A Time for Mercy

by John Grisham

  The jailer opened the cell door and they stepped inside. Kiera hesitated as if uncertain, then she stood and ran to McGarry. His was the first trusted face she had seen in hours. He squeezed her tight, rubbed her head, whispered that he was there to get her, and that her mother was going to be all right. She clutched him tightly as she sobbed. The embrace dragged on, and Ozzie shot a look at Moss Junior.

  Let’s move along now.

  In the darkness of the bottom bunk, Drew had all but disappeared under the blanket and had not moved a muscle since they entered. McGarry finally managed to gently push Kiera back a few inches. With his fingers he tried to wipe her tears, but they were rolling down her cheeks.

  “I’m taking you to my house,” McGarry repeated, and she tried to smile. He looked at the bottom bunk for a glimpse of Drew but there wasn’t much to see. He looked at Ozzie and asked, “Can I say something to him?”

  Ozzie said no with a firm shake of the head. “Let’s get outta here.”

  McGarry took Kiera by the arm and led her out of the cell into the hallway. She did not try to speak to Drew, who was left alone in his dark world as the door closed. Ozzie led them through a side door and into the parking lot. As they were getting into McGarry’s car, Deputy Swayze appeared and whispered to Ozzie.

  Ozzie listened, nodded, said “Okay.” He walked to McGarry’s window and said, “The hospital just called. Josie Gamble is awake and askin’ about her kids. I’m goin’ over and you’re welcome to come wait.”

  * * *

  —

  AS OZZIE ROARED AWAY, again, he told himself that he just might spend the entire day running from one hotspot to another as the awful story unfolded. When he ignored a stop sign, Tatum asked, “You want me to drive?”

  “I’m the high sheriff and this is important. Who’ll complain?”

  “Not me. Look, when you were back there with the preacher, I got a call from Looney at the scene. Earl Kofer showed up, out of his mind, said he wanted to see his boy. Looney and Pirtle have the place secured but Earl was hell-bent on gettin’ inside. He had a coupla nephews with him, young bucks tryin’ to be tough, and they made a big scene in the front yard. About that time the state investigators showed up with a van from the crime lab, and they were able to convince Earl that the entire house was an active crime scene and it was against the law for him to go inside. So Earl parked his truck in the front yard and just sat there with his two nephews. Looney asked him to leave but he said it was his property. Family property, he called it. I think he’s still there.”

  “Okay, in about an hour I’m goin’ to see Earl to meet with the whole family. You want to go?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Well, you’re goin’ and that’s an order. I need a couple of white boys backin’ me up and I want you and Looney.”

  “Those people vote for you?”

  “Everybody voted for me, Moss, don’t you know that? When you win a local race, everybody and his grandmother voted for you. I got seventy percent of the vote, so no complaints, but I have yet to meet a single person in Ford County who didn’t vote for me. And they’re proud of it, can’t wait to go vote for me again.”

  “I thought it was sixty-eight percent.”

  “It would’ve been seventy if your lazy-ass people out in Blackjack had turned out.”

  “Lazy? My people vote like hell, Ozzie. They’re tireless, relentless voters. They vote early, often, all day long, late, absentee, with real ballots, stuffed ballots, fake ballots. They vote dead people, crazy people, underage people, convicted felons who have no right to vote. You don’t remember—it was about twenty years ago—but my uncle Felix went to jail for votin’ dead people. Wiped out two cemeteries in one election. Still wasn’t enough, and when his enemy won by six votes he got him indicted.”

  “Your uncle went to prison?”

  “I didn’t say prison. I said jail. He served about three months, said it wasn’t that bad, came out a hero but never could vote again. So he learned how to stuff ballot boxes. You need my people, Ozzie, we know how to swing elections.”

  Ozzie again parked near the ER entrance and they hustled inside. On the third floor, the same two deputies walked him down the hall where the same young doctor was chatting with a nurse. The report was quick. Josie Gamble was conscious, though sedated because of sharp pains in her splintered jaw. Her vitals were normal. She had not been told that Stuart Kofer was dead or that her son Drew was in jail. She was asking about her children and the doctor assured her they were safe.

  Ozzie took a deep breath, looked at Tatum who was reading his mind and already shaking his head. Tatum said softly, “All yours, boss.”

  Ozzie asked the doctor, “Can she handle the bad news?”

  The doctor smiled and shrugged and said, “Now or later. It doesn’t really matter.”

  “Let’s go,” Ozzie said.

  “I’ll wait here,” Tatum said.

  “No you won’t. Follow me.”

  * * *

  —

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Ozzie and Tatum were leaving the hospital when they noticed Pastor McGarry and Kiera sitting in the ER waiting room. Ozzie walked over and quietly explained that he had just spoken with Josie and that she was alert and eager to see Kiera. She was distraught and confused by Kofer’s death and Drew’s arrest and really wanted to see her daughter.

  He again thanked the pastor for his help and promised to call later.

  At the car, Ozzie said, “You drive,” and walked to the passenger door.

  “Gladly. Where to?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen a bloody corpse in several hours, so let’s have a look at Stuart, may he rest in peace.”

  “I doubt he’s moved much.”

  “And I need to speak to the state boys.”

  “Surely they can’t screw up a case like this.”

  “They’re good boys.”

  “If you say so.” Tatum slammed the door and cranked the engine. Past the city limits, Ozzie said, “It’s eight-thirty and I’ve been up since three.”

  “Same here, especially that bit about eight-thirty.”

  “And I’ve had no breakfast.”

  “I’m starvin’.”

  “What’s open at this wonderful hour on the Sabbath?”

  “Well, Huey’s is probably just now closin’ and they don’t do breakfast. What about Sawdust?”

  “Sawdust?”

  “Yep, as far as I know it’s the only place open this early on Sundays, at least in this part of the county.”

  “Well, I know I’ll be welcome because they have a special door for me. Says, NEGROES ENTER HERE.”

  “I heard they took that down. You ever been inside?”

  “No, Deputy Tatum, I have never been inside the Sawdust country store. When I was a kid here it was still used by the Klan for meetings that were not so secret. We may be living in 1990, but the people who shop and dine at Sawdust, along with those who sit by the old iron stove in the wintertime and tell nigger jokes, and those who chew tobacco on the front porch and spit on the gravel as they whittle and play checkers, are not the kind of people I want to hang with.”

  “They have great blueberry pancakes.”

  “They’ll probably poison mine.”

  “No, they won’t. Let’s order the same thing, then swap after we’re served. If I croak over and die, then Kofer and I can have a joint service. Damn, just think of the parade around the square.”

  “I really don’t want to.”

  “Ozzie, you’ve been elected sheriff of Ford County by two landslides. You are the Man around here, and I can’t believe you’re shy about walkin’ into a public café and havin’ a meal. If you’re afraid, I promise I’ll protect you.”

  “That’s not the case.”

  “A question. How many white-owned businesses h
ave you ducked and dodged since you ran for sheriff seven years ago?”

  “Well, I haven’t been to all the white churches.”

  “That’s because it’s humanly impossible to visit them all. Must be a thousand and they’re still building. And I said businesses, not churches.”

  Ozzie pondered the question as they flew by small farms and pine forests. Finally, he said, “Only one that I can think of.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Is that Confederate flag still flyin’ out front?”

  “Probably.”

  “Who owns the place now?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t stopped by in a few years.”

  They crossed a creek and turned onto another county road. Tatum gunned the engine as he straddled the center line. The road saw little traffic on workdays and was especially quiet on a Sunday morning. Ozzie said, “Pine Grove precinct. Ninety-five percent white and only thirty percent voted for me.”

  “Thirty percent?”

  “Yep.”

  “I ever tell you about my mother’s father, Grumps they called him? Died before I was born, which was probably a good thing. Ran for sheriff in Tyler County forty years ago and got eight percent of the vote. So thirty is pretty impressive.”

  “It didn’t feel too impressive on election night.”

  “Give it up, boss. You won big. And this is your chance to impress the enlightened people who dine at Sawdust.”

  “Why is it called Sawdust?”

  “Bunch of sawmills around here, lots of loggers. Tough guys. I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.”

  The parking lot was filled with pickups, some new, most old and dented, all parked haphazardly as if their drivers had sprinted to breakfast. An off-center flagpole hailed the great state of Mississippi and the glorious cause of the Confederacy. Two black bears nuzzled each other in a cage next to the side porch. The planks creaked as Ozzie and Moss Junior crossed them. The front door entered into a cramped country store with smoked meats hanging from the ceiling. The strong, heavy aroma of frying bacon and burning wood filled the air. Behind the counter, an old woman looked at Tatum, then at Ozzie, and managed to nod and say, “Mornin’.”

  They spoke, kept walking, and entered the café in the rear where half the tables were crowded with men, all white men, no women. They were eating and drinking coffee, some were smoking, and all seemed to be chattering away, until they saw Ozzie. There was a noticeable decline in the noise, but only for the second or two it took them to realize who he was and that both were officers. Then, as if to prove their tolerance, they picked up their conversations with even more vigor and tried to ignore them.

  Tatum waved to an empty table and they sat down. Ozzie immediately busied himself with a thorough perusal of the menu, though it was unnecessary. A waitress arrived with a pot of coffee and filled their cups.

  A man at the nearest table looked for the second time and Tatum pounced. “This place used to have famous blueberry pancakes. That still the case?”

  “You betcha,” the man said with a grin, then patted his ample stomach. “That and venison sausage. Helps me keep my figure.” This got a laugh or two.

  Another man said, “Say, we just heard about Stuart Kofer.” The room was instantly silent. “Is it true?”

  Tatum gave a quick nod to his boss, as if to say, “This is your moment. Act like the high sheriff.”

  Ozzie’s back was turned to at least half of the diners, so he stood and looked at them all. He said, “Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. Stuart was shot and killed around three this morning, at home. We’ve lost one of our best.”

  “Who shot him?”

  “I can’t go into the details right now. We may have more to say tomorrow.”

  “We heard it was a kid livin’ with him.”

  “Well, we’ve taken a sixteen-year-old boy into custody. The boy’s mother was Kofer’s girlfriend. That’s all I can say. The state police are on the scene right now. Again, I can’t say much. Maybe later.”

  Ozzie was smooth and friendly, and he could not have scripted what happened next. A rustic old man with dirty boots and faded overalls and a cap from a feed company said, respectfully, “Thank you, Sheriff.” There was a pause. The ice was broken, and several others offered their thanks too.

  Ozzie sat down and ordered pancakes and sausage. As they drank coffee and waited, Tatum said, “Not a bad campaign stop, huh, boss?”

  “I never think about politics.”

  Tatum suppressed a laugh and looked away. “You know, boss, if you came here once a month and had breakfast, you’d get every vote.”

  “Don’t want every vote. Just seventy percent of them.”

  The waitress laid a copy of the Sunday edition of the Jackson paper on the table and smiled at Ozzie. Tatum grabbed the sports section, and to pass the time Ozzie read the state news. His eyes drifted above the print and he noticed the wall to his right. In the center were two large 1990 football schedules, one for Ole Miss, one for Mississippi State, and around them were banners for both teams and framed black-and-white photos of yesterday’s heroes in various action poses. All white, all from another era.

  Ozzie had starred at Clanton High and dreamed of being the first black player at Ole Miss, but he wasn’t recruited. There were already two blacks in the program and Ozzie had always quietly assumed that, at that time, two were enough. He signed instead with Alcorn State, started for four years, got drafted in the tenth round, and made the L.A. Rams roster his rookie year. He played in eleven games before a knee injury sent him back to Mississippi.

  He studied the faces of the old stars and wondered how many of them had actually played in a professional football game. Two other players from Ford County, both black, had made it professionally, but their photos were not on the wall either.

  He lifted the newspaper an inch or two and tried to read a story, but he was distracted. The conversations around him were about the weather, a coming storm, the bass biting in Lake Chatulla, the death of an old farmer they all knew, and the latest stunts by their senators in Jackson. He listened carefully as he pretended to read and wondered what they would be discussing in his absence. Would they dwell on the same subjects? Probably so.

  Ozzie knew that in the late 1960s the Sawdust had been the gathering spot for white hotheads determined to build a private school in the wake of the Supreme Court’s betrayals on desegregation. The school had been built on some donated land outside of Clanton, a simple metal building with low-paid teachers and cheap tuitions that were never cheap enough. It folded after a few years of rising debts and intense pressure for countywide support of the public schools.

  The pancakes and sausage arrived and the waitress refilled their cups.

  “You ever had venison sausage?” Tatum asked. In his forty or so years he had barely set foot outside of Ford County, but he often assumed he knew far more than his boss, who had once traveled coast to coast in the NFL.

  “My grandmother used to make it,” Ozzie said. “I watched her.” He took a bite, considered it, said, “Okay, a bit too spicy.”

  “I saw you lookin’ at those photos on the wall. They need one of you, boss.”

  “Not really my hangout, Tatum. I can live without it.”

  “We’ll see. It ain’t right, you know.”

  “Drop it.”

  They dug into their tall stacks of pancakes, each enough for a family of four, and enjoyed a few bites. Then Tatum leaned in and asked, “So what’re you thinkin’ about a funeral and such?”

  “I’m not family, Moss, in case you haven’t noticed. I suppose that’ll be up to his parents.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t just have a service and lower him into the ground, right? Hell, he’s a law enforcement officer, Ozzie. Don’t we get parades and marchin’ bands and drill teams and rifle salutes? I want a crow
d and I want some folks really tore up and carryin’ on when they bury me.”

  “Probably not goin’ to happen.” Ozzie lowered his knife and fork and slowly took a drink of coffee. He looked at his deputy as if he was in kindergarten and said, “A slight distinction, Moss. Our buddy Kofer was not exactly killed in the line of duty. Indeed, he was off-duty and in all likelihood had been drinkin’ and carousin’ and who knows what else. It might be rather difficult to drum up support for a parade to send him off.”

  “What if the family wants a show?”

  “Look, they’re still takin’ pictures of his dead body, so let’s worry about it later, okay? Now eat. We need to hustle over there.”

  * * *

  —

  BY THE TIME they arrived at Stuart’s house, Earl Kofer and his nephews were gone. At some point, they got tired of waiting and were probably needed back with the family. The driveway and front yard were crowded with police cars and official vehicles: two vans from the state crime lab, an ambulance waiting to haul Stuart away, another one with a crew just in case they were needed; even a couple of volunteer fire department vehicles were in place to assist, as usual, with the congestion.

  Ozzie knew one of the state investigators and got a quick briefing, not that it was needed. They looked at Stuart again, in exactly the same spot as before, the only difference being the darkened shades of the blood on the sheets around him. The stained and spattered pillows were gone. Two technicians in head-to-toe hazmat garb were slowly lifting samples from the wall above the headboard.

  “Fairly cut-and-dried, I’d say,” the investigator said. “But we’ll take him in anyway for a quick autopsy. I take it the kid is still in jail.”

  “Yep,” Ozzie replied. Where else would the kid be? As always at these crime scenes, Ozzie found it difficult to stomach the arrogance of the state boys who rolled in with their airs of superiority. He wasn’t required to call them to the scene, but in murder cases that led to murder trials he had learned that jurors tend to be more impressed with experts from the state police. In the end, nothing mattered but convictions.