Robert Reeves stood, waving his arm like a kid in school. “State requests a recess!”
Benjamin Meyers was also on his feet, shouting over the other lawyers. “Objection, Your Honor—she’s badgering her own witness!”
Nova had started weeping. That hard kind of crying, when a person tries to hold it in, and it makes the body convulse.
The spectators’ gallery buzzed with noise, people weighing in on Nova’s breakdown. More than one person had the gall to pull out a phone and aim it at the witness stand.
The courtroom was veering out of control—again. I slammed the gavel—just once, mind. Rose from my seat and pointed at the courtroom door, straight ahead of me.
I uttered one word. “Out!”
The noise settled down some. Except for the witness stand. The poor child still sobbed like her heart was broken.
But the spectators hadn’t followed orders. I needed to provide specificity.
“I am clearing this courtroom.”
When I spoke, it came straight from the diaphragm. My voice can be a powerful instrument, and I’m grateful for that, at times. This was one of those occasions.
“By order of this court, all spectators will leave immediately. That includes everyone seated in the gallery. Get. Out.”
A white man stood up. “Your Honor, I’m with the local NBC affiliate—”
Sweet Jesus, I recognized him: the entitled little jerk who’d crashed Saturday breakfast at my farm last spring. “Get out of my courtroom unless you want to see a contempt citation. I’m not playing.”
That convinced them all, I guess. Folks figured that if I was crazy enough to threaten a TV journalist, I’d certainly rain downfury on a curiosity seeker. The courtroom emptied out, and Ross Carr shut the door behind the last visitor.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you’re excused. I’m sending you off for a break. Ross and Luna will escort you to the jury room.”
They didn’t dawdle. After the jurors departed, a handful of us remained in court. I stayed at the bench. Bria Gaines and the attorneys for both sides sat at their respective tables. The court reporter tapped her foot on the floor, wearing an uncertain look, like she didn’t know if she should stay or go.
And Nova Jones. Huddled in that witness chair, hunched over with shame and defeat, shoulders shaking.
The door to chambers was directly behind my chair. I rose, stepped out of court. In a matter of seconds, I was back at the bench with a cold bottle of water in my hands. A big one, sixteen ounces.
“Nova, honey. Look what I found.”
I peeled the plastic off the top, cracked it open. Sometimes those lids are tricky. “You look thirsty, Nova. I got you a drink of water. You see?”
She lifted her head, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. When she peeked at me, I reached out and handed her the water bottle. She took it.
“I’ve a box of tissues, right here.” I pushed the box closer to her. When she pulled a tissue out, I said, “Take the box.”
She did. Blew her nose, wiped her face. Unscrewed the lid and took a long drink of water. The room was hushed, waiting.
I had to hold myself together, too. It was personal for me. And painful, though I was determined to hide that, to project a calm demeanor.
Nova tipped the bottle back a second time. Drank deep, like people do when they’ve been working in the sun all day.
When she stopped to take a breath, I said, “Courtroom can be a scary place, can’t it?”
Nova’s eyes turned to me and she nodded, one time.
I kept my voice soft. “That testifying, it’s so hard. Especially when everybody starts talking at once. The lawyers and the judge and sometimes the people sitting out there watching. It can be hard to know what to do.”
Lindquist was on her feet again. “Judge, the DA and I have had a moment to consult, and we both think it would be appropriate to have some time to talk with our witness. Privately.”
I was in no mood. “Sit down, Ms. Lindquist.”
