Chapter 61
CHAPTER
Mary Stone
BULLOCK COUNTY COURTHOUSE UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA
We hadn’t made it through the first morning of testimony, and I’d already grown uneasy about the unrest I sensed in my courtroom.
The spectators were reactionary, volatile. I’d never presided over a courtroom with so much emotional energy. Had never seen it as charged up like that, as a lawyer or a judge. It worried me. I could not—must not—permit the courtroom to spin out of control.
When I broke for a short recess following opening statements, Benjamin Meyers informed me that a woman went after Bria Gaines in the restroom, took a red marker to her wrist while Bria was washing her hands.
Well, I wasn’t putting up with that. I talked to my clerk; Luna would have to accompany the defendant into the restroom during recess.
I’d called the sheriff’s office first and told Owens about it, but the sheriff said he didn’t have a woman to spare, that his staffing was already stretched from the demands of the trial.
The prosecution had started off with medical evidence. The DA was questioning the ER doctor who’d treated Nova Jones. “Dr. Thompson, what did you observe regarding Miss Jones’s condition?”
The witness tugged at his collar, which was too tight for his neck. I could hardly believe that the DA had managed to convince Ron Thompson to wear a suit and tie. He was almost seventy, counting down to retirement, and unapologetically committed to comfort waistbands in his king-size attire.
Dr. Thompson had worked at our shabby hospital for decades.
When Bria Gaines came to town, it had felt like progress in our community.
People had the option to seek care from a young Black woman rather than an elderly white man.
A sizable number of his patients left Thompson for Dr. Gaines’s clinic, and he’d cut his hours back as a result, leaving the community with less care.
He wasn’t a bad doctor, but his passion for the profession had fizzled decades prior.
Thompson said, “The patient was in distress, exhibiting signs of extreme discomfort. She had heavy bleeding from the uterus and blood clots. The attending ER nurse had told me that the girl was miscarrying a pregnancy, but—”
Benjamin Meyers was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”
“Sustained.” If the DA wanted the jury to hear what the ER nurse thought or said, they would need to swear her in and put her on the witness stand.
I heard sounds of disapproval from the spectators. My eyes scanned the gallery as I cut them a sharp look. It silenced them.
Reeves said, “Doctor, based upon your education, training, and experience, do you have an opinion as to the cause of Nova Jones’s condition on that date?”
“I do.”
“What is that opinion?”
“She’d had an abortion. Suction curettage—also known as vacuum aspiration.
Probably at the end of her first trimester.
There are medical risks with the procedure.
The bleeding and clots were related to that.
And she’d developed a pelvic bacterial infection—not severe, at that point. I treated it with oral antibiotics.”
Reeves had strolled over to the jury box. He was leaning against the wooden railing on the far corner of the enclosure. “In your opinion, Doctor, was Nova Jones’s pelvic infection caused by the abortion that had been performed by the defendant?”
Meyers on his feet again. “Objection, Your Honor! Calls for speculation, assumes facts not in evidence.”
Meyers was right. They hadn’t yet put on a witness to testify that Nova’s abortion was performed by Bria Gaines.
Reeves waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll tie it up later, Judge.”
He would, I knew that. But the DA had to play by the rules in my court. “Objection sustained.”
An unpopular ruling. The heated murmurs circulated again, rising like a stench in the spectators’ section. I tapped the gavel. Shook my head at the gallery, giving them a baleful look, one they couldn’t mistake.
The DA knew he had a cheering section out there. He glanced over at them before asking his next direct examination question. “Doctor, what are the medical risks and possible complications of abortion?”
“Objection! Irrelevant, prejudicial—”
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 an LSU shirt. 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.”
There was a furious exchange of whispers going on at the prosecution table.
The DA was fighting with his co-counsel about something, undoubtedly unhappy over the direction of the cross-ex of their witness.
Well, my mama used to say: Tell the truth and shame the devil.
I was proud of Doc Thompson for refusing to lie for the DA.
I was letting the doctor’s answer sink in, register with the jury, when I heard the crash.
I could hardly believe my own eyes, but I saw it happen. On the left side of the gallery, people shrieked and shouted. They jumped from their seats, brushing glass particles from their clothes, shaking them from their hair.
The source of the broken glass came as such a shock. Someone outside the courthouse had thrown a brick through the courtroom window.