Judge Stone by James Patterson - 82

STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA

It was the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November. Election Day in Alabama.

In prior weeks, I anticipated that I’d be mournful when November finally rolled around and made my judicial demise a definite outcome. Thought I’d be depressed, blue. I was about to find out whether my supposition was accurate.

I checked the time on the stove as I walked to the kitchen for a refill of ice water. It was 8 p.m.; the polls had been closed for an hour. But as I returned to that stiff new chair in the trailer’s living room, I didn’t feel blue, exactly. More like aimless. Uncertain what the future held, and what my role would be. If I wasn’t Judge Mary Stone—who the hell was I?

A familiar voice popped into my head: sounded like my friend Loucilla. You don’t base your identity on your occupation!

She’d said that to me repeatedly, particularly in recent weeks. I wasn’t convinced. It was easy for Lou to say. She was a tenured professor at the university.

I was afraid I’d start talking to myself, sitting alone in that trailer on election night. The trailer was too quiet, eerily so.

I’d turned the phone off. I didn’t want any sympathy calls. And the TV was off, too. I didn’t have cable or a dish, could only pick up local stations. And local stations would be running election results on the screen all night, on a banner during regular programming, leading up to the ten o’clock news. I was making a conscious decision to avoid the heartache of seeing the count roll in, watching my opponent win by bigger and bigger numbers.

No damn way. I’m a realist—I knew I’d lose. But I’m no masochist.

I expected that time would be hanging on my hands that night, moving slow. So I’d dragged a box of hard files home from the courthouse. I pulled a stack of manila folders out of the box and set them on one of the TV trays I used as all-purpose furnishings these days. TV trays served as dinner table, coffee table, desk, nightstand.

I was reviewing those files, trying to sort out the cases I’d try to complete before my judicial term ended in January. I was making progress, too, emptied the box about halfway, when I heard a car engine, and gravel crunching under tires.

I closed the file folder, pushed the TV tray to the side. A surge of impatience rolled through me when pounding sounded at the door. Even in defeat, they wouldn’t leave me in peace.

“Mary!” The pounding doubled in volume. I stepped up to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.

Both my sisters stood on the top step, arms around each other, like they were holding each other up.

And I thought: Oh, God, no.