“Mr. Gray, please stand,” I said.
The defendant snarled. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to pronounce sentence in your case.”
The defense attorney stood and whispered an entreaty to his client to do likewise. But the defendant didn’t want to comply with traditional procedure at sentencing. It required the assistance of both deputies to pull Ferrell Gray into a standing posture.
“In the case ofState of Alabama v. Ferrell Gray,on counts 1 and 2, I hereby sentence you to life imprisonment without possibility of parole.”
I didn’t drag it out, didn’t make long pauses for dramatic effect. But the statement packed a punch. The defendant lost his balance and fell back against the chair with his mouth sagging open.
And the prosecutor’s face had turned scarlet. “Your Honor, the sentence doesn’t reflect the jury’s recommendation.”
“That’s true, Mr. Reeves. Because it’s my decision to make. As the prosecution is well aware. And Mr. Gray, lest you’re confused by today’s events, you can’t tempt me to sentence you to death with threats and insults and abuse. Because I believe in the sanctity of human life. Even your despicable life is sacred.”
I keep a good-sized wooden gavel on the bench. Sometimes I hit harder than I should, just for personal satisfaction. This was one of those occasions.
“You’ll be transferred to the Alabama Department of Corrections to serve out your sentence for the remainder of your natural life. Court is adjourned.”
CHAPTER
7
STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA
Saturday morning, 4:30 a.m. My alarm went off while the rooster was still sound asleep with his head tucked all snug under his wing.
I jabbed that snooze button, thinking:I. Do. Not. Want. To. Get. Up.
No.
As I stared up in the darkness, the cussing started. I muttered, “Son of a bitch.”
And then I lay there, waiting, bracing myself for the alarm. Knowing it would shriek again in a couple of minutes.
“Shit. Shit. Son of abitch.” Louder that time, with feeling.
I couldn’t abide the wait. Grabbed my phone and turned off the alarm, because snoozing wouldn’t save me. I dragged myself out of bed and into the kitchen. Filled the industrial-sized copper-bottomed pot with water and put it on to boil before I drank myfirst cup of coffee. Made that pot of coffee strong, inky black. I had work to do.
Weekly breakfast at the farm was my mama and daddy’s tradition, and I’d made it my own. In a matter of hours, there’d be a long line at the food table and every seat would be filled, with the younger folks eating on the grass, picnic style.
Hopefully, I’d be smiling then, instead of grumbling and cussing. That was the goal. I intended to give a warm welcome to each soul who showed up. Even if we’d never met, or I’d encountered them in unhappy circumstances. In my courtroom, for instance.
No one was ever turned away from Saturday breakfast. So long as the guests behaved themselves, they were welcome.
If, however, they took advantage of the Stone family hospitality, well. I knew how to enforce my house rules. The rules were well-known, just common sense. No fighting, no drinking or drugs, no harassment. We didn’t see many problems, honestly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to instruct someone to leave.
By sunrise, I had my big pots of grits and oatmeal ready, and the first three pounds of sausage patties fried and draining on paper towels. I set the burners to warm and took off for the barn.
Foghorn chased after me, bitching like he thought I’d forgotten all about him. I tossed the seed just to hush him up. “Lazy man! Can’t you find a worm or a bug? Look around, Foghorn, you’ve got the whole yard to yourself.”
By the time my chores were done, I exited the barn and saw both of my sisters’ cars parked on the gravel drive. With Mama and Daddy gone, there were three of us left. I was oldest, Nellie was the middle child, Jordan was the baby. When I reentered the kitchen, Nellie was standing at Jordan’s elbow, giving her grief.
“Jordan, you’re burning that bacon. It won’t be fit to eat,” Nellie said.
Jordan shoved Nellie aside with her hip. “Quit bossing me, Nellie.” She made a face and rolled her eyes as she turned the knob, adjusted the heat.
I walked up and inspected the skillet. “That bacon looks fine to me.”
