Nova wanted to scream. She just couldn’t do it. No way she could carry Caden all that way. She’d been cramping again, pain coming and going, and spotting blood. Dr. Bria said it might happen. Told her to come back to see her if it did. But how was Nova supposed to do that? How would she explain it to her mama?

  “Mama!” Nova’s voice rose to a whine. “I can’t carry him. It’s too far!”

  “Take the wagon!”

  Her mama pointed at an ancient toy wagon, its red body covered with a coat of rust. Nova sighed as she climbed back up the steps, picked up her brother, and carried him to the wagon.

  “Don’t you fall out,” she said, giving him a glare.

  Mama called from the door. “Don’t be lazy, pick up your feet! I don’t want to wait all day for you to get back here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “If they give you any trouble about using my EBT card, you ask for Sherree. She knows you’re just helping me out.”

  Nova kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t that easy, using Mama’s card when she wasn’t there to approve it. More than once, the women working at the store had refused, saying Nova wasn’t authorized. And how could Nova argue with that? It was Mama’s card, not hers.

  No point in fighting about it with Mama. Nova had a better chance winning an argument with the cashier at Dollar General. Mama didn’t put up with any back talk.

  She picked up the handle, gave it a pull. Her baby brother had to grab both sides of the wagon to keep from spilling out. He didn’t cry, though, didn’t complain. He crowed with laughter, giggling like a crazy boy.

  Nova smiled. It was hard to stay mad at Caden. Not his fault Mama was acting so cross.

  Not Caden’s fault that Nova was feeling bad, either. He was a sweet baby, a funny little guy. Nova loved babies. She hoped the Lord would understand that, when she stood before him on Judgment Day. God would know it wasn’t all her fault. God saw everything, so he knew what got done to her.

  Nova tugged on the wagon. She wasn’t going to think about that. Going to push that memory clean out of her head.

  She talked to Caden over her shoulder. “You want me to show you something pretty? Pretty trees and flowers?”

  He let out a happy squeal. “Pretty!”

  Her spirits lifted. She took a right at the intersection, taking the long way. So there’d be more to see.

  An old run-down house up the block had the biggest lilac bush in town. The bush sat in full sun on the corner of the property, crowding the sidewalk. No telling how old it was. When they reached it, Nova stopped the wagon. Picked her brother up and propped him on her hip.

  “See those purple flowers? That’s old-fashion lilac. Old Missy Mabel, who used to live here, she told me so. And it smell sweeter than anything.”

  She pulled a branch toward them, tickled the boy’s nose with a lilac bloom. “Smell it,” she whispered.

  He sniffed, then wrinkled his nose and rubbed it. Nova clicked her tongue, dropped him back in the wagon.

  “Boys don’t know nothing about perfume. Lilac is the sweetest thing there is.”

  As she pulled the wagon away, the boy made a grab for the bush.

  “Mine!” he cried, indignant.

  “No, Caden. That lilac ain’t ours. We got to leave it alone. These flowers belong to somebody else. We just get to look.”

  She felt a sharp twinge of discomfort in her belly. It made her pause. Felt like the cramping that had started up yesterday, when she was at the big breakfast at Missy Mary’s farm. Nova wondered whether something was bad wrong with her, maybe she should turn the wagon around and go home.

  Then an image of her mother’s face appeared in her head. She pulled the wagon onward.

  Nova stepped onto the strip of green around a telephone pole. Plucked three plants and showed them to her brother.

  “This is the plain old dandelion. Just a weed, folks say. But it’s pretty, right?”

  “Yellow.”

  “Yes! And it has a nice smell. You try it.”

  She let him hold the yellow head while she showed him another plant. “This is white clover. Grows all over, animals eat it. And I think it smells sweet, too. I’ll make you a necklace sometime. Tie the stems together. And look at this.”

  She held up a three-leafed clover. Popped it into her mouth, chewed and swallowed.

  “You can eat it! An old auntie at church told me. Clover is good for you. She said it cleans the blood.”

  Nova took the white clover and yellow dandelion back from the baby—because she knew that Caden would chew down on them, if he took the notion. “You can have all the dandelions and clover you want. They’re wild, see?”

  She picked up the handle, started pulling the wagon again. Noted the pink and white dogwoods, still in full bloom. Cornus florida.

  Nova learned the fancy name for dogwoods when she looked it up on the computer at school. They’d always been her very favorite trees, as long as she could remember. Judge Mary had lots of dogwoods. It made Nova happy, knowing that they grew wild at Missy Mary’s farm. If Nova could find a wild dogwood, she’d break off a blooming branch, put it in a jar of water by her bed. Her very own sprig of flowers and green leaves.

  As she pulled the wagon along, the pain in her belly got worse. Like yesterday, but stronger this time. Felt like menstrual cramps. Bad ones.

  She stopped, bent over, grabbed her knees for support. Caden started to fuss. Making loud noises that threatened to turn into full-out wailing.

  Nova straightened up, walked over to a patch of clover. She picked a handful of white clover, tossed it in the wagon. “You can have all that. It’s yours. When the weather gets hot and school is out, I’ll take you to the railroad tracks. We’ll pick pink coneflowers. They grow wild, all summer long. And black-eyed Susans, as many as we want. We’ll fill this wagon with wildflowers. They don’t belong to nobody, so they’re for everybody.”

  The baby was distracted. He clapped his hands, picked up a clover and waved it.

  Nova tried to carry on, pulling the wagon down the road. But she couldn’t stand up straight. She was doubled over with the cramping pain.

  When the blood stained her shorts, she didn’t know what to do. She was in agony, couldn’t go on to the store, didn’t have the strength to go back.

  She pulled the wagon off the road, into someone’s yard. Got the baby out of the sun, under the shade of a tree. A dogwood tree.

  She sat in the grass, panting. Tears started running down her face, she hurt so bad. Nova had to get home, some way. But she couldn’t just lie there in the grass. Caden could crawl out of that wagon, get into the street.

  Nova got on hands and knees, then got to her feet. Grabbed the handle of the wagon, then started walking. She stumbled down the sidewalk, bent over, pulling the wagon behind her.

  Seemed like it took years before she made it back to her street and dragged the wagon up the walk. Nova sobbed as she clutched Caden’s hands to tug him up the steps. Kept on putting one foot in front of another until she made it inside the front door of their apartment.

  Caden toddled off, crying, “Mama!”

  Nova dropped to the floor of the front room and curled up in a ball. Mama stepped out of the bedroom. The minute she saw Nova, Mama screeched like she saw a snake ready to strike.

  “Nova! What you up to? Where’s them things I told you to go get?”

  Nova could barely whisper the answer. “I’m sick, Mama.”

  “Quit putting on a show. You just lazy! You not sick when you got up this morning. Now get up and go on back to the dollar store, like I told you.”

  Nova knew she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stand up and walk, not even if someone set the house on fire. She closed her eyes, wailing with the pain.

  Her little sister had crawled under the table. She called out to Mama. “Nova making the floor dirty, Mama. Making a big mess!”

  The blood flow was heavy, making a big swipe of red on the floor. Dirty, like her sister said, but Nova couldn’t clean it up. She clutched her belly while she moaned and cried.

  All the noise made a neighbor come across the hall, to see about the commotion. Nova heard old Missy Potter squawk in the doorway. “Starla Jones! You got to call for help!”

  “Mind your business! She just playing.”

  “That girl needs the doctor. Call 911!”

  Nova didn’t know how much time passed before she heard the siren out in the street. She was certain she was dying, waiting for either the angels or the devil to come. When two men came instead, and put her on a stretcher, she thought she was dreaming.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Bria Gaines

  UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  The flushed, feverish child tried to clamber off the examination table in Dr. Gaines’s office. She caught him before he escaped.

  “Arlene, you’ll need to hold him while I get a look inside that ear.”

  The child’s mother stepped up to the padded table and held him snugly against her chest. Bria was able to get a good look at the inflammation. The boy had another ear infection, his third in the past two months.

  “You were right about the ear, Arlene. A lot of moms are excellent diagnosticians.”

  “Dr. Gaines, why does he keep getting these ear infections? Are the antibiotics not working?”

  Bria was sidetracked before she could answer, distracted by noise in the outer office. Raised voices were making a ruckus right outside her door. She heard her receptionist, Sonya, arguing with a man. He was demanding to see Bria immediately.

  The office got noisy sometimes. People who were sick, or in pain, or advocating for loved ones, could become agitated. But this sounded different. Something about the exchange set off warning bells in Bria’s head.

  Made her stomach clench with dread.

  Sonya commenced rapping at the door of the examination room. “Dr. Gaines!” she said. “Dr. Gaines, we have a problem.”

  Bria stepped away from the exam table, whispering an apology to the little boy’s mother as she carefully set her otoscope on the instrument table. She held herself together, walking to the door with an appearance of equanimity.

  When she opened it and saw the uniformed deputy standing close behind her frightened employee, Bria didn’t let them see how shaken she was. She put on a brave face. Poised, professional.

  Sonya sounded breathless when she said, “Dr. Gaines, I told the officer I’m not supposed to interrupt your appointments. Deputy Simmons said I had to.”

  The young deputy wasn’t one of Bria’s patients, but he was familiar. She had seen him around town. He was generally affable and courteous with her.

  But not today. “Bria Gaines, I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  A pair of handcuffs dangled from his belt. Bria’s eyes followed the movement as he unlocked the cuffs.

  “Hands behind your back,” he said. The deputy’s manner was abrupt, rude. He’d never addressed Bria in that tone, ever.

  He sounded like he was giving an order to a criminal.

  The waiting room was crowded with people, patients with appointments on her busy afternoon schedule. They had watched the events unfold, shocked into silence. But as the deputy handcuffed Bria’s wrists, they started to whisper among themselves. Some of the patients even ventured a protest.

  An elderly woman Bria was treating for diabetes struggled to rise with the assistance of her walker. “What’s happening here? Deputy Simmons! Where you taking my doctor?”

  The deputy ignored the woman. He grasped Bria’s arm and pulled her toward the door.

  A shout of alarm followed, and a young mother holding an infant launched out of her seat in the waiting room. She rushed up behind them and snatched at the hem of Bria’s white coat. “My baby’s sick! Ran a fever all night! I don’t know what he’s got. What am I supposed to do?”

  The deputy scowled down at the mother. “Are you trying to interfere with an arrest? You want to go to jail, too, Della?”

  The woman let go of the coat and backed away. Clutching the baby tightly, she said, “But what do I do?”

  “Take it to the ER,” the deputy said.

  The woman cried out in frustration. “Officer, that hospital gonna make me wait for hours until they look at him! Some days, the doctor ain’t even there, or they want money up front. This baby sick. How am I supposed to take care of my baby?”

  Bria knew that Della wasn’t overstating the circumstances. The baby needed to be examined. Bria tried to reason with the officer. “Let me see the baby. Just for a minute, Deputy. I won’t take long.”

  Deputy Simmons behaved as if he hadn’t heard her speak. He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Bria Gaines, you’re under arrest for the Class A felony of performing an abortion. A Class A felony carries a minimum sentence of ten years, a maximum imprisonment of ninety-nine years to life.”

  Bria was aware of the law. She’d read the penalty before, multiple times. Hearing the range of punishment stated aloud, though, gave it a different weight. It conjured up the image of that vast stretch of prison time, swallowing up the remaining years of her life.

  The deputy pulled her into the vestibule and rapped on the glass of the front door. The sheriff of Bullock County, Mick Owens, was standing guard outside. He pulled the door open and stepped into the vestibule with them.

  Owens glanced at Bria, checked to see that her handcuffs were secure. Then the sheriff said to the deputy, “Read her her rights yet?”

  The deputy’s face reddened under the brim of his hat. “I was about to, but some of the patients started getting disorderly.”

  Sheriff Owens cast a withering look at his deputy. Then he cleared his throat. “Bria Gaines, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have a lawyer present during questioning. If you can’t afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you.”

  When the sheriff recited the words of the Miranda warning, the language was a wake-up call, like someone had doused her with a glass of ice water.

  “I have an attorney.” Her throat was tight, but her speech was audible, perfectly clear.

  The sheriff didn’t acknowledge her announcement. He studied his own reflection in the glass door. He was a tall Black man, just over fifty, with an athletic build. He straightened his hat, adjusted his sunglasses, and then spoke to the deputy. “Let’s go.”

  Deputy Simmons slipped through the door of the clinic and held it wide open. Bria saw people gathered outside, heard voices rise in a shout. But she persisted, saying to the sheriff, “I have an attorney. Chuck Rich, he has an office across the street from the courthouse. I want to contact him immediately. It’s my constitutional right.”

  The sheriff grabbed her upper arm in a tight hold. “You don’t sound like a doctor to me. More like a professional agitator, all that talk about lawyers and rights.” He pulled her across the threshold.

  One news van was parked outside her office, with a cameraman waiting to film the perp walk. But a handful of local people had also gathered, drawn by the patrol car. Handheld phones were raised in the air as Bria was marched to the waiting vehicle, with its light bar already flashing red and blue.

  People are recording this, Bria thought. Making a video. Of me, being walked to a police car in handcuffs.

  She hoped it wouldn’t be seen by anyone she knew.

  Bria didn’t realize that the footage would be downloaded before she arrived at the sheriff’s department. That thousands of views would be recorded before nightfall.

  She just concentrated on walking, moving her feet down the pavement, step-by-step. Trying not to collapse in front of the camera.

  A thought drummed in her head. Can’t be happening. It can’t be happening. Not to me.

  But it was.

  She felt the sheriff’s hand cradle the back of her head before he shoved her into the back seat of the patrol car.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Mary Stone

  BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

  I opened the file that had been placed squarely in the center of the bench. Looked down at the top sheet of paper and read the charge in the case of State of Alabama v. Fergus Pitt.

  Fergus Pitt was on trial for committing the misdemeanor offense of posing a nuisance to public health by maintaining and using an unsanitary sewage collection and disposal facility on his property in Bullock County.

  I sat back and gazed out over the courtroom. The DA and the defense attorney sat at their respective counsel tables. The accused, Fergus Pitt, sat at his lawyer’s left hand. Fergus is a neighbor. He lives on a tiny farm not far from my own. But we didn’t grow up together, not really. He is a half generation younger than I am.

  I directed a question to both of the lawyers seated before me. “What’s a misdemeanor jury trial doing in my court?”

  I’m no snob, Lord knows. And I’m not a judicial officeholder who’s all puffed up with her own importance. But I’m a circuit judge. I preside over circuit court and follow the judicial structure for criminal cases in Alabama state court. Felonies are tried in circuit court. Misdemeanors are tried in district court, by the district judge.

  The DA rose halfway out of his seat. “Your Honor, the district judge is tied up in court over in Clayton this week. The parties—the prosecution and defense—agreed that you could preside over the case. Isn’t that right, Chuck?”

  Chuck Rich, the defense counsel, nodded. “Yes, Judge. My client—”

  Reeves talked over him. “And you’d called up a jury panel for the week. You have the prospective jurors sitting inside the courthouse today. They’re here. So you can’t claim that it will inconvenience you.”

  There. That’s what I’ve put up with for nigh on six years. A DA shouldn’t be telling the judge whether she has been inconvenienced. It’s a reversal of the power roles.

  He went on. “And it’s not like you’re unqualified to hear a misdemeanor case. I know you don’t generally hear misdemeanors, but this is a court of general jurisdiction. You may exercise jurisdiction over legal matters filed in district court.”