Judge Stone by James Patterson - 2

Judge Mary Stone

STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA

One day, I’m going to strangle that goddamn rooster. Maybe I’ll strangle him today.

That was my first thought after being rudely—no, savagely—awakened on a Monday morning in late March.

The night before, I’d spent the wee hours staring up at the farmhouse ceiling. I grew up on this farm in rural Alabama. So I never developed a habit for sleeping in because farm life is too hard to afford that luxury. My daddy used to say he couldn’t take a vacation day until the livestock agreed to take one, too.

It’s not so different for judges. Pending cases take up residence in the mind.

I’d been agonizing over a decision I’d be called on to make. It was no exaggeration to say I’d been dreading this cursed day for weeks. Counting down the hours until I had to choose between life and death. And trying to determine the wisest course.

I rolled out of bed, pulling a long-sleeved T-shirt over my head and fastening the suspenders of my overalls. Didn’t bother to glance at my reflection in the mirror while I brushed my teeth. At that hour, it didn’t much matter how I looked.

Inside the mudroom door, I stepped into a pair of rubber chore boots. Stuffed my pant legs into the boots to discourage ticks from latching onto me. Then I exited the farmhouse just as the sky overhead was lightening from black to indigo blue.

I crossed the hard, bare ground of the side yard, heading to the weathered barn my great-grandfather had built with his own hands. The rooster followed along, scolding me. I was not having it.

“Don’t mess with me, Foghorn Leghorn. I’m in no mood,” I said. When he continued to squawk, I resorted to threats. “I’ll chop you into pieces and fry you up in a pan. You hear?”

My quarter horse, Tornado, trotted up to meet me. She was my pride, a cross-rein-trained mare that was a joy to ride. But not these days. Tornado was swelling with a new foal. I wasn’t about to mount the pregnant mare to ride the rounds. She wasn’t livestock. She was dear to me.

Inside the barn, I climbed onto the John Deere tractor and drove it to the east pasture, where I keep bales of hay stored under a plastic tarp. Used the pallet fork on the tractor to carry hay to the spot where my cattle grazed. I had twenty head of Charolais, including a bull that I rented out for stud. My cows were high-breed beef cattle, some of the best in the region.

As I drove the tractor across the field, the cattle looked up, eager to eat. I called out to them, just like my mama and daddy used to do.

The cattle lowed in response as they ambled toward me. I fed them the hay, mixed with barley and oats from a burlap sack. While I scattered the feed, one of the cows brushed up against me. I stroked her neck behind the ears before climbing back on the tractor.

As I drove back, the sun had risen high enough to turn the sky pink, casting a rosy glow on my land. The sight of that early light generally gave me pleasure. On that morning, though, it served as a reminder. Nothing could stop this day from coming.

Just contemplating the terrible task ahead sent a zing into my lower back. I ignored it. I had no time for back trouble. I needed to muck out my horse’s stall before I got into the shower.

After twenty minutes of shoveling shit, replacing it with fresh wood shavings, and setting out food and water for my mare, I left the barn and headed back to the house. Foghorn scuttled up to squawk at me again as I crossed the yard. He hushed up when I tossed a handful of seed for him to peck.

I quickly showered and dressed. Chugged a cup of coffee while I stared at my reflection in the mirror, just thinking. I almost shoved the cosmetic bag out of my way, tempted to forgo that process. But at fifty, a woman can’t rely on the glow of youth. So I did the bare minimum. Rubbed in some moisturizer, applied foundation. A lick of blush and a swipe of lipstick.

I was aware that I might be facing an audience. The press.

Before I left through the front door, I picked up my briefcase and pulled the black judicial robe off the coatrack, draped it over my arm.