Bria’s mouth was pressed shut. She sent a pleading look to Doreen Erskine, a silent plea.Let me go.
Doreen Erskine’s face was a frozen mask of condemnation. The pastor’s wife pulled open the church house door, and she uttered two words. “Get out.”
Bria bolted. As the door closed behind her, she could hear a wave of voices rise again. She couldn’t make out what all they said.
But as she drove away from Victory Baptist, the pastor’s words were locked inside her head. Refusing to be silenced.
Murderer. Killer.
CHAPTER
52
Mary Stone
BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA
I rapped the gavel. “Y’all, we’re taking a midmorning break. The court will be in recess for fifteen minutes.”
Leaving the bench, I moved down the aisle at full speed, determined to make the front of the line to the women’s room.
My bailiff stopped me when I reached the courtroom door. “Judge, you’re wanted downstairs. County Commission needs to see you.”
“Now? Today?” I wanted to snatch those commissioners bald. I had no time to fool with them.
It was six days until jury selection was set to begin inState v. Bria Gaines.Folks all over the circuit were tugging on my skirt. I had a shit ton of matters to resolve before Monday rolled around.Lawyers and citizens were flocking into court, pleading for a moment of my time.
“Ross, I’ve got five more hearings set before lunch. And the commission needs to see me right now? You serious?”
He held up his hands, likeDon’t shoot.“Judge, I’m just the messenger. But Otis said it’s urgent.”
“Damn,” I said. Whispered it, actually. Since I was standing in the courtroom in my robe, with a dozen citizens of Bullock County within earshot.
I craned my neck to get a look at the hallway near the ladies’ room. Six or seven women stood in line outside the door, waiting to get in.
Hell.
“Okay, I’ll run down there for a minute. See what the commissioners want. But I’ll be back. If I run over a couple of minutes, you let everybody know, Ross. I’m in the courthouse. I haven’t run off.”
I took the curved staircase so fast, I was in danger of tripping on the hem of my robe as I made my way down. When I reached the commissioners’ office, the door was closed.
And locked.
I twisted that antique brass knob while I pounded the wooden door with my left fist.
“Anybody in there? This is Mary! Judge Stone!”
I heard the lock flip when the bolt was turned. The door opened. Otis Post, the presiding commissioner, waved me inside.
“Sorry about that, Judge. We didn’t want anyone walking in. Seems like there’s reporters sticking their noses into county business these days.”
Otis locked the door behind me. An unusual precaution in Union Springs. But times had changed.
Five men sat at the conference table. Three of them were county commissioners. Otis, Tariq Johnson, and Michael Price.
Sitting at the far end was Reeves, the DA. Which didn’t bode well.
And the sheriff. Mick Owens leaned over, pulled out the empty chair next to his. “Sit down, Mary.”
