I rolled down the window as Nellie reached the car. She was all worked up and breathing hard.

  “It’s Tornado! She’s having that foal.”

  I was out of the car, fast as my battered body permitted. “Are you certain?”

  She made that face—the one that warns a person not to cross her. “I saw a tiny hoof poke out of her vulva. What do you suppose that signifies?”

  With that report, I took off for the barn. Inside, I saw Tornado pacing in her stall. Her coat was drenched with sweat.

  Nellie came up behind me. “When I saw how she was behaving, I got things ready. Mucked the stall and sprayed it with vinegar mix. Put down fresh straw.”

  I was grateful for Nellie’s help. It wasn’t my first time witnessing the foaling process, but it was Nellie’s first. I was nervous as hell.

  “The hoof, when did it poke out?”

  “I don’t know. Ten minutes ago?”

  Ten minutes was a mite too long. It worried me. “Was it a front hoof? It should be a front hoof.”

  “Damn it, Mary, I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting to see anything. Didn’t you tell me she had another week to go?”

  I thought she did. Maybe I’d missed the signs, too caught up in the Gaines trial to pay close attention.

  I pulled out my cell phone, found the vet in my contacts. It was a relief to have him pick up on the first few rings. But when he answered, I could barely hear him. I bumped up the volume.

  “Troy! It’s Mary Stone. Tornado is foaling, I need you over here!”

  There was background noise on the other end of the call. Laughter, loud talk, dinging sounds. I thought I heard him say: “Can’t get there!”

  “What?” I was shouting into the phone, determined to make him hear my end of the conversation. “Did you say you’re unavailable? We need you, Troy. She’s having that foal right now.”

  His voice was clearer.

  “It’s going to be okay, Mary. The mare knows what to do.”

  I looked down at Tornado. She had dropped to the floor of the stall and was lying on her side. I could see that she was straining, trying to push.

  “You can assist her, Mary, if she needs it. Go to the house and scrub up your arms. Then rub some lubricant all the way up your arms. You got K-Y Jelly in the house?”

  Invoking the image of the smoking remains of my family’s home made my throat tighten. I coughed to clear it. “I don’t have a house. Got water and soap out here by the barn, though.”

  “No house? What do you mean?”

  More dinging on his end, and the sound of a happy shriek. “Troy, are you sitting in a casino?”

  “It’s our thirtieth anniversary, Mary. I took Charlene to Gulfport to celebrate.”

  My luck couldn’t get much worse. The vet was down in Mississippi, way out of pocket. Probably drunk. The drinks are free in those Gulfport casinos.

  Overheard a shrill voice on his end of the call. “Troy! This is the one day of the year that your wife comes first. I swear, if you don’t hang up, I’m filing for divorce.”

  Despite his wife’s threats, Troy hadn’t hung up on me yet.

  He said, “If the foal won’t come on its own, you can help. You said one foot is out?”

  Nellie was squatting behind Tornado. She heard the vet’s question. She gave me a thumbs-up.

  “One hoof,” I said.

  “Reach in there and see if you can grab the other one.”

  In any other circumstance, I’d have been down in the straw with Tornado, doing it all myself. But the injury from the explosion inhibited my ability to move. I’d barely managed to sit in a chair all day.

  Nellie followed Troy’s instructions. “I’ve got it,” she said, her voice triumphant. She looked up at me, smiling. Then her face fell. “Oh, my God.”

  I watched my mare seize with a powerful contraction. Nellie cried out, and I stuffed the phone in my pocket.

  “Oh, Lord, Nellie. You gonna be okay?”

  If someone’s arm was going to be broken during the delivery of the foal, it should be mine.

  Nellie’s eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth open with a silent scream of agony. Then, slowly, gradually, her face cleared, eyes opened. Tornado’s contraction passed.

  Nellie pulled her arm out. She wiped the bloody fluid from her skin and gingerly felt along the forearm, assessing the injury.

  “Is it broken?”

  “No. Gonna be sore as hell though.” She heaved a weary sigh. “Mary, I’m never doing that again.”

  I couldn’t ask her to repeat it. But maybe Nellie’s assistance had done the trick.

  We watched as Tornado strained with another contraction, and the foal started to appear. The hooves first, both front feet, soles down. When the nose appeared, my heart started pounding with a mix of joy and anticipation.

  My mare kept on straining, moving that foal through the birth canal. Once the head and shoulders were out, Tornado stopped to rest.

  We were watching, waiting for nature to do its job, bring the foal the rest of the way. Tornado was taking too much time.

  “I got to make sure the airway’s not blocked,” I said.

  Nellie groaned. “You want me to blow?”

  “I’ll do it. Help me get down on my knees, Nellie.”

  It hurt, but with my sister’s assistance, I got down on the floor of the stall. Covered one of the foal’s nostrils with my hand, placed my mouth on the other and blew.

  Not a pleasant task; the foal’s head was sticky with blood. But it was effective. Once my air passed into the foal, it breathed on its own.

  Just a few strong pushes after that, and the foal was born.

  My chest tightened with emotion as Tornado sniffed the foal. Started to nuzzle it and lick it.

  “Look at that,” Nellie said. “She knows her baby.” Nellie wrapped her sticky arm around my shoulders and hugged me.

  We got on our feet and leaned on the side of the stall, watching the mare and foal form their bond.

  Within a few minutes, the foal made its first attempt to stand. Unsteady and unbalanced, it started with its hind legs, and then pushed up, one front leg at a time.

  “I believe that’s a boy,” Nellie said.

  “Looks like it,” I agreed.

  As if overwhelmed by the news, the foal fell sideways with a grunt, landing by his mother in the hay.

  Within minutes, he was up on all fours again, starting to take a few steps. After a few tries, he managed to find his mother’s udder and commenced to suckle.

  “Definitely part of our family,” Nellie said. “Gets right down to eating.”

  We laughed. It’s funny because it’s true. I nudged Nellie.

  “I was considering calling him Thunder. What do you think?”

  She scoffed. “You and those weather names. Tornado, Thunder. Foghorn.”

  Foghorn. It was the first time all day I’d thought about my rooster.

  I was quiet for a bit, contemplating that. My close call. The dangers the trial created. The uncertainty of the outcome, for everyone touched by it.

  Then Nellie spoke. “This is what I miss about the farm. Times like this. Seeing nature at work, you know what I mean?”

  I did know. Watching Tornado and her colt, it felt like I’d witnessed a miracle.

  So miracles did exist. That was a good thing.

  We’d need one in my courtroom.

  CHAPTER

  77

  BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  Counsel for the State and the defense were making their closing arguments to the jury.

  Robert Reeves kicked it off. The DA always goes first in closing, because they have the burden of proof. It’s the job of the prosecution to prove that the defendant committed the crime.

  But the DA gets the last word, too. I give the State and defense equal time for closing. In this case, thirty minutes each. But the State always has the option to reserve part of that time to make a rebuttal when the defense attorney’s argument is done. That day, Reeves was breaking it down twenty-five/five. So the DA would speak first, for twenty-five minutes. The defense would have thirty. After Benjamin Meyers completed his argument and sat down, Robert Reeves would have the last five minutes to poke holes in Meyers’s summation.

  Reeves did a reasonably good job in the initial portion of his argument. He summarized the State’s case, talked about the evidence that proved the elements of the crime. He checked off all the boxes, raised his voice a time or two, pounded his fist on the wooden lectern he stood behind. Pretty standard performance.

  Then Benjamin Meyers had his turn. He outplayed Reeves from the start. He bypassed the lectern, stood directly before the jury box. Commanded the attention of all of the jurors.

  “The prosecution, in the DA’s argument, recounted the testimony of the witnesses for the prosecution. He took twenty-five minutes to do it. But he left out some extremely significant statements. Swept past crucial pieces of this case without a mention.”

  Meyers took a step to the right, gripped the edge of the jury box. “The DA talked about the testimony of Dr. Thompson, who examined Nova Jones when she fell ill and was brought to the hospital. But the DA made no mention of the dangers that Dr. Ron Thompson, the State’s own witness, told you that Miss Jones would have faced if she’d carried that pregnancy to term. Do you remember that? Dr. Thompson said Nova Jones had a greater risk of death or disease. He cited multiple health risks. It’s in the record of his testimony!”

  He paced to the other end of the jury box, directed his argument to the people sitting there. “The same complications Thompson named were raised in the defense case by our expert witness, Dr. Steinfeld. So the State’s own evidence corroborates the defendant’s expert witness! The State’s case supports the defense we’ve raised! You heard that, ladies and gentlemen, in this very courtroom.”

  He paused, looking up at the ceiling for a couple of moments, before turning back to face the jurors. “Here’s another thing. Something curious about this case, just can’t stop thinking about this.”

  He sounded sincere, looked genuinely baffled.

  “The prosecutor, in his argument, brings up the work of the investigators. The testimony of the sheriff and his deputies, people in law enforcement. Ladies and gentlemen, those so-called investigators—the people charged to enforce the law, to serve and protect the citizens of this community? The investigation was so misguided, they failed to uncover a gang rape! At the heart of this case is a child who was raped in public by two teenage boys, in broad daylight!”

  “Objection.”

  “What kind of law enforcement is that? They’re chasing down the medical doctor who cares about the health of people living in this community! Your sheriff and DA are too busy persecuting Bria Gaines to uncover the gang rape of the child who’s their own prosecuting witness. Can’t see a violent felony happening right in front of their faces!”

  “Objection, Your Honor!”

  Both attorneys at the prosecution table were on their feet, demanding my attention.

  Eleanor Lindquist said, “Judge, this behavior of the defense is outrageous. Instruct the jury to disregard. And order defense counsel to confine his argument to the relevant facts and law.”

  Before I spoke, Benjamin Meyers swung around to confront her.

  “Relevant facts? Are you claiming that the circumstances of Nova Jones’s rape are irrelevant? You’re the ones telling this jury a phony story from the start. Who you covering for, Ms. Attorney General? How many times did you talk to that girl? How many opportunities did you have to get the truth from her?”

  He turned back to the jury box. “Do you see, ladies and gentlemen? The prosecution doesn’t care about the truth in this case.”

  “Judge Stone!” Lindquist was yelling at that point.

  “Approach the bench,” I said.

  All three lawyers stood before me. Lord almighty, emotions were running high; somebody might throw a punch any minute, and Lindquist was likely to take the first swing.

  “Basis of the State’s objection?” I said. Speaking calmly, trying to smooth this over.

  “Relevance, Your Honor. Rape doesn’t create an exception to the Alabama abortion law.”

  “Overruled. The State did mischaracterize the circumstances of Nova Jones’s pregnancy. During opening statement and in direct examination. It’s fair game for the defense to point that out.”

  “It’s also inflammatory, Your Honor,” Lindquist said. Her eyes were flashing, her dander was up. “The defense accusations have crossed the line of proper argument. I request that Benjamin Meyers be reprimanded and censured.”

  “No reprimand,” I said, still trying to remain chill. I didn’t want wild, hair-raising closing arguments from either side. They might rile up the community, unleash further violence. “Bring it down, counselors, keep your arguments civil. Confine them to the evidence and credibility of the witnesses. Apply law to the facts. Don’t go off half-cocked, Mr. Meyers.”

  Everyone returned to their respective places. Meyers switched topics, talked about Bria Gaines’s good character, her positive contributions to the community. He pointed to the expert evidence, pounding home the physical dangers of the pregnancy for a thirteen-year-old, the peril it posed for Nova.

  I interjected at the twenty-nine-minute mark. “You have one minute remaining, Mr. Meyers.”

  And he went back to the forbidden waters. “You know, the defendant in a criminal case doesn’t have the obligation to prove anything. It’s the prosecution that has the burden of proof. But in this case, the defense has proven that Dr. Bria Gaines was doing her duty toward Nova Jones when she terminated the pregnancy. You know what’s really a crime? Making that girl carry her rapist’s child. Anyone who had anything to do with that ought to be behind bars. But that doesn’t include Dr. Gaines.”

  “Time.”

  Meyers paused. Took a moment to make eye contact with everyone in the jury box before he returned to his seat.

  I said, “Mr. Reeves, you have five minutes.”

  He’d had time to recover, to collect himself. The DA returned to the wooden lectern and grasped it with both hands.

  “Some cases are complex, ladies and gentlemen. Because laws can be complicated, or the facts can be unclear.”

  He let go of the lectern. He folded his hands on the wooden surface. “This isn’t one of those cases, though. The case of State of Alabama v. Bria Gaines is simple. It’s open-and-shut.”

  Finally, he stepped away from the lectern. Slipped his hands in his pockets.

  “There’s no dispute—none—that Bria Gaines aborted the unborn child of Nova Jones at her medical office in Bullock County, Alabama.”

  He lifted both shoulders in a shrug. “Doesn’t matter how Nova came to be pregnant. Not in our state. That’s the decision made by our state legislature.”

  His voice grew testy when he said, “And no matter how they try to twist it, we all know that the abortion wasn’t performed due to a medical emergency, not as that term is defined by Alabama law.”

  I could see the back of him. His neck was fiery red. “So, ladies and gentlemen, there’s only one decision that you can legally and rightfully reach in this case. I ask that you return a verdict of guilty against Bria Gaines.”

  He stood up straight before he added, “And I want you to send a message to the community with your verdict. A message to the whole country, watching this case here in Union Springs, Alabama. Return a verdict swiftly. And recommend the maximum sentence of imprisonment.”

  He didn’t expand on just what that would be. He didn’t have to, everyone knew.

  It was imprisonment for ninety-nine years or life.

  CHAPTER

  78

  The jury was deliberating. They’d been at it for two whole days.

  Just before sending them into the jury room to deliberate, I excused the two alternates, so we had a jury of twelve to decide the case. The twelve jurors—seven women, five men; eight white and four Black—had been shut up in the jury room for so long that a languor lay over the courtroom. The DA and his co-counsel retreated to the prosecutor’s office. Bria Gaines and Benjamin Meyers remained close to the counsel table, but he’d removed his jacket, loosened his tie. She had a book with her; I couldn’t tell what it was. But whenever I was in the courtroom, I noticed she didn’t turn many pages. No surprise there. A defendant waiting for the jury verdict wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the text.

  I spent the majority of the long wait in my chambers. And because the jury’s extended deliberation afforded me the luxury, I was sitting on an ice pack, as the doctor advised.

  Luna tapped on the door and stuck her head through. “The jury has a message, Judge.”

  “A message?” I repeated.

  I pulled my robe on, zipped it up. I’d been waiting for someone to announce: We’ve got a verdict, Judge.

  Hearing that the jury had a message was a distinctly different matter.

  I stepped carefully up to my seat at the bench while Meyers pulled on his jacket. Reeves and Lindquist came running through the doorway, hurried down the aisle.

  I nodded at Ross. He walked up to the bench and handed me a folded sheet of white paper.

  I opened it, read the words. Looked up and said to the parties, “They say they’re deadlocked.”

  Bria Gaines’s eyes shut; she covered her face with one hand.

  The DA said, “The State requests to see the message, Your Honor.”

  “Certainly. I’ll read it aloud first. ‘We can’t agree on a verdict.’ It’s signed by the foreperson.”

  I handed the note to Reeves. Meyers joined him at the bench.

  “The language is clear,” I said. “There’s no indication of which way they’re split, or how many votes are on either side.”

  Reeves was back at the counsel table, consulting with Lindquist.

  Meyers had an arm around Dr. Gaines, was whispering urgently in her ear. I sent him a silent message, telling him to urge her to stay strong. The battle wasn’t lost, not yet.