But it was impossible to ignore. Nova whispered, “My stomach hurts. I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re thirteen years old. You know better. You’re supposed to pee before you get on the church bus.”
I had to intervene. “Y’all, it’s fine. Nova, you go in the house through that screen door, and the bathroom’s just beyond the kitchen.”
Starla wanted to argue with me, but I was insistent. Nova sat unmoving on the ground, looking miserable.
That’s where I was—sitting on the ground holding a baby—when a news van pulled into my yard. I watched the vehicle pull up within yards of my house.
“What the hell?” I said. I should’ve watched my language. One of Starla’s children repeated it. I heard a child exclaim, “What the hell?”
CHAPTER
9
I sat there in the grass, slack-jawed, as a TV team emerged from the van. The camera crew spotted me. I saw one of them point me out to a reporter before the camera turned my way.
The reporter, a young white man, was easy to identify. He wore orange pancake makeup on his face and held a microphone as he approached the house.
I passed the baby off to Nova and scrambled to my feet. As I hurried across the yard, I called out to the young reporter.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
I could see that the camera was already taking footage, zooming in on the sunken faces of ragged men who sat on my front porch, accepting my charity. I saw one man bow his head in shame.
My temper flared. My sisters had stepped away from the food table to watch the TV team. When I caught Nellie’s eye, her chin lifted in defiance. I marched up to her. “Now what the hell is this? Nellie! Is this your doing?”
She didn’t deny it. “I’m trying to help you! I got a TV news team interested in doing a feature on Saturday breakfast. To help you out!”
“Don’t help me. I don’t want it.”
“Why are you so stubborn? This is free advertising for your reelection campaign.”
I strode right over to the camera team. The young reporter with the mic gave me a once-over as he stepped up to greet me. “Judge Stone, I’m Reese Wilson, with WYLR in Birmingham.”
His starched white oxford shirt was tucked into pressed khaki pants. I resisted the urge to brush food splatters from my faded T-shirt. When I gave him a tight smile, my tone was all business. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Wilson. Y’all need to turn right back around. Put your equipment back in the truck. There’s no story here today. Nothing to see.”
The camera crew looked to the reporter for guidance. When Wilson spoke, his voice carried barely a hint of his regional Southern accent, but his native arrogance hadn’t been erased.
He said, “Really? Nothing to see? Judge, it’s right here in front of me, I can see it with my own two eyes. We were invited to do a feature on you. We drove two hours to get here.”
I tried to keep it civil. Even though something in the young man’s face as his eyes swept over my home triggered a defensive reaction in me. “Sorry for your inconvenience, Mr. Wilson. But I didn’t invite you. And it’s my private property.”
The reporter flatly ignored me. He turned to his crew, gestured toward the house. “Set up down there, with the porch in the background.”
This kid had picked the wrong woman to mess with. I was mad enough to spit.
“I’m not playing.” My voice had a hard edge. “You are trespassing. I’m ordering you to leave.”
“You’re not serious,” he said.
I shot a look at my breakfast guests, seated on the porch andscattered across the grass. Some of them watched the confrontation furtively, others had turned their heads away. I didn’t blame them. I wished I could turn away from it.
I dropped my voice. “My guests deserve their privacy. I’m going to protect it. You understand me?”
He didn’t bother to lower his voice. “You’re a public figure, an elected official. As a journalist, I’m entitled, and obligated, to cover you. I also have a lot of influence over how you’ll be perceived. You understand? I’m entitled to do this.”
“Oh, I understand you, better than you might imagine. And one thing we agree on—you’re entitled. You’re an entitled little ass.”
