Weekly breakfast at the farm was my mama and daddy’s tradition, and I’d made it my own. In a matter of hours, there’d be a long line at the food table and every seat would be filled, with the younger folks eating on the grass, picnic style.

  Hopefully, I’d be smiling then, instead of grumbling and cussing. That was the goal. I intended to give a warm welcome to each soul who showed up. Even if we’d never met, or I’d encountered them in unhappy circumstances. In my courtroom, for instance.

  No one was ever turned away from Saturday breakfast. So long as the guests behaved themselves, they were welcome.

  If, however, they took advantage of the Stone family hospitality, well. I knew how to enforce my house rules. The rules were well-known, just common sense. No fighting, no drinking or drugs, no harassment. We didn’t see many problems, honestly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to instruct someone to leave.

  By sunrise, I had my big pots of grits and oatmeal ready, and the first three pounds of sausage patties fried and draining on paper towels. I set the burners to warm and took off for the barn.

  Foghorn chased after me, bitching like he thought I’d forgotten all about him. I tossed the seed just to hush him up. “Lazy man! Can’t you find a worm or a bug? Look around, Foghorn, you’ve got the whole yard to yourself.”

  By the time my chores were done, I exited the barn and saw both of my sisters’ cars parked on the gravel drive. With Mama and Daddy gone, there were three of us left. I was oldest, Nellie was the middle child, Jordan was the baby. When I reentered the kitchen, Nellie was standing at Jordan’s elbow, giving her grief.

  “Jordan, you’re burning that bacon. It won’t be fit to eat,” Nellie said.

  Jordan shoved Nellie aside with her hip. “Quit bossing me, Nellie.” She made a face and rolled her eyes as she turned the knob, adjusted the heat.

  I walked up and inspected the skillet. “That bacon looks fine to me.”

  “Mary, you always do that,” Nellie said, her voice rising. “Treat Jordan like a baby, even though she’s past forty. Saint Jordan could set the kitchen on fire and you’d be fine with it.”

  “That’s true. Jordan’s so much nicer than you, Nellie.”

  The three of us toiled side by side over the gas stove in the kitchen. When Jordan’s husband, Trayvone, showed up, my brother-in-law and their two girls got to work setting up tables and chairs. So by the time the battered bus from Victory Baptist rolled up the road in a cloud of exhaust, we were ready for them.

  The gears of the old bus ground together before the engine rumbled a final time. After it fell silent, the doors opened and folks climbed out of the vehicle and fanned across my yard.

  Some of them were the unhoused. In Union Springs, the homeless population consisted primarily of single men who took shelter at night in abandoned buildings. But there were also women, families, too. A lot of people came for a free meal. Members of the Baptist church arrived in their own cars, bearing dishes covered in aluminum foil, to fill out our table. And friends from town, some courthouse folks, dropped in, just to be social.

  Jordan sailed into the yard, waving an arm. “Welcome, y’all! Who needs a cup of coffee or a cold drink?”

  The last person to step off the church bus was the Reverend Curtis Erskine. He drove the vehicle, ferrying a busload of hungry people to my farm every Saturday morning.

  He stepped up to my brother-in-law, Trayvone. As the men shook hands, Nellie sidled up to me at the screen door. She said, “The rest of us grow older. But the pastor never ages a day.”

  Nellie was right. Erskine was several years older than I was. Didn’t look it. “Clean living, I reckon.”

  “Maybe that’s it. Or it could be that way he has, the charisma. Our congregation keeps growing. Church membership has doubled since you used to attend on Sundays.”

  “Good. He’s doing his job, then.” My voice was clipped. Nellie cut her eyes at me.

  “You’ve never told me why you quit going.”

  “That’s because it’s my own business.” I moved away, into the kitchen pantry, to get sugar for the oatmeal. Poured sugar from the bag into the sugar bowl and stuck a clean spoon inside.

  Walked back to the kitchen door where Nellie stood, staring out into the yard through the screen.

  Nellie made a humming noise in her throat. “Yes, ma’am, that’s one fine-looking man,” she said as she wiped her hands on the flour sack dish towel she’d tied around her waist. “His wife doesn’t deserve him. That Doreen Erskine is cold as a Popsicle. Just look at her! Acts like she’d rather be anywhere but here.”

  Through the kitchen screen, I saw Doreen Erskine. She hadn’t arrived on the bus. And she was standing away from the crowd, listening stone-faced to a small cluster of the female pillars of the Baptist church.

  My sister kept on talking about her. “Doreen’s a looker, can’t deny that. Keeps her figure. But someday, Pastor’s going to stray. Just to find communion with a warmhearted soul. I’d bet money on it. What do you think, Mary?”

  “I don’t care what the man does. He’s not my business,” I said.

  And I meant it.

  CHAPTER

  8

  The preacher never made it to the kitchen door. He was stalled midway, brought to a halt by a young woman dressed in a tight pair of well-worn jeans. When the woman buttonholed Reverend Erskine, Nellie made a scornful noise.

  She nudged me. “Mary, check her out. You see that one? Pastor would be wise to turn and run. Run for his life.”

  I did look, just to see what Nellie was going on about. The woman smiled up at Erskine, talking a mile a minute. She was laser-focused on the preacher until a child toddled up and grabbed her around the leg.

  Without looking down at the child, the woman whirled around and called out, “Nova!”

  Beside me, Nellie made a disapproving click with her tongue. “I can tell you who she’s hollering for. Nova, that’s her oldest. I see the girl at school. I’ll have her in my math class next year. She’s finishing seventh grade.”

  Nova ran up to her mother. The girl had a child in her arms, two more trailing behind her.

  Nellie kept talking as she grabbed a gallon of milk from my refrigerator and carried it back to the door. “That girl Nova looks a lot older than she is. You’d think the child was in high school, she’s so big. Really stands out. She’s taller than most of the boys.”

  The revelation stirred memories. “I was a big girl. It’s not easy.” I still recalled exactly how it felt to tower over everyone, to be the first girl to wear a bra. What it was like to explain to the teacher that I desperately needed to run to the restroom in the middle of class.

  My sister and I stood together, watching Nova peel her sibling away from her mother’s leg. Nellie said, “That mother’s still in her twenties. Has five children, no man at home. But she runs up to the church every time the pastor opens the door. What do you think about that?”

  My voice was neutral. “I don’t think I should judge.”

  Nellie’s laugh sounded like a hoot. “You judge people all day long. It’s your job.”

  Hugging the plastic milk jug, she shouldered her way through the screen door. As it banged shut, I checked the clock over the stove.

  It was past time to feed my guests. Still holding the sugar bowl, I made my way out of the house and into the yard, stopping to greet people as I passed them. We’d lucked out with the weather, had a brilliant blue sky overhead. The late March sun was just right, not too hot. People were comfortable, whether they stayed in the shade of the porch, or in the middle of the yard, or under the old birch trees laden with Spanish moss.

  As I set the sugar by the oatmeal pot, Reverend Erskine came over. “Always a pleasure to break bread at your table, Judge Mary.”

  “Thank you, Reverend. Will you lead us in prayer?”

  He did a creditable job, knew when to wrap it up. I was glad of that. Hungry people don’t appreciate a mealtime grace that runs overlong.

  Keeping dishes filled while folks went through the line was a group effort. Jordan ladled the oatmeal while Nellie served bacon and sausage and I dished up the eggs and grits. People helped themselves to biscuits, rolls, the covered dishes neighbors had shared. A separate table held a coffee urn, milk, cold water, and juice. I had to keep an eye trained on how the food was holding out. I had Jordan’s husband take my place while I ran into the kitchen for more butter and juice.

  Walking back out, I got a rush of satisfaction seeing all those folks enjoy the breakfast. Every seat on the porch was filled, and clusters of people sat on old sheets spread across the yard in the shade. I saw Nova and her mom struggling to keep all those little children corralled. The youngest was a baby who kept crawling off the sheet and into the grass.

  I walked over and scooped him up. He was a pretty boy, with eyes like buttons.

  Nova started to rise. I shook my head, to keep her seated. “You eat your breakfast, hon. I’ll hold this big boy for a bit.”

  Nova looked at her mother for permission before she sat back down and spooned up oatmeal for her little sister. I caught her looking over her shoulder, across the field. In a voice so soft I could barely catch it, she said, “You got a lot of pretty trees.”

  The dogwoods were blooming, redbuds starting to fade. I said, “It’s been a good year for dogwoods. Weather must be just right for them.”

  She looked up at me. “How’d you plant so many?”

  “Oh, honey, they grow wild on my farm. Dogwood trees have been growing here as long as I can remember.”

  The young mother spoke up. “Is she bothering you about the trees? That child is always going on about them. Showing off how she knows so much about flowers and all.”

  The woman shaded her eyes with her hand and smiled up at me. “You’re the judge, aren’t you? Judge Mary? I’m Starla Jones. These are my kids. We’ve been going to Victory Baptist, that’s how we heard about your Saturday picnic.”

  I knew every soul in that town, but I rarely encountered her. “Welcome, Starla. I’m happy y’all could come.”

  Her little boy bounced on my hip, chewing on his fist. I whispered to him, talking baby talk. Starla glanced at the child in my arms and said, “Nova, did the baby eat his cereal? I don’t want him crying in an hour.”

  Nova scurried around, looking for the little boy’s foam dish of oatmeal. I took it from her. Plopped myself down on the tattered sheet and balanced the baby in my lap.

  The girl looked hesitant, like I might not be up to the task.

  I said, “Nova, I had two little sisters. I used to feed Jordan oatmeal just like this. You sit down and eat. Do you have a plate?”

  Nova shook her head and whispered, “I don’t want any breakfast. Thank you, though.”

  Starla’s voice rose. “All this food out here, and you didn’t get nothing to eat? What’s the matter with you?”

  She answered in a voice even softer than before. “I don’t feel good, Mama.”

  “You got nothing to feel bad about. I bring you to a judge’s house, and she invited you to eat. Don’t give me any attitude. Get you a plate.”

  “I said I’m not hungry.” I could hear tears in the girl’s voice.

  “Nova, you fix your face right now.”

  Oh, Lord, I thought. Here it comes.

  Scooting sideways, I put my back to them, gave the baby another spoonful of cereal and scraped the excess off his chin. Tried to pretend I couldn’t hear Starla fussing with her daughter about breakfast.

  But it was impossible to ignore. Nova whispered, “My stomach hurts. I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re thirteen years old. You know better. You’re supposed to pee before you get on the church bus.”

  I had to intervene. “Y’all, it’s fine. Nova, you go in the house through that screen door, and the bathroom’s just beyond the kitchen.”

  Starla wanted to argue with me, but I was insistent. Nova sat unmoving on the ground, looking miserable.

  That’s where I was—sitting on the ground holding a baby—when a news van pulled into my yard. I watched the vehicle pull up within yards of my house.

  “What the hell?” I said. I should’ve watched my language. One of Starla’s children repeated it. I heard a child exclaim, “What the hell?”

  CHAPTER

  9

  I sat there in the grass, slack-jawed, as a TV team emerged from the van. The camera crew spotted me. I saw one of them point me out to a reporter before the camera turned my way.

  The reporter, a young white man, was easy to identify. He wore orange pancake makeup on his face and held a microphone as he approached the house.

  I passed the baby off to Nova and scrambled to my feet. As I hurried across the yard, I called out to the young reporter.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded.

  I could see that the camera was already taking footage, zooming in on the sunken faces of ragged men who sat on my front porch, accepting my charity. I saw one man bow his head in shame.

  My temper flared. My sisters had stepped away from the food table to watch the TV team. When I caught Nellie’s eye, her chin lifted in defiance. I marched up to her. “Now what the hell is this? Nellie! Is this your doing?”

  She didn’t deny it. “I’m trying to help you! I got a TV news team interested in doing a feature on Saturday breakfast. To help you out!”

  “Don’t help me. I don’t want it.”

  “Why are you so stubborn? This is free advertising for your reelection campaign.”

  I strode right over to the camera team. The young reporter with the mic gave me a once-over as he stepped up to greet me. “Judge Stone, I’m Reese Wilson, with WYLR in Birmingham.”

  His starched white oxford shirt was tucked into pressed khaki pants. I resisted the urge to brush food splatters from my faded T-shirt. When I gave him a tight smile, my tone was all business. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wilson. Y’all need to turn right back around. Put your equipment back in the truck. There’s no story here today. Nothing to see.”

  The camera crew looked to the reporter for guidance. When Wilson spoke, his voice carried barely a hint of his regional Southern accent, but his native arrogance hadn’t been erased.

  He said, “Really? Nothing to see? Judge, it’s right here in front of me, I can see it with my own two eyes. We were invited to do a feature on you. We drove two hours to get here.”

  I tried to keep it civil. Even though something in the young man’s face as his eyes swept over my home triggered a defensive reaction in me. “Sorry for your inconvenience, Mr. Wilson. But I didn’t invite you. And it’s my private property.”

  The reporter flatly ignored me. He turned to his crew, gestured toward the house. “Set up down there, with the porch in the background.”

  This kid had picked the wrong woman to mess with. I was mad enough to spit.

  “I’m not playing.” My voice had a hard edge. “You are trespassing. I’m ordering you to leave.”

  “You’re not serious,” he said.

  I shot a look at my breakfast guests, seated on the porch and scattered across the grass. Some of them watched the confrontation furtively, others had turned their heads away. I didn’t blame them. I wished I could turn away from it.

  I dropped my voice. “My guests deserve their privacy. I’m going to protect it. You understand me?”

  He didn’t bother to lower his voice. “You’re a public figure, an elected official. As a journalist, I’m entitled, and obligated, to cover you. I also have a lot of influence over how you’ll be perceived. You understand? I’m entitled to do this.”

  “Oh, I understand you, better than you might imagine. And one thing we agree on—you’re entitled. You’re an entitled little ass.”

  His eyes widened. I thought I heard the cameraman snicker. Maybe I imagined it.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket. Held it up. “I’ve already informed you that you’re trespassing. And I have the sheriff’s department on speed dial. Sheriff Owens is a quick responder. He’ll be out here in a flash.” The sun was in my eyes. I squinted at him, to make sure my words hit home. “Want to see me in court on Monday morning?”

  He hesitated. I gave him a moment to think it over. I would prevail, no doubt about that. The only question was how far the battle would go.

  He exchanged a glance with the cameraman. I saw the reporter curl his lip. But he’d backed down. I could sense it.

  I followed them back to the van and watched them load their equipment. I waited until they started the van up and put it in reverse. As they departed down the gravel drive, I waved at the van and called out, “Y’all drive safe!”

  When the news van disappeared, I started picking up empty plates and cups. It was time to wrap up the breakfast. If folks started leaving soon, I might have everything cleaned up around two in the afternoon.

  Not trying to blow my horn. That’s the way it’s always been on our farm. Just a typical Saturday.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Nova Jones

  UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  Nova Jones ran down the cracked concrete steps and headed across a weedy strip of green yard. She’d barely made it to the sidewalk when the door to their apartment building flew open.

  “Nova! Get back here!”

  She turned, squinted up at the figure of her mama. Mama was standing in the doorway, frowning down on her, like Nova done something wrong.

  Nova said, “You told me to go to the dollar store, Mama!”

  “You get back here and take your brother. I can’t have him underfoot.”

  Nova walked back up the steps, moving slow and dragging her feet. “He won’t mind me, Mama.”

  “You make him mind. Caden, get over here! You’re going with your sister!”

  Mama opened the door, pulled Caden through the opening. Squatting on her haunches, she shook a finger in the toddler’s face. “When you go in the store, you don’t touch nothing. You hear me?”