bunch of names left though, more than would be appearing before me that day.
I recessed till one-thirty.
“All rise,” said the bailiff.
The law firm of Lee and Stephenson, formerly known as Lee, Stephenson and Knott before I became a judge, is still located in a charming story-and-a-half white clapboard house half a block from the courthouse.
Robert Claudius Lee, John Claude’s grandfather, was born there shortly after the Civil War, and so was Robert’s brother, who grew up to be my mother’s mother’s father.
If you’re Southern, you’ve already worked it out that John Claude’s my second cousin, once removed. If you’re not Southern, you probably aren’t interested in hearing that Reid is a cousin through my mother’s paternal side, but no kin at all to John Claude.
Enough to know that John Claude’s father and Reid’s grandfather (my great-grandfather Stephenson) started the firm in this very house sometime in the twenties and that Lees and Stephensons have been partners there ever since.
Although both cousins have argued cases before me many times since I came to the bench, no one has yet accused me of favoring them. If anything, Reid’s accused me of just the opposite. John Claude doesn’t accuse. If he thinks one of his cases is going to be a hairsplitter, he manages to get it heard by somebody else, not me.
Although John Claude was arguing two cases in Makely that day, Reid was expecting me for lunch and I was expecting a quiet hour to catch my breath after such a busy morning with nothing much more weighty to discuss than Raymond Bagwell’s alibi and whether we were actually going to get the thundershowers they were predicting on the breakfast news.
Instead, I came up onto the porch out of bright sunlight and when my eyes adjusted, I realized that Grace King Avery and Sister Byantha Williams were taking their leave of Reid.
Too late to run and nowhere to hide.
“Ah, Deborah!” exclaimed Mrs. Avery. “You know the Reverend Williams, don’t you? Sister Williams, this is Judge Deborah Knott.”
The elderly preacher was dressed in a pale green muumuu today. She was still a large woman, but her skin was no longer firmly rounded as in years past. It was as if her skin had stayed the same while the body beneath had shrunk two sizes. As we murmured acknowledgments, Mrs. Avery turned back to Reid.
“Is there any reason why Deborah couldn’t give us an injunction right now? He needs to be stopped, Reid.”
“Please, Mrs. Avery,” he said rather desperately. “I promise you that I’ll take whatever steps are necessary and feasible.”
“Very well. If you’re sure you understand the urgency of the matter?”
“I do, I really do,” he assured her, and to me, “Come on in, Deb’rah.”
It wasn’t quite as blatant as yanking me inside with one hand and locking the door behind them with the other, but that’s certainly what it felt like.
I hadn’t stopped by in several months, so it wasn’t surprising to see new carpets on the floor and new color on the walls. Julia Lee, John Claude’s wife, is a frustrated designer and when she gets tired of redoing their personal house, she comes down and starts moving walls and ripping up carpets here.
My former office still sat empty. I haven’t decided if that’s because I’m irreplaceable or they figure I won’t be reelected and will be coming back.
“Injunction?” I asked as I walked straight back to the rear of the house.
Several years ago, Julia had remodelled the old original kitchen. A tiny galley hidden by folding screens was at one end, the rest was a sunroom that could become a formal conference room or a comfortable place to spread out with morning coffee and newspapers.
Or lunch. The table was set for two and I knew that those waxed paper packets held creamy chicken salad sandwiches on homemade bread from Sue’s Soup ’n’ Sandwich Shop across from the courthouse.
Reid opened the refrigerator. “Tea? Or would you rather have Pepsi?”
“Pepsi, if it’s diet. Who’s got Mrs. Avery’s feathers ruffled?”
“Guy named Graham Dunn, owns the Red and White Grocery and Hardware out from Cotton Grove.” He put ice in two glasses and set them on the table beside the drink cans. “Seven years ago, Sister Williams signed a note with him for three thousand dollars.”
“Using that raggedy old church as collateral?”
“That and the acre of land it used to stand on. The note came due last year, but he let it ride because it was clear she couldn’t repay and he didn’t want to look bad by closing on the church his parents used to attend.”
Reid always jiggles the drink cans too much and some of the Pepsi foamed up when I pulled the tab. I mopped up the overflow with his paper napkin.
“But now that the church and trailer have burned?”
“Right.” Reid unwrapped his sandwich, adjusted the lettuce and tomato and bit into it. His words were muffled as he talked around a chunk of chicken salad. “He’s read the paper, seen that money is coming in from all over and figures this is his chance to clear her debt. Trouble is, when Mrs. Avery first called me yesterday, I called Louise Parker, who’s overseeing the distribution of donations. She says they haven’t yet received a single check made out to Burning Heart of God and what little undesignated money they have gotten will be prorated by membership.”
I licked a fleck of chicken salad from my fingertip. “Burning Heart of God has what? Eight members? Ten?”
“Thirteen if you count one woman who hasn’t left the nursing home in three years and a man who’s serving a six-to-ten at State Prison.”
