Her Surprise Hero

by Abby Gaines

  Friday afternoon, she received a further request that she transfer Sam’s community service to the ranch. Cynthia refused, politely reiterating the reasons she’d given in court, which she was under no obligation to do. Heavy silence followed. She wasn’t surprised the faux-friendliness had gone, now they were on Ethan’s real agenda. She half expected him to launch into a complaint about her lack of experience, steeled herself to fight back…but he muttered a curt goodbye and hung up.

  She didn’t hear from him on the weekend, of course. Saturday and Sunday were very quiet, a couple of solitary runs, lots of reading of legal tomes and updates. Let Ethan ask her anything at all about judging—she could give him an answer that would tie him up in knots.

  She was almost disappointed he didn’t call Monday or Tuesday, prepared as she was. When he phoned Wednesday, it was to invite her, once again, to visit the ranch.

  “You need to get out of the courthouse, see some more of the town,” he said. “This is an ideal opportunity.” It was unsettling the way his voice conjured his image in her mind. Cynthia imagined him on horseback, talking into his cell phone as he squinted into the noon sun, adding to those little lines around his eyes.

  “I need to get through my caseload,” she replied. It was true—but she was also mindful of her father’s warning about letting anyone have undue influence. She didn’t think she was so weak as to let Ethan take advantage of her hyperawareness, but after all that had happened recently, she couldn’t be sure.

  One of those weighty pauses.

  “I recommend you accept my invitation,” he said.

  “Are you threatening me?” Because there was definite menace underlying those innocuous words. She pulled the phone from her ear and glared at it. When she listened in again, she caught the tail end of a sentence: “…good experience for you.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my experience,” she snapped, and ended the call.

  She hoped he fell off his damn horse.

  ETHAN’S “THREAT” NIGGLED at Cynthia the rest of the day, which was probably what he’d intended. Not that she was afraid of him, but she didn’t want him bad-mouthing her around town. Though he’d had plenty of opportunity to do that since the potluck, and there was no indication he’d said anything…

  “Forget him,” she muttered as she pulled a pack of store-bought lasagna from the freezer on Wednesday night. She put the lasagna in the microwave and set the timer. The machine whirred into life.

  Her relationship with the town was going to hell in a handbasket without Ethan’s “help.” Sometimes it felt as if she spoke a different language, and the more she tried to explain her decisions, the less people understood.

  But she had a chance to change that. Right after she’d talked to Ethan today, the journalist she’d seen at the potluck, Tania Leach from the weekly Stonewall Hollow Gazette, had called to say she was writing a profile of Cynthia and requested they meet.

  A fantastic PR opportunity, one she intended to take full advantage of. She hadn’t done many media interviews as a lawyer, beyond the traditional posttrial sound-bites on the courthouse steps, but Sabrina had the media wrapped around her little finger. Cynthia glanced at the microwave—ten minutes left for her lasagna, just enough time to call her sister.

  “A profile, just about you?” Sabrina asked doubtfully, when Cynthia explained.

  “Why not? I’m the first lady judge around here. The reporter’s coming to my chambers Friday lunchtime.”

  “The longer the article, the more the reporter needs to research you so she can meet her word count,” Sabrina warned. “There’s a greater chance something you don’t like will make it into the paper. When I was Miss Georgia, the short news items were mostly okay. But whenever a magazine profiled me, all that ancient history about my accident and the feud between me and Jake came out.”

  Cynthia put a plate in the oven to warm, and laid the table. “I wouldn’t want everything to be in the article,” she admitted. She didn’t have to specify the broom closet.

  “Then pull in some other people,” Sabrina advised. “Make it a team profile or an issue profile—these days I only do interviews if they’re about education for injured kids.” Sabrina was spokesperson for the Injured Kids Education Trust. “Take the heat off yourself.”

  Galling though it was, her baby sister was right. First thing next morning, Cynthia told Tania, the journalist, she would only participate if the profile focused on the town’s crackdown on crime. For that they’d need the mayor and the sheriff, too. The reporter didn’t sound happy, but she agreed.

  Cynthia hung up the phone satisfied she’d done everything possible to make sure the article came out right.

  “JUDGE MERRITT, IF YOU could stand directly beneath the town crest,” Tania Leach suggested. “Then the mayor to your left, sheriff to the right.”

  “No problem,” Mayor Larsen said. He moved into place, beneath the crest that hung in the lobby of city hall.

  Sheriff Davis came around the other side of Cynthia. Perfect, she thought. The photo would show better than a thousand words that she and the town’s elected leaders were on the same side. Mayor Larsen had been delighted to join in on the article—he’d made no secret of the fact he’d been fielding complaints about her the past week and was keen to “put things in perspective.”

  Thankfully, though people might complain all they wanted, the mayor had no jurisdiction over Cynthia.

  “That’s great.” Tania snapped a couple of pictures with her digital camera. When Cynthia had been appointed interim attorney general, the Journal-Constitution’s political editor had visited her office, and the photo shoot had been a separate event, complete with a change of outfits. She preferred this lower pressure scenario.

  When Tania had the shots she needed, they adjourned to the mayor’s office for the interview. Richard phoned through to his assistant. “Bring us some tea, could you, Linnet?”

  “I’m due back in court at one,” Cynthia reminded the reporter.

  “This won’t take long.” Tania set a voice recorder on the mayor’s desk. “The feature will appear in the paper the week after next. I’ve done some background research, but I wanted to talk to you all before I go any further.”

  “I appreciate the chance to be involved.” Cynthia smiled, mindful of Sabrina’s advice not to be defensive.

  “Judge Merritt, I want to talk about the shake-up you’re giving our quiet town,” Tania began.

  “I’m not sure it’s a shake-up,” Cynthia said cautiously. But not, she thought, defensively.

  Tania flipped the pages in her spiral-bound notebook until she reached a blank one. She picked up her pen. “Your sentencing seems, dare I say it, all over the place. A teenage girl gets a slap on the wrist for shoplifting, while one of our town’s prominent businessmen is jailed for a week for contempt of court? People are struggling to make sense of it.”

  “Ah.” Cynthia sat straighter. Jailing Paul Dayton for contempt wasn’t her finest moment, in a judicial career that had so far been light on fine moments. But Dayton was a bully—up on a simple traffic violation, he’d insisted on a jury trial. Then proceeded to intimidate the jury through subtle aggression. Cynthia hadn’t been able to think of another solution.

  “Courtroom discipline is one of the foundations of an effective legal system,” she told the reporter. “Without it, our system doesn’t run. Whereas the shoplifter you mention was a first offender, remorseful in the extreme, a model student about to begin her senior year in high school. She didn’t need to begin it with a criminal record.”

  “Judge, you oughta know that Paul is Tania’s brother-in-law,” Sheriff Davis said.

  “Thanks, Sheriff.” Cynthia managed not to betray her alarm. She could query the reporter about conflict of interest, but what was the point? As Ethan said, this place thrived on it.

  “I stand by my sentence,” she told Tania.

  “Yet it didn’t achieve your goal of discipline in the courtroom,” the
reporter pointed out. “With Paul yelling, and his family in tears…”

  More than tears, they’d been wailing. Although a deputy had intervened, it had been chaos. Cynthia pressed her fingers to her eyes, blotting out the image. Then she dropped her hands and said, “Discipline is an ongoing process, one that ultimately makes the system more effective. Mayor Larsen has some interesting views about how the court serves the needs of the town.”

  Tania sneered at the attempted distraction. Thankfully, the mayor’s assistant arrived bearing a tray with a jug of tea and four glasses. She set it down on the desk. “Shall I pour, Richie?” she asked.

  Cynthia didn’t want tea, but neither did she want to draw attention to herself by refusing. She accepted a glass with a smile. “Thank you.”

  And met cold dislike in the assistant’s eyes.

  Great, another enemy. She didn’t know the woman, but doubtless her husband or nephew or cousin had complained about his court hearing. That made it four against one in here. Cynthia considered spilling her tea down her white linen dress and escaping.

  But she’d started this, she would see it through.

  When everyone had their tea, the assistant sat down with a pen and notepad. The mayor launched into a spiel about business owners’ morale and his commitment to ensuring Stonewall Hollow was a safe place to live and work. Cynthia gathered the last election had been close-run; he left no stone unturned in claiming a stake in every successful venture, including some that hadn’t happened yet.

  “Next week’s county fair will be the best ever,” he promised.

  “I’m sure,” Tania said, “but we’re here to talk about the town’s approach to crime and justice.” Just when Cynthia thought she was going to get another grilling about Paul Dayton, the reporter asked Sheriff Davis about the rehabilitation of young offenders. He mentioned Ethan’s work program in glowing terms. He didn’t seem to have any doubts about it.

  “Judge Merritt—” Tania switched back to Cynthia “—you commented in one of your summings-up this week that Stonewall Hollow has a pick-and-choose approach to traffic laws. Which cases were you referring to?”

  “That wasn’t intended to single anyone out.” Cynthia was learning fast that everything was personal around here. “I was describing the prevailing attitude to stop or yield signs. People obey them in the center of town, but as soon as they’re away from the main drag, they seem blind to the signs.” The journalist frowned. “Folk have wonderful respect for speed limits,” Cynthia added positively.

  “Mayor Larsen, you were elected on a platform of supporting families.” Tania changed tack. “How does jailing Paul Dayton, the upstanding father of five kids, square with that?”

  The mayor ran a finger around his collar. “You know I’m not going to comment, Tania.” The edge to his voice was directed at Cynthia. He’d visited her chambers after she’d sentenced Dayton, asking her to let the guy out early.

  Tania smiled. “If the officials won’t comment, I’ll have to ask the people. How about you, Linnet, what do you think?”

  The assistant didn’t look up from her notepad. “I’m sure Judge Merritt knows her job. I wouldn’t like to tell her how to do it.”

  Passive-aggressive, the hardest of all behaviors to counter. It was easy to come down against someone who was negative or just plain wrong. But what could Cynthia say to someone who was “sure” the judge knew her job?

  After another half hour of questions, she felt as if she’d spent her lunch hour being pummeled by rocks.

  At last Tania capped her pen. “Okay, we’re done. My next step will be some man-in-the-street interviews, seeking candid opinions about the direction the town is taking on crime.”

  Cynthia’s stomach flipped. Tania planned to ask people what they thought of her? Then report it in the paper?

  She envisaged a headline screaming Judge Merritt Go Home.

  If only home wanted her.

  She pressed a hand to her middle, suddenly queasy.

  As she hurried back to the courthouse, she tried to predict the likelihood of her father, or someone involved in the selection of the new superior court judge, seeing the article, in either printed or electronic form. Maybe they wouldn’t think to look…Of course they would. Her dad would hear about the interview from Sabrina; he’d order a copy of the newspaper. And these days, everyone ran an Internet search on prospective employees, and most newspapers seemed to post their content online….

  She rubbed her throat as the humid air from outside clashed with the cool of the marble entrance hall. Was there some way she could influence the article? If she could think of someone who might say something nice, and suggest they phone the Gazette…

  She couldn’t think of anyone. Except Ethan saying she was as cute as triplet calves, and that was no help at all.

  Her heels clattered on the marble staircase as she stumbled on the top step.

  “Cutting it fine,” Melanie observed. She held Cynthia’s robes out to her.

  “Thanks.” Cynthia slipped her arms through the holes, adjusted the robes so they sat neatly.

  “Take a deep breath,” Melanie advised. “You still have two minutes. And they can’t start without you.”

  “That’s true,” Cynthia said, surprised to find the thought did relax her. Then she remembered the reporter and closed her eyes.

  “Drink this.” Melanie thrust something cold into her hand.

  Iced water. Cynthia sipped. “I don’t know where I’d be without you, Melanie. There’s not one other person around here who supports me.” Too bad her assistant couldn’t talk to the reporter, but she’d hardly qualify as an objective observer.

  “You don’t want to get upset about every little thing people say,” her secretary demurred.

  She realized Melanie’s gaze was fixed somewhere over her left shoulder, and her color was high. Uh-oh.

  “Something’s happened,” Cynthia guessed. “And I’m not going to like it.”

  “Uh…it’s not really a problem,” Melanie said. Her tone said Yet.

  “Tell me.” It couldn’t be any worse than a reporter trashing her in the newspaper.

  “The clerk at Gonville called to see if we can take a half-dozen jury cases off them next week?” Melanie’s voice went up in a question. “Probably just a day’s work,” she hurried on. “You’re getting a reputation as a fast worker.” Said encouragingly, in willful ignorance of the fact Cynthia was also getting a reputation as a power-crazed tyrant.

  Cynthia gulped more water. “Sure, send them over.” At least with the out-of-towners, her every decision didn’t get picked over like a chicken carcass. “But that’s not the real problem, is it?”

  Melanie grimaced. “One other thing…Ethan came by.”

  Cynthia swallowed her water slowly. “Is this about me visiting his ranch?”

  “Maybe we should discuss it later.”

  Cynthia eyeballed her.

  “He, uh, asked me how a citizen goes about filing a complaint.”

  “A complaint?” Her voice had gone high. “About me? You mean, like those people who complained to the mayor.”

  “A real complaint,” Melanie said reluctantly. “A formal one. To Atlanta.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SOMEHOW, THOUGH HER insides crumbled, Cynthia held on to her composure.

  “I told him I don’t know anything about complaints procedures,” Melanie assured her. “Well, I don’t…but I wouldn’t have told him if I did.” She patted her hips nervously. “I know Ethan’s not happy with you, but he’s usually reasonable. If he knew how hard you work, how important it is to you to do things right…”

  “Any citizen has a right to file a complaint,” Cynthia said mechanically. “It’s a fundamental of our legal system.”

  Her assistant’s soft snort did her heart good.

  “He’s probably just having a bad day with Sam,” Melanie suggested. “He’ll get over it by Monday.”

  Cynthia nodded even though she didn�
�t believe it.

  “You look tired,” Melanie said. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

  Last time Cynthia did that, she ended up in a broom closet.

  “What do you have planned for the weekend?” the older woman continued.

  “Catching up on some work,” Cynthia said ruefully, as if she’d turned down a dozen invitations for the sake of truth, justice and the Stonewall Hollow way. As if Ethan’s complaint didn’t even feature on her mental landscape.

  “Margaret and I plan to hit the town tomorrow night if you’d like to join us. Of course, around here, hitting the town means a few drinks at Joe’s Bar, followed by the ten-dollar buffet at the Emerald Dragon. You’ll still have your virtue by morning.” Melanie sounded disappointed.

  The offer tempted Cynthia way more than it should. But she’d already resolved not to cling to her assistant. Even if she had no social life and a career in tatters.

  Dammit, she was doing her best, and her best wasn’t good enough.

  Which meant it was time to try something else.

  She used the time it took to drain her water glass to run through her choices.

  She could do nothing and hope for the best. She’d never done that in her life.

  She could bribe someone to say nice things to the reporter, to counter both that appalling interview and whatever Ethan might say in his complaint. Not illegal in this instance, but immoral. Or, she could let Paul Dayton out of jail early and hope that made up for everything else.

  Over her dead body.

  Or…

  “You probably should go downstairs now, honey. I mean, Judge.” Melanie smiled apologetically.

  See, she wasn’t unlikable, her assistant called her honey. She just hadn’t quite connected with the rest of the town. These things took time.

  Time she didn’t have.