“Where’s Calico?” he mumbled, trying not to dislodge the thermometer. “Ken Morgan.”

  “He hasn’t arrived yet,” the nurse said as she took the thermometer from his mouth and recorded the reading. “Are you having any trouble breathing?”

  Holt took a deep breath and winced in pain. “My chest hurts.”

  “You may have broken some ribs. You’re going to radiology as soon as I’m finished here. Your parents have been notified and are driving in from someplace in the mountains.”

  “My grandparents have a cabin at Big Canoe.” Holt raised his hand to the place near his ear. “My head—”

  “There’s a gash, but the bleeding has almost stopped. The doctor will decide if you need stitches.”

  The nurse put a blood pressure cuff on his arm, inflated it, and listened through a stethoscope. Even though he was lying down, Holt felt dizzy.

  “Your blood pressure is normal,” she said as she slipped it from his arm. “Have you been drinking?”

  Holt hesitated.

  “You may as well admit it,” the nurse said as she turned his left arm so she could see his veins. “Because the blood I’m about to draw from your arm won’t lie.”

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. I’ve had a couple of beers.”

  The nurse grunted. “I’ve heard that line more times than I can count, sometimes by people who couldn’t remember their name or age.”

  “I’m Holt Douglas. And I’m eighteen.”

  “Were you wearing a seat belt?” she asked.

  Holt couldn’t remember. He usually strapped himself in, but in the stress of figuring out how to drive Calico’s car, he couldn’t remember.

  “I don’t know,” he said, then paused. “I guess not because I was thrown from the car.”

  “Do you think you’ll make that mistake again?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  When the X-ray technician brought Holt back to the triage room, a broad-shouldered Georgia state patrolman was standing beside a cabinet where bandages were stored. Holt swallowed hard. The officer had two wallets in his right hand. Holt recognized them. The thin one was his; the much thicker one belonged to Calico.

  “I’m Officer Merriwether with the Georgia State Patrol. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes, sir.” Holt swallowed, then blurted out, “How badly was Ken hurt? Nobody has told me anything about him since I got here.”

  Ignoring Holt’s question, the officer took out a driver’s license and looked at it.

  “Are you Holton Thomas Douglas?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who else was in the car with you?”

  “Ken Morgan. Please, how is he?”

  The officer’s face was grim. “Both of you were ejected from the vehicle. Mr. Morgan suffered severe head trauma. He died at the scene.”

  “He’s dead?” Holt asked in disbelief.

  Holt’s last memory of Calico was his friend in the passenger seat of the car, his hand to his mouth, suffering from alcohol-induced nausea.

  “The vehicle is registered to Jacklin Morgan,” the officer continued.

  “That’s his dad, but his folks gave it to Ken as an early graduation present.” Holt stopped.

  The realization that Ken “Calico” Morgan would never graduate from high school, go to college, or hang out with Holt during breaks and summer vacation caused tears to suddenly rush into Holt’s eyes. Tiny rivulets streamed down his cheeks. The patrolman waited until Holt dried his eyes.

  “Had the two of you been drinking?” the officer asked in a slightly softer tone of voice.

  Holt sniffled and nodded his head.

  “How much?”

  Holt cleared his throat, but his voice broke as he spoke. “I had a glass of spiked punch, and three beers.”

  “How about Mr. Morgan?”

  “I’m not sure, mostly spiked punch.”

  “Who was driving?”

  Holt paused. The patrolman’s badge glistened in the bright lights of the hospital room. Silver handcuffs hung from a thick black belt. On his hip was a service revolver with a brown handgrip.

  Calico’s life was over. Holt’s didn’t have to be.

  “Ken,” Holt said, trying to keep his voice steady. “It was his car.”

  The officer checked his notepad. “That’s what Ms. Leanne Tompkins told us. She also indicated Mr. Morgan appeared highly intoxicated when he left her parents’ house on Lake Allatoona. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir,” Holt said as he winced from a sudden pain in his side. “He was drunk.”

  1

  Ten Years Later

  Patricia “Trish” Carmichael checked her face in the mirror before entering the courtroom. The regulation khaki shirt and dark brown pants of her deputy sheriff’s uniform were unbelievably dull, but she did what she could with the part of her appearance under her control—from the neck up. She brushed her long blond hair, applied a touch more lipstick than she normally wore during the day, and followed that with an extra layer of slightly iridescent shadow above her blue eyes. Coworkers who saw her wearing a dress when she was off duty frequently did a double take.

  Trish’s primary job was tracking down deadbeat fathers who failed or refused to pay child support. Malcolm Callaway was more than a deadbeat dad. He was a deadbeat dad who beat his wife. Trish had worked closely with Holt Douglas, the handsome young assistant district attorney, in preparing the case for trial. Holt rocked back in his chair as she entered the courtroom. Tall as a model, Trish walked down the center aisle.

  “How’s it going?” she asked, flashing a smile.

  “The jury is deliberating,” Holt responded. “If we don’t get a verdict tonight, the judge is going to bring them back early tomorrow, which will mean postponement of your other cases for two weeks.”

  Trish glanced at the closed door of the jury room. “I wanted to hear the closing arguments.”

  “You didn’t miss much. Clare Dixon did a decent job, especially considering what she had to work with. But I can’t imagine a jury with more women than men letting Malcolm walk. Of the four counts, the only one that worries me is count three. That’s the one in which Amanda started the fight by trying to hit him with a baseball bat. She missed with the bat; he didn’t miss with his fist.”

  “It was your closing argument I wanted to hear,” Trish said, then immediately felt her face flush. “I mean, I got to watch you a couple of months ago in the case against the woman charged with stealing from all those old people in the nursing home. You did a great job.”

  “I had a confession in that case,” Holt said and shrugged. “That always makes it easier. This one reminds me of the opening line from a novel I read in college: ‘All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’ ”

  “Anna Karenina by Tolstoy,” Trish responded immediately.

  “Yeah,” Holt said in surprise.

  “It was a question on Jeopardy last night. My mother and I watch it after I get home from work. There was a category on the show about famous lines from Russian literature.”

  Trish, who had been an honor student at Paxton High School, went on to attend the local community college and earned a two-year degree in criminal justice before joining the sheriff’s department. She’d heard of Tolstoy, but her taste in reading ran more to Christian romance than classic literature.

  Clare Dixon returned to the courtroom. Without acknowledging Trish’s presence, the petite defense lawyer with short dark hair dropped a photograph of Amanda’s bruised face on the table in front of Holt.

  “You can keep this,” she said. “He’ll do it.”

  “Take the plea deal?” Holt asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, what he heard in court today has been eating away at him while he’s been cooped up in the back for the past few hours. He’s afraid of the jury.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I asked him three times, but I guess we won’t know for sure until Judge Lomax puts the questions to him.”

  “Okay. Let’s do it. Do you want to notify the judge?”

  “Sure.”

  Clare left. Holt shook his head.

  “I didn’t know this could happen,” Trish said. “I thought once the case went to the jury, all deals were off the table.”

  “Not necessarily. I could have withdrawn the offer, but Ralph told me not to. He’s all about statistics. In his book, a plea is as good as a conviction.”

  Judge Clarence Lomax, the first African American superior court judge in the history of the Coosawattee Judicial Circuit, reentered the courtroom. Trish stepped back and sat in the front row.

  “Bring in the defendant,” the judge said to the bailiff.

  When Malcolm Callaway returned, the cocky demeanor Trish had seen in the defendant when the day began was gone. He’d been a cruel dictator of the quarter acre of scraggly land on which his mobile home sat, but the merciless legal blows Holt landed throughout the day had taken their toll. Malcolm now looked like a cur dog that had been kept on a short chain for a month. He joined the lawyers in front of Judge Lomax, who spoke directly to him.

  “Ms. Dixon tells me you want to change your plea to guilty. Is that correct?”

  Malcolm shuffled his feet and stared down at the floor.

  “Mr. Callaway, if you don’t want to change your plea, then I’ll send you back to the holding cell while we continue to wait for the jury to deliberate.”

  “Nah, I’m a-goin’ to take their deal.”

  “What is the plea agreement?” the judge asked Holt.

  “If the defendant pleads guilty to count one of the indictment, the state will ask the court to impose a sentence of five years to serve, followed by five on probation. The remaining charges will be dropped.”

  “Have you discussed this with Ms. Dixon?” the judge asked Malcolm.

  “Yeah. And she promised me if’n I get convicted, I might spend a lot longer locked up.”

  “If you plead guilty, you will lose your right for the jury to decide the case,” the judge said.

  “That’s what the lawyer told me.”

  “Other than the plea agreement outlined by Mr. Douglas, have you been promised anything else to change your plea?”

  “Not that I know ’bout.”

  The judge picked up the indictment. “Are you in fact guilty of count one, which alleges that on or about January 25 of this year you struck Amanda Callaway on and about the face and chest with your fists and put her in apprehension of further serious bodily injury by throwing a cement block at her head?”

  “She took a swing at me first with a bat.”

  “I heard your testimony to the jury,” the judge said.

  Malcolm didn’t respond. Trish saw the defendant clenching his fists. The judge continued.

  “Mr. Callaway, if you do not believe you are guilty of count one, I will not accept your change in plea.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll say it happened thataway.”

  “Have you been coerced or pressured into entering this guilty plea?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is someone making you plead guilty, or is it your own decision?”

  “I’m the one who will have to do the time.”

  The judge repeated the question.

  “Nah, the lawyer told me it was up to me.”

  “Do you realize I do not have to accept the state’s recommendation as to sentence?”

  “Huh?”

  Even though she’d witnessed the entry of guilty pleas many times, Trish always tensed during this part of the litany.

  “I don’t have to go along with the five years to serve followed by five years on probation—” Judge Lomax explained.

  “Then I ain’t gonna do it!” Malcolm interrupted and looked at Clare as if she’d been the one who tried to hit him with a baseball bat.

  The judge continued smoothly. “However, having heard the evidence, I will accept the state’s recommendation for sentence upon a change in plea to guilty without the necessity of a presentence investigation.”

  Malcolm responded with a puzzled look.

  “The judge is going to approve the plea agreement,” Clare said.

  “Is that so?” Malcolm asked the judge.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I guess I’ll do it.”

  Malcolm’s shoulders slumped as the judge completed the rest of the formalities related to accepting a guilty plea.

  “I hereby sentence you to serve five years in the Georgia penitentiary, followed by five years on probation.” The judge then turned to the bailiff. “Please take the defendant into custody and notify the sheriff’s office to send a patrol car to pick him up.”

  The bailiff led Malcolm out of the courtroom.

  “Mr. Douglas, where is the complainant?” the judge asked Holt.

  “With her family in the break room.”

  “Notify them, and we’ll bring in the jury.”

  “Your Honor, I can get the family.” Trish spoke up from her position behind the railing.

  “That would be appreciated, Deputy Carmichael,” the judge replied.

  The Ashley County courthouse was built in the 1920s when farming was the sputtering economic engine for the local area. The ravages caused by Sherman’s scorched-earth march to the sea during the Civil War were still unhealed when the Great Depression piled on another layer of devastation. Nevertheless, the two-story redbrick building had a measure of charm that came from surviving for almost a hundred years.

  The broad wooden steps creaked beneath Trish’s feet as she went downstairs to the basement. The break room was a windowless space with stark white walls. There were two vending machines and a single drink machine against one wall. A microwave and coffeemaker sat on a small table beneath a sign that warned “For Official Use Only.” Amanda and five members of her family were seated around a rectangular table with a plastic laminated top. They had the room to themselves. Trish remained in the doorway. Her time with Amanda’s family had increased her sympathy for the battered wife.

  “Judge Lomax wants you to come upstairs,” she said.

  “Has the jury done made up their minds?” Amanda asked, clasping her hands together in front of her.

  “No. Your husband decided to plead guilty.”

  “What?” Amanda’s father asked.

  “Mr. Douglas and the judge will explain everything to you,” Trish said.

  “Is Malcolm gonna get sent off to jail?” Amanda continued anxiously.

  Trish hesitated.

  “No!” Amanda wailed. “If he ain’t locked up forever, he’s gonna kill me as soon as he gets out! He told me so hisself!”

  Amanda’s father stood up angrily. “My youngun didn’t go through all this to have that sorry—”

  “Stop it, Elmer,” Amanda’s mother interrupted.

  “Is he a-goin’ to jail?” her father insisted.

  Trish hesitated. “Yes, but I can’t say anything else about it.”

  Without waiting for another verbal salvo, she turned and rapidly climbed the stairs two steps at a time. Holt needed to be warned about the storm following in her wake.

  2

  Trish reentered the courtroom as the jury was filing into the jury box. She rushed up to Holt, who was standing behind the prosecution table.

  “Amanda and her family are really upset,” she said, slightly out of breath.

  “Why?”

  “Because Malcolm isn’t going to get locked up for life.”

  “What did you tell them? They should have heard about the sentence from me or the judge.”

  “I know. No, I didn’t. I mean, all I said was—”

  The back door of the courtroom flew open, and Amanda’s family stormed in. Holt left Trish and met them halfway down the aisle. Trish slipped down the bench until she was close to the jury box. The jurors had puzzled looks on their faces and were whispering to one another. Holt remained in the aisle. One of Amanda’s brothers was talking to him and gesturing angrily.

  “Mr. Douglas!” the judge called out. “I’m ready to proceed.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Holt made one more comment to the family and then put his index finger to his lips. The sign might work with kindergartners, but Trish doubted its effect on Amanda’s kinfolk.

  “Where’s Malcolm at?” one of Amanda’s brothers asked in a loud voice.

  “Sir, please sit down,” Judge Lomax said.

  “Wait, this here is about my daughter!” Amanda’s father jumped to his feet. “And I ain’t gonna let anything happen—”

  Judge Lomax banged the gavel on the bench. “If you say anything else without my permission, I’ll have you ejected from the courtroom!”

  The men muttered as they sat down on the wooden benches. Amanda looked to be on the verge of tears. After a final stern glance in the direction of the family, Judge Lomax addressed the jury.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the defendant has entered a guilty plea, which relieves you of any further need to deliberate the case. The clerk’s office is closed, so the checks for your service will be mailed to the address you provided—”

  A middle-aged man wearing a dark suit and sitting in the front row of the jury box raised his hand. The judge paused.

  “Your Honor, we reached a verdict in the case. We were just waiting for the bailiff to bring us back into the courtroom to let you know.”

  Trish glanced at Holt, who licked his lips. Clare Dixon, the defense lawyer, stared wide-eyed at the jury.

  “What was it?” shouted a man from Amanda’s group. Trish recognized the voice as coming from one of the brothers. “That sorry Malcolm—”

  “Bailiff, escort that man from the courtroom!” the judge boomed.

  The bailiff started toward the group but then stopped. He obviously didn’t know who’d violated the judge’s instructions.

  “He’s the one wearing a blue shirt,” Trish spoke up.

  Amanda’s family glared at her. Trish knew the bailiff, a retired deputy, was incapable of forcibly removing Amanda’s brother from the room if the younger man wanted to resist. She placed her hand on the gun strapped to her waist and moved in the direction of the group. There weren’t any bullets in the weapon, but no one knew it. The bailiff didn’t carry a sidearm.