Judge Stone by James Patterson - 80

STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA

The autumn season was hot that year. Second summer stretched all the way through October. That spell of dry fall weather would be a big help for a political campaign. Plenty of good weather to go politicking door-to-door, put up yard signs, hold a local rally to drum up enthusiasm.

But I wasn’t campaigning. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, other than wasting my time. And wasting money, when I didn’t have much to spare. The insurance on the farmhouse didn’t begin to cover the replacement of everything I’d lost in the explosion and fire.

So on the Saturday after Halloween, I spent my afternoon sitting in the trailer, in front of a television set. I’d given up the traditional Saturday breakfast. Couldn’t host that breakfast any longer, not without a proper kitchen and seating for guests. There was no need to spend the day in the barn. The horses were out in the field, enjoying the sunshine. I could see Thunder prancing in the grass, but he never strayed far from his mother.

And there was no need to spend my weekend doing judicial work. I was a short-timer, everybody knew that. I’d blown the upcoming election by tossing out a jury verdict. Spitting in a jury’s eye was political suicide.

Since my decision in the Bria Gaines trial, money had poured into my opponent’s campaign. His staffers had been busy planting yard signs. They’d sprung up like weeds, all over town. And the TV ads were running hourly, it seemed like. All negative ads, focused on me.

Mary Stone doesn’t respect the American tradition of trial by a jury of our peers! She thinks that she alone should make the decision of guilt or innocence! She threw out a jury verdict—and she’ll throw our constitutional rights out with the garbage!

While the voice-over defamed me, the ad ran a series of hideously unflattering photos. Candid shots in which I looked angry, unkempt, and unbalanced. The last image was the worst: I was standing in front of the Bullock County Courthouse with a snarl on my face. Just before the ad’s final line, they popped a cartoon golden crown on my head, tilted it sideways.

Don’t let Mary Stone rule the 3rd Judicial Circuit of Alabama!

I sat in that stiff new recliner, staring at the ugly ad, when I heard a tap at the trailer door. A tap so soft, I thought I might have imagined it.

I muted the television. The knock sounded again, a light, tentative rap. Not the decisive knock of a friend or family member.

I was tempted to ignore it. I wasn’t expecting any visitors—and certainly wasn’t hungry for company. I thought the intruder might just give up if I remained in my chair.

Changed my mind about that pretty swiftly, though. I’d survived an attack recently, right on that piece of land. If someone was coming on my property uninvited, I damn well needed to know about it.

I stepped up to the door, turned the lock. Pulled it open so suddenly, it must have startled her.

Nova Jones stood on the makeshift steps to my trailer door, clutching a plant in a terra-cotta clay pot. When I’d flung the door open, she’d backed up and almost fallen down the steps.

“Nova!” I peered around her. There was no car idling in my side yard, no adult waiting at the bottom of the steps. “What you doing out here, honey? You surely didn’t walk all this way. I’m five miles outside the city limits.”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t walk. Social worker dropped me off at the gate after our meeting today. I’m supposed to wait for her down there on the road. She be back to get me in a minute, drive me home.”

“I see,” I said, studying her. That was a falsehood on my part. I didn’t see, had no clue what the child was doing here.

Nova looked down at the pot she clutched to her chest. “I brought you something, Judge Mary.”

The pot held a blooming mass of purple pansies.

I tried to catch her eye. Nova pulled out a bit of dirt and rubbed it between her thumb and fingertip. “These are yours, Judge Mary. I saw the pansies down by your fencerow wasn’t doing so good, didn’t have enough color, enough bloom. So I dug some up and repotted them in fresh soil.”

“I see,” I said again.

“It’s a good time to plant them now. Weather’s cooling down. Or you can keep them in the pot if you want, on your steps. You used to have pretty pots of flowers on your porch when we came to Saturday breakfast.”

She handed the pot to me. I said, “Nova, thank you. That’s real thoughtful.”

Hesitantly, she said, “I know you’re awful busy, being a judge at the courthouse. But if you pull off the old flowers, it helps new ones to grow.”

“I’ll remember that, Nova. That’s good advice.”

I saw Nova’s eyes cut over to the patch of bare ground where the farmhouse formerly stood. “There’s no Saturday breakfast anymore.”

My throat grew tight. “That’s right. My house burned down, and the fire took all my good old pots and pans. This little kitchen in the trailer is too small to feed a crowd.”

I stopped talking, aware that I was making excuses. But then, I couldn’t think of a way to explain it to this young girl—that I didn’t have the fortitude to host those community breakfasts anymore.

I was too tired. Tired and beaten down.

I shifted the weight of the clay pot to my hip, trying to think of a way to break the silence. But then Nova spoke again.

“Dr. Bria’s office got a sign in the window.”

“Yes! That’s right. I hear it’s for rent. Somebody told me she’s moving to Chicago.”

“Chicago?” There was regret in her voice, deep sadness. “Is she coming back?”

A car pulled into the drive. Betty Cooper sat behind the wheel. The social worker tapped the horn and waved.

Nova didn’t turn to go, not then. She stared down at her feet. “Ms. Cooper says it wasn’t my fault what happened. Those boys following me, what they did.”

My heart twisted in my chest. “Your fault? No, Nova, nothing was your fault. Not a thing.”

My voice was strident, too loud. Nova took a step back, descended one stair. “She thinks I don’t have to worry about seeing them anymore.”

My heart was pounding. “That’s right,” I said, striving to sound calm. Mick Owens had kept me informed. The boys had broken down and confessed. They were being confined in the juvenile detention facility in Birmingham. The juvenile case was still ongoing; there would be proceedings to determine whether they’d be tried as adults. Whether it was handled by the juvenile court system or criminal courts, I believed they’d be penalized. And I was glad. I wanted them to get what they deserved. In a recent interview, one of the boys revealed a connection to local white supremacists. Mick said he’d turned the information over to the feds.

Betty called from the driver’s window. “Nova? I need to get you home. Your mama’s waiting!”

Now that Nova was about to depart, I found that there was much I’d like to say to her. Give some wisdom, maybe. Give encouragement, words of hope. I set the pot of pansies by the door as I struggled to summon the right words.

But no eloquent words of comfort came to mind as we stood on the makeshift steps. Nova looked down, wouldn’t meet my eye. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and hunched her shoulders. I heard a sniffle, and I wondered whether she was about to cry.

Wondered whether I’d cry with her.

I was about to speak, to break the uneasy silence, when Nova turned and hopped off the steps, walking quickly to Betty Cooper’s car. I just stood there, watching her go.

And then she whirled back around and ran back to the trailer. Stormed up the stairs and hugged me, tight. I wrapped my arms around her and held her, rocking from side to side. Neither of us spoke. Didn’t need words, not in the moment. We were bound by a shared history. United by a painful experience that surpassed understanding.

Nova pulled away, and I let her go. She ran to the car, got in the passenger seat. I waved at the car as it turned around on the gravel, but Nova never looked back.