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 someonewas 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.”
