But also, I suspected that the shouter was in no hurry to depart. He wanted to air more of his opinions before he left the courtroom. As he lumbered past the people packed into his row, his statements were audible, even where I sat. “Everybody knows she done it. I saw it on TV! The girl’s mother told the reporter what happened!”

  That sent the room into another buzz of reaction. Apparently, lots of folks watched the interview. I didn’t catch the broadcast, but Luna told me about it. She said that Nova Jones’s mother had permitted a TV news reporter into her home. They didn’t show Nova, but Starla was willing to be interviewed. The reporter recorded Starla Jones with his phone, and she’d had a lot to say.

  Unbelievable. I wondered whether the DA had known about it in advance. Surely not. It was unethical to try the case in the press before it went to trial. In my opinion, it reflected poorly on the prosecutor, whether he had plotted it or not. The DA should have his witnesses under control.

  The bigmouthed out-of-towner had finally reached my bailiff, but he still wouldn’t shut up. “We all know that doctor done it. She can’t take it back now!”

  Dr. Gaines’s face twisted. Bowing her head, she edged lower in her seat. The courtroom spectator was robbing her of the dignity she’d fought hard to maintain.

  “That’s it,” I said, rising. I’d been itching to jump out of my chair since he first opened his mouth.

  I hurried down those steps and out onto the courtroom floor. “You are in contempt of court, sir, for disrupting these proceedings. Bailiff, take the man to the county jail.”

  It was a gamble. A contempt citation ordinarily would dump cold water on courtroom misbehavior, and everyone would simmer down. Folks would get the message. No one wanted to be the second person sent to jail.

  But the current climate was hard to predict. Taking a hard line against the dude could incite sympathizers to jump to his support, and then I’d be screwed. Because we were not prepared for a major revolt. We were understaffed. My miscalculation. I had failed to predict that a brief arraignment would command this level of response.

  Ross got the big guy out of the aisle and under control. When the bailiff cuffed his hands behind his back, it took the wind out of him. I stood in front of my bench and watched until the two men disappeared through the door.

  Then I walked down the center aisle of the spectators’ gallery and addressed everyone present. “Due process of law is guaranteed in this courtroom. I don’t know what your prior experience has been in state court in Alabama. Tell you the truth, I don’t care. Don’t care what you’ve seen before, or what you watched on television, or what you think the legal system should be. The Fifth Amendment states that no person shall be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. That’s a sacred guarantee.”

  I was just warming up, honestly. When I got on a roll about the constitutional rights of the accused, I could go on indefinitely. I’d made my share of closing arguments as a trial lawyer, and the words rolled out with ease. And I thought this gathering of citizens could benefit from hearing what I had to say.

  But as I reached the very last bench in the courtroom, the one near the exit, I spotted a familiar face. It was that journalist, the arrogant young TV reporter who’d crashed Saturday breakfast at my farm.

  Reese Wilson. With WYLR in Birmingham.

  He was recording my Fifth Amendment lecture on his telephone. Smirking at me while he did it. Son of a bitch.

  It threw me, seeing him holding out that phone. Phones weren’t allowed in my court; they were supposed to be collected when people went through the metal detector. More security gaffes. I broke off midsentence. Turned on my heel and walked back up to the bench. Scooted back into my chair. During my return, the murmur of voices in court started up again. I silenced the whispers with a polite tap of the gavel.

  I glanced down at my file, trying to recall where we’d been in our stage of proceedings, before things got out of control.

  My handwritten notation steadied me and triggered my recall. “The record will reflect that the defendant has entered a plea of not guilty to the charge.” I paused to glare at the courtroom spectators, daring them to act out. My bailiff had returned with miraculous efficiency, providing backup.

  Other than the rustle of scores of bodies shifting on hard wooden benches, the courtroom was quiet.

  To the attorneys, I said, “I see that the defendant is currently out on bond.”

  Reeves, the DA, stood. “I wish to address the matter of bond, Your Honor.”

  After I gave him a nod, he stepped away from the counsel table. Which indicated that he was about to put on a show for the benefit of the citizens gathered in the gallery.

  Reeves said, “The district judge set an initial bond amount of ten thousand dollars, which the defendant easily met. The judge didn’t seek my input or recommendation when he let this woman out with such a ridiculously low bond. Why he didn’t consult me, I can’t guess.”

  Oh, I could. I knew I was able to correctly guess the reason. I folded my hands on the bench. Gave him another minute to talk.

  “This defendant has been charged with an offense that carries a penalty of ninety-nine years to life imprisonment. She is a flight risk, Your Honor, because she has the motivation to flee and the financial means to do so. Moreover, this woman is a danger to the community. The crime she’s been charged with is akin to murder, the taking of human life!”

  Objection Objection Objection. I cut my eyes at Chuck Rich. The man remained seated on his butt in that damned chair. He looked distressed, but still. He should’ve been on his feet, raising hell. The word murder should never have been uttered in this hearing.

  I hadn’t intended to take over. They gave me no choice. I looked down at the defense table and met the young woman’s eye. “Dr. Gaines,” I said, “please describe for the court your ties to this community.”

  She paused, stole a look at her lawyer. He gave her an encouraging nod and whispered something.

  The defendant cleared her throat as she rose from her seat. “Your Honor, I moved to Union Springs after completing my residency. I have a family practice, a medical office here in town.”

  “How many patients?”

  “Oh, gosh.” She took a moment to think. “Just under four hundred, I believe.”

  “Do you own property in the community?”

  “I lease the building where I conduct my medical practice. But I own a house, a residence up on the hill.”

  I nodded at that. Everyone knew about the hill. Our town was poor, but the prettiest houses were built on the high land to the east of town.

  “Dr. Gaines, do you understand your obligation to appear in person at the trial of your case?”

  “I do, Your Honor.”

  “And are you affirming that you will be present in person for all hearings and matters scheduled by this court?”

  “I will, Your Honor. I swear it.” She was gripping the counsel table with both hands.

  “Bond remains at ten thousand dollars.” I picked up the gavel. Gave it a tap rather than a bang. No need to raise a ruckus this time.

  Looked down at the DA just in time to catch his expression.

  The man was livid.

  CHAPTER

  20

  After the arraignment of Bria Gaines, I made my escape. Ran from that courthouse like a coward.

  Didn’t exit through the front door, though. I’m no fool. I figured the press would be jockeying for prime position in front of the courthouse, hungry for some footage of the key figures in the case of State v. Bria Gaines. I’d come to terms with my new reality, understood that I was more newsworthy than I used to be.

  That’s why I headed for the back door, keeping my head down. Almost made it. Stood an arm’s length away from the exit when Earl Hodge, the mayor of Union Springs, popped out of the probate office.

  “Judge Mary! Hold on, I need a minute!”

  He hustled up to me and grabbed my arm, right above the elbow.

  What the hell?

  I stared at his hand for a moment and then raised my eyes, fixed them on his. He got the message. Let go of me, took a step back. Thrust his offending hand into a pocket.

  “Sorry, Judge, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you. About this abortion case.”

  I literally groaned, couldn’t help it. Took a breath and repeated my go-to line. “I can’t discuss this matter with you.”

  “Not the facts. Nothing like that. Just the situation, you understand?”

  I didn’t. He must have read it on my face; he quickly added, “I need to lay out the situation it’s putting us all in. You know, the city.”

  I didn’t ask for any details on the city’s situation. I was itching to get away. “It’s a felony case, Earl. We see them all the time. And this isn’t the ugliest set of facts I’ve heard in my courtroom. Isn’t the most horrific crime I’ve presided over this year.”

  “But it’s the most sensational, Judge. Don’t you get that?”

  As he spoke, he used both hands to fiddle with his bow tie, like he wanted to make sure it was straight. I took a closer look at him. Earl was all dolled up, wearing a flashy suit and a striped bow tie. The man was camera-ready.

  I should’ve anticipated it. The mayor of Union Springs was a social-climbing tool who was not content to abide in our community. Earl Hodge had higher ambitions. He’d made it clear, on multiple occasions, that he would do anything to get a bigger job in Birmingham or Montgomery.

  “Earl, I don’t know what you expect me to do. We’re the county seat, and the DA has filed the case in Bullock County, alleging that the crime occurred here. He has to file his suit in the correct venue. In a criminal case, the proper venue is the place where the crime occurred. If you don’t believe me, go talk to the DA.”

  I stepped toward the back door, opened it, and glanced around. Didn’t appear that the press or public was waiting to pounce. I stepped across the threshold.

  Earl Hodge followed me out. “I already talked to the DA. Reeves was the one who told me it’s going to be a really big deal. With national press. Did you see how many people turned out today?”

  Did I see? I didn’t respond. The question was too ridiculous for words. I’d had the best seat in the house for the day’s events.

  The mayor dogged my heels as I made my way to my car, parked in my personal space.

  In a loud whisper, Hodge said, “He told me something in confidence, but it doesn’t need to be a secret from you. You’ll be the first to know.”

  I had the key fob in my hand. But that statement made me pause. What secrets about the case was the DA sharing with the mayor? “Tell me.”

  “He’s bringing in the Alabama attorney general’s office to serve as co-counsel. To balance the scales, he said.”

  “Balance the scales?” I echoed. “Against Chuck Rich? He thinks he needs more muscle to litigate against Chuck Rich?”

  Hodge grimaced. His eyes cut to the right. I’ve seen the eye dart, it’s a giveaway. Deciding whether to lie or not.

  He looked down at his shoes and kicked at some loose chunks of asphalt in the worn parking lot. “I guess he means you, Judge Mary.”

  “What?” My voice was sharp enough to make the man scoot back.

  He said, “I’m just repeating Reeves’s words. He told me you rule against him all the time. He needs somebody to back him up. That it will even the scales.”

  It would reveal weakness—vulnerability, insecurity—to let on that I was offended. So I didn’t give any indication that the words had wounded me.

  But I was curious. Wanted to know just who Reeves had chosen as his bodyguard. “Any idea who’s going to rep the AG’s office?”

  “Yeah, he told me. It’s Eleanor Lindquist. You ever run across her in court before?”

  Oh, my Lord. Eleanor Lindquist. Yeah, I’d seen her in action.

  Things were about to get worse for Bria Gaines.

  CHAPTER

  21

  That was a long old day. When I reappeared at the courthouse in the afternoon, I had to make up for cutting out in the morning. It was past suppertime and dark outside when I finally left the courthouse for good. And I had more work—farm chores—waiting for me at home. By the time I finally pulled off my chore boots and shucked my overalls, I was spent.

  I stood on the kitchen floor in my stocking feet, wondering what I should eat. I didn’t have enough ambition to microwave a frozen dinner, much less cook from scratch. So I pulled a box of Ritz crackers and a jar of peanut butter from the shelf. Ate standing up, dropping crumbs on the kitchen counter, until I decided that spreading the peanut butter required too much effort. Carried the cracker box with me into my bedroom.

  I had to shower; no skipping that step, regardless of how worn out I might be. The hot water felt good on my tired muscles, therapeutic. I dried off, pulled a clean T-shirt over my head, and crawled into bed.

  With the cracker box.

  I appreciated the irony, you feel me? Eating crackers in bed. But no one was around to appreciate the joke.

  I had my phone in bed with me, because I intended to check the news online, to see whether the Gaines arraignment had generated an uproar. Didn’t quite make it. My eyes drooped, head nodded. I fell asleep with the phone in my hand.

  Later that night, the ringtone jerked me from a restless sleep. My sheets were tangled into a jumble. I must’ve been kicking them while I slept.

  I grabbed the phone, squinted at the screen. The caller had an Alabama area code, but the number was unfamiliar. Definitely not anybody in my contacts.

  Still fuzzy from sleep, I debated whether I should go ahead and answer. Just swipe my thumb across that screen, see what was up. Maybe there was an emergency in one of the counties in my circuit.

  The ringtone jangled again while I stared at the number.

  As a judge, I get an occasional wake-up call in the middle of the night. Sometimes—rarely, but it’s happened—a detective needs me to sign off on a search warrant, and believes it can’t wait until morning, because time is of the essence. I’m always available in such a circumstance.

  Or sometimes an old client of mine from my criminal defense days gets in trouble and thinks that if he can reach me, I’ll wave a magic wand and tell the cops to set him free. Those calls don’t end happily.

  But the search warrant scenario, that was possible. It was reasonable to suppose that a cop in my circuit was calling from a cell phone. A number I didn’t have in my contacts.

  I decided to answer just as it went to voicemail.

  Too late. I set the phone down. Tried to convince myself that it was probably nothing important. And if it was a crucial matter, they’d try again. Maybe come out to my house and bang on the door.

  I was considering pulling on some pants just in case I received a visitor. That’s when I heard the ding, notifying me: The caller had left a message.

  I sighed out as I grabbed the phone, relieved to know I wouldn’t be forced to wonder all night about the reason for the call. I was happy to know someone had left a message.

  Until I played it.

  “Judge, I’m calling you because I just can’t sleep. I’ve been in a terrible state, ever since I saw that woman on the news. That negro woman in court who killed the little girl’s baby.”

  Her voice was thin and wavering over the phone. Sounded like an old white lady, and not one I knew. I lifted my thumb, ready to pause, to delete. But she caught her breath and went on talking.

  “That doctor is going to hell for what she done. The girl, I can’t say. Maybe the Lord will forgive her if she repents. Or might be she’ll burn in hell, too, for killing her own child. I felt called to tell you something, though, and it couldn’t wait. The Lord moved me. He commanded me to give this message to you.”

  I shivered as the old woman delivered her warning. “Judge, don’t you follow them. You have the choice, you understand me? Don’t you follow those women into hell. The devil may be at your shoulder, tempting you, whispering in your ear—”

  That was enough. I cut the voice off and then I swiped it, made the message disappear. As I leaned back against the pillows, gripping the phone, I had second thoughts. Maybe I should have kept the recording instead of deleting it. If that little old lady showed up at the courthouse with a long gun and a plan to hurry me into the afterlife, the recording would be good evidence of premeditation.

  But it was too late. I closed my eyes, hoping I’d be able to ease back into the deep fog of sleep. The phone rang again.

  I checked the number. Not an Alabama area code, so I didn’t even consider picking up. When the message appeared, I played the audio. This one sounded less crazy. Just an impassioned statement of support for the prosecution, a lament for the number of children whose lives had been ended before birth. Some statistics, an offer to send me the information.

  Delete.

  Between 1 and 3:25 a.m., I received roughly a half dozen calls. The ringtone would rouse me from a light slumber. I’d wait for the message. Calculate the crazy factor, the odds that the caller was capable of actual harm.

  And I’d wonder how the hell people were getting their hands on my private cell number. Exactly who was giving that information away?

  The seventh call was the game changer. The caller was no reedy-voiced church lady. It was a man who sounded like he was in his prime, speaking in a deep baritone. He got right to the point.

  “I saw you on the news. Big Black bitch in a big black robe, sitting up all high and mighty in that courtroom, like you got a right to be there. Time was when you people knew your place.”

  I slid down and pulled the covers to my chin. But I kept listening.

  “You poison this case, you’re gonna be put right back in your place again. You might just wish somebody killed you in the womb. Trust me, when I catch you, you’ll be licking my fine leather boots and begging for your goddamn life!”

  The message ended.

  I didn’t delete that one. It had to be preserved. But I knew that I couldn’t tolerate another night caller. I muted my phone but didn’t put it on the bedside table. Kept it in a tight grip, ready to dial 911 if necessary.