Judge Stone by James Patterson - 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.”

Reeves liked to toss his opinions at the bench, just like that. Speaking with more arrogance than propriety required. Just a little too sure of himself, acting like his knowledge was broader than my own. I wasn’t imagining the attitude. The DA was an ass.

Someday, he and I were going to throw down. And that particular morning was shaping up to supply the necessary push.

I was about to pop off. To kick the misdemeanor out of my court. Kick it so high it might fly all the way over to Barbour County in Clayton, Alabama, where they could take it up with the district judge. But before I opened my mouth, I caught a glimpse of the defendant, Fergus Pitt.

Pitt sat at the defense table, twisting an ink pen over and over in work-hardened hands. He looked nervous. And scared—scared to death, which you don’t generally see in misdemeanor cases.

I glanced down at the charge a second time. Read it over again, from start to finish. Considered airing my opinion about the criminal allegation made by the State. Decided against it.

Instead, I smiled and said, “I see. All right, then. Gentlemen, if y’all have agreed to have me preside over this case, let’s get started.”

Ross Carr, my bailiff, stood at the back of the courtroom. I said, “Bailiff, bring the jury panel into court for voir dire. We’ll start jury selection now.”

We had the jury picked and seated before noon. After the parties made brief opening statements, we took a one-hour lunch break.

Back in court at 1 p.m., I told the DA to call his first witness. Reeves led with his expert, Marcus Lindsey. Lindsey had come from Montgomery to appear. He was a good witness, made an impressive appearance on the stand. Articulate but not stuffy. And it was clever of the white DA to use a Black engineer in his case against a Black defendant. Our jury was three-quarters Black, a pretty fair representation of the county’s racial breakdown.

“And what is your occupation, Mr. Lindsey?”

“I’m an environmental engineer.”

“What’s your educational background?”

“I got my bachelor’s degree at Tuskegee University. Then studied engineering at University of Alabama.”

I didn’t betray any reaction when the witness revealed he’d received his degree at the very same HBCU where I’d done my undergraduate studies. I was tempted to gaze at the jury box, see whether any of them were wrestling with the question that had occurred to me. How many of us were wondering why that engineer was testifying for the prosecution in this case?

The DA’s voice oozed courtesy when he spoke to the witness. More courtesy than he’d ever shown to me. “Directing your attention to March 17 of this year, did you have occasion to be in Bullock County, Alabama?”

“I did travel to Bullock County, yes.”

“For what reason?”

“To determine whether raw sewage was contaminating private property and threatening public health.”

I sneaked a look at the defense table. The defense attorney was fidgeting in his chair. I tried to send him a mental message. Get out of that chair! Stand up and fight!

The attorney didn’t pick up my vibes.

Meanwhile, the DA’s direct examination continued. “Where did you go on that date?”

“To a rural property located a mile north of the city limits of Union Springs. The address was 37 Farm Road 164 in Bullock County, Alabama.”

“Did anyone accompany you?”

“A sheriff’s deputy. The sheriff’s department had hired me to make the inspection.”

What the hell? The sheriff had laid out funds from our impoverished county to pay for a private-sector engineer? What was Mick Owens thinking? It took tremendous fortitude to remain in my seat. Had to put my hands in my lap, out of sight. My clenched fists would give me away.

I stared at Chuck Rich again. Saw him sigh as he wrote something on his legal pad.

The DA edged over to the jury box as he asked the next question. “What did you observe on the property at the location, Mr. Lindsey?”

“There was a mobile home on the property, about fifty yards from the road. I observed a long white PVC pipe, running from the trailer to a trench in a pasture behind the home.”

“What, if anything, did you observe in the trench?”

“It was filled with raw sewage from the trailer. The owner of the property was straight-piping his sewage to a hole in the nearby field.”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

Finally. It had taken him long enough. The defense attorney was on his feet. “Grounds?” I said.

The defense attorney, Chuck Rich, was sweating. Perspiration trickled down his face, making dark spots on the collar of his blue shirt. “Judge, they can’t do this. The DOJ put a stop to it when they were prosecuting people in Lowndes County.”

The DA leveled a look at me. “This isn’t Lowndes County. We’re in Bullock County.”

Rich gawked in disbelief before he turned back to me and said, “Judge, what he’s trying to do is outrageous, this is an environmental equity issue!”

Reeves extended an arm to the jury, so they’d know he was addressing them. “I don’t disagree with the last half of that statement. The environmental quality of this county is an important issue. And it’s equitable and fair that we keep people in the county safe. I think that it’s in the interest of every citizen of Bullock County that we eliminate these pools of raw sewage before they make everybody sick. Hope people in this jury haven’t caught anything yet.”

That statement caused an outcry and a flurry of rustling in the jury box, as jurors scooted in their seats to ensure they weren’t in physical contact with anyone else.

A rivulet of sweat rolled down Chuck Rich’s cheek. “Objection, Your Honor! The prosecution hasn’t offered evidence of any disease!”

“Sustained,” I said, adding, “The DA’s statements are out of order. The jury is instructed to disregard his comments.”

“I’ll tie it up later, Judge.” Reeves smirked at me.

Two reasons: He knew the jury couldn’t disregard the suggestion of disease; it was too shocking. And he also knew he was right—and probably had evidence to back up the statement.

The pools of raw sewage that polluted nearly every county in the Black Belt of Alabama caused a host of infectious diseases. I’d read up on it, after I heard a DOJ presentation on the topic at a judges’ conference. The guy from the DOJ said that we’re not supposed to have hookworm disease in the United States anymore. He also said that almost one-third of people tested over in Lowndes County were positive for hookworm. It’s found in underdeveloped countries that don’t have indoor plumbing. Or toilets that flush away human waste. You catch hookworm through contact with the stool of an infected person, or infected soil.

The Black Belt of Alabama is my ancestral home. Fergus Pitt’s land—his soil—was a stone’s throw from my own.

My skin began to itch. I had to suppress the urge to reach under my robe and scratch.