Judge Stone by James Patterson - 18

Tuesday morning, nine o’clock.

It was time to go to court.

But before I left chambers, I checked my reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of the door. And decided that my bright yellow scarf didn’t strike the right note. Too cheery, I thought. Quickly, I unknotted it and tossed the scarf on my desk.

I pushed the door open. My bailiff was already on his feet. Ross Carr called out, “All rise!”

I heard rustling sounds and muted voices as I ascended the steps. But I didn’t look out at the courtroom until I sat behind the bench. Good Lord. Without question, we’d set a new record for attendance. My spacious courtroom—which was huge by modern standards—was beyond capacity, standing room only.

I scanned the crowd. Some faces were familiar to me. But most weren’t. Highly unusual occurrence, for me to look out at my Bullock County courtroom and see the old wooden benches filled with people who were strangers to me. Well, I shouldn’t have been surprised. As predicted, we had attracted a lot of attention.

And this was only the arraignment.

“You may be seated,” I said.

It was Dr. Gaines’s first appearance in circuit court. Her first appearance before me, as circuit judge. She sat alone at the defense table, wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved dress with a conservative hemline. A dress like that was categorized as “church clothes” back in the day. In law school, we were taught that it was crucial to make our clients wear church clothes to court. It was sound advice, and when I started out in my law practice, trying mostly criminal cases, I urged my clients to follow it. That was twenty-five years ago, and people didn’t necessarily dress up for church or court anymore. I wondered where Bria Gaines was getting her wardrobe advice.

Because she was sitting alone, no lawyer in sight.

It didn’t make sense that she was alone in court. She should have a lawyer at her side. The woman was charged with a felony.

“Dr. Gaines,” I said. She sat up straight with a jolt, raised her eyes to meet mine. “Are you represented by counsel?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” When she spoke, her hands clutched involuntarily, like she was looking for something to hold on to. She hid them in her lap. Clearly, the doctor was petrified; I could see fear etched in her face and hear it in her voice, though she tried to hide it. “He was here, said he’d be back in a second.”

The courtroom door opened, and he trotted down the aisle. “Apologies, Your Honor. I had to step out. I’m representing Dr. Gaines.”

Well, shit. It was Chuck Rich.

Like I’ve always said, Chuck’s intentions are good. I admired his willingness to take on clients whom other attorneys turned away. But I was reminded of his lackluster performance in Fergus Pitt’s misdemeanor trial. And this case was no misdemeanor.

Chuck Rich was in over his head.

And he probably was aware of it. It would explain why a lawyer would have to run out of court to answer nature’s call right as his big case was about to be heard.

While he joined his client at the counsel table, I opened the file and read the docket sheet. One of the notations was shocking. Almost made me shake my head in disgust, right in front of everybody. Chuck Rich had waived a preliminary hearing in the case. By doing that, he had squandered his chance to obtain an early look at the DA’s evidence and get the witnesses’ testimony under oath, so they couldn’t change it down the road.

The opportunity was gone, the defense couldn’t get it back. I wondered why Chuck Rich had taken such a foolish step. I looked out at the prosecution counsel table. Stealing a glance at the smug face of Reeves, it occurred to me that the DA might have talked Rich into it. Even though I’d tried to remind Chuck Rich when he was last in my courtroom: The DA is not the ally of the defense.

“Mr. Rich, are you ready?” When he nodded, I said, “In the case of the State of Alabama v. Bria Gaines, the defendant appears in person and with her attorney, Chuck Rich. Dr. Gaines, you are charged with the Class A felony of intentionally performing an abortion. Shall I read the language of the charge aloud?”

Chuck Rich stood and said, “We waive formal reading of the felony charge.”

“All right. Dr. Gaines, how do you plead?”

Again, Chuck Rich spoke. “The defendant pleads not guilty.”

I nodded. Uncapped an ink pen, made a notation in the file. It only took a second. But that momentary pause was all that was needed.

It gave a man in the courtroom the time to stand up in the crowded room and shout, “Liar! You’re guilty as hell, you murdering witch! God will make you pay!”