Judge Stone by James Patterson - 81

BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA

When you think you’re going to a place that you’ll be leaving soon, it feels really special to be there again. It’s kind of like you’re seeing it with fresh eyes.

I felt that way walking into the county courthouse.

My other home.

It was a Monday morning, warm and sunny. When I got to the front door, Aurora was there to hold the door open for me. “Good luck with the election, Judge Mary.”

“Thanks, I’ll need it.” I didn’t tell her I knew it was already a lost cause.

I walked through the doorway. My footsteps echoed down the hardwood floor of the hall. Along the way, one by one, people started peeking out of their offices.

Dead woman walking.

I was sure some of them would be voting for me. But I was also sure most of them expected me to lose. Probably thought that after my term expired in January and my opponent got sworn in, they’d never see me again, except down at the Winn-Dixie.

I took the elevator at the rear of the building. The one that opened up right next to my chambers. I walked in. Looked at my desk. What a mess. I had half a mind to start cleaning it up. Put everything in boxes. Take my diplomas and certificates off the wall. Save myself the time after the votes were counted.

I took my robe off the hook and slipped it over the dress I’d borrowed this morning from Jordan. I hadn’t managed to replace my wardrobe yet, so I was taking turns wearing clothes from my sisters.

I looked at the clock on the wall and paced back and forth until the minute hand moved to 10. I took a deep breath and opened the door that led from my chambers to the courtroom.

Showtime.

Ross Carr, my bailiff, called out, “All rise!” Felt like he put a little something extra into it this morning. The clerk announced the case as I stepped onto the platform behind the bench. She ended with “the Honorable Mary Stone presiding.” I realized that I was really going to miss hearing those words.

I sat down and looked out over a full gallery, dozens of people whispering in low tones. The whole town had an interest in this case, even though this was just an arraignment.

I banged my gavel. “Be seated.” The crowd settled. I looked to my left. DA Reeves stood with his hands folded in front of him. He gave me a respectful nod. Then I looked down to my right.

“We are on the record,” I said. “Will the defendant please rise.”

Reluctantly, slowly, Mason Phelps stood up. No baseball cap today. No Confederate tee. Just an ill-fitting suit and a fresh shave.

Mick Owens stood behind him alongside a court security guard. A public defender stood at the table beside him. It was Scotty Whelker. Local attorney. Former high school wrestler. Good kid. I’d known him for years.

In court, it’s customary for the clerk to read the charges. Not today. I wanted to read them myself.

I didn’t even need notes.

“The grand jury of Bullock County in the State of Alabama charges that on or about September twenty-third of this year, Mason Euell Phelps did unlawfully and with malice aforethought, deliberately and willfully take the life of Cocheta Ann Bass, in violation of Alabama Code Title 13-A.”

I paused for a few seconds to let the words sink in.

“Mr. Phelps, how do you plead?”

He gave me a sneer with his answer. “Totally not guilty.”

Immediately, Scotty Whelker jumped up. “Your Honor!”

I knew what was coming. I was fully prepared for it. “Counsel?”

“Your Honor, in light of the Court’s connection with a previous case in which the deceased was an expected witness, the defense intends to file a motion for recusal, demanding that you remove yourself from this case.”

The gallery started buzzing. I rapped my gavel.

“Mr. Whelker. I’m way ahead of you. You are absolutely correct. I knew Ms. Bass. When I heard about her death, I went to the crime scene. Saw her hanging from that tree.”

Not a whisper in the room after that announcement.

“So there is no way I can be objective in this case. No need to file a motion. I’ll make the ruling from the bench. I hereby recuse myself. The clerk will handle the paperwork. This case will be assigned to another judge.”

I could see Mason Phelps smirking as if he’d just won a big bet.

I looked right at him. “Before I adjourn, however, I have one more question for the defendant.”

Phelps shifted his feet. His smirk faded a little.

“Mr. Phelps, did you or did you not set a dynamite charge and trip wire on my property in an attempt to blow up my home with me inside it?”

Phelps went pale. The gallery went crazy.

“Your Honor!” Scotty Whelker shouted.

I held up a hand to signal the public defender. “I acknowledge, Mr. Whelker, that for me to ask that question was totally out of line. And a judge who has crossed a line must recuse herself. But I already have, you understand?”

I rapped my gavel again and pointed the mallet at the defendant. “No need to answer, Mr. Phelps,” I said. “We both know the truth.”

With that, I stood up and walked out of the courtroom. Back in my chambers, I pulled off my robe and tossed it onto a hook on the coatrack.

Dug an empty Banker’s Box from a closet. Looked around the room, wondering where to start. Which piece of my judicial career I’d toss away first. But I was frozen. Couldn’t do it, not yet. Later, I thought.

Five minutes later, I was back in my car, heading for home with the window down, country air in my face. There were plenty of good judges in the Black Belt of Alabama. I had faith that Mason Phelps would get a fair trial, and that he would soon receive the justice he deserved.

But for right now, I tried to put all that out of my mind. I was taking the rest of the day off.

I had a new foal to care for, and cattle to feed.