He didn’t need to continue. Abortion itself was not on trial, not in my courtroom. “Sustained.”
“Crooked judge! Let him answer!”
It was a woman’s voice, coming from somewhere in the back of the room. I wheeled around to face the spectators. “Who’s speaking out? Interfering with this trial?”
The room went dead quiet. I launched out of my chair, was marching down the center aisle of the room, without making a conscious decision to leave the bench.
My voice bounced off the walls. “Y’all think I can’t hear you when I’m sitting up there? Think I can’t see?”
I stopped midway, to scrutinize the faces in the rows. Hunting for the guilty or hostile expression that would give her away.
It’s harder than you think, finding a wrongdoer that way, with the naked eye. I thought about the old saying, a needle in a haystack.
Out of the blue, someone came to my rescue. “It was her! I heard her!”
The finger of accusation was pointed at a woman in her forties, wearing anLSUshirt.Shit,I thought,some outsider from Baton Rouge.No surprise—another out-of-towner, coming into my town to kick up trouble.
“Out,” I said. “I’m removing you from this courtroom.”
I threw some dramatic flair into it, lifting my arm and pointing toward the exit, letting the full sleeves of my voluminous robe double my actual size. To handle this crowd, I needed to be larger than life.
Ross Carr was coming down the aisle, ready to back me up. But she didn’t put up a fight, maybe because I appeared formidable—I sure as hell hoped so. I watched in silence as she shouldered her purse and departed.
When the door shut behind her, I walked back to the front of the courtroom at a fast clip. Turned to face them all and said, “I don’t know where y’all are from, but it seems that there are some people who don’t know me. Because folks are acting out. Let’s start over, okay? I am Judge Mary Stone, and this is my courtroom.”
I paused for a beat. Giving them a moment to see the fire in my eyes. “I have the duty to preside over this trial, and I take that responsibility very seriously. I will not permit these proceedings to go sideways, slip out of control. I understand that court proceedings are a matter of public record. But the right to sit in here and observe can be taken away—by me. I swear, I will clear this courtroom with a new broom if I have any more trouble in here. Y’all understand me?”
My voice grew louder as I spoke. When I was done, I stood there for a minute, to let them know I meant it. Then I returned to the bench.
“Mr. Reeves, you may continue.”
“Dr. Thompson, in your opinion, did you see any evidence that Nova Jones had a health emergency or serious health risk? One that might have caused her life to be in danger prior to the abortion?”
“I did not. Aside from her infection, bleeding, and pain, her general health was good.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
I nodded at the defense table. “Mr. Meyers, you may cross-examine.”
He was ready, damn near jumping from his chair, he was so enthused. “Dr. Thompson, how many years did you say you’ve been in the practice of medicine?”
“Forty-three years.”
“In your education, training, and experience, what are the risks and dangers of adolescent pregnancies in young girls who are under fifteen years of age?”
“Objection!” Reeves was out of his chair, no surprise. “Irrelevant!”
“Overruled,” I said. The doctor shifted in his chair. I gave him a verbal nudge. “The witness may answer.”
He was uncomfortable, I could tell. But he didn’t violate his oath to tell the truth. “Young adolescents have worse perinatal outcomes than older teens or pregnant adults. That’s always been true.”
“Specifically, what outcomes are we talking about?”
“Well, let’s see. A girl under fifteen, she’d be more likely to suffer from eclampsia. More likelihood of preterm birth—having the baby prematurely. Low-birth-weight infants. Greater likelihood of mortality of the mother.”
“Just to be clear here, because we’re not all accustomed to medical terminology—a thirteen-year-old pregnant girl is more likely to have a serious health risk, or to die from carrying the pregnancy to term. Correct?”
The doctor wiped his bald head. “Correct.”
