by John Grisham
“What time did Kofer leave?”
“Don’t know. I wasn’t awake when he left.”
“Who was awake?”
“Don’t know, Mick. I swear. I think we all passed out and things went black. I don’t remember much. At some point in the night, have no idea when, Stu and Gary left the cabin. When I woke up late Sunday, Calvin and Wayne were still there, in rough shape. We got up, tried to stir around, drank a couple of beers to kill the pain, then the phone rang and my brother told me Stu was dead. Shot in the head by some kid. Hell, he was just there, right there at the card table, shufflin’ cards and sippin’ peach whiskey from a coffee cup.”
“You been hangin’ out with Stu?”
“I don’t know. What kind of question is that?”
“A simple one.”
“Not as much as a year ago. He was losin’ control, Mick, you know? We’d play poker once a month, usually at the cabin, and you could always count on Stu to overdo things, drink too much. Who am I, right? But there was talk about Stu. Some of his friends were concerned. Hell, we all drink too much, but sometimes it’s the drunks who see what’s really goin’ on. We figured Ozzie knew about it and turned a blind eye.”
“I don’t think so. Stu showed up for work every day and did his job. He was one of Ozzie’s favorites.”
“Mine too. Everybody liked Stu.”
“Will you talk to Ozzie?”
“Well, I don’t want to.”
“No rush, but he’d just like to have a chat. Maybe after the funeral.”
“Like I got a choice?”
“Not really.”
10
As with most hot courthouse rumors, the source would never be known. Did it spring to life behind a hint of the truth, or was it someone’s idea of a joke down in the Office of Land Records on the first floor? Did a bored lawyer create the fiction with one eye on the clock to see how soon the story would make the rounds and find its way back to him? Since the courthouse, indeed the entire town, was still buzzing with the details of the murder, it was not too far-fetched to believe that someone with a bit of authority, perhaps a deputy or a bailiff, might have said something like “Yep, we’re bringin’ the boy over today.”
At any rate, early Tuesday morning half the county knew for a fact that the kid who killed Stuart Kofer would appear in court for the first time, and for good measure the rumor was soon amended to include the irresistible fact that he would probably be released! Something to do with his age.
On a routine day, the Civil Docket attracted only a few lawyers who had motions pending, never a crowd of spectators. But on Tuesday, the gallery was half full as dozens gathered in the main courtroom to witness this horrendous miscarriage of justice. The clerks checked and rechecked the docket to see if they had missed something. Judge Noose was not expected until almost ten, when the first motion hearing was supposed to start. When Jake ambled in at nine-thirty he at first thought he had somehow chosen the wrong date. He whispered to a clerk and was told about the rumor.
“That’s odd,” he whispered back as he scanned the hard faces staring at him. “Seems like I’d know it if my client was coming to court.”
“That’s usually the way we do things,” she whispered back.
Harry Rex arrived and began insulting an insurance lawyer. Others milled about with eyes on the crowd and wondering what was the attraction. Bailiffs and deputies huddled to one side, aware of the rumor but unaware of any orders to bring the defendant over from the jail.
Lowell Dyer entered through a side door and greeted Jake. They agreed to have a word with Noose as soon as possible. At ten, His Honor called them back to his chambers and offered them coffee as he lined up his second round of daily medications. His robe was hanging on the door and his jacket was draped over a chair. “How’s the defendant?” he asked. Noose had always been gaunt with a long, lanky frame and a sloping nose that was often redder than the rest of his pale skin. He had never looked that healthy, and to watch him knock back an impressive collection of pills made the lawyers wonder just how sick he might be. But they didn’t dare ask what was ailing him.
Jake poured two cups of coffee into paper cups, and he and Lowell sat across from the judge. Jake replied, “Well, Judge, the kid is not doing too well. I saw him this morning for the third straight day and he’s shutting down. I think he’s traumatized and having some sort of breakdown. Can we get him evaluated and perhaps treated? This might be a sick little boy.”
“Boy?” Lowell asked. “Try telling that to the Kofers.”
“He’s sixteen, Jake,” Judge Noose said. “Hardly a boy.”
“Wait till you meet him.”
“Evaluated where?” Lowell asked.
“Well, I’d prefer that the pros do it, down at the state hospital.”
“Lowell?”
“The State objects, as for right now anyway.”
“I’m not sure you have the right to object, Lowell,” Jake said. “There’s no case yet. Shouldn’t you wait until you get the indictment?”
“I suppose.”
“Here’s the problem,” Jake said. “The kid needs help right now. Today. This very moment. He’s suffering from some type of trauma and he’s not improving sitting over there in the jail. He needs to be seen by a doctor, a psychiatrist, someone a lot smarter than we are. If that doesn’t happen, then he may continue to deteriorate. At times he refuses to talk to me. He can’t remember from one day to the next. He’s not eating. He’s having crazy dreams and hallucinating. At times he just sits and stares and makes this weird humming noise like he’s lost his mind. Don’t you want a healthy defendant, Lowell? If the boy’s crazy as a loon, you can’t put him on trial. There’s no harm in at least getting someone, some doctor, to take a look.”
Lowell looked at Noose, who was chewing a pill that must have been bitter.
Noose said, “Crime, suspect, arrest, jail. Looks to me like the defendant needs a first appearance.”
“We’ll waive it,” Jake said. “There’s nothing to be gained by hauling the kid over in a police car and dragging him into a courtroom. He simply can’t handle that right now. I’m being honest here, Judge, I don’t think the kid knows what’s happening around him.”
Lowell smiled and shook his head as if he had doubts. “Sounds to me like you’re already laying the groundwork for an insanity plea, Jake.”
“I am not, because Judge Noose here has promised me that he’ll find another lawyer to handle the trial, if there is a trial.”
“Oh, there will be a trial, Jake, I can promise that,” Lowell said. “You can’t kill a man in cold blood and walk away.”
“Nobody’s walking away here, Lowell. I’m just worried about this kid. He’s detached from reality. What’s the harm in having him evaluated?”
Noose had finished with his meds and was choking them down with a glass of water. He looked at Jake and asked, “Who would do it?”
“State Health has a regional office in Oxford. Maybe we can send him over there to be examined.”
“Can they send someone over here?” Noose asked. “I really don’t like the idea of the defendant leaving jail so soon.”
“Agreed,” Lowell said. “They haven’t had the funeral yet. I’m not sure the kid would be safe outside the jail.”
“Fine,” Jake said. “I don’t care how we do it.”
Noose raised his hands and called for order. “Let’s agree on a plan here, fellas. I assume, Mr. Dyer, that you plan to seek an indictment for capital murder, is this correct?”
“Well, Judge, it’s still a bit early, but, yes, that’s how I’m leaning as of today. It appears as if the facts call for such an indictment.”
“And when would you present this case to your grand jury?”
“We meet here in two weeks, but I can always call it early. Do you have a preference?
”
“No. The grand jury is really none of my business. Mr. Brigance, how do you see the next few weeks unfolding?”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Since my client is so young I will have no choice but to ask you to transfer his case over to youth court.”
Lowell Dyer bit his tongue and gave Noose plenty of room to respond. Noose looked at him with raised eyebrows and Dyer said, “Of course, the State will oppose such a motion. We believe the case belongs in this court and that the defendant should be tried as an adult.”
Jake did not react. He took a sip of coffee and glanced at a legal pad as if he knew this was coming, which in fact he did because there was no chance at all that the Honorable Omar Noose was going to allow the Ford County Youth Court to handle such a serious crime. Lesser offenses committed by teenagers were often sent down—car theft, drugs, small-time larcenies and burglaries—and the juvenile judge was known to be judicious in dealing with them. But not serious crimes involving bodily harm, and certainly not murders.
Most white Southerners firmly believed that a sixteen-year-old like Drew Gamble who shot a man sleeping in his own bed must be tried as an adult and given a harsh sentence, even death. A small minority felt otherwise. Jake wasn’t sure, yet, how he felt, though he already doubted whether Drew had the wherewithal to understand criminal intent.
Jake also knew the political realities. Next year, 1991, both Omar Noose and Lowell Dyer faced reelection—Dyer for the first time, Noose for the fifth. Though His Honor was pushing seventy and took a lot of meds he was showing no signs of slowing down. He enjoyed the job, the prestige, the salary. He had always faced light opposition—few lawyers were willing to challenge a sitting and entrenched judge—but there was always the chance of that screwball election where an underdog caught fire and the voters decided they wanted a new face. Three years earlier, Noose had been hounded by a quack of a lawyer from Milburn County who made a bunch of wild claims about lenient sentences in criminal cases. He got a third of the vote, which was not unimpressive for a complete unknown with little credibility.
Now, a more ominous threat was looming. Jake had heard the rumors and he was sure Noose had heard them too. Rufus Buckley, the ex–district attorney, the showboat Dyer had defeated in a close election, was reportedly making waves and dropping hints about wanting Noose’s seat on the bench. Buckley had been banished to the sidelines, where he spent his days in a small office down in Smithfield drafting deeds and fuming and plotting his comeback. His greatest loss was the not-guilty verdict of Carl Lee Hailey, and he would forever blame Noose. And Jake. And everyone else remotely connected to the case. Everyone but himself.
“File your motion in due course,” Noose said, as if he’d already made up his mind.
“Yes sir. Now, about the psychiatric examination.”
Noose stood and grunted and walked to his desk where he took a pipe from an ashtray and stuck the stem between his stained teeth. “And you think this is urgent?”
“Yes I do, Judge. I’m afraid this kid is slipping as the hours pass.”
“Has Ozzie seen him?”
“Ozzie’s not a shrink. I’m sure he’s seen him because he’s at the jail.”
Noose looked at Dyer and asked, “And your position on this?”
“The State is not opposed to an exam but I don’t want that kid out of jail for any reason.”
“Got that. Okay, I’ll sign the order. Do you have other business today?”
Dyer replied, “No sir.”
“You’re excused, Mr. Dyer.”
* * *
—
THE CURIOUS CONTINUED to stream into the courtroom. The minutes passed and Judge Noose did not appear. Near the jury box, Walter Sullivan sat with his co-counsel, Sean Gilder, an insurance lawyer from Jackson who was defending the railroad in the Smallwood case. They spoke in low voices about this and that, lawyer talk for the most part, but as the crowd grew Walter began to realize something.
Harry Rex’s instincts were correct. The lawyers for the railroad and its insurance company had finally agreed to approach Jake with the idea of a preliminary chat about a settlement. But they planned to be extremely cautious. On the one hand, the case was dangerous because the damages were high—four dead family members—and Jake would be trying the case on his turf, indeed in the very courtroom where they were now sitting and from which he walked out with Carl Lee Hailey as an innocent man. But on the other hand, the railroad and insurance lawyers were still confident they could win because of liability issues. Taylor Smallwood, the driver, had hit the fourteenth boxcar of a moving freight train without, evidently, touching his brakes. Their expert estimated his speed at seventy miles per hour. Jake’s expert thought it was closer to sixty. The speed limit on that forlorn stretch of road was only fifty-five.
There were other issues to worry about. The railroad crossing had historically been badly maintained, and Jake had the records and photos to prove it. There had been other accidents, and Jake had those reports enlarged and ready to show to his jury. The only known eyewitness was an unstable carpenter who had been following the Smallwood car perhaps a hundred yards behind, and he was adamant in his deposition that the red flashing lights were not working at the time. However, there were rumors, still unsubstantiated, that the gentleman had been drinking in a honky-tonk.
That was the terrifying aspect of going to trial in Ford County. Jake Brigance was an upstanding young lawyer with an impeccable reputation and could be trusted to play by the rules. However, his clique included Harry Rex, also his co-counsel, and the loathsome Lucien Wilbanks, neither of whom spent much time worrying about the ethics of the profession.
Thus, there was the potential for a huge verdict, but the jury could just as easily blame Taylor Smallwood and find in favor of the railroad. With so many unknowns, the insurance company wanted to explore settlement. If Jake wanted millions, then the negotiations wouldn’t last long. If he chose to be more reasonable, they could find common ground and make everyone happy.
Walter tried few cases himself, preferring instead to be the local guy when the big firms from Jackson and Memphis rolled in and needed a presence. He collected modest fees for doing little more than using his connections and helping to weed out potential problems during the selection of the jury.
As the courtroom buzzed with quiet gossip and speculation, Walter realized that Jake was about to become the most unpopular lawyer in town. Those folks packing into the pews were not there to support Drew Gamble and whatever family he might have. No sir. They were there to get a hateful look at the killer and silently rage against the injustice of treating him with sympathy. And if Mr. Brigance somehow worked his magic again and got the kid released, there might be trouble in the streets.
Sullivan leaned toward his co-counsel and said, “Let’s get through the motions and not broach the idea of settlement, not today anyway.”
“And why not?”
“I’ll explain later. There’s plenty of time.”
* * *
—
ACROSS THE COURTROOM, Harry Rex chewed on the ragged end of an unlit cigar and pretended to listen to a bad joke from a bailiff while glancing at the crowd. He recognized a girl from high school, couldn’t remember her last name back then but he knew she had married a Kofer. How many of these people were related to the victim? How many would resent Jake Brigance?
As the minutes dragged on and the crowd grew, Harry Rex confirmed his original fear. His buddy Jake was taking a case that would pay peanuts and, in doing so, risking a case that could be a bonanza.
11
Late Tuesday morning, Pastor Charles McGarry, his wife, Meg, and Kiera arrived at the hospital and went to the waiting room on the third floor where they checked in with the crew from his church. They had things well under control and were feeding half the hospital’s staff and some of its patients as well.
&nb
sp; Few things excite country folk more than a trip to the hospital, either as visitors or patients, and the members of the tiny church were rallying around the Gamble family with great love and enthusiasm. Or at least around Josie and Kiera. Drew, the accused killer, was locked away and none of their concern, which was fine with them. But the mother and sister had done nothing wrong and were in dire need of sympathy.
Josie’s room was busy with nurses preparing her for the trip. Kiera hugged her and then backed into a corner where Charles waited and watched. Her doctors were convinced that there was a better reconstructive specialist in the larger hospital in Tupelo, where her surgery was scheduled for early Wednesday morning.
She managed to swing her feet off the bed, stand alone, and walk three steps to the gurney where she settled in as nurses restrung tubes and wires. She tried to smile at Kiera, but her face was swollen and covered with gauze.
They followed her down the hall, where she passed the admiring crowd from Good Shepherd, and to the service elevator and down to the basement where an ambulance was waiting. Kiera left with Charles and Meg and hustled to his car. They followed the ambulance away from the hospital, out of town, and into the countryside. Tupelo was an hour away.
* * *
—
AS JAKE WAS trying his best to sneak out of the courthouse through a rear door, someone called his name. Oddly enough, it was Ozzie, who knew the secret passages and rooms as well as anyone. “Got a minute?” he said as they stopped beside two ancient vending machines. Ozzie preferred to be noticed around the courthouse, shaking hands, slapping backs, lots of laughs, a big personality, ever the politician shoring up his base. To find him lurking in the shadows could only mean that he didn’t want to be seen chatting with Jake.
