I decided it was time to speak up. “Umm, guys? I’m still here.”
Neither of the men spoke. No apology, reply, regrets. I heard two metallic clicks as they individually terminated the call.
There was a tentative knock on the door. I composed my face, sat up straight in the chair. “Yes?”
Luna peeked in. “I saw the light go out, from your call with the governor. Everything okay?”
“Sure.”
She grimaced. “They were pretty loud, Judge. I couldn’t help hearing it. You all right? You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
She looked doubtful. I was going to have to convince her. “Seriously, Luna, I’m fine. It’s good to know where you stand with people. They asked me to do something. I turned them down. So they called me names. That’s nothing new. Same old shit.”
“But it’s terrible!”
I waved a hand in dismissal. “It’s over, and I’m glad. What else can they do to me?”
CHAPTER
27
After that telephone scuffle with the governor, I was on high alert, poised for trouble to start. But May passed without any kind of major incident. School let out, and it appeared that we might have an ordinary summer in Bullock County.
Traditionally, the courthouse is quiet in June and July. The temperature heats up and people slow down. Folks don’t have the energy to duke it out in court. Their kids are running the streets of town all day, and those summer days are long. The sun doesn’t set until eight o’clock and twilight keeps the sky lit past nine.
It was a Friday afternoon in the middle of June, and the end of the workweek had me in good spirits—except that I was missing the Oyster House.
Since the Bria Gaines case had put me on people’s radar, Loucilla and I had to switch up our long-standing meeting day. Changed locations, too, moving around and trying out new restaurants. A change of habit is healthy, Loucilla claimed, but the novelty didn’t hold much charm for me, and I wondered whether we might hazard a return visit without attracting unwanted attention.
As I turned off the farm road and into my gravel drive, Foghorntrotted out of the barn to greet me. Before I reached the farmhouse, I had to hit the brakes and let the car idle while he picked his way across the path. Damned rooster thought he owned the place. You know what people say about cats. Same thing was true with Foghorn: He was just letting me live in the house rent-free.
While I waited for the rooster to pass, I gazed over at the farmhouse. The pots of red geraniums I’d planted lent a bright pop of color to the front porch. The place looked good, tidy and neat, with a recent coat of paint and a fairly new roof. I take pride in the little house that has stood on this spot for a century. I tell anyone who’ll listen that the place is structurally sound, thanks to craftsmanship and materials—minus the ancient wiring and plumbing—that are just plain superior to what builders use now. They don’t make them like that anymore.
While I was admiring my house, I noticed another spot of color. A yellow note had been left on the doorframe. The paper that fluttered in the warm breeze was an ominous sign.
“What the hell?”
I parked the car, ran across the hard-packed dirt, and hurried up the porch steps. The printed message from the US Postal Service—Sorry we missed you while you were out—was as regulation as my old-fashioned metal mailbox, the kind that allows the rural-route postman access without leaving his vehicle.
But a return-receipt legal notification required the dude to leave Farm Road 164, drive up to my house, get out, and knock on my door.
For a quarter century, I’d been engaged in the legal profession—a profession that dealt in bad news.
Somebody was fucking with me.
The handwritten notations on the form revealed my assailant: the Pearce Law Firm in Union Springs.
A spurt of anger sent my heart racing. Arch Pearce called himself a lawyer, but he was a glorified collection agent, one of the unscrupulous, overreaching shysters who made a living as a land-grabber. His brand of legal practice, targeting poor real estate holders, was one of the reasons that landownership by Black people had dwindled to nearly nothing.
Whenever he appeared before me in my courtroom, I’d been inclined to lock him up in jail with the other crooks and thieves. But the law isn’t written that way, and I don’t abuse my power, regardless of what the DA may claim. So I tried to intervene by taking measures under my control. Like reining him in by ruling against him whenever possible.
And now, in an ugly shift of circumstances, I was the target of an Arch Pearce certified letter. I crumpled the note in my hand. Paced up and down the porch, listening to the pine boards creak under my shoes.
“I’ve got nothing to worry about.” I said it out loud, to a limited audience: the rooster and the insects buzzing around. “This is my land. I take care of what’s mine, always have.”
It didn’t sound convincing enough. I raised my voice, letting it ring out. “Pearce won’t win. I’m bulletproof. No one can take it from me.”
