You will not sleep. I tie a knot.
You will not eat. I tie another.
You will not rest until thine is done. I tie the last one.
But then my pace slows as I come upon the courthouse at the end of the street—Holiest House of Ill Repute. Bodies pile up between the double doors like a jammed storm drain. The rest of them spill over and down the fat concrete steps into the street.
I pause, wondering if I really need to go in at all.
I could just stay here.
Watch the people’s reaction when the judge makes his decision, then I’d know immediately one way or the other.
Adaire stands there in front of me, silent as the grave. Her eyes pan down to the toes of my shoes. There, twiddling in the light breeze, a black feather. A wish on a crow feather.
A sign.
It’s enough to push my feet forward. I scoop it up, tucking it away in my bra for later.
A gaggle of farm-fed, thick-bellied men clog the doorway. Even as I try to wedge myself through, I’m elbowed back. Junior Maddox bucks back in surprise. Surprised I’m not already in there? Or that I have the gall to touch him? I’m not certain.
Just when it seems like the human sea will part for me to enter, I realize they’re opening the way for my cousin Wyatt’s fast exit.
Slurred curses fly from Aunt Violet as Wyatt escorts her out of the door. Snot drivels from her nose. The sickly sweet smell of whiskey tarnishes her breath.
“I’ve got her!” Wyatt waves a hand for me not to bother helping. He doesn’t get Aunt Violet more than three feet from the door when she pops. Whatever liquid diet she’s survived on the last couple weeks splatters across the stone steps.
The parted bodies are already melding back together, so I ram through before they seal off the entrance again. Voices hush as I enter. Not for me but for the defendant as they walk him in from the side door.
A smug uncuffed Stone Rutledge walks into the room with a boastful grin slapped across his face and an assured ease about his shoulders.
His navy suit waxed smooth, something straight out of an episode of Dallas. Glimmering gold cuff links wink at the end of his starched white sleeves. His sky blue tie, no doubt imported silk, snubs up tight around his neck. His skin Bahamas tan and always flushed red from years of heavy drinking. He’s a tall, lean man with a perpetual sternness about him. Like all the emotion has been drained out of him, and all that’s left is a block of ice. He sits back in the defendant’s chair like a lazy king. Sugar King around these parts, generational wealth he inherited from the sugar plantations, instead of earned. As if that makes him qualified to be the town’s mayor.
Court is like a church wedding; you can tell who you’re there for by what side you’re sitting on. It’s a handful on our side and then everybody else. Except the everybody else is too large to occupy one side alone, so unwillingly they’ve spilled over into ours, though still a few rows back from any actual supporters we might claim. They’ve all squeezed in here like Wanda Travis’s too-big titties in her tiny bra. Ain’t enough room to even breathe.
Just behind Stone is his perfect little family. His wife, Rebecca Rutledge, with her flawless hot-rolled hair and her blush-pink Chanel suit, has her nose stuck high in the air, like she caught a whiff of something unpleasant. She just so happens to be the judge’s niece, too—how convenient. Their twin children, Lorelei and Ellis Rutledge, are only a year or so younger than me. Lorelei has that same haughty arrogance as her parents; I guess a fancy Princeton degree will do that to you. Ellis, though, he doesn’t seem to have that hard edge like the rest of them. I think he’s an artist, which means Mom and Dad pay his bills while he plays with paint. Must be nice.
“All rise!” the bailiff calls for everyone’s attention. He announces the honorable Judge Jeb Walker Newsome now presiding. It’s about as quiet in here as the preacher’s altar call on Sunday nights as he enters.
The judge takes his bench. All the folks sit. I look for my people. Second row on the left, Bone Layer’s massive shoulders loom; he’s a boulder in a room of rocks. The knotted gray bun on the back of Grandmama’s head right next to him. The two seats recently vacated by Wyatt and my aunt are already being filled. Behind them, I see Davis Yancey, his dark tall frame crumpled over. He looks as broken as a sinner finding his way back into church. Mrs. Yancey pats a supportive hand on his back. He ain’t family. But he almost was.
It’s as if Mrs. Yancey hears me thinking about them. She turns. Her sad brown eyes find me straightaway. Her small smile a patch of sunshine in a cloudy room of stares. My eyes slip to the floor. It’s hard to bear her kindness for long. Not when I failed them, too. Failed Mr. Harvey Yancey, who should be sitting there with them, but he died years ago. Because I couldn’t save him.
I find a scratch of wall on the left side to wedge myself against. Protectively holding my red-yolk egg in the cup in my hand.
I had decided not to come. It felt pointless, considering Stone Rutledge and the family were so beloved.
Untouchable.
But then Adaire wouldn’t let me alone. Pestered and bugged me that this was important. Whatever bullshit I thought I should deal with was secondary to showing up today. Maybe she’s right.
Everybody and their mama is here. The heat of their stares burning up any confidence I brought with me. My head tells me I’m grown, and I don’t give a rat’s ass what these folk think about me. Then my heart reminds me I was raised here and somehow, in this screwed-up world, their opinion of me matters. Their hateful energy causes me to shrink back into my shallow piece of wall, and I loathe myself for caring.
And I know what they’re thinking. The fact our family even pressured the sheriff to arrest Stone Rutledge, the town mayor—we ought to be ashamed. A good man who brought a piece of Georgia tourism our way and saved our last grocery store from closing; it’s like he was God or something.
What happened was an “accident.”
What anyone has yet to explain to me is how you “accidently” drive over someone twice.
“You ready for Sunday’s bass tournament?” the judge asks Stone. “’Cause I hear you lost your lucky fishing hat.” A murmur of low jovial noise warms the room.
“If the bass you catch Sunday is anything like what you caught last weekend, Jeb, I won’t need a lucky hat.” The room chuckles right along with Stone.
“Hey now, watch yourself.” The judge playfully points at Stone.
Their jesting is a stab in my ribs.
The judge says something to his court reporter, who hands him the papers he needs. Reading glasses poised at the end of his nose, he takes his sweet time familiarizing himself with the case, as if he doesn’t already know the facts. We all quietly wait for him to catch up. The taut silence that’s descended is about to spring my last nerve.
“Smithy,” the judge calls to the prosecution.
John Delaney Smith—Smithy to his pals—is a well-known drunk. He’s a worthless attorney, if you ask me. And in a town where good ole boys can do no wrong, Smithy mysteriously gets assigned to all the “important” cases. I’m pretty sure he was in that same wrinkled black suit last night at the Watering Hole, a honky-tonk off the side of the road that’s one foot past the city limits, where it’s legal to sell beer in Black Fern County. Except on Sundays.
Hell, this wasn’t even a trial. It’s just a preliminary hearing to see if Stone might’ve committed a crime, and should charges be brought against him.
“Yes, sir.” Smithy stands, drowning in his too-big suit. Hard drinking will waste you away like that. His shaky hand fidgets with the knot in his sloppy tie. He smooths down his unwashed black hair. There’s a sway about him, one you might not notice unless you know a drunk personally. It’s like a body forever out to sea, lightly bobbing in the waves.
“Says here,” the judge starts, “the family insists the twenty-three-year-old victim was not intoxicated on the day of the event? Even though she lived with a known alcoholic?”
