Chapter 53
CHAPTER
STONE FAMILY FARM BULLOCK COUNTY, ALABAMA
Sitting across from me at the kitchen table, my friend Loucilla Payne studied me. Like she was drilling deep inside my head, determined to read my mind.
“Mary, it’s weighing you down. Like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”
It was Friday evening, and Loucilla and I were having our monthly get-together. But there was no way I could escape to Montgomery for dinner. Thank God, Loucilla had come to me.
I pushed away from the table. Picked up the glass pitcher of iced tea as a pretext. Filled glasses that were still three-quarters full. I knew Loucilla would break through, crack open my secrets if she had the chance.
I said, “It’s been hanging over me all this time. I knew the day was coming. Hell, it was my idea to move ahead. I gave them the early trial date. We start picking the jury Monday. Just three more days to wait.”
I set the pitcher down. Stepped over to the sink, washed my hands. Just had to keep moving.
Behind me, Loucilla’s voice cut through the sound of running water. “Mary, you’re all wound up. Why are you acting like this? Honey, you’re not the one who’s going to be on trial.”
I shut off the water. Dried my hands. A truth was burning in my chest, trying to push its way out.
Loucilla was still trying to reason with me.
“You’re not the criminal defendant. You’re not the State’s witness.
Mary, you’ve tried all kinds of cases over the years, presided as judge over murders and sex crimes.
This case is big, it’s generated lots of attention.
But you’re experienced. It shouldn’t be shaking you up this way. It’s getting under your skin.”
I tossed the cotton dish towel onto the counter. She’d nailed it, described just how it felt. The facts of the case were under my skin like a bad case of scabies. Burrowing under the surface, laying eggs, making me itch like crazy.
I dragged my chair right next to hers. I didn’t want the table to create distance between us. It was likely that I’d need to cry on her shoulder.
“It’s strange that I’ve never told you this before. I know I can confide in you. Tell you anything.”
Loucilla’s face tensed, like she expected a blow. “Mary. What is it?”
I meant to tell her. And then my throat closed up. I couldn’t answer right away. Had to rub the front of my neck before I could speak again.
“I was fifteen. End of my sophomore year of high school.”
She saw where it was going. “Oh, no.”
The sensation in my throat increased; it felt like hands wrapped around it, choking me. Maybe that was a sign. That I should keep my secret to myself. Keep it locked up.
“Mary? Girl, come on. It’s all right.” She reached for my hand. “Tell me.”
It was that contact—her hand gripping mine. I squeezed her hand back, hard. It gave me strength, helped me to speak the words aloud.
“I was raped, Loucilla.”
“Oh, Mary. No, no, no.”
Loucilla pulled me to her, hugged me tight, just like my mama had done, years back. Then I heard her growl. “Don’t tell me! Was it that goddamned sheriff? Owens?”
I pulled away, leaned back in my chair. “No, Loucilla, wasn’t him. Mick Owens was my boyfriend senior year. This was two years before.”
“Then who?”
My mind conjured the recollection, the image of his face. I wished I could block it out.
“A neighbor, a grown man. He was a tenant farmer living on the old Hood place. I can barely remember his name.”
Liar.
We were still grasping hands, hanging on with a death grip. Lou said, “You want to find him? I’ll help you.”
I shook my head. “That man’s long gone. Dead by now, maybe.
” Privately, I’d wished him dead for decades.
Sometimes I thought about forgiving him.
Hadn’t gotten around to it yet. “I was cutting through his land on my way home from a friend’s house.
He came out of his house and chased me down.
Said he’d been watching me, that I looked all grown up.
He acted like he was drunk, or high on something.
Maybe he thought that was an excuse for it. ”
“Did he go to prison for what he did to you?”
“No! No, nothing like that. He got off scot-free.”
My friend’s face was savage. “Your daddy should have killed him.”
“Loucilla, my daddy was already dead. Dropped of a heart attack in the pasture behind the barn, years before.”
We both fell silent for a minute. I needed something to dull the pain that flared from the recollection.
I was thinking about a bottle of Tennessee whiskey I kept in one of my cabinets, behind the Heinz cider vinegar and a tub of Crisco.
I wasn’t a regular drinker of hard liquor.
It was there for emergencies. Like snakebite.
Loucilla had started wiping her eyes. Well.
If Lou was crying, it qualified as an emergency.
Lord help me, I needed a shot myself. I got up, reached behind the Crisco and grabbed the bottle.
Set out a couple of juice glasses. The only barware I owned was a set of wineglasses.
Didn’t seem right to drink whiskey from a wineglass.
I poured an inch of the whiskey into each glass. Carried them to the table, with the bottle. Loucilla knocked hers back in one swallow. Reached for the bottle and poured herself a refill.
Her eyes met mine. “I don’t get it. Why he wasn’t convicted.”
When I answered that, my voice cracked, like a kid who’s about to cry. “Problem was, I didn’t tell anybody. Not right away. I was so ashamed. It was my first time. A virgin.”
I shook my head as the rage rolled over me. I’d felt it before, many times.
And I recalled the other feelings from my youth. The helplessness, the shame, the fear of judgment. It’s no wonder that girls are afraid to talk about it. The world can be a hard, cold place.
“Did you get pregnant?” Loucilla was clutching the juice glass, blinking wet eyes at me.
“No. When my period started, I was so thankful, I took it as a sign. That I could just move on, not tell anybody. But Mama could sense something was wrong. She kept after me. I finally broke down, told her what happened.”
“And then? Was he prosecuted?”
I sipped my whiskey before I answered. Grimaced when I felt the fire burn its way down to my belly.
It made my shoulders twitch with an involuntary shiver.
“There wasn’t any physical evidence. Too much time had passed—you know how it works.
They didn’t do a rape kit. What could they find on a victim who was raped five weeks prior? ”
“But your testimony—”
“Would have been all they had as evidence. The sheriff went out and talked to him. He denied it. Sheriff told my mama, it would have been a swearing match. My word against his.”
“You would have convinced a jury. Even at fifteen.”
I shrugged. No point in arguing what a jury would have made of it. It was ancient history now. “He left the area not long after. So that was the end of it, see? They dropped it.”
Loucilla poured more whiskey. We both drank. I confess, with every sip it was getting easier to swallow that liquid fire.
I relaxed in the chair. Let out a deep sigh. That was probably the whiskey. I could smell the liquor on my own breath. Good thing I wasn’t driving anywhere. And my chores were done, livestock fed, tractor put away.
“Loucilla, I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed in the guest room.” Loucilla wouldn’t be fit to drive, either.
“Good. I’ll help you.” She knocked back another swig. “My cat can live without me for one night.”
I was glad she was staying. I felt vulnerable, didn’t want to be alone.
She got to the heart of it. “So you never got justice. And you never got over it. And this case is triggering you. Because of the child, Nova Jones.”
I toyed with the glass. “When I look at Nova Jones? I see myself. Me at fifteen. Nova’s younger, but still. The trauma she’s going through, I feel like it’s me, back when.”
That was when I heard my rooster crow. In the twilight, just getting dark. Foghorn did that sometimes, when he was startled. By a predator. Or a light coming at him. Like headlights from a car.
I listened. Got up, walked to the window. Didn’t see anything.
I walked back to my chair. Shook off the paranoia. The rooster had a brain the size of two peanuts. No way I’d let him throw a scare into me.
Lou’s voice was soft, reasonable. “Mary. Have you ever thought of pulling out of the case?”
I sat up straight in that kitchen chair. “Loucilla! Hell no. I got to see this through.”
“But that’s just the thing, Mary. My point exactly. You don’t have to do it yourself. You are not the only circuit judge in the state of Alabama.” She raised her hand, palm up, like she knew what I was going to say. “You’re the best, that’s for certain! But there are other judges who can step in.”
“Well, here’s the problem with that. I don’t want to turn it over to anyone else. I don’t trust anybody in the world with this case. It’s got to be me.”
“But if it’s eating you up, Mary—”
“I’m a grown woman. An experienced judge. I can set my personal feelings aside and do my sworn duty in the courtroom. My duty to all parties involved.”
As I spoke of setting feelings aside, I swung my arm, making a dramatic gesture. The whiskey again.
We wouldn’t be making a run for dinner, not that night. And there was no food delivery service out in the country in rural Alabama. No Grubhub, no Uber, no rideshare.
I checked the freezer. Two frozen chicken potpies. Kardea Brown’s brand, my favorite. Excellent. Good save.
I popped them in the oven on a cookie sheet, because crust browns better in an oven than a microwave. Set the oven at 350 degrees, didn’t take trouble to preheat. My oven ran hot.
“We’ve got forty minutes until dinner is ready.” I gave the bottle a questioning look. “You want another drink?”
“Oh, hell yeah.”
Good. Me too.