fields or on construction jobs. That night they sported
big white cowboy hats with silver conchos and shiny
belt buckles. The women who stake our tomatoes or
pick up our sweet potatoes alongside their men in the
7
MARGARET MARON
fields or who wear the drab uniforms of fast-food chains
as they wipe down tables or take our orders? They came
in colorful swirling skirts and white scoop-neck blouses
bright with embroidery.
We danced to the infectious music, drank Mexican
beer from longnecked bottles, danced some more, then
stuffed ourselves at the fast-food taquerías that lined
the parking lot. I bought piñatas for an upcoming fam-
ily birthday party, and Dwight bought a hammered sil-
ver belt buckle for his young son.
It was such a festive, fun evening that he and I went
back again after we were engaged. The club was crowded
and the music was okay, but it felt like ten men for every
woman and when they began to hit on me, I had to get
Dwight out of there before he arrested somebody.
So I could picture the club’s interior as Walsh called
her first witness to the stand.
“¿Habla inglés? ” she asked.
Despite his prompt Sí, Macedo’s attorney asked that
I allow a translator because his own client’s English was
shaky.
I agreed and Elena Smith took a seat directly be-
hind Macedo, where she kept up a low-pitched, steady
obligato to all that was said.
“State your name and address.”
The middle-aged witness twisted a billed cap in his
callused hands as he gave his name and an address on
the outskirts of Cotton Grove. His nails were as ragged
and stained as his jeans. In English that was adequate,
if heavily accented, he described how he’d entered the
restroom immediately after Hector Macedo.
8
HARD ROW
“Then that man”—here he pointed at Braswell—“he
push me away and grab him—”
“Mr. Macedo?” the ADA prompted.
“Sí. And he hit him and hit him. Many times.”
“Did Mr. Macedo hit him back?”
“He try to get away, but that one too big. Too
strong.”
“Then what happened?”
“Hector, he break a bottle and cut that one. Then
he let go and there is much blood. Then the bouncers
come. And la policía.”
“No further questions, Your Honor,” said the ADA.
Braswell’s attorney declined to cross-examine the wit-
ness, but Macedo’s had him flesh out the narrative so as to
make it clear to me that the smaller man had acted in self-
defense when Braswell left him with no other options.
A second witness took the stand and his account
echoed the first. When Walsh started to call a third wit-
ness, Braswell’s attorney stood up. “We’re willing to
stipulate as to the sequence of events, Your Honor,”
whereupon the State rested.
Macedo, a subcontractor for a drywall service, went
first for the defense. Speaking through the interpreter,
he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and noth-
ing but the truth. According to his testimony, he had
been minding his own business when Braswell attacked
him for no good reason. He did not even know who
Braswell was until after they were both arrested.
Under questioning by Braswell’s lawyer, he admit-
ted that he was at the club that night with one Karen
Braswell. Yes, that would be the other defendant’s ex-
wife although he had not known it at the time. Besides,
9
MARGARET MARON
it wasn’t a real date. She worked with his sister at the
Bojangles in Dobbs and the two women had made up
a casual foursome with himself and a friend. He’d had
no clue that she had a husband who was still in the
picture till the man began choking and pounding him.
Macedo’s attorney called the sister, who sat in the first
row behind her brother and strained to hear the transla-
tor, but Braswell’s attorney objected and I sustained.
“Defense rests.”
“Call your first witness,” I told Braswell’s attorney.
“No witnesses, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Braswell,” I said as his attorney nudged him to
stand. “I find you guilty as charged.”
“Your Honor,” said his attorney, “I would ask you
to take into consideration my client’s natural distress at
seeing his wife out with another man while he was still
trying to save their marriage.”
“I thought they were divorced,” I said.
“In his mind they’re still married, Your Honor.”
“Ms. Walsh?”
“Your Honor, I think it’s relevant that you should
know Mr. Braswell was under a restraining order not to
contact Mrs. Braswell or go near her.”
“Is this true?” I asked the man, who was now stand-
ing with his attorney.
He gave a noncommittal shrug and there was a faint
sneer on his lips.
“Was a warrant issued for this violation?”
“Yes, Your Honor, but he made bail. He’s due in
court next week. Judge Parker.”
“What was the bail?”
“Five thousand.”
10
HARD ROW
I could have increased the bail, but it was moot. He
wasn’t going to have an opportunity to hassle his ex
before Luther Parker saw him next week. Not if I had
anything to say about it.
“Ten days active time,” I told Braswell. “Bailiff, you
will take the prisoner in custody.”
“Now, wait just a damn minute here!” he cried; but
before he could resist, the bailiff and a uniformed offi-
cer had him in a strong-arm grip and marched him out
the door that would lead to the jail.
Macedo stood beside his attorney and his face was
impassive as he waited for me to pass judgment. I found
him guilty of misdemeanor assault and because he’d al-
ready sat in jail for eleven days, I reduced his sentence
to time served and no fine, just court costs.
He showed no emotion as the translator repeated my
remarks in Spanish, but his sister’s smile was radiant.
“Gracias,” she whispered to me as they headed out to
the back hall to pay the clerk.
“De nada,” I told her.
“State versus Rasheed King,” said Julie Walsh, calling
her next case. “Misdemeanor assault with a vehicle.”
A pugnacious young black man came to stand next to
his lawyer at the defendant’s table.
“How do you plead?”
“Hey, his truck bumped me first, Judge.”
“Sorry, Your Honor,” said his attorney.
“You’ll get a chance to tell your story, Mr. King,” I
said, “but for our records, are you pleading guilty or
not guilty?”
“Not guilty, ma’am.”
It was going to be one of those days.
11
C H A P T E R
2
It sh
ould be borne in mind that “home” is not merely a
place of shelter from the storms and cold of winter and the
heat of summer—a place in which to sleep securely at night
and labor by day. It is a place where the children receive
their first and most lasting impressions, those that go far in
molding and forming the character of the man and woman
in after life.
—Profitable Farming in the Southern States, 1890
% The year had turned and days were supposed to
be getting longer. Nevertheless, it was full dark
before I got home.
When things are normal, Dwight’s work day begins an
hour earlier than mine and ends an hour sooner, which
means he often starts supper. I half expected to see him
at the stove and to smell food. Instead, the kitchen was
empty and the stove bare of any pots or pans as I let
myself in through the garage door. The television was
on mute in the living room though and Cal looked up
from some school papers spread across the coffee table.
A brown-eyed towhead, he’s tall for his age and as awk-
ward as a young colt. In his haste to neaten up, sev-
eral sheets of papers slid to the floor. His dog Bandit,
12
HARD ROW
a smooth-haired terrier with a brown eye mask, side-
stepped the papers and trotted over to greet me.
Cal wore a red sweatshirt emblazoned with a big white
12 and he gave me a guilty smile as he gathered up his
third-grade homework and tried to make a single tidy
pile. A Friday night, he was already on his homework,
yet he was worried about messing up the living room?
I’m no neat freak and a little clutter doesn’t bother
me. Dwight either. But Cal was still walking on eggs
with us, almost as if he was afraid that if he stepped an
inch out of line, someone would yell at him.
Neither Dwight nor I are much for yelling, but when
you’re eight years old and your whole world turns up-
side down overnight, I guess it makes you cautious.
Six months ago he was living with his mother up in
Virginia and I had been footloose and fancy free. I lived
alone and came and went as I chose, accountable to no
one except the state of North Carolina, which did ex-
pect me to show up in court on a regular basis. Then in
blurred succession came an October engagement, fol-
lowed by a Christmas wedding, followed by the mur-
der of Dwight’s first wife before the ink was completely
dry on our marriage certificate. Now my no-strings life
suddenly included two guys and a dog with their own
individual needs and obligations.
As soon as I saw Cal’s shirt though, I remembered why
I was on my own for supper tonight, and a quick glance
at the calendar hanging on the refrigerator confirmed it.
Pencilled there in today’s square was HURRICANES—7 PM.
Dwight came down the hall from our bedroom, zip-
ping his heavy jacket and carrying Cal’s hockey stick
under his arm.
13
MARGARET MARON
“Oh, hey!” A smile warmed his brown eyes. “I was
afraid we’d have to leave before you got home. You
’bout ready, buddy?”
Cal nodded. “Just have to get my jacket and a Sharpie.
I’m gonna try to get Rod Brind’Amour’s autograph
tonight.”
As he picked up his books and scurried off to his
room, Dwight hooked me with the hockey stick and
drew me close. I’ve kissed my share of men in my time,
but his slow kisses are blue-ribbon-best-in-show. “Wish
you were coming with us,” he said, nuzzling my neck.
“No, you don’t,” I assured him. “I promised to
honor and love. There was nothing in the vows about
hockey.”
“You sure you read the fine print?”
“That’s the first thing an attorney does read, my
friend.”
I adore ACC basketball, I pull for the Atlanta Braves,
and I can follow a football game without asking too
many dumb questions, but ice hockey leaves me cold in
more ways than one. When you grow up in the south
on a dirt road, you don’t even learn to roller skate. Yes,
we have ponds and yes, they do occasionally freeze over,
but the ice is seldom thick enough to trust and the clos-
est I ever got to live ice-skating was once when the Ice
Capades came to Raleigh and Mother and Aunt Zell
took me and some of the younger boys to see them. We
all agreed the circus was a better show. My preadoles-
cent brothers preferred hot trapeze artists to cool ice
goddesses and I kept waiting for the elephants.
But Cal had played street hockey on skates up in
Shaysville and had become hooked on the Canes when
14
HARD ROW
he spent Christmas with us and watched four televised
games.
Four.
In one week.
He and Dwight didn’t miss a single one. I’d wanted
to bond (not to mention snuggle in next to my new hus-
band), so I joined them on the extra-long leather couch
Dwight had brought over from his bachelor apartment.
I honestly tried to follow along, but the terminology
was indecipherable and I never knew where the puck
was nor why someone had been sent to the penalty box
or why they would abruptly stop play for no discernible
reason to have a jump ball.
That made Cal laugh. “Not jump ball,” he had told
me kindly. “It’s a face-off.”
Two grown men fighting for possession of a small
round object, right? Same thing in my book.
But now that Cal was living with us permanently, it
had become their thing. I went off and puttered happily
by myself when they were watching a game, and I had
scored a couple of decent seats for the last half of the
season with the help of Karen Prince, a former client
who now worked in the Hurricanes ticket office.
“The drive back and forth to Raleigh will give you
and Cal a chance to be alone together and talk. Kids
open up in a car,” I told Dwight when he questioned
why I hadn’t badgered Karen for three seats.
I really did think they needed the time and space to
help Cal cope with all the changes in his young life,
but it wasn’t unadulterated altruism. Put myself where
I couldn’t read a book or catch up on paperwork? Get
real.
15
MARGARET MARON
Dwight laughed and gave me another quick kiss as
Cal came back ready to go.
“Have fun,” I said and when the door had closed be-
hind them, I happily contemplated the evening’s syba-
ritic possibilities.
“So what do you think, Bandit?” I asked the dog.
“Popcorn and a chick flick video, or a long soak in the
tub followed by a manicure?”
Or I could bake a cake to take for Sunday dinner at
Minnie and Seth’s house. Seth is five brothers up from
me, the one I’ve always felt closest to, and his wife
has
acted as my political advisor from the day I first decided
to run for a seat on the district court bench.
I unzipped my high heel boots and had just kicked
one off when the door opened again. Dwight had the
phone pressed to his ear and there was a glum look on
Cal’s face.
“Tell Denning and Richards I’ll meet them there in
ten minutes.” Dwight flipped the phone shut. “Sorry,
Cal, but I have to go. It’s my job.”
He headed for our bedroom where he keeps his hand-
gun locked up when he’s off duty and I followed.
“What’s happened?” I asked as he holstered the gun
on his belt.
“They’ve found two legs in a ditch near Bethel
Baptist,” he said grimly.
Bethel Baptist Church is on a back road about half-
way between our house and Dobbs, Colleton’s county
seat. My mind fought with the grisly image of severed
limbs. “Human legs?”
“White male’s all I know for now.”
16
HARD ROW
And it was clear that he didn’t want to say any more.
Not with Cal standing disconsolately in the doorway.
Dwight sighed and laid the hockey tickets on the
dresser. “I really am sorry, son.”
“It’s okay,” Cal said gamely. “Brind’Amour might
not even be playing tonight.”
“Don’t wait supper,” Dwight told me as he started
back down the hall. “This could take a while.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “And if you get home first,
you don’t have to wait up for us.”
That stopped them both in their tracks and Cal looked
at me in sudden hope as he saw the tickets in my
hand.
I smiled back at him. “Well, I’ve got a driver’s license,
too, you know. And I know how to get to the RBC
Center. You just have to promise not to get embarrassed
if I yell ‘High sticking!’ at the wrong time, okay?”
“O kay!”
Home court for NC State’s basketball team and
home ice for the Carolina Hurricanes, the RBC Center
is named for the Royal Bank of Canada—part of the
global economy we keep hearing about. It’s less than
ten years old and sits on eighty acres that used to be
farms and woodlands, just west of Raleigh and easily
accessible by I-40. It was supposed to cost $66 mil-
lion and seat 23,000. It wound up costing $158 million
and seats only 20,000. Was there ever a public proj-
ect that didn’t cost at least twice as much as originally
estimated?
17
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