Judge stone, p.32
Judge Stone,
p.32
I took my robe off the hook and slipped it over the dress I’d borrowed this morning from Jordan. I hadn’t managed to replace my wardrobe yet, so I was taking turns wearing clothes from my sisters.
I looked at the clock on the wall and paced back and forth until the minute hand moved to 10. I took a deep breath and opened the door that led from my chambers to the courtroom.
Showtime.
Ross Carr, my bailiff, called out, “All rise!” Felt like he put a little something extra into it this morning. The clerk announced the case as I stepped onto the platform behind the bench. She ended with “the Honorable Mary Stone presiding.” I realized that I was really going to miss hearing those words.
I sat down and looked out over a full gallery, dozens of people whispering in low tones. The whole town had an interest in this case, even though this was just an arraignment.
I banged my gavel. “Be seated.” The crowd settled. I looked to my left. DA Reeves stood with his hands folded in front of him. He gave me a respectful nod. Then I looked down to my right.
“We are on the record,” I said. “Will the defendant please rise.”
Reluctantly, slowly, Mason Phelps stood up. No baseball cap today. No Confederate tee. Just an ill-fitting suit and a fresh shave.
Mick Owens stood behind him alongside a court security guard. A public defender stood at the table beside him. It was Scotty Whelker. Local attorney. Former high school wrestler. Good kid. I’d known him for years.
In court, it’s customary for the clerk to read the charges. Not today. I wanted to read them myself.
I didn’t even need notes.
“The grand jury of Bullock County in the State of Alabama charges that on or about September twenty-third of this year, Mason Euell Phelps did unlawfully and with malice aforethought, deliberately and willfully take the life of Cocheta Ann Bass, in violation of Alabama Code Title 13-A.”
I paused for a few seconds to let the words sink in.
“Mr. Phelps, how do you plead?”
He gave me a sneer with his answer. “Totally not guilty.”
Immediately, Scotty Whelker jumped up. “Your Honor!”
I knew what was coming. I was fully prepared for it. “Counsel?”
“Your Honor, in light of the Court’s connection with a previous case in which the deceased was an expected witness, the defense intends to file a motion for recusal, demanding that you remove yourself from this case.”
The gallery started buzzing. I rapped my gavel.
“Mr. Whelker. I’m way ahead of you. You are absolutely correct. I knew Ms. Bass. When I heard about her death, I went to the crime scene. Saw her hanging from that tree.”
Not a whisper in the room after that announcement.
“So there is no way I can be objective in this case. No need to file a motion. I’ll make the ruling from the bench. I hereby recuse myself. The clerk will handle the paperwork. This case will be assigned to another judge.”
I could see Mason Phelps smirking as if he’d just won a big bet.
I looked right at him. “Before I adjourn, however, I have one more question for the defendant.”
Phelps shifted his feet. His smirk faded a little.
“Mr. Phelps, did you or did you not set a dynamite charge and trip wire on my property in an attempt to blow up my home with me inside it?”
Phelps went pale. The gallery went crazy.
“Your Honor!” Scotty Whelker shouted.
I held up a hand to signal the public defender. “I acknowledge, Mr. Whelker, that for me to ask that question was totally out of line. And a judge who has crossed a line must recuse herself. But I already have, you understand?”
I rapped my gavel again and pointed the mallet at the defendant. “No need to answer, Mr. Phelps,” I said. “We both know the truth.”
With that, I stood up and walked out of the courtroom. Back in my chambers, I pulled off my robe and tossed it onto a hook on the coatrack.
Dug an empty Banker’s Box from a closet. Looked around the room, wondering where to start. Which piece of my judicial career I’d toss away first. But I was frozen. Couldn’t do it, not yet. Later, I thought.
Five minutes later, I was back in my car, heading for home with the window down, country air in my face. There were plenty of good judges in the Black Belt of Alabama. I had faith that Mason Phelps would get a fair trial, and that he would soon receive the justice he deserved.
But for right now, I tried to put all that out of my mind. I was taking the rest of the day off.
I had a new foal to care for, and cattle to feed.
CHAPTER
82
STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA
It was the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November. Election Day in Alabama.
In prior weeks, I anticipated that I’d be mournful when November finally rolled around and made my judicial demise a definite outcome. Thought I’d be depressed, blue. I was about to find out whether my supposition was accurate.
I checked the time on the stove as I walked to the kitchen for a refill of ice water. It was 8 p.m.; the polls had been closed for an hour. But as I returned to that stiff new chair in the trailer’s living room, I didn’t feel blue, exactly. More like aimless. Uncertain what the future held, and what my role would be. If I wasn’t Judge Mary Stone—who the hell was I?
A familiar voice popped into my head: sounded like my friend Loucilla. You don’t base your identity on your occupation!
She’d said that to me repeatedly, particularly in recent weeks. I wasn’t convinced. It was easy for Lou to say. She was a tenured professor at the university.
I was afraid I’d start talking to myself, sitting alone in that trailer on election night. The trailer was too quiet, eerily so.
I’d turned the phone off. I didn’t want any sympathy calls. And the TV was off, too. I didn’t have cable or a dish, could only pick up local stations. And local stations would be running election results on the screen all night, on a banner during regular programming, leading up to the ten o’clock news. I was making a conscious decision to avoid the heartache of seeing the count roll in, watching my opponent win by bigger and bigger numbers.
No damn way. I’m a realist—I knew I’d lose. But I’m no masochist.
I expected that time would be hanging on my hands that night, moving slow. So I’d dragged a box of hard files home from the courthouse. I pulled a stack of manila folders out of the box and set them on one of the TV trays I used as all-purpose furnishings these days. TV trays served as dinner table, coffee table, desk, nightstand.
I was reviewing those files, trying to sort out the cases I’d try to complete before my judicial term ended in January. I was making progress, too, emptied the box about halfway, when I heard a car engine, and gravel crunching under tires.
I closed the file folder, pushed the TV tray to the side. A surge of impatience rolled through me when pounding sounded at the door. Even in defeat, they wouldn’t leave me in peace.
“Mary!” The pounding doubled in volume. I stepped up to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.
Both my sisters stood on the top step, arms around each other, like they were holding each other up.
And I thought: Oh, God, no.
CHAPTER
83
I pulled the door wide open, certain that some new catastrophe had befallen our family. “What on earth? What’s happened now? Is something the matter?”
They laughed. Laughed loud, like a couple of kids at the circus.
Jordan said, “Nothing’s the matter! But you gotta go!”
“What? Go where?”
“To the party. The watch party over at the community center, at Oak Grove Park.”
“Oh, hell no.” Waving off that suggestion, I flapped a hand in front of my face, like insects were buzzing around me. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have to!” Nellie said.
“No way. I told you. I’m staying in tonight.”
Nellie grabbed my arm. “Mary. You’re in the lead.”
Maybe I didn’t hear her right. She sounded kind of drunk. Looked it, too, to be honest. But when I sniffed her to check for alcohol, I didn’t smell anything.
“Is this some kind of joke? Are you messing with me?”
Jordan grabbed me, wrapped me in a hug. “You’re winning, Mary! Everyone in the county is there—you’ve got to see it.”
“They’re asking for you,” Nellie said. “Chanting your name.”
I was almost speechless. “My name? Bullshit,” I said.
They both broke into peals of laughter, like I was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
“Come on, Mary. Loucilla’s been calling you, we all have, can’t get you to pick up. She’s driving in from Montgomery. She’ll be at the watch party any minute. Everybody wants to talk to you!”
I let them lead me to the car. My mind was so muddled, I didn’t even stop to think about what I was wearing. Showed up at the watch party in my overalls. People didn’t seem to mind, though. When we walked in, all conversation stopped. There was an instant of silence.
And then the cheering began.
I couldn’t believe it. It sounded like a roar, bouncing off the walls of the multipurpose room. Joe Turner, the local party chair, ran up to congratulate me, shake my hand. It was dreamlike. I didn’t trust it to be the truth.
“Show me the numbers, okay?” I said. “What the secretary of state’s office is showing. And the county clerk.”
Joe pulled me over to the screen where the current results of the races were on display. They did indeed show me to be in the lead. With 45 percent of the returns counted, I was beating my opponent, 61 percent to 39 percent.
I stared at those figures, trying to get my head around the unexpected outcome. “Not possible,” I said.
Joe was ebullient. “Mary, it’s solid. We’re taking the numbers from the official websites. It’s absolutely accurate. Your lead has been consistent since the returns started rolling in.”
Squinting, I checked the voter turnout column. “But look at the voter numbers. There’s gotta be a mistake.”
“No mistake!” That was from Nellie, who’d joined us. “They’re sky-high, right? Those returns rolled in, showing that the community turned out to vote in numbers way bigger than anyone predicted. You did that, Mary! You got everybody off the couch and into the polling places today.”
“It broke a record,” the county chairman said. “We haven’t had voter turnout this high in this century.”
“More returns coming in!” somebody shouted, and the chairman ran off. People from the courthouse pushed through the crowd to say hello. The associate judge from the circuit ran up to congratulate me, said the turnout I’d instigated was helping him, too.
The room in the community center smelled of spice; a big delivery of barbecue had arrived at a food table, and they were serving up pulled pork sandwiches. Someone handed me a cold beer, and I drank it, straight from the can. In front of God and everybody.
The party got so crowded, I started to perspire, had to wipe sweat from my forehead with a paper napkin. Loucilla arrived, pushing through the crowd to hug me around the neck. And my sisters stuck close by me, leading the cheer every time a new round of numbers was posted on that screen. My lead inched up. By ten o’clock, I was staring at the new percentages—63 percent to 37 percent—when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
I turned around and saw Bria Gaines standing there, with Benjamin Meyers.
“Dr. Gaines!” I exclaimed. “And Ben Meyers. This is such a surprise, it’s nice to see you.”
There was a cheer in the room, a babble of excited voices. Bria Gaines had to speak up to be heard.
“I had to see you before I left. I want to thank you.”
I brushed it off. “No need, Dr. Gaines. I was just doing my job.”
She shook her head decisively. “Judge, I know what you did for me. The risk you took on my behalf. I’m so grateful to you. From the bottom of my heart.”
Ben Meyers shook my hand. “Congratulations on your victory, Judge. This is a monumental win. The best thing that could happen for the Third Circuit and Bullock County.”
I checked the results again, like I was afraid the lead might have disappeared. It was still hard to believe it was happening. “I got lucky this time, didn’t I?”
Bria gave me a knowing smile. “Luck? Judge, you know it’s not luck. We always have to work twice as hard—to get anything.”
The county chairman pushed through the crowd, called out to me. “Judge, you got to do an acceptance speech! The Birmingham TV news is here. Your opponent just conceded!”
Television? A speech? I was wearing overalls. “You mean right now?”
“Yes!”
Joe was pulling me away from Bria Gaines. Before the crowd swallowed her up, she waved at me, shouting, “Look me up in Chicago!” And then I was up on the makeshift stage, with white lights blinding me. The chairman’s voice blared through the speakers. “Judge Mary Stone has won reelection to her seat as circuit judge for a second term!”
Folks were whooping, applauding, stomping their feet. I was teetering once again, in danger of a crying breakdown. I didn’t let go, though. Took a deep breath. Thought about my mama. Making her proud. My people, generations of them buried in the soil of the Black Belt.
And I knew what to say.
“Friends, thank you for your support. I’m proud to serve for another six-year term. My roots are here, my heart is here. One thing you never have to doubt, that I swear to you tonight. Sitting at that bench, I’ll do everything in my power to see that justice is done in my courtroom in the state of Alabama.”
People cheered, some of them screaming at the top of their lungs.
And in the corners of the hall, I observed a few frowning faces. One man muttering something to another, with a formidable expression.
That was sobering. But I’m glad I caught it. It served as an important reminder.
In this job, I can’t make everyone happy. It would be dangerous to try.
A judge who wants to please everyone won’t bring justice to people in the Black Belt.
They need a judge who’s willing to fight.
Born and raised here, I’m as much a part of this community as the famous soil we stand upon. I understand the challenges we face; the injustices we’ve suffered. When I die, they’ll bury me on the land my great-grandfather bought, scores of years ago. That’s why I’ll never leave this place.
The people need me.
We need each other.
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Viola Davis is an internationally acclaimed actress, producer, New York Times bestselling author, and EGOT winner—only the fourth person to do so exclusively via performance-based awards. She is the cofounder of JVL Media, a full-service production/media packaging firm and independent publisher. In 2025, the Golden Globes honored her with the Cecil B. DeMille Award for “outstanding contributions to the world of entertainment.”
Davis is known for her exceptional performances, such as her Emmy-winning role in television’s How to Get Away with Murder; her Academy Award–nominated movies Doubt, The Help, and Fences (for which she received the Oscar); her Screen Actors Guild Award–winning role in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom; her two Tony Awards in theater (for Fences and King Hedley II); and as a Grammy winner for best audiobook narration and storytelling recording, for her bestselling memoir, Finding Me.
James Patterson is the most popular storyteller of our time and the creator of such unforgettable characters and series as Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Jane Smith, and Maximum Ride. He has coauthored #1 bestselling novels with Bill Clinton, Dolly Parton, and Michael Crichton, as well as collaborated on #1 bestselling nonfiction, including The Idaho Four, Walk in My Combat Boots, and Filthy Rich. Patterson has told the story of his own life in the #1 bestselling autobiography James Patterson by James Patterson. He is the recipient of an Edgar Award, ten Emmy Awards, the Literarian Award from the National Book Foundation, and the National Humanities Medal.
James Patterson, Judge Stone
