convened court this morning. I hadn’t seen him confer with any of the attorneys and he didn’t seem to be connected with any of the cases. He was neatly dressed in faded straight-legged jeans, a cranberry turtleneck, and a heavy black wool jacket that he’d removed and laid in his lap to act as a desktop for a spiral-bound notebook.
A new reporter for the local paper?
He was back after lunch and was still there when the last case of the day was disposed of.
As I stood to leave, he closed his notebook, hooked his jacket over his shoulder, and came forward.
“Judge Knott? May I speak to you?”
The white bailiff started to put himself between the young man and the bench, but I waved him back.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m Nolan Capps.”
He paused as if that would mean something to me.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Stephenson didn’t call you about me?”
Call? Oh, Lord! I fumbled in the pocket of my robe. My phone. Still switched off.
“Sorry,” I said. “My phone’s been off all day. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if I could talk to you about Martha Hurst?”
“Martha Hurst?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Stephenson thought you could help me.”
I didn’t see how, but I invited young Mr. Capps back to chambers so I could pick up my briefcase and coat. Mindful of my promise to Dwight, I warned him that I could give him only a few minutes.
“That’s okay,” he said, looking around with interest at the behind-the-scenes hallways where so many plea bargains are worked out between DAs and attorneys. The halls were pretty much deserted now, although I was waylaid by a white police officer who wanted me to sign a search warrant for him. I skimmed through it and noticed that he’d neglected to fill in the house number on the street address.
“If you aren’t specific, a good attorney will probably get the results thrown out if you do find the drugs and it comes to trial,” I told him. “And in that neighborhood, you can bet it won’t be a court-appointed one either.”
“Oh, shit!” he said without thinking, and immediately apologized. “Sorry, ma’am. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
“So how can I help you?” I asked Nolan Capps as I unzipped my robe and hung it behind the door.
“It’s sort of complicated,” he said. “I believe you know Bessie Stewart?”
Now there was a question straight out of left field.
Bessie Stewart was to Dwight’s nosy, gregarious mother what Maidie Holt had been to mine—technically a domestic employee: cleaning woman, cook, babysitter, yet at the same time a friend as well, a friendship rooted in mutual need and mutual dependence. Like Maidie’s husband on our farm, Willy Stewart was a tenant on the Bryant farm. When Miss Emily married Calvin Bryant and went to live there, she discovered that a childhood friend was there before her, eight years’ married and already the mother of four children. I’ve heard Miss Emily speak more than once about how Bessie was the one who taught her the practical side of running a farmhouse and how to grass tobacco and cotton without chopping up all the money plants. She actually helped deliver Dwight when he arrived in the middle of a hurricane that blocked the roads with downed power lines and fallen trees. And when Calvin Bryant was killed in a farm accident three more children later, it was Bessie Stewart who pushed her to upgrade her certificate and go back to teaching, “’cause you never gonna be no farmer, I don’t care how long you live on one.”
Miss Emily is principal at Zachary Taylor High School these days and Bessie Stewart is still running the domestic side of the farm for her, so yes indeed, I certainly do know her. In fact, she intimidates me a little because I’m not quite sure that she approves of me as a proper wife for Dwight.
“How do you know her?” I asked.
“Her granddaughter’s in one of my law classes.”
“You’re a law student at Eastern?”
“Third-year.”
He was aiming for nonchalance, but I heard the pride in his voice, a well-deserved pride because Eastern’s law school is making a name for itself in the ranks of smaller universities. Located over in Widdington, it was one of the first Negro colleges in the state after the Civil War; and while it opened its doors to all after segregation ended, the student body is still mainly black. At least it is in the science and liberal arts programs. For some reason, though, Eastern’s law school attracted some top names in the field from the moment it opened and there has always been a good racial balance in its classrooms.
“You won’t remember me,” he said, “but we’ve met before. You did a symposium at Eastern last year. ‘The View from the Bench’?”
“You came to that?” Luther Parker and I were there to represent North Carolina’s district courts. Ned O’Donnell represented superior courts, and Frances Tripp, who administered my oath of office when I came to the bench, spoke about her work on the Court of Appeals.
“Yes, ma’am. It was great. Made me want to run for judge someday.”
“Hold that thought,” I said as my phone rang. One of Dwight’s numbers appeared on the little screen.
“You on the road yet?” he asked.
“Just leaving,” I assured him. “But I don’t have a window here. What’s the weather like?”
