It’s not?” I sounded deadly. Scary.

  “The significance of this document is obvious. It demonstrates that you absolutely cannot preside over the case. You can’t be a fair and impartial judge for both sides in this matter. Because you had an abortion yourself. In your twenties. Which you did not disclose to the parties.”

  My eyes dropped to the document. It was the record from the abortion clinic I’d gone to in Birmingham. Even all those years ago, when Roe v. Wade was the law of the land, it wasn’t easy to find professionals willing to perform the procedure. Not in the Deep South. Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana had a scant handful of clinics between them.

  The AAG was talking to me, using an urgent, persuasive tone. “My boss says we can keep this a secret. Really, Dick gives his word on that. No press conference, no leaks whatsoever. There’s no reason why the public has to know about it. You just step away from the case. In light of yesterday’s attack, no one will question the decision. Announce your recusal today.”

  I picked up the record. Gave it a final look before I slid it back across the desk. “The AG and I go way back. I practiced criminal defense in the state capital at the same time your boss served as DA of that district. When Dick Winston was rising in the political ranks. His hands are filthy. Does that surprise you?”

  The phony look of sympathy dropped from the woman’s face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, come on. I bet you’ve heard it. Seen it. When Winston was a prosecutor in Montgomery, he sexually harassed his employees. Secretaries. Interns. Assistant DAs. Women in the circuit clerk’s office. The man was a menace.”

  She’d gone pale, her face white as chalk. I kept on talking.

  “One of the women came to me about it, asking for legal advice. She had a tape recording she’d made. Alabama is a one-party consent state for recording a conversation. You’re aware of that.”

  She gave me a stiff nod.

  I continued, “I met up with him at a bar. We had a few drinks before I confronted him. He made damaging admissions. That man never could hold his liquor.”

  I tipped back in the chair to ease the pressure on my tailbone, grateful that my sister wore queen-size jeans. “I recorded that conversation. Still have it, even though my client decided against bringing suit.”

  Lindquist couldn’t meet my eye. I observed that she didn’t register shock or surprise. Didn’t defend Winston against the accusation. So he was still playing the same game, in a position where he had even more power, and a larger staff.

  I kept my eyes trained on her. That was when I knew. I should’ve realized it sooner.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “He did it to you.”

  She didn’t deny it. Said nothing at all.

  “Son of a bitch.” I shook my head. Hating the man for all kinds of reasons. Resenting that I had to feel sorry for the white woman in my office who’d come in there to blackmail me.

  “I’m not trying to push you into confiding in me, Ms. Lindquist. Keep it in your heart, if you prefer. Women been doing that since the dawn of time. But about this.”

  I reached for the medical document again and smoothed the paper on the desktop. “Here’s my message back to y’all. You want to expose me? With this piece of paper? There was nothing illegal about the abortion I got, years ago. I had a constitutional right of privacy to get the procedure done. But your boss? The dirt I have on him will get him disbarred.”

  She snatched the paper off the desk, shoved it in the file folder. Didn’t meet my eye as she headed for the door.

  And she left without speaking a word.

  CHAPTER

  74

  Presiding at the bench that day, I was in rough shape.

  Sitting on a broken tailbone was no picnic. Dr. Thompson told me the night before that it was a miracle that my only fracture was a broken coccyx. He had remarked that I was lucky—that chorus again, telling me to count my blessings, it could’ve been worse.

  He said there’s nothing you can do medically for a fractured coccyx. He handed me an Rx for oxycodone, which was still in the bottom of my purse. Told me to sit on an ice pack.

  Right.

  I was sitting in my usual seat behind the bench. Not the hardest surface I’ve perched upon, but it felt unforgiving that day. No ice pack, I’d disregarded that medical advice. I didn’t intend to make that walk from the bench into chambers looking like I’d wet myself. An ice pack would surely make a wet spot on the back of my robe.

  The defense was presenting their case, starting with an expert who flew in from out of state to testify—another reason for me to show up and tough it out. Benjamin Meyers had called Dr. Steinfeld to the witness stand as his first witness. The doctor was a female OB from Virginia with an impressive résumé. During direct examination, she’d outlined a clear description of the health risks of pregnancy for adolescent girls.

  Benjamin Meyers said, “Dr. Steinfeld, you’ve testified that teenagers have higher risks of eclampsia, puerperal endometritis, and systemic infections than women over twenty, is that correct?”

  “Yes. That’s well established in the literature.”

  “Can you describe these complications in everyday terms, for the benefit of the jury?”

  The doctor explained the perils in plain language. I checked out the jury. They were paying attention.

  “Dr. Steinfeld, for a female pregnant at the age of twelve or thirteen, are there any additional dangers?”

  “Certainly. Pregnancy and childbirth at such an early age is especially dangerous, for both the adolescent mother and for the infant. The pregnant adolescent of twelve or thirteen is at a greater risk of death or disease due to varied causes. Bleeding during pregnancy, hemorrhage. Toxemia. When a child of twelve or thirteen gives birth, labor is prolonged and difficult. What am I forgetting? Oh—severe anemia, that’s more likely. And young adolescents are five times more likely to have eclampsia than older teens.”

  “In your opinion, are the conditions you’ve described severe risks to the health of the pregnant adolescent?”

  “They are. And there are risks to mental health as well. Greater likelihood of postpartum depression and suicidal ideation.”

  “What are the risks to the infant born to a mother who’s twelve or thirteen?”

  The witness was solemn as she turned to face the jury. “Much higher risks of prematurity. Of birth defects. Low birth weight. And neonatal mortality.”

  Meyers wrapped it up pretty fast after that. I caught him exchanging a satisfied look with Bria Gaines at the counsel table; their expert had performed well on the stand.

  I said, “The prosecution may inquire.”

  The DA stood up, stepped around the counsel table. “Doctor, you just testified that a baby born to an adolescent mother has a higher risk of death. Correct? Higher risk of mortality?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “That is a well-established fact.”

  “But let’s get something straight. If a doctor aborts the baby of an adolescent mother—that increases the risk of death all the way up to 100 percent! Am I wrong about that? Because the abortion kills that baby. Correct?”

  The doctor paused, frowning. “I would take issue with the characterization inherent in your question. You refer to the unborn fetus as a baby. An abortion terminates a pregnancy, it doesn’t kill a human baby.”

  Robert Reeves did a turnaround for the benefit of the whole audience: jury, spectators, his co-counsel. So that they could see the incredulous expression he wore.

  “So you don’t think a pregnant woman has a baby in there—is that right? When my wife was nine months pregnant—because she delivered ten days past her due date—she didn’t have a baby in her womb? That’s what you’re saying? Because my wife sure thought she did.”

  “Objection, argumentative,” Meyers called out.

  “Sustained,” I said.

  Dr. Steinfeld answered, despite my ruling. “It was a fetus. Until the pregnant woman gives birth, she carries a fetus.”

  Reeves rubbed the back of his neck. He was heating up—literally—just as I’ve seen him do in court for years. “Doctor, when you told us all of your education and experience, you left something out, didn’t you? You’ve worked for Planned Parenthood up in Massachusetts, isn’t that right?”

  Someone in the jury gasped. The DA had struck a nerve, scored for his side. There are folks in Alabama who think Planned Parenthood is the devil incarnate.

  And plenty of other people who support their work. A white man in the gallery with longish black hair unfolded a sign and lifted it over his head. In bold black print on a pink background, it read SAVE BRIA GAINES.

  In the blink of an eye, my courtroom was out of control again. A woman sitting in the row ahead of the sign bearer grabbed the banner and tried to tear it into pieces.

  “Ross!” I called, but he was already on the move. My bailiff and a deputy hustled the battling activists out of court, but the noise level had risen—with chatter, I guess you’d call it. I stood up, slammed my gavel. Called for order in the court.

  Stood there until the room was silent. Then I dropped back into my chair.

  Oh, Lord. I’d forgotten the tailbone. Should’ve eased into the chair. A bolt of pain ran through my backside and up my spine. I had to clench my jaw to keep from howling.

  As the cross-examination resumed, I wished I’d filled that prescription. If I had a bottle of those pills, I’d have popped a dose, and dry-swallowed right up there on the bench, in front of everyone.

  I did keep a bottle of ibuprofen for emergencies. And this certainly qualified. As the expert testified, I eased open a drawer at my right hand. The small plastic bottle was there.

  It was empty.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER

  75

  The defense had called a solid assortment of upstanding citizens from Birmingham and Montgomery to testify about Bria Gaines’s good character and professional ability. Two locals had taken the stand on her behalf, patients who literally owed their lives to her care.

  The final witness for the defense was Bria Gaines.

  I watched closely as she took the stand and testified in her own defense. After a short time, I was able to relax. She was doing a good job of it.

  That’s not always the case.

  When providing testimony in court, some folks are their own worst enemy. Even when they’re intelligent, educated. Not everyone comes across. Some get angry, act defensive. Others freeze. I’ve seen nice, amiable people get on that stand and lose their likability factor.

  And if the jury doesn’t like you, and you’re the defendant in a criminal court case? That happens. Happens a lot in criminal cases.

  When it does—you should’ve stayed in your seat at the counsel table. Let your lawyer do the talking for you. That’s what advocacy is all about.

  But Dr. Gaines was handling it. She and her attorney had a good back-and-forth on direct examination.

  “Dr. Gaines, was the Union Springs health clinic your only option for employment after completing your residency?”

  “No. I practiced in a primary care clinic in Birmingham. And I’d received offers of employment with health facilities in Alabama, Georgia, and Louisiana.”

  “Why did you decide to open a practice in Union Springs?”

  “Because I know there’s a serious shortage of health care providers in small towns and rural communities; it’s true everywhere in the US. And I can’t fix that, but I wanted to be part of the remedy by providing professional care where it’s needed most.”

  It was a good point, and she delivered it well. Not overly pious, wasn’t demanding gratitude. Just stating the facts.

  “Dr. Gaines, did you in fact perform a procedure that terminated Nova Jones’s pregnancy last spring?”

  “I did.”

  Just two words. Straightforward, no hesitation. I kept an eye on the jury. They were listening, waiting to hear more.

  “And why did you terminate her pregnancy on that date?”

  “She asked me to. Cocheta Bass—the middle school nurse, she’s deceased now—brought Nova Jones to my office. Nova asked me to help her. The help she needed was termination of pregnancy.”

  There was a hush over the courtroom. I glanced over at the spectators, making sure that no one was getting ready to raise hell.

  “Dr. Gaines, were you aware that state law in Alabama prohibits doctors from performing abortions?”

  “Yes, but there’s one exception. In the language of the statute. It says that an abortion is permitted if the doctor determines that the abortion is necessary to prevent a severe health risk to the pregnant mother. I honestly and sincerely believed that the pregnancy was a severe health risk to Nova Jones. Due to her age, her circumstances, the circumstances surrounding the very fact of her pregnancy. I still believe it was the correct action.”

  Ben Meyers turned to face the jury before he said, “No further questions.”

  Eleanor Lindquist hopped out of her chair and advanced on Dr. Gaines. Initially, it surprised me to see Lindquist come forward, rather than Reeves. I’d have assumed that the DA would want to personally conduct cross-ex of the defendant, especially before a national audience.

  But it made sense, tactically. One of the reasons Reeves had brought Lindquist on board was to eradicate the impression that the male DA was bullying a woman. When one woman cross-examines another, it improves the optics for the prosecution.

  “When you aborted Nova Jones’s baby, it wasn’t due to a medical emergency. Right?”

  “I believed there was a health risk…”

  “Answer the question, Doctor. You know the difference between a medical emergency and a health risk. Was she suffering a medical emergency?”

  The doctor took a moment before she replied. “I believed that her health—”

  “It’s a yes or no question. Was there a health emergency?”

  “In my opinion—”

  “Yes or no, Doctor!”

  “Objection!” Ben Meyers was on his feet, pointing at Eleanor Lindquist. “This line of questioning is argumentative!”

  Well, it was. “Ms. Lindquist, give the witness time to answer.”

  The AAG narrowed her eyes as she turned back to Bria Gaines.

  “So! Dr. Gaines, you were aware that your patient Nova Jones was a thirteen-year-old girl. And she was pregnant.”

  “Yes, of course I was aware of that.”

  “Did you know the circumstance of the sexual activity that resulted in the pregnancy?”

  “The rape? No, she didn’t inform me. I didn’t know any of the details.”

  “But you knew that, at her age, the law would view her as a victim of rape—regardless of the particulars.”

  “Yes. I knew that.”

  “Dr. Gaines, you’ve told this jury that you wanted to help Nova Jones, correct?”

  “Yes! That was my motivation, the reason I got involved.”

  “If you wanted to help her, why didn’t you report her sexual abuse to the police?”

  Bria looked like she had taken a punch to the gut. “I didn’t know—”

  “Didn’t know what? The particulars? You knew some male had trifled with that girl, got her pregnant! But instead of calling the police, you killed the baby and left Nova Jones in the same situation you found her in, vulnerable to abuse and unprotected! Didn’t you?”

  Dr. Gaines opened her mouth, then shut it. As if she was searching for words.

  But Lindquist was triumphant, she had her in a headlock. “You are a mandated reporter! The law settles responsibility on you, to sound the alarm when you know or suspect a child is being abused. But you didn’t make a peep! For all you knew, you sent her back for another round of sexual assault the next day!”

  “I had to choose!” Dr. Gaines said. Her voice was a desperate whisper.

  “What did you say? You had to choose? So you chose to kill a baby and send Nova out, vulnerable for more abuse, is that right?”

  She was louder when she answered. Dr. Gaines gave Lindquist a level look. “I had a choice. I could perform the abortion, or I could call law enforcement. I couldn’t do both. And if I’d called the police, they would have made her carry the pregnancy to term.”

  Lindquist paced from the witness stand to the jury box, her whole body rigid with righteous indignation. “You want these jurors to believe your heart bled for Nova! You wanted to help Nova, save Nova! But you didn’t protect her. Didn’t tell her mother, or alert a social worker, or let the DA know that a person in the community had impregnated a thirteen-year-old girl. You did nothing to prevent her from being raped again.”

  Eleanor Lindquist turned to the jury box. Huffed a humorless laugh and shook her head in disgust.

  Two of the jurors in the box turned to each other, to exchange a look. Then one of them crossed her arms on her chest.

  That meant something, definitely. But what?

  CHAPTER

  76

  STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA

  It was dusk when I pulled into the drive. I hit the brakes when Nellie ran out of the barn, waving both arms.

  Made no sense for my sister to be hanging out in the barn. She’d come to the farm that day to await the delivery of my new living quarters. And it had arrived: A single-wide mobile home with skirting and temporary stairs was already set up between the barn and the bands of yellow police tape that surrounded the burned-out shell of my ancestral home.

  I’d be living in a trailer for the time being. Despite the protests I’d received from friends and family, who believed I should be bunking with them in town. Because, as I repeatedly explained to those who tried to argue with me, I had a farm to run.

  A farm that was dragging me down. I had to admit it: I felt weary, burnt out by my family farm obligations. It felt like I was carrying the world on my shoulders. Can’t do that forever. How much longer could I manage the physical labor required in the daily grind of farm life? My back and my joints were bothering me already.