“Chicago?” There was regret in her voice, deep sadness. “Is she coming back?”
A car pulled into the drive. Betty Cooper sat behind the wheel. The social worker tapped the horn and waved.
Nova didn’t turn to go, not then. She stared down at her feet. “Ms. Cooper says it wasn’t my fault what happened. Those boys following me, what they did.”
My heart twisted in my chest. “Your fault? No, Nova, nothing was your fault. Not a thing.”
My voice was strident, too loud. Nova took a step back, descendedone stair. “She thinks I don’t have to worry about seeing them anymore.”
My heart was pounding. “That’s right,” I said, striving to sound calm. Mick Owens had kept me informed. The boys had broken down and confessed. They were being confined in the juvenile detention facility in Birmingham. The juvenile case was still ongoing; there would be proceedings to determine whether they’d be tried as adults. Whether it was handled by the juvenile court system or criminal courts, I believed they’d be penalized. And I was glad. I wanted them to get what they deserved. In a recent interview, one of the boys revealed a connection to local white supremacists. Mick said he’d turned the information over to the feds.
Betty called from the driver’s window. “Nova? I need to get you home. Your mama’s waiting!”
Now that Nova was about to depart, I found that there was much I’d like to say to her. Give some wisdom, maybe. Give encouragement, words of hope. I set the pot of pansies by the door as I struggled to summon the right words.
But no eloquent words of comfort came to mind as we stood on the makeshift steps. Nova looked down, wouldn’t meet my eye. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and hunched her shoulders. I heard a sniffle, and I wondered whether she was about to cry.
Wondered whether I’d cry with her.
I was about to speak, to break the uneasy silence, when Nova turned and hopped off the steps, walking quickly to Betty Cooper’s car. I just stood there, watching her go.
And then she whirled back around and ran back to the trailer. Stormed up the stairs and hugged me, tight. I wrapped my arms around her and held her, rocking from side to side. Neither of us spoke. Didn’t need words, not in the moment. We were boundby a shared history. United by a painful experience that surpassed understanding.
Nova pulled away, and I let her go. She ran to the car, got in the passenger seat. I waved at the car as it turned around on the gravel, but Nova never looked back.
CHAPTER
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 aftermy 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.
