She locked her car. Striding toward the century-old, stately, redbrick courthouse, she found the newest key on her ring and let herself in through the back entrance. Nodding at the security guard and smiling at a pair of lawyers she recognized, she briskly wove through the crowd milling around the large lobby. Just last spring she had been one of the attorneys like the group huddled together next to the men’s rest room, engaged in a last-minute conference.

  Most cases settled out of court. Often this exact moment, the magnificent reality of the courthouse, the thrilling, overwhelming buzz of confrontations and consultations, the sharp shine and scent of expensive leather briefcases, caused a client to physically, viscerally appreciate the significance of a courtroom trial in a way he or she hadn’t before. The sight of the judge in her black robe made them understand that they were about to put their lives in someone else’s power.

  Too impatient for the ancient elevator, Kelly hurried up the smooth, wide steps, their marble worn into silky troughs. Her courtroom was on the fourth floor. She was glad for the exercise, knowing that she might be sitting for the rest of the day.

  At the end of the hall were her chambers.

  Her chambers!

  Printed in gold on the glass door were the words:

  JUDGE KELLY MACLEOD

  PRIVATE

  DO NOT ENTER

  She took a deep breath. She entered.

  “Good morning, Judge.” Her secretary, an Asian woman in a plaid suit, was already at her desk, up to her elbows in cases and folders.

  “Good morning, Luanne.”

  “Good morning, Judge,” said the court officer, Ed Harris, a tall, bald, stately African-American, in his navy blue uniform.

  Kelly smiled. “Good morning, Ed.”

  “Good morning, Judge.” Dignified in her beige silk suit and pearls, Sally Beale, Kelly’s clerk, was the key to a smooth transition into this court. Sally had been here for a dozen years. Sally knew everything.

  “Hi, Sally. Great suit.”

  “Thank you, Judge.”

  “What have we got today?” Kelly asked, looking toward the door to the courtroom. That door was all that stood between this place of quiet and the storm of human lives.

  Sally handed her the trial list. “First, a quick and easy divorce. Then a child custody case. That won’t be short, and it won’t be sweet.”

  “Then we’d better begin.”

  “Right. See you out there.” Sally slid through the door into the churning whispers of the courtroom.

  Kelly took her black robe off the hanger, pulled it on over her gray pantsuit, adjusted the shoulders and collar. Quickly she scanned her reflection in the mirror hanging on the closet door. She’d subdued her blond hair in a twist at the back of her head, and not a hair had dared escape. Fine. She looked fine. No reason to hesitate. She nodded to Officer Harris.

  He asked, “Ready, Judge?”

  “Ready.”

  He opened the door.

  Kelly walked into the courtroom.

  Her courtroom.

  She’d been in this room before, many times, as a lawyer representing one side or another in a divorce or child custody case. The enormous room was brightened by many windows, its walls painted a peaceful pale blue trimmed with cream. The ceilings were perhaps twenty feet high. The wood of the railings, witness stand, conference tables, clerk’s and judge’s bar, officer of the court’s station, was golden oak, darkened by the years, glowing with the patina from the touch of generations of petitioners, lawyers, registers, and judges.

  It was a lovely room.

  Behind her, his voice rich and solemn, Officer Harris announced, “Hear ye, Hear ye, Hear ye. Court, all rise. The Middlesex Probate and Family Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Kelly MacLeod presiding. God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Turn off all cell phones and pagers.”

  The Honorable Judge Kelly MacLeod settled in her chair behind the high bench, her black robe resting at her ankles. She nodded good morning to the court stenographer and then looked out, with confidence, at the courtroom.

  She saw, as she knew she would, clusters of people seated in the gallery. She saw a young couple, well-dressed, elegant, and miserable, sulking next to their attorneys at the lawyers’ table. Their divorce. Her first case.

  Beyond the railing, she saw a lovely, slender, blond woman, the female plaintiff in the child custody case, with her lawyer.

  She saw another lawyer speaking to the male defendant in the child custody case.

  And she saw, with a terrible thrill, that the man was Randall Madison.

  She felt unmasked before him. She felt more exposed now than she had been when they made love. This is who I am, she thought: Randall, this is who I am. A judge. If that’s too much, if that makes it impossible for me to be a wife and mother, then so be it. Here I am.

  Sally Beale called the first case, consisting of the name of the parties, the docket number, and the cause of actions before the court. Kelly forced herself to concentrate. She scanned the file in front of her. This was an easy, uncontested divorce, with no children involved. It would be over in minutes. She waved the group up to the bench. She was piercingly aware of her every move with Randall as an audience. She glanced at Anne Madison, curious and shamed by her curiosity. She had to send them to another courtroom, but not yet. Not just yet.

  Four people gathered around the witness stand: a man, a woman, two lawyers, all clad in dark, expensive suits. The register swore them in.

  “Good morning,” Kelly said. Her voice was level, assured.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” both lawyers chimed.

  “I’m Bartholomew Towers, Your Honor, representing Mrs. Baker.”

  “I’m Daniel Sanders, Your Honor, representing Mr. Baker.”

  Kelly nodded. “Counselors,” she instructed, “please make your prima facie case.”

  The wife’s lawyer turned to her: “Please state your name.”

  “Bobby Baker.” Glossy and precisely groomed to the last hair on her perfectly arched eyebrows, Mrs. Baker trembled inside her Chanel suit like a racehorse at the starting gate. Her earrings, heavy gold and diamonds, splintered the light around her.

  “Are you married to the co-petitioner William Baker?”

  She cleared her throat. “I am.”

  “Please state your address.”

  As the wife reeled off the information, Kelly glanced out at the Madisons, seated behind the bar. Anne Madison was petite, as pale and as delicate as a glass flower, and, Kelly sensed, as strong as a diamond.

  Now the husband’s lawyer led him through the necessary information: his name, address, when he last lived with his wife, whether or not there were any minor children. The husband’s suit, beautifully cut from light gray flannel, looked infinitely soft, but the man himself, muscular and taut, looked carved from granite. Body language, Judge Parsons’s voice flashed through her mind, and Kelly glanced down once more at the divorce papers. This couple was wealthy; the assets were being divided fifty-fifty. She saw no sign of hostility between the couple. The wife was asking for no alimony.

  “All right,” Kelly said. “Mr. Baker, Mrs. Baker, I need to ask you some questions. Do you believe your marriage is irretrievably broken?”

  “I do,” they both responded.

  “Did you sign this separation agreement of your own free will?”

  “I did,” they answered.

  “Do you believe that it is fair and reasonable?”

  Mrs. Baker swayed slightly. “I do.”

  Mr. Baker’s jaw clenched. Through gritted teeth, he replied in the affirmative.

  Kelly looked at the wife. “Do you believe your spouse gave you complete and accurate information on his financial statement?”

  “I do.”

  Kelly repeated the question to the husband and received the same response.

  Something here bothered Kelly. She glanced down at the divorce papers once more. Everything was in order. No doubt it was only her own emotional turbulence plaguing her.

  “Mrs. Baker,” Kelly said, “are you satisfied with your attorney and his advice?”

  “I am.”

  “Is this a final settlement of all issues between you and Mr. Baker?”

  “Yes.” The woman’s hands were clasped so tightly her fingers were white.

  Kelly asked the husband the same questions and received the same answers.

  “Very well, then, I find this marriage to be irretrievably broken and a judgment will render in thirty days. Mrs. Baker, do you wish to resume the use of your maiden name?”

  “No.”

  “Your counselors have explained to you that you must wait one hundred and twenty days for the divorce to become absolute. You both understand that?” When they nodded, she added, “All right, then. Good luck to you both.”

  The divorced couple and their lawyers turned, heading toward the back of the courtroom. Kelly leaned toward her clerk, who passed her a thick red divorce folder marked MADISON. Randall and Anne and their lawyers rose, gathering together the piles of materials necessary for a contested divorce, in preparation for coming around the bar to the lawyers’ table.

  She felt Randall’s eyes on her.

  She signed the Bakers’ divorce decree. She handed it back to her clerk. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Bakers and their lawyers walking, single file, toward the wide mahogany-and-glass doors.

  Suddenly, in a flash of movement, Mr. Baker charged forward and, swinging his arm, brought his laptop computer up and smashed it hard into his ex-wife’s face.

  There was a sickening noise, the crunch of snapping bone. The woman screamed and staggered backward. Blood spurted. The lawyers yelled. Bobby Baker went down, falling like a stone. Her lawyer lunged forward, catching her in time to save her from hitting her head on the floor.

  The courtroom exploded with noise. The woman shrieked. Her lawyer bellowed for help.

  “Bitch!” The husband roared. “I hope you’re satisfied now, you greedy slut!”

  “Court officer!” Kelly yelled.

  Ed Harris was already on his way, shoving into the chaos. Shouldering the dumbfounded, gaping Sanders aside, he wrestled the furious husband away from his wife.

  “Call for an ambulance,” Kelly ordered her clerk.

  Randall, Anne, and their lawyers had risen, as had the other members of the courtroom. The ex-wife’s lawyer sat on the floor, holding the injured woman to his chest, pressing his white handkerchief to her bloody face. Mrs. Baker screamed and screamed. Mr. Baker continued to shout abuse at the court officer, his ex-wife, his ex-wife’s lawyer, and Kelly, as Officer Harris, struggling, subdued the man, yanking his arms behind his back and securing them in handcuffs.

  “I’m a doctor,” Randall announced, trying to get past the horrified crowd of onlookers.

  Mrs. Baker screamed. Blood poured down her suit jacket and darkened the lawyer’s white shirt. Then she stopped screaming. She went limp in her lawyer’s arms. The sudden silence was shocking.

  “Jesus,” Bartholomew Towers cried, “I think she’s dead.”

  The husband roared triumphantly. Ed manhandled him into a chair. The courtroom doors flew open, and three EMTs rushed into the room.

  “Register Beale,” Kelly said. “Get the Cambridge police. Officer Harris, bring Mr. Baker to me.”

  The EMTs strapped the wounded woman onto a stretcher.

  “How is she?” Kelly called.

  “Alive,” one of the medics called back.

  “Keep us apprised of her condition,” Kelly instructed. “Register Beale, give the EMTs our number.”

  Register Beale left her desk, crossed the courtroom, and handed a slip of paper to the medic. Officer Harris ushered William Baker before Kelly’s bench. The ex-husband stood there, flushed and trembling.

  Kelly gestured toward the two lawyers standing flabbergasted at the back of the courtroom. “Mr. Sanders, you’re this man’s lawyer, I want you to get up here now. Mr. Towers, you, too.”

  The lawyers hustled up. Towers’s shirt and suit were damp and matted with blood.

  Kelly glared down at the handcuffed man. “Mr. Baker,” she said. “You’ve chosen the wrong courtroom in which to assault your wife. I’m sentencing you to forty-five days in jail for assault and a ten-thousand-dollar fine for disturbing the order of my courtroom. In addition, you are to pay for all Mrs. Baker’s medical costs, down to the last penny, including mental and physical therapy. I’m imposing a restraining order on you: You are not to be within twenty-five feet of Mrs. Baker for the next six months. You are not to telephone her. You are not to send her a letter or a fax or an email or have any communication with her. If you do, you will be in contempt of court, and I’ll sentence you to more jail time. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” William Baker replied. His lawyer nudged him. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Towers. I want you to keep this court apprised of Mrs. Baker’s condition. Do you have someone in your firm who does criminal law?”

  The lawyer nodded.

  “Good. I want charges brought against Mr. Baker for premeditated murder.”

  “Hey! You can’t do that!” William Baker yelled.

  “That’s ten more days you’re going to serve,” Kelly snapped. “Take him to the back to wait for the police,” she told Officer Harris. She turned to Register Beale. “Do you have all this, Register?”

  “I do, Your Honor.”

  “I’ve been to a fund-raiser for Mrs. Madison. Tell the Madisons’ lawyers they’ll have to take their divorce to another courtroom.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Call the other courtrooms. See if Judge Parsons can take the Madison case. Tell her we’ll take everything she’s got in return. Call the other courtrooms, too; tell them we’re open for business and can take any overflow.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Court’s in recess for fifteen minutes,” Kelly said.

  “All rise,” the court officer bellowed.

  She felt Randall’s eyes on her as she walked away from the bench into the privacy of her chambers.

  The day flew past, jammed with cases, lawyers, motions, and paperwork. Not until Kelly was in her car, headed home, did she find time to catch her breath and reflect on the events of the morning. She was wondering how the day had gone for Randall, when her cell phone rang. She answered it as she stopped for a red light on Cambridge Street.

  “I need to see you,” Randall said.

  “I’d love that.”

  “Now. Anywhere you say.”

  “Meet me at the cemetery.”

  Once more she drove through the gates of Forest Hills into this mysterious world where the questions of life mattered no longer and the people were composed of spirit and stone. Exhilarated from her day, she decided she preferred the living, imperfect world.

  She parked her car and stepped out into the heat. Stripping off her suit jacket, she laid it on the car seat. As she shut the door, Randall’s Jeep pulled in beside her. Her heart leaped when she saw him, flushing her entire body with love. She moved toward him, but he stood still next to his Jeep, as if keeping his distance.

  “Hello,” she said, suddenly shy.

  “Hello, Judge MacLeod.”

  “Oh, Randall. I didn’t mean—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “For many reasons—there wasn’t enough time. It didn’t seem real when I met you. We didn’t seem real, here. I’d just been appointed. I was beginning a month of training, at different courts all over the commonwealth.”

  “That’s why you were out of town so often.”

  “Right. Believe it or not, today was my first day on the bench by myself.” She paused. “Also, you haven’t had many kind things to say about the judicial system.”

  “True.”

  Hearing the tension in his voice, she looked up at him. “How did it go today?”

  He hesitated, then sighed. “Let’s walk.”

  They went slowly along Mulberry Path, unconsciously heading for the stone where Kelly had fallen and they had met. After the noise of the rushing traffic, the air of the cemetery was as still as a held breath, the air moist and scented with flowers.

  “Which judge did you have?” she asked.

  “Judge Spriggs. The GAL testified.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Lawrence. Martin Lawrence.”

  “I know him. He’s fair.”

  “Yes. Yes, I think he is.”

  “What did he recommend?”

  “Joint physical and legal custody.”

  “And?”

  “And we’re continuing the trial tomorrow.”

  “What does your lawyer say?”

  “What he’s always said, that in most cases the mother gets custody.”

  “Randall, tell me the truth, please. Is the divorce why you approached me here? Why you ‘courted’ me? So that I could give you custody—”

  “No!” Randall stopped dead on the pavement. “Of course not. Is that what you think?”

  She stopped, too, and turned to face him. “I don’t know what to think.”

  Angrily he protested, “I had no idea you were a judge!”

  “And if I had told you?”

  “Well, you didn’t, did you?” He ran his hands through his hair and tossed himself down onto the grass, staring out at the serene green waters of Lake Hibiscus.

  Kelly settled down in the grass next to him. For a while they just sat in silence.

  Then Randall put his hand on Kelly’s as it lay in the grass. “Kelly, I love you.”

  Kelly closed her eyes. His warmth moved through her, a current of golden pulses. She said, “I love you, too.”

  Randall lifted his hand away. “But our lives are complicated. I’ve got to think of my daughter—her real name’s Tessa. And Anne. And my father, who wears his wife’s robe and slippers and may be getting a bit batty.”

  Kelly looked at Randall, concerned. “Alzheimer’s?”

  “I don’t think so. We had a good talk recently, and he’s given the robe away. He’s going to try to pull himself up out of his depression, because he wants to help me and Tessa.”