Solemnly and sincerely, I swore again that I did.
Frances smiled for the first time and held out her cool thin hand to shake mine.
'Welcome to the bench, Judge Knott.'
Applause almost muffled out the 'Awww-
Aunt Zell came forward with my robe. I was wearing a splashy red-flowered dress that flamed against the somber oak and leather of the courtroom. It was a dress I'd chosen deliberately because I'm theatrical enough to enjoy symbolism. I was a nun taking holy vows. I was Wisdom abjuring Vanity. I was deep water preparing to run still, by damn.
Aunt Zell handed the robe to my father and he held it open for me, settling its weight onto my shoulders. The zipper ends went together smoothly and every inch of red-flowered silk disappeared beneath the heavy black fabric. As Daddy escorted Aunt Zell back to their seats, I turned to the audience and spoke of my gratitude for the trust now placed in me.
My remarks were simple and direct.
And short.
Good politicians know enough to quit talking before people realize they're tired of being talked at. My name was going to be on the November ballot after all; and even though it was only a formality, since I was unopposed for Perry Byrd's seat, I still aimed to rack up a bunch of votes. * * *
Weddings, funerals, christenings—most solemn ceremonies are followed by food and fellowship, and a swearing-in is no different. Once all the official documents were signed, we followed the crowd downstairs and through a soaring two-level glass atrium that links the new part of the courthouse with the old.
The shiny brass-and-glass design harkens towards the twenty-first century. It's filled with green plants and sunlight, and it's become a popular setting for receptions, which is probably why Julia Lee won't use it if she can help it. She had directed the Martha Circle of the First Methodist Church to set up their tables in the gloomy rotunda of the old courthouse.
Julia—she's John Claude's wife and therefore my cousin by marriage—gets herself elected president of the Historical Society about every other year, and she thought I ought to stand right where a long line of Colleton County judges had stood in bygone years to greet all the colleagues, friends and family who had crowded against these selfsame marble walls to wish them well.
Julia sometimes gets carried away and forgets that those walls aren't all that historical nor all that old either, if truth be told. Yes, court had been held on this site since the late 1700s, but this particular building was erected in 1921, not 1821. Even so, the rotunda was a better choice for this sweltering July day. Modern air-conditioning couldn't keep the sunny atrium as cool as the thick marble that surrounded us; and Carly Jernigan's robe not only smelled like a wool horse blanket, it was starting to feel like one. * * *
One of the Marthas handed me a cup of slushy lime punch before I took my place in the receiving line. Too sickly sweet, but at least it was cold and wet.
Against his wishes—'I'm not an invalid and I can damn well stand'—they had brought a chair for Daddy and he was holding his own court at the far end of the line. For the last few years, he doesn't leave the farm all that often, so there were lots of folks to crowd around and shake his hand, glad to see him again.
I stood with Judge Frances Tripp on one side and John Claude Lee, Julia's husband, on the other. John Claude's an older cousin and the current Lee of Lee & Stephenson, the law firm where I was no longer a full partner.
Genealogy is still the favorite parlor game in every southern house that still has a parlor; but for those who don't really care who fits in how, here's the Cliffs Notes version: my mother was a Stephenson, her mother was a Lee. Lee & Stephenson, Attorneys-at-Law was begun in the 1920s by John Herman Lee, my first cousin twice removed on Mother's Lee side, and old Brixton Stephenson, her paternal grandfather. My younger cousin Reid, Brixton's grandson, is this generation's Stephenson.
If you're any good at this sort of thing, then you've already worked it out that, while I'm cousin to Reid and John Claude both, they're no blood kin to each other.
But unless you've got some reason to worry about whether or not you could get a fair trial in my courtroom, the relationships are moot at this point and you don't really have to keep it all straight. The firm of Lee, Stephenson & Knott had gone back to being plain old Lee & Stephenson again. I was legally out of it, and all my personal clients had been shifted to John Claude or Reid, who has trouble keeping his pants zipped, but who's a damn fine attorney.
That's a personal opinion, though, and I promise you it's not something I'm going to let bias me. Sooner or later they'd both be pleading cases before me and I planned to be totally objective.
'Long as you don't bend over backwards to be fair,' said John Claude when I was cleaning out my office in the 1867 house his great-grandfather (my great-
'Don't you worry, not one little minute,' I soothed. 'When it's your turn to take out the kickball, I won't give it to anybody else.' * * *
The receiving line from hell continued to snake past. My fellow attorneys were amiable and friendly, but their joshing remarks lacked the usual barbs.
When Judge Perry Byrd had his stroke, I was in the middle of a runoff campaign for a different judge's seat. Then, instead of getting better, as his doctors had originally thought, Byrd had another stroke and died just as my own campaign crashed to a halt at the runoff primary. In North Carolina, when a judge dies or resigns in the middle of his term, the local bar associations get together and present the governor with a slate of candidates from the judge's same party. Because I'd polled enough votes to force a runoff in the first place, I was put on the slate as a courtesy, but it was generally thought that Chester Nance, a white male ADA from Black Creek, would get it.
