I grabbed the phone, squinted at the screen. The caller had an Alabama area code, but the number was unfamiliar. Definitely not anybody in my contacts.
Still fuzzy from sleep, I debated whether I should go ahead and answer. Just swipe my thumb across that screen, see what was up. Maybe there was an emergency in one of the counties in my circuit.
The ringtone jangled again while I stared at the number.
As a judge, I get an occasional wake-up call in the middle of the night. Sometimes—rarely, but it’s happened—a detective needs me to sign off on a search warrant, and believes it can’t wait until morning, because time is of the essence. I’m always available in such a circumstance.
Or sometimes an old client of mine from my criminal defense days gets in trouble and thinks that if he can reach me, I’ll wave a magic wand and tell the cops to set him free. Those calls don’t end happily.
But the search warrant scenario, that was possible. It was reasonable to suppose that a cop in my circuit was calling from a cell phone. A number I didn’t have in my contacts.
I decided to answer just as it went to voicemail.
Too late. I set the phone down. Tried to convince myself thatit was probably nothing important. And if it was a crucial matter, they’d try again. Maybe come out to my house and bang on the door.
I was considering pulling on some pants just in case I received a visitor. That’s when I heard the ding, notifying me: The caller had left a message.
I sighed out as I grabbed the phone, relieved to know I wouldn’t be forced to wonder all night about the reason for the call. I was happy to know someone had left a message.
Until I played it.
“Judge, I’m calling you because I just can’t sleep. I’ve been in a terrible state, ever since I saw that woman on the news. That negro woman in court who killed the little girl’s baby.”
Her voice was thin and wavering over the phone. Sounded like an old white lady, and not one I knew. I lifted my thumb, ready to pause, to delete. But she caught her breath and went on talking.
“That doctor is going to hell for what she done. The girl, I can’t say. Maybe the Lord will forgive her if she repents. Or might be she’ll burn in hell, too, for killing her own child. I felt called to tell you something, though, and it couldn’t wait. The Lord moved me. He commanded me to give this message to you.”
I shivered as the old woman delivered her warning. “Judge, don’t you follow them. You have the choice, you understand me? Don’t you follow those women into hell. The devil may be at your shoulder, tempting you, whispering in your ear—”
That was enough. I cut the voice off and then I swiped it, made the message disappear. As I leaned back against the pillows, gripping the phone, I had second thoughts. Maybe I should have kept the recording instead of deleting it. If that little old lady showed up at the courthouse with a long gun and a plan to hurry me into the afterlife, the recording would be good evidence of premeditation.
But it was too late. I closed my eyes, hoping I’d be able to ease back into the deep fog of sleep. The phone rang again.
I checked the number. Not an Alabama area code, so I didn’t even consider picking up. When the message appeared, I played the audio. This one sounded less crazy. Just an impassioned statement of support for the prosecution, a lament for the number of children whose lives had been ended before birth. Some statistics, an offer to send me the information.
Delete.
Between 1 and 3:25 a.m., I received roughly a half dozen calls. The ringtone would rouse me from a light slumber. I’d wait for the message. Calculate the crazy factor, the odds that the caller was capable of actual harm.
And I’d wonder how the hell people were getting their hands on my private cell number. Exactly who was giving that information away?
The seventh call was the game changer. The caller was no reedy-voiced church lady. It was a man who sounded like he was in his prime, speaking in a deep baritone. He got right to the point.
“I saw you on the news. Big Black bitch in a big black robe, sitting up all high and mighty in that courtroom, like you got a right to be there. Time was when you people knew your place.”
I slid down and pulled the covers to my chin. But I kept listening.
“You poison this case, you’re gonna be put right back in your place again. You might just wish somebody killedyouin the womb. Trust me, when I catch you, you’ll be licking my fine leather boots and begging for your goddamn life!”
The message ended.
I didn’t delete that one. It had to be preserved. But I knew that I couldn’t tolerate another night caller. I muted my phone but didn’tput it on the bedside table. Kept it in a tight grip, ready to dial 911 if necessary.
I lay awake for a long while, tossing in bed, watching the minutes tick closer to morning. Gave me time to think. Too much time, arguably. I grew maudlin, and commenced a nostalgic fit of longing for ordinary days. For times when I faced the obligations and labor of the farm and my judicial seat without this new level of exposure and drama.
My last conscious thought before I dropped into a deep sleep was a somber realization. That there would be no more normal days for me, not for a long while.
When I slipped into a nightmare, I couldn’t tell if I was asleep or awake.
