Chapter 31
CHAPTER
Mary Stone
BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA
On the third Monday in September, I was struggling to get matters under control.
Monday is generally the toughest day of my workweek.
Whether that holds true for every member of the bench, I can’t say.
Maybe the judges who sit on appellate courts, or federal courts, or judges in courts of limited jurisdiction, like bankruptcy and probate, have a different experience.
Those folks may cruise through Monday with ease.
Privately, I suspect that’s possible, and I can explain the reason why.
They don’t work as hard as the circuit judges who preside over state court. That’s just a fact.
Even though I didn’t have a criminal or civil jury week, just a normal Monday docket, I was scrambling.
Apparently, it had been a wild weekend in Bullock County.
Too many people drinking to excess. And invariably, the intoxication resulted in ugly behavior.
Which led to women showing up at the courthouse on Monday to seek protection orders under the Alabama Protection from Abuse Act.
On that particular Monday, I heard from a young woman who’d just filed for an ex parte protection order against her fiancé in the case of King v.
Stuart. Ms. King needed that order entered, without delay.
I could see that before she uttered a word.
Her eye was swollen shut, and her lip was split, still oozing. She kept dabbing at it with her finger.
I had a box of tissues on the bench. When I held the box out to her, she approached the bench and pulled one out.
“Take some more,” I said. When she reached again, I handed it off. “Take the box.”
I held the form she’d filled out in the circuit clerk’s office. Walked her through it.
“Ms. King, you state on this form that you live with the defendant, LeRoy Stuart. That y’all have been living together for over a year.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She corrected herself. “I mean, yes, Judge.”
“And you indicated that when the defendant inflicted harm upon you, the weapon used was his fists and feet.”
She hung her head—as if the beating was cause for her to feel shame and chagrin. “That’s right. He punched me. Kicked me, when I was down on the floor. Got me in the stomach and the ribs. When I rolled over, pulled up my knees to protect my gut? He kicked my back, kicked me in the butt.”
Her skin tone was as dark as mine. Bruising is harder to see, and it shows up red or purple, instead of blue. But even from the distance of the bench, I could see it. On her face, arms, neck. He’d whaled on that woman without mercy.
I softened my voice. Asked a question that wasn’t on the form. “Did you get any medical attention? See a doctor or go to a clinic?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have a doctor. I used to see Dr. Gaines, but she’s mostly shut down her office now.”
In past months, I’d heard the same refrain from a number of folks in my courtroom. Medical care took a hit in our town when the DA filed his felony case against Bria Gaines.
I was concerned for the woman in court, worried about her physical condition. Felt compelled to come down from the bench, to take a closer look. I couldn’t take the chance that she was neglecting a serious injury.
She looked nervous as I approached. I inspected the marks that were visible, took note of swelling and discoloration, the reddish hue on her battered skin.
“Did you take pictures of yourself? Pictures that show the injuries covered by your clothes? I’ll need to see them, if you have them.”
She nodded. Pulled them up on her phone and handed it to me.
I flipped through the images. My head started pounding as I looked at the pictures. My eyes grew hot. Quietly, I asked, “Did you call the police?”
“No, ma’am. I was too scared, shook up. I just got out, me and my two boys.”
“I see.” That was the plain truth. I did see. “Kids in school right now?”
“Yes, the grade school behind the courthouse.”
I studied her. She looked like she was about to drop, she was so spent. I wanted to show emotional support, to give her a hug, but I didn’t dare. I was afraid I’d hurt her anywhere I touched her.
Gently, I reached for her hand and held it. “I’m worried he might’ve broken something,” I said. “Damaged you more than you know. I sure do think you ought to go to the hospital. And file a police report, too.”
“Yes, ma’am. Maybe so.”
“This is not your fault. You know that, right? There’s no reason in the world why he’d be entitled to do this to you. No justification.”
“Thank you, Judge. I understand that.”
Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine when she said it, though. She took a breath and said, “Mostly, I just need to get me a court order. So he’ll know to leave me alone.”
Maybe, I thought, we can revisit the issue after the order is entered. I returned to my seat at the bench and continued asking the standard questions.
“Is the defendant the father of the children?”
“No, ma’am—Judge. They not his.”
“All right.” I glanced at Luna, to let her know I was ready to enter the order. “I hereby find that this court has jurisdiction. And that a temporary order is necessary to prevent abuse. That the defendant represents a credible threat to the physical safety of the plaintiff.”
The courtroom door opened, then slammed shut.
I ignored it. I was filling in the boxes on the ex parte protection order form.
“This court hereby orders that defendant LeRoy Stuart is restrained from committing or threatening to commit acts of abuse; and that the defendant is restrained from any contact with the plaintiff, Ada King. This order will be effective until further order of the court.”
I had my eyes on the paper in front of me, was signing my name in blue ink. I heard the footfalls pounding on the wooden floor. Looked up.
He was stomping down the middle aisle of the courtroom. The defendant, without doubt. Walking with a swagger with his eyes fixed on his fiancée. The young woman was scooting away from him. She clearly believed he posed a threat. I shot a look at my bailiff. Ross was already on his feet.
The chip on the dude’s shoulder was almost visible to the naked eye. Stuart swung his gaze from the fiancée to me. In a belligerent voice, he demanded, “Did I hear you say I can’t have any contact with my own woman?”
“That’s right, Mr. Stuart. You cannot.” I held the form aloft. “You’ll get a copy of this, so you can read the contents.”
“Don’t I get a trial?”
“Nope.”
He stepped closer, pointing a finger at me. “I know the law. You can’t do nothing to me without a trial.”
My voice was sharp. “You gonna tell me about the law? This is an ex parte protection order. If you wish, you can request a hearing at a later date. It’s all set out on the form. I recommend that you read it thoroughly as soon as I give you your copy.”
He turned, gave his battered fiancée the evil eye. Then he turned that eye on me again. “So I’m supposed to read the paper? Don’t get to say anything in my own defense?”
“That’s right.” In my no-bullshit tone.
That man was itching for a fight, I could tell. And he couldn’t punch Ms. King, not in court. So he wanted to fight with me. He raised his voice—way too loud for a court of law. More like a volume he’d use in a barroom.
He said, “So you better explain this to me. How am I supposed to not have any contact with her when we live in the same house?”
I stood up. Because I was getting that urge, the one that frequently pushes me out of my chair and down from the bench. “Mr. Stuart, I have ordered that you be removed and excluded from the residence.”
He flat-out shouted, “I own that house! It’s mine!”
I was losing my cool. I could feel it slipping. My own voice made an echo in the big courtroom when I replied. “It doesn’t matter who owns it. You are removed from the residence until I order otherwise.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I already did!”
I was getting hot. In the figurative sense, my temper was getting out of hand. But the anger heated me up, making me perspire under the black robe. A trickle of sweat made a path between my shoulder blades and down my back.
He was hot, too. “You can throw that piece of paper in the goddamn trash! I’m not afraid of you!”
“You should be! If you’re not afraid, you’re a damn fool!”
Ross, the bailiff, had taken a position between the angry defendant and the battered plaintiff. There was nothing to be gained by my entering the fray. But I was itching to climb down those steps and get into his face.
I almost went down there. Had to stop myself.
I grabbed the gavel instead. Pounded it three times before I pointed it directly at the defendant.
“Violation of this order is a Class A misdemeanor. You’ll do a year in jail for that.
I promise that you will serve every single day of that time.
I don’t want you within three hundred feet of this woman or her home, or place of work, or the children or their school.
I’m not just talking about punching and kicking, you understand.
You are restrained from harassing her, stalking her, threatening or annoying her. ”
At that juncture, he wouldn’t look at me. He had his head turned toward her, was scowling at his fiancée.
“You understand me?” I demanded. I wanted to hear him acknowledge it.
He lifted his chin. Didn’t answer, didn’t look my way. Kept eyes on his fiancée while she backed away, like she thought he’d punch her out again in a court of law.
As part of standard courtroom equipment, I have a microphone at the bench. But I don’t actually need one. I raised my voice to maximum volume. “Mr. Stuart! Do you hear me?”
I knew he did. They could hear me across the street.
He gave a sullen nod. Muttered an acknowledgment. It wasn’t until Luna made copies of the order and they were served to both parties that I collected myself.
Sat back down in my chair and surveyed the back of the courtroom. As I pulled out a fresh box of tissues and used one to dab at my neck, I observed that we had an audience.
The DA was there, with a blond-haired woman wearing a sharp business suit. She had her arm around the shoulders of a young Black girl. I knew that girl on sight: Nova Jones.
Thirteen-year-old Nova Jones was in my courtroom. And it appeared that I’d just scared her to death.