by John Grisham
“Sure,” Jake said, as if he or anyone else in the county could say no to Ozzie.
He handed Jake a square envelope with the words SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT stamped on the front. “Earl Kofer called this mornin’ and had his nephew bring these by the jail. It’s the keys to Ms. Gamble’s car. We went out and got the car, brought it in, it’s parked behind the jail. Just so you’ll know.”
“I didn’t realize I represented Josie Gamble.”
“You do now, or at least everybody thinks so. Earl was quite clear. She is never to set foot on that property again. They’ve changed the locks and if they see her they’ll probably start shootin’. She and the kids didn’t have much in the way of clothes and such, but it’s all been destroyed. Earl bragged about burnin’ it last night along with the bloody mattress. Said he almost burned the car too but figured she owed money on it.”
“Just tell Earl to keep his matches dry, okay?”
“I’d like to avoid Earl myself for a few days.”
“Was he in court this morning?”
“I think so, yes. He doesn’t like the fact that you’re representin’ the guy who killed his son.”
“I’ve never met Earl Kofer and there’s no reason he should be concerned with my law practice.”
“There’s also a paycheck in there.”
“Ah, good news.”
“I wouldn’t get excited. Seems she worked at the car wash north of town and they owed her for last week. Probably not much. Somebody brought that to the jail too.”
“So she’s fired?”
“Looks that way. Somebody said she was also workin’ at a convenience store over by the high school. You checked this gal out?”
“No, but I’m sure you have.”
“She was born in Oregon, thirty-two years ago. Her father was in the air force, not a pilot, and they moved around. She grew up on the base in Biloxi but her father got killed in some kind of explosion. She dropped out of school at sixteen when she gave birth to Drew. The proud papa was some tomcat named Barber, but he disappeared a long time ago. Two years later she had the girl, different daddy, some dude named Mabry. He probably never knew it. She lived here and there, the record is spotty. When she was twenty-six she married a gentleman named Kolston, but the romance broke up when he went to prison for thirty years. Drugs. Divorce. She served two years in Texas for dealing and possession. Not sure what happened to the kids because, as you know, that family court stuff is sealed. Needless to say, they’ve had a rough time. Things’ll get worse.”
“I would say so. They’re homeless. She’s unemployed, facing surgery tomorrow, no place to go when she’s released from the hospital. Her daughter is living with their preacher. Her son is in jail.”
“You want sympathy, Jake?”
Jake took a deep breath and studied his friend. “No.”
Ozzie turned to leave and said, “When you get the chance, ask that kid why he pulled the trigger.”
“He thought his mother was dead.”
“Well, he was wrong, wasn’t he?”
“Yes he was. So let’s kill him, too.”
Jake held the envelope and watched the sheriff disappear around a corner.
* * *
—
FROM YEARS OF observation and experience, Jake had become an expert on the rhythm and flow of commerce around the square, and he knew that at four-thirty in the afternoon the Coffee Shop would be deserted and Dell would be behind the counter wrapping cheap flatware with paper napkins and waiting for the clock to hit five so she could call it a day. During breakfast and lunch she oversaw the gossip, stirring it up when things were slow, throttling it back when it became too vicious. She listened hard, missed nothing, and was quick to reprimand a raconteur who veered off script. Foul language was not tolerated. A dirty joke could get you banned. If a customer needed to be insulted, she was quick with a quip and didn’t care if he never came back. Her recall was legendary and she had often been accused of quickly scribbling down notes to herself to record important rumors. When Jake needed the truth, he ventured over at four-thirty and sat at the counter.
She poured coffee and said, “We missed you these past two mornings.”
“That’s why I’m here now. What are they saying?”
“It’s big news, obviously. First murder in five years, since Hailey. And Stu was a popular guy, good deputy, came in here for lunch every now and then. I liked him. Nobody knows the kid.”
“They’re not from here. The mother met Kofer and a romance ensued. Pretty sad little family, really.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Am I still the favorite lawyer?”
“Well, they’re not going to talk about you with me close by, now are they? Prather said he wished they could find another lawyer, said Noose dumped the kid on you. Looney said you had no choice, said Noose would replace you later. Stuff like that. No criticism yet. You’re worried about it?”
“Sure. I know these guys well. Ozzie and I have always been close. It’s not comforting to know that the cops are pissed off.”
“Watch your language. They’re okay, I think, but you need to show up tomorrow and see how they act.”
“I plan to.”
She paused and glanced around at the empty café, then leaned in a bit closer. “So, why did the kid shoot him? I mean, he did do it, right?”
“There’s no doubt about that, Dell. I won’t let them interrogate the kid but they don’t have to. His sister told Moss Junior that he shot Stuart. Doesn’t give me much to work with, you know?”
“So, what was the motive?”
“I don’t know, and I’m not that involved. Noose told me to just hold the kid’s hand for the first month until he finds someone else. If it goes to trial maybe they’ll find a motive, maybe not.”
“Are you going to the funeral?”
“The funeral? I haven’t heard.”
“Saturday afternoon, at the National Guard Armory. Just heard about it.”
“I doubt if I’ll be invited. You going?”
She laughed and said, “Of course. Name the last funeral I missed, Jake.”
He could not. Dell was known for attending two and sometimes three funerals a week and fully recapping each as she served breakfast. For years Jake had heard tales of open caskets, closed caskets, long sermons, bawling widows, jilted children, family dustups, beautiful sacred music, and bad organ recitals.
“I’m sure it will be a show,” he said. “It’s been decades since we buried an officer.”
“You want some dirt?” she asked as she once again glanced around the café.
“Of course.”
“Well, word is that his people are having trouble getting a preacher. They don’t do church, never have, and all the preachers they’ve stiff-armed over the years are saying no. Can’t blame them, can you? Who’d want to stand up at the pulpit and say all the usual happy stuff about a man who never darkened their door?”
“So, who’s officiating?”
“Don’t know. I think they’re still scrambling. Come back in the morning and maybe we’ll know something.”
“I’ll be here.”
* * *
—
THE TABLE IN the center of Lucien’s downstairs workroom was covered with thick lawbooks, legal pads, and discarded papers, as if the two non-lawyers had been plowing through research for days. Both wanted to be lawyers and Portia was well on her way. Lucien’s glory days were far in the past but he still, at times, found the law fascinating.
Jake walked in, admired the mess, and pulled up another mismatched chair. “So, please tell me your brilliant new legal strategies.”
“Can’t find one,” Lucien said. “We’re screwed.”
Portia said, “We’ve tracked down every youth court case over the past forty years an
d the law doesn’t budge. When a kid, a person under the age of eighteen, commits a murder, rape, or armed robbery, original jurisdiction is in circuit court, not juvenile.”
“What about an eight-year-old?” Jake asked.
“They don’t rape much,” Lucien mumbled, almost to himself.
Portia said, “In 1952, an eleven-year-old boy in Tishomingo County shot and killed an older kid who lived down the road. They kept him in circuit court and put him on trial. He was convicted and sent to Parchman. Can you believe that? A year later the Mississippi Supremes said he was too young and kicked it back to youth court. Then the legislature got involved and said the magic age is thirteen and older.”
Jake said, “It doesn’t matter. Drew is not even close, at least in age. I’d put his emotional maturity at about thirteen, but I’m not qualified.”
“Have you found a psychiatrist?” Portia asked.
“Still looking.”
“And what’s the goal here, Jake?” Lucien asked. “If he says the boy is certified batshit crazy, Noose ain’t movin’ the case. You know that. And can you really blame him? It’s a dead cop and they have the killer. If the case went to youth court the kid would be found guilty and put away in a kiddie jail. For two years! And the day he turns eighteen, youth court loses all jurisdiction and guess what happens.”
“He walks,” Portia said.
“He walks,” Jake said.
“So you can’t blame Noose for keeping the case.”
“I’m not trying to plead insanity here, Lucien, not yet anyway. But this kid is suffering from something and needs professional help. He’s not eating, bathing, is barely talking, and he can sit for hours staring at the floor and humming as if he’s dying inside. Frankly, I think he needs to be moved to the state hospital and put on medication.”
The phone rang and they stared at it. “Where’s Bev?” Jake asked.
“Gone. It’s almost five,” Portia said.
“Out for more cigarettes,” Lucien said.
Portia slowly lifted the receiver and said, quite officially, “Law office of Jake Brigance.” She smiled and listened for a second and asked, “And who’s calling, please?” A brief pause as she closed her eyes and racked her brain. “And this is in regard to which case?” A smile, then: “I’m sorry but Mr. Brigance is in court this afternoon.”
He was always in court, according to the office’s rules of engagement. If the caller was a non-client or other stranger, he or she was left with the impression that Mr. Brigance practically lived in the courtroom and getting an appointment for an office consultation would be difficult and probably expensive. And this was not unusual among the bored and timid office practitioners in Clanton. On the other side of the square, a worthless lawyer named F. Frank Mulveney trained his part-time secretary to go one step further and gravely inform all callers that “Mr. Mulveney is in federal court.” No lowly state work for F. Frank. He was off to the big leagues.
Portia hung up and said, “A divorce.”
“Thank you. Any more cranks today?”
“Not that I know of.”
Lucien stared at his wristwatch as if waiting for an alarm. He stood and announced, “It’s five o’clock. Who wants a drink?”
Jake and Portia waved him off. As soon as he was gone, she asked quietly, “When did he start drinking here?”
“When did he stop?”
12
The only child psychologist working for the state in north Mississippi was too busy to return phone calls. Jake assumed this meant that a request, if somehow made, that she drop everything and hustle over to the jail in Clanton would not be well received. There were no such specialists in private practice in Ford County, or anywhere else in the Twenty-second Judicial District for that matter, and it took Portia two hours on the phone to finally locate one in Oxford, an hour to the west.
On Wednesday morning, Jake talked to him briefly before the guy said he could evaluate Drew in a couple of weeks, and in his office, not at the jail. He did not make house calls. Nor did the two in Tupelo, though the second one, a Dr. Christina Rooker, warmed up quickly when she recognized the identity of the potential patient. She had read about the murder of the officer and was intrigued by what Jake told her on the phone. He described Drew’s condition, appearance, behavior, and near catatonic state. Dr. Rooker agreed that the situation was urgent and agreed to see him the following day, Thursday, in her office in Tupelo, not at the jail in Clanton.
Lowell Dyer objected to Drew’s leaving for any reason, as did Ozzie. Judge Noose was hearing motions at the Polk County Courthouse in Smithfield. Jake drove forty-five minutes south, walked into the courtroom, and waited until some rather long-winded lawyers finished their bickering and His Honor had a few moments to spare. In chambers, Jake again described his client’s condition, explained that Dr. Rooker felt the matter was urgent, and insisted that the kid be allowed out of the jail for an examination. He posed no safety or flight risk. Hell, he was barely capable of feeding himself. Jake finally convinced the judge that the ends of justice would be served by getting the defendant some immediate medical help.
“And her fee is five hundred dollars,” he added on his way out of the door.
“For a two-hour consultation?”
“That’s what she said. I promised her we, the State, because you and I are now on its payroll, right, would cover it. And that brings up the matter of my fees.”
“We’ll discuss them later, Jake. I have lawyers waiting.”
“Thanks, Judge. I’ll call Lowell and Ozzie and they’ll bitch and cuss and probably come crying to you.”
“That’s part of my job. I’m not worried about them.”
“I’ll tell Ozzie that you want him to drive the kid to Tupelo. He’ll like that.”
“Whatever.”
“And I’m filing a motion to transfer the case to youth court.”
“Please wait until there’s an indictment.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t waste a lot of time on the motion.”
“Is that because you don’t plan to waste a lot of time with it?”
“That’s correct, Jake.”
“Well, thanks for the candor.”
“As always.”
* * *
—
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK Thursday morning, Drew Gamble was led to a small dark room and told by the jailer that it was time for a shower. He had declined earlier requests and needed a good scrubbing. He was given a bar of soap and a towel and told to hurry, there was a five-minute limit on showers throughout the jail, and also warned that the hot water, if any, would last for only the first two minutes. He closed the door, stripped, and tossed out his soiled clothing, which the jailer collected and took to the laundry. When Drew was finished, he was given the smallest orange jumpsuit available and a pair of well-used rubber shower shoes, also orange in color, and taken back to his cell where he declined a plate of eggs and bacon. Instead, he munched on peanuts and drank a soda. As usual, he did not speak to the jailers even when spoken to. They had at first assumed their prisoner had some serious attitude but soon realized that his mind was functioning at a very low level. One whispered to another, “His light’s barely on but nobody’s home.”
Jake arrived just before nine with two dozen fresh doughnuts that he passed around the jail in an effort to score points with old friends who now viewed him as an enemy. A few were taken but most were ignored. He left one box at the front desk and walked back to the jail. Alone with Drew in his cell, he offered his client a doughnut, and, to his surprise, he ate two of them. The sugar seemed to jack up his energy and he asked, “Is something going on today, Jake?”
“Yes. You’re taking a trip to Tupelo to see a doctor.”
“I’m not sick, am I?”
“We’ll let the doctor decide that. She’ll as
k you a lot of questions about yourself and your family, and where you’ve lived and all that, and you need to tell the truth and answer to the best of your ability.”
“Is she a shrink or something?”
The use of the word “shrink” caught Jake off guard. “She’s a psychiatrist.”
“Oh, a shrink. I’ve met one or two before.”
“Really? Where?”
“They put me in jail one time, in the juvenile pen, and I had to see a shrink once a week. It was a waste of time.”
“But I’ve asked you twice if you’ve ever been to juvenile court and you said no.”
“I don’t remember you asking me that. Sorry.”
“Why were you in the juvenile pen?”
Drew took another bite of a doughnut and thought about the question. “And you’re my lawyer, right?”
“This is the fifth straight day I’ve come here to the jail to talk to you. Only your lawyer would do that, right?”
“I really want to see my mom.”
Jake breathed deeply and told himself to be patient, something he did with every visit. “Your mother had surgery yesterday, they reset her jaw, and she’s doing fine. You can’t see her now but I’m sure they’ll allow her to come here for a visit.”
“I thought she was dead.”
“I know you did, Drew.” Jake heard voices in the hall and looked at his watch. “Here’s the drill. The sheriff will drive you to Tupelo. You’ll sit in the backseat, probably alone, and you are not to say a word to anyone else in the car. Understand?”
“You’re not going?”
“I’ll be in my car behind you, and I’ll be there when you meet the doctor. Just don’t say anything to the sheriff or his deputies, okay?”
“Will they talk to me?”
“I doubt it.”
The door opened and Ozzie barged in with Moss Junior behind him. Jake stood and offered a terse “Mornin’ gentlemen,” but they only nodded. Moss Junior unsnapped the cuffs from his belt and said to Drew, “Stand up please.”
