by John Grisham
Ozzie sat next to his wife and listened and marveled at the difference between white funerals and black ones. He and his force and their spouses sat together in three rows to the left of the family, all in their finest matching uniforms, all boots spit-shined, all badges gleaming. The section behind them was packed with officers from north Mississippi, all white men.
Counting Willie Hastings, Scooter Gifford, Elton Frye, Parnell Johnson, and himself, along with their wives, there were exactly ten black faces in the crowd. And Ozzie knew full well that they were welcome only because of his position.
Wyfong said another prayer, a shorter one, and sat down as Stuart’s twelve-year-old cousin walked nervously to the mike holding a sheet of paper. He adjusted the mike, looked fearfully at the crowd, and began reciting a poem he had written about fishing with his favorite “Uncle Stu.”
Ozzie listened for a moment then began to drift. The day before he had driven Drew three hours south to Whitfield, the state mental hospital, and turned him over to the authorities there. By the time he returned to his office the news was raging around the county. The kid was already out of jail and was pretending to be crazy. Jake Brigance was pulling another fast one, just like he did five years earlier when he convinced a jury that Carl Lee Hailey was temporarily insane. Hailey killed two men in cold blood, in the courthouse even, and walked. Walked free as a bird. Late Friday afternoon, Earl Kofer drove to the jail and confronted Ozzie, who showed him a copy of the court order signed by Judge Noose. Kofer left, cursing and vowing to get even.
At the moment, the crowd was mourning a tragic death, but many of those seated around him were seething with anger.
The young poet had some talent and managed to get a laugh. His refrain was “But not with Uncle Stu. But not with Uncle Stu.” When he finally finished, he broke down and walked away bawling. This was contagious and others sobbed.
Wyfong rose with his Bible and began his sermon. He read from the Book of Psalms and spoke of God’s comforting words in a time of death. Ozzie listened for a moment with interest, then began to drift again. He had called Jake early in the morning, to pass along the latest about the funeral and give him a heads-up that the Kofers and their friends were upset. Jake said he’d already talked to Harry Rex, who’d called late Friday night and said the gossip was wild.
Ozzie would admit only to himself and to his wife that the boy was in bad shape. During the long drive to Whitfield, he had not said a word to either Ozzie or Moss Junior. They initially tried to engage him in small talk, but he said nothing. He didn’t rudely ignore them. Their words just didn’t register. With his hands cuffed in front of him, Drew was able to lie down and pull his knees to his chest. And he started that damned humming. For over two hours he hummed and groaned and at times seemed to hiss. “You okay back there?” Moss Junior had asked when he got louder. He quieted down but did not respond. Driving back to Clanton without him, Moss Junior thought it would be funny to mimic the kid and he started humming too. Ozzie told him to stop or he’d turn around and take him to Whitfield. It was good for a laugh, which they needed.
Earl Kofer’s only request to the preacher was to “keep it short.” And Wyfong complied with a fifteen-minute sermon that was remarkably short on emotion and long on comfort. He finished with another prayer, then nodded at the singer for a final song. It was a secular number about a lonesome cowboy and it worked. Women were bawling again and it was time to go. The pallbearers took their positions around the casket and “You’ll Never Walk Alone” began to play softly over the speakers. The family followed the casket down the aisle, with Earl holding Janet steady as she wept. The procession moved slowly as someone turned up the volume.
Outside, two lines of uniformed men led to the hearse with its rear door open and waiting. The pallbearers lifted the casket and carefully placed it inside. Megargel and his men directed the family to the waiting sedans. A parade formed behind them, and when everyone was in place, the hearse inched away, followed by the family, followed by rows of officers on foot, with the Ford County contingent leading. Any and all friends, relatives, and strangers who wanted to make the trek to the cemetery fell in behind. The procession moved slowly away from the armory and down Wilson Street where barricades were in place and children stood silently by them. Townsfolk gathered on sidewalks and watched from porches and paid their respects to the fallen hero.
* * *
—
JAKE HATED FUNERALS and avoided them whenever possible. He viewed them as a serious waste of time, money, and, especially, emotion. Nothing was gained by having a funeral, only the satisfaction of showing up and being seen by the grieving family. And what was the benefit of that? After being shot at during the Hailey trial, he’d prepared himself a new will and left written instructions to be cremated as soon as possible and buried in his hometown of Karaway with only his family present. This was a radical idea for Ford County and Carla didn’t like it. She rather enjoyed the social aspects of a good funeral.
Saturday afternoon he left his office, drove across town, and parked behind a city rec center. He walked along a nature path, climbed a small hill, and veered down a gravel trail to a clearing where he sat at a picnic table with a view of the cemetery. Hidden among the trees, he watched the hearse stop in a sea of aging tombstones. The crowd worked its way to a bright purple burial tent with Megargel’s logo embroidered in bold yellow. The pallbearers labored with the casket for at least a hundred feet, and were followed by the family.
Jake was reminded of a well-known story of a lawyer down in Jackson who stole some clients’ money, faked his own death, and watched his own funeral while sitting in a tree. After he was caught and hauled back to Jackson, he refused to speak to friends who did not attend his funeral and burial.
How angry was the mob down there? At the moment, the prevailing emotion was one of great sorrow, but would that quickly yield to resentment?
Harry Rex, who apparently had decided to skip the burial, was convinced that Jake had thoroughly screwed up their chances with Smallwood. Jake had just become the most despised lawyer in the county, and the railroad and its insurance company would probably pull back from any settlement negotiations. And what about selecting a jury now? Any pool of prospective jurors would surely have people who knew of his representation of Drew Gamble.
He was too far away to hear the words or music at the burial. After a few minutes, he left and walked back to his car.
* * *
—
LATE IN THE afternoon, family and friends gathered at the large metal building that housed the Pine Grove Volunteer Fire Company. No proper send-off was complete without a heavy meal, and the ladies of the community brought in platters of fried chicken, bowls of potato salad and slaw, trays of sandwiches and corn on the cob, casseroles of all varieties, and cakes and pies. The Kofer family stood at one end of the room in a receiving line and suffered through lengthy condolences from their friends. Pastor Wyfong was thanked and congratulated on such a fine service, and the young nephew received kind words about his poem. The cowboy brought his guitar and sang a few songs as the crowd filled their plates and dined at folding tables and chairs.
Earl stepped outside for a smoke and gathered with some friends near a fire truck. One man pulled out a pint of whiskey and passed it around. Half declined, half took a swig. Earl and Cecil passed.
A cousin said, “That sumbitch can’t claim to be crazy, can he?”
“Already done it,” Earl said. “They took him to Whitfield yesterday. Ozzie drove him down.”
“He had to, didn’t he?”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Ozzie’s on our side this time.”
“Somebody said the judge ordered the boy taken away.”
“He did,” Earl said. “I saw the court order.”
“Damned lawyers and judges.”
“It ain’t right, I’m telli
n’ you.”
“A lawyer told me they’ll keep him locked up till he’s eighteen, then turn him loose.”
“Turn him loose then. We can take care of him.”
“You can’t trust Brigance.”
“Will they even put him on trial?”
“Not if he’s crazy. That’s what the lawyer said.”
“The system sucks, you know. It ain’t right.”
“Can anybody talk to Brigance?”
“Of course not. He’ll fight like hell for the boy.”
“That’s what lawyers do. The system is designed to protect the criminal these days.”
“Brigance will get him off on one of those technicalities you hear about.”
“If I saw that sonofabitch on the street I’d kick his ass.”
“All I want is justice,” Earl said. “And we ain’t gonna get it. Brigance will plead insanity and the boy will walk, just like Carl Lee Hailey.”
“It ain’t right, I’m tellin’ you. It just ain’t right.”
15
Lowell Dyer was hearing the noise from down the road in Ford County. He took three calls at home Sunday afternoon, all from strangers who claimed they voted for him, and listened to their complaints about what was happening in the Gamble case. After the third, he unplugged his phone. The one at the office had a number that was advertised in every directory in the Twenty-second District, and evidently it rang all weekend. When his secretary reached for it early Monday morning she saw that there were over twenty calls and the mailbox was full. On an average weekend there were half a dozen. Zero was not unusual.
Over coffee, she and Lowell and the assistant D.A., D. R. Musgrove, listened to the messages. Some of the callers gave their names and addresses, others were more timid and seemed to think they were doing something wrong by calling the district attorney. A few hotheads used profanity, did not give their names, and implied that if the judicial system continued to go haywire they just might have to fix it themselves.
But it was unanimous—the kid was out of jail and pretending to be crazy and his damned lawyer was once again pulling a fast one. Please, Mr. Dyer, do something! Do your job!
Lowell had never had a case that attracted so much interest, and he swung into action. He called Judge Noose, who was at home “reading briefs” as he always claimed to be doing when he wasn’t in court, and they agreed it was a good idea to call a special meeting of the grand jury to deal with the case. As the district attorney, Lowell controlled every aspect of “his” grand jury and needed no one’s approval to call it into session. But given the sensational nature of the Gamble case, he wanted to keep the presiding judge apprised. During their brief conversation Noose said something about a “long weekend” around his house, and Lowell suspected his phone had been ringing too.
He sounded uncertain, even troubled, and when it was time for the conversation to end, Noose prolonged it by saying, “Say, Lowell, let’s go off the record here and talk in the graveyard.”
A pause as if it was Lowell’s turn to respond. “Sure, Judge.”
“Well, I’m having a devil of a time finding another lawyer to defend this boy. Nobody in the district wants the case. Pete Habbeshaw over in Oxford has three capital cases right now and just can’t take on another. Rudy Thomas in Tupelo is undergoing chemo. I even had a chat with Joe Frank Jones in Jackson, and he gave me a flat no. I can’t force the case on anyone outside of my jurisdiction, as you know, so all I could do was lean on these guys and I got nowhere. You have any ideas? You know our lawyers well.”
Lowell indeed knew them well and wouldn’t hire a single one of them if his neck were on the block. There were some fine lawyers in the district but most avoided trial work, especially of the indigent criminal variety. To stall and divert, Lowell asked, “Not sure, Judge. Who did the last capital case in the district?”
The last capital case in the Twenty-second had been three years earlier in Milburn County, in the town of Temple. The prosecutor had been Rufus Buckley, who was still smarting from his momentous loss in the Carl Lee Hailey case. He won an easy verdict because the facts had been so horrible: A twenty-year-old drug addict murdered both of his grandparents for eighty-five dollars to buy more crack. He was now on death row at Parchman. Noose had presided and had not been impressed with the local defense lawyer he had dragged into the case.
“That won’t work,” he said. “That boy, what’s his name, Gordy Wilson, wasn’t very good and I hear he’s pretty much closed shop. Who would you hire, Lowell, if you were facing these charges? Who would you hire in the Twenty-second?”
For obvious selfish reasons, Lowell wanted a pushover sitting at the defense table, but he knew that was unlikely and unwise. A weak or incompetent defense lawyer would only screw up the case and give the appeals courts plenty to chew on for the next decade.
He replied, “I’d probably go with Jake.”
Without hesitation, Noose said, “So would I. But let’s not tell him about this conversation.”
“Of course not.” Lowell got on well with Jake and did not want any friction. If Jake somehow learned that the D.A. and the judge had conspired to keep him on the clock, he would hold a grudge.
Next, Lowell called Jake and found him at the office. The purpose of the call was not to break the news that he was stuck with Gamble till the bitter end, but something more professional. Lowell said, “Jake, just calling to let you know that I’m assembling the grand jury tomorrow afternoon at the courthouse.”
Jake was pleased, thought it was a courteous gesture, and said, “Thanks, Lowell. I’m sure it will be a brief meeting. Mind if I sit in?”
“You know that’s not possible, Jake.”
“Just kidding. Mind giving me a call when the indictment comes down?”
“You know I will.”
* * *
—
OZZIE’S CHIEF INVESTIGATOR was his only investigator, at the moment, and he wasn’t really looking for another one. His name was Kirk Rady, a veteran of the department and a well-regarded officer. Ozzie could dig for the facts better than most sheriffs, and together with Rady they handled all of the serious crimes in the county.
At straight-up four o’clock Monday afternoon, they walked into Jake’s office and said hello to Portia at the front desk. She was professional as always and asked them to wait a moment.
Though he was now doing battle with Jake, Ozzie was proud to see a smart and ambitious young black woman working in one of the law offices around the square. He knew Portia and her family, and he knew she planned to be the first black female lawyer in the county, and with Jake as her mentor and supporter she would certainly succeed.
She returned and waved them over to a door down the hall. They stepped inside and the room was already occupied. Jake welcomed them with handshakes and then introduced the sheriff and Rady to Josie Gamble, Kiera Gamble, and their minister, Charles McGarry. They were on one side of the table, and Jake offered Ozzie and Rady seats on the other side. Portia closed the door and sat beside Kiera, facing Ozzie. Judging from the open legal pads, the half-empty coffee cups and water bottles, the scattered pens, and Jake’s loosened tie, it was fairly obvious that the lawyer had already spent time with the witnesses.
Ozzie had not seen Josie since his quick visit to the hospital the day after the murder, a week earlier. Jake had told him that her surgery had gone well and she was mending as expected. Her left eye was still puffy, black and blue, and her left jaw was still swollen. Two band-aids were visible. She tried to be polite and smile but it didn’t work.
After some awkward chitchat, Jake punched a button on a tape recorder in the center of the table and said, “Do you mind if I record this?”
Ozzie shrugged and said, “It’s your office.”
“True, but it’s your interview. I don’t know if you routinely record these things.”
/> “Sometimes we do, sometimes we don’t,” Rady said like an ass. “We don’t normally talk to witnesses in lawyers’ offices.”
“Ozzie called me,” Jake fired back. “Asked me to arrange this interview. You can do it somewhere else if you like.”
“We’re fine,” Ozzie said. “Record anything you want.”
Jake spoke to the recorder, gave the date, place, and names of everyone in the room. When he finished, Ozzie said, “Now, I’d like to understand everybody’s role here. We’re officers investigating a crime. You two ladies are potential witnesses. And Pastor McGarry, what is your role?”
“I’m just the chauffeur,” Charles said with a smile.
“That’s nice.” Ozzie looked at Jake and asked, “Should he be in the room?”
Jake shrugged and said, “That’s your call, Ozzie. This is not my interview. I’m just making things happen.”
“I’d feel better if you stepped outside,” Ozzie said.
“No problem.” Charles smiled and left the room.
“And what’s your role here, Jake? You don’t represent these ladies, do you?”
“Technically no. I have been appointed to represent Drew. Not the family. However, if we assume there will be a trial one day, Josie and Kiera will be important witnesses, perhaps called by the State, perhaps called by the defense. I may well be the defense lawyer. Their testimony might be crucial. Therefore, I have a real interest in what they tell you.”
Ozzie was not a lawyer and not about to argue trial strategy and criminal procedure with Jake Brigance. “Can we interrogate them without you?”
“No. I’ve already advised them not to cooperate unless I’m in the room. As you know, you can’t make them talk. You can subpoena them to the stand at trial, but you can’t make them talk right now. They’re just potential witnesses.” Jake’s tone was more aggressive, his words sharper. The tension was rising considerably.
