A Time for Mercy

by John Grisham

  Typically, for the first month or so the honor of being a member of the grand jury was worth bragging about, but after a few sessions the job grew tedious. They heard only one side of the story, the one presented by law enforcement, and there was almost never any dissent. So far, they had not failed to issue any of the indictments being sought. Whether they realized it or not, they had quickly become little more than a rubber stamp for the police and prosecutors.

  A special session was unusual, and by the time they gathered on Tuesday afternoon, April 3, each of the sixteen present knew exactly why they had been summoned. Two were absent but there was easily a quorum.

  Lowell Dyer welcomed them back, thanked them again as if they had a choice, and explained that they had a very serious matter in front of them. He gave the basics of the Kofer murder and asked Sheriff Walls to sit in the witness seat at the end of the table. Ozzie was sworn to tell the truth, and began his narrative: time and date, cast of characters, 911 call, the scene when Chief Deputy Moss Junior Tatum first arrived. He described the bedroom and the bloody mattress, and passed around enlarged color photos of Stuart with part of his head blown off. Several of the grand jurors took a look, reacted, then looked away. The service pistol was beside the body. The cause of death was fairly obvious. A single shot to the head, close range.

  “The boy was in the living room and told Deputy Tatum that Stuart Kofer was in his bedroom and he thought he was dead. Tatum went to the bedroom, saw the body, and asked the boy, Drew, what happened but got no answer. The girl, Kiera, was in the kitchen, and when Tatum asked her what happened, she said, ‘Drew shot him.’ It’s an open-and-shut case.”

  Dyer was pacing around the room and stopped to say, “Thank you, Sheriff. Any questions?”

  The room was silent as the grand jurors felt the weight of such an awful crime. Finally, Miss Tabitha Green from Karaway raised her hand and asked Ozzie, “How old are these children?”

  “The boy, Drew, is sixteen. His sister, Kiera, is fourteen.”

  “And were they home by themselves?”

  “No. Their mother was with them.”

  “And who’s their mother?”

  “Josie Gamble.”

  “What’s her relationship with the deceased?”

  “Girlfriend.”

  “Forgive me, Sheriff, but you’re not exactly forthcoming with all the facts here. I feel like I’m prying stuff out of you and that makes me very suspicious.” Miss Tabitha looked around as she spoke, looking for support. So far there was none.

  Ozzie glanced at Dyer as if he might need some help. He said, “Josie Gamble is the mother, and she and her two children had been living with Stuart Kofer for about a year.”

  “Thank you. And where was Ms. Gamble when the shooting took place?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Well, according to the story, she was unconscious. When Stuart Kofer came home that night they had a fight and evidently Josie got injured and was unconscious.”

  “He knocked her unconscious?”

  “That seems to be what happened.”

  “Well, Sheriff, why didn’t you tell us that? What are you trying to hide from us?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all. Stuart Kofer was shot and killed by Drew Gamble, plain and simple, and we’re here to get him indicted for it.”

  “Understood, but we’re not a bunch of kindergartners. You want us to indict a person for capital murder, and that of course could mean the gas chamber. Don’t you think it’s only natural that we might want all the facts?”

  “I guess so.”

  “We’re not guessing, Sheriff. This happened at two a.m. on a Sunday morning. Is it safe to assume that Stuart Kofer was not exactly sober when he came home and beat his girlfriend?”

  Ozzie squirmed and looked about as guilty as an innocent man could look. He glanced at Dyer again and said, “Yes, it is safe to assume that.”

  To Miss Tabitha’s rescue came Mr. Norman Brewer, a retired barber who lived in an old section of Clanton. “How drunk was he?” he asked.

  A loaded question. If he had simply asked, “Was he drunk?” Ozzie could have simply answered, “Yes,” while avoiding the ugly details.

  “He was quite intoxicated,” he said.

  Mr. Brewer said, “So he came home quite drunk, as you say, and he punched her, knocked her out cold, then the suspect shot him. Is that what happened, Sheriff?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “Basically? Did I get something wrong?”

  “No sir.”

  “Did he physically abuse the children?”

  “They did not report that at the time.”

  “What condition was Kofer in when he got shot?”

  “Well, we believe he was lying on his bed, asleep. Evidently, there was no struggle with Drew.”

  “Where was the gun?”

  “We don’t know exactly.”

  Mr. Richard Bland from down in Lake Village said, “So, Sheriff, it looks like Mr. Kofer was passed out drunk on his bed and was not awake when the kid shot him, is that right?”

  “We don’t know if Stu was awake or asleep when he was shot, no sir.”

  Lowell didn’t like the direction of the questioning and said, “I’d like to remind you that the condition of either the deceased or the defendant is not an issue for this grand jury. Claims of self-defense or insanity or whatever might be raised by the defense lawyers, but they are a matter for the trial jury to consider. Not you.”

  “They’re already claiming insanity, from what I hear,” said Mr. Bland.

  “Maybe so, but what you hear on the street is not important inside this room,” Lowell said in a lecturing tone. “We’re just dealing with the facts here. Any more questions?”

  Miss Tabitha asked him, “Have you had a capital murder indictment before, Lowell? This is certainly the first one for us.”

  “I have not, and I’m grateful for that.”

  “It just seems so routine,” she said. “Like all the other cases we process in here. Present a few facts, the bare necessities, limit the discussion, and we vote. We just rubber-stamp whatever you want. But this is something else. This is the first step in a case that could send a man, or a kid, to death row at Parchman. It all seems too easy, too sudden to me. Anybody else feel this way?” She looked around but found little support.

  Dyer said, “I understand, Miss Green. What else would you like to know? This is a simple case. You’ve seen the dead body. We have the murder weapon. Besides the victim there were three other people in the house, at the scene. One was unconscious. One was a sixteen-year-old boy whose fingerprints were found on the murder weapon. The third person, his sister, told Deputy Tatum that her brother shot Stuart Kofer. That’s it. Plain and simple.”

  Miss Tabitha took a deep breath and fell back into her chair. Lowell waited and gave them plenty of time to think. Finally, he said, “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  Without a word, Ozzie stood and left the room.

  Benny Hamm looked across the table at Miss Tabitha and asked, “What’s the problem? There’s plenty of proof. What else do you want to do?”

  “Oh, nothing. It just seems so fast, you know?”

  Lowell said, “Well, Miss Tabitha, I assure you there’ll be plenty of time to hash out all the issues in this case. After I file the indictment, my office will investigate and prepare for a full-blown trial. The defense will do the same. Judge Noose will insist on a speedy trial, and before long you and everyone else on this grand jury can show up in the main courtroom down the hall and see how it goes.”

  Benny Hamm said, “Let’s vote.”

  “Let’s do it,” someone said.

  Miss Tabitha said, “Oh, I’ll vote to indict. It just seems too perfunctory. Know what I mean?”

  All sixt
een voted and the indictment was unanimously returned.

  17

  Tensions at the Coffee Shop were lessened considerably when the deputies found another breakfast spot. For years Marshall Prather, Mike Nesbit, and other assorted deputies would arrive early to eat biscuits and stir up the gossip, but not every morning. They had other favorite spots, and their shifts changed so their routines varied. Jake, though, had been there six mornings a week for years, and he had always enjoyed mixing it up with the deputies. But they were boycotting him now. When it became apparent that Jake had no plans to alter his ritual, they went elsewhere, which was fine with Jake. He did not enjoy the forced pleasantries, the strained looks, the feeling that things were not the same. They had lost a comrade, and Jake was now on the other side.

  He tried to convince himself it went with the territory. He almost believed that one day not too far away the Gamble case would be behind them and he and Ozzie and his men would be pals again. But the rift bothered him greatly, and he could not shake it.

  Dell kept him abreast of the latest rumblings. Without giving names, she would report that yesterday’s lunch crowd was all abuzz with the coming indictment and questions about when and where the trial might be. Or that after Jake left that morning a couple of farmers got pretty loud in their criticisms of Judge Noose and the system and Jake in particular. Or that three ladies she hadn’t seen in years sat by the window for an early lunch and talked quietly about Janet Kofer and her nervous breakdown. There was a palpable fear that Jake Brigance was about to pull another insanity stunt and “get the boy off.” And on it went. Dell heard everything, remembered everything, and relayed some of it to Jake when he stopped by late in the day and the café was empty. She was worried about him and his growing unpopularity.

  The morning after the indictment, Jake arrived at six and joined the usual crowd of farmers, cops, some factory workers, mostly men who rose early and punched in. Jake was about the only white collar who was a regular and for this he was admired. He often dispensed free legal advice and commented on Supreme Court rulings and other oddities, and he laughed along with the crooked lawyer jokes.

  Across the square at the Tea Shoppe, the white collars gathered later in the morning to discuss golf, national politics, and the stock market. At the Coffee Shop they talked about fishing, football, and local crime, what little there was of it.

  After the “good mornings,” a friend said, “You seen this?” He held up a copy of The Ford County Times. It was published every Wednesday and had managed to catch the late-breaking story from Tuesday afternoon. A bold headline screamed: “GAMBLE INDICTED FOR CAPITAL MURDER.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Jake said. However, Lowell Dyer had called him last night to confirm the news.

  Dell appeared with a coffeepot and filled his cup. “Good mornin’, sweetheart,” Jake said.

  “Keep your hands to yourself,” she shot back, and scooted away. There were a dozen regulars in already, and by 6:15 the café would be packed.

  Jake sipped his coffee, and reread the front-page story, and learned nothing new. The reporter, Dumas Lee, had called his office late yesterday afternoon fishing around for comments, but got none from Portia. Mr. Brigance, she explained, was in court.

  “Your name is not mentioned,” Dell said. “Already checked.”

  “Darn. I need the publicity.” Jake folded the newspaper and handed it back. Bill West, a foreman at the shoe factory, arrived and fell into his usual chair. They talked about the weather for five minutes as they waited on breakfast. It finally arrived and Jake asked Dell, “What took so long?”

  “The chef’s lazy. You wanna discuss it with her?”

  The chef was a large rowdy woman with a short temper and the habit of throwing spatulas. They kept her in the back for a reason.

  As Jake was shaking Tabasco sauce on his grits, West said, “I almost got in a fight about you yesterday. Guy I work with said he’d heard that you were braggin’ about havin’ that boy out by his eighteenth birthday.”

  “Did you punch him?”

  “No. He’s quite a bit bigger.”

  “He’s also quite stupid.”

  “That’s exactly what I called him. I said that, first of all, Jake doesn’t go around poppin’ off like that, and, second, you wouldn’t try to game the system for a cop killer.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you?”

  Jake spread strawberry jam on his wheat toast and took a bite. He chewed and said, “No. I wouldn’t. I’m still trying to get rid of the case.”

  Bill said, “That’s what I keep hearin’ from you, Jake, but you’re still on the case, right?”

  “Yes, afraid so.”

  A crane operator named Vance walked by the table, stopped and stared at Jake. He pointed a finger and said loudly, “They’re gonna fry that boy’s ass, Jake, regardless of what you try to do.”

  “Well good mornin’, Vance,” Jake said. Heads were turning in the direction of the noise. “How’s the family?”

  Vance was a once-a-week guy and was fairly well known at the café. “Don’t get smart with me. You got no business in court with that boy.”

  “That falls into the category of someone else’s business, Vance. You take care of yours. I’ll take care of mine.”

  “A dead officer is everybody’s business, Jake. You pull a fast one and get him off on one of those ‘technicalities’ and there’ll be hell to pay around here.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No sir. It’s a promise.”

  Dell walked in front of Vance and hissed, “Sit down or get out.”

  He rumbled back to his table and for a few minutes the café was quieter. Bill West finally said, “I suppose you’re gettin’ a lot of that these days.”

  Jake replied, “Oh yeah, but it’s just part of the job. Since when are lawyers admired by all?”

  * * *

  —

  HE LOVED THE office at 7:00 a.m., before the day began and the phone started ringing, before Portia arrived at 8:00 with a list of things for him to do and questions to answer, before Lucien rolled in mid-morning and stomped upstairs with his cup of coffee to disrupt whatever Jake was doing.

  He turned on the lights downstairs and checked each room, then went to the kitchen to brew the first pot. He went upstairs to his office and took off his jacket. In the middle of his desk was a two-page motion Portia had prepared the day before. It was a request by the defense to transfer Drew Gamble’s case to youth court, and when filed it would set off another round of nasty gossip.

  The motion was a formality and Noose had already promised to deny it. But, as the defense lawyer of record, Jake had no choice. If the motion were granted, an impossibility, the murder charge would be tried before the youth court judge with no jury. When found guilty, Drew would be sent to a juvenile facility somewhere in the state and kept there until his eighteenth birthday, when the court surrendered jurisdiction. At that point, there was no procedural mechanism to allow the circuit court to assume jurisdiction. In other words, Drew would be allowed to go free. After less than two years behind bars. There was nothing fair about this law but Jake couldn’t change it. And it was precisely for this reason that Noose would keep the case.

  Jake could not imagine the backlash if his client walked after serving such a short sentence, and frankly, he was not in favor of it. He knew, though, that Noose would protect him while at the same time protecting the integrity of the system.

  Portia had attached a four-page brief that Jake read with admiration. As always, she was thorough and discussed a dozen prior cases involving minors, one reaching back to the 1950s. She argued persuasively that minors are not as mature as adults and do not possess the same decision-making skills, and so on. However, each case she cited had ended with the same result—the minor was kept in circuit court. Mississippi had a long history of
putting minors on trial for serious crimes.

  It was an admirable effort. Jake edited the motion and brief, and when Portia arrived they discussed the changes. At nine, he walked across the street and filed the paperwork. The assistant clerk accepted it without comment and Jake left without his customary flirting. Even the clerk’s office seemed a bit cooler these days.

  * * *

  —

  HARRY REX COULD always find a reason to get out of town on business, away from the turmoil of his contentious divorce practice and away from his quarrelsome wife. He sneaked out the rear door of his office late in the afternoon and enjoyed the long, quiet drive to Jackson. He went to Hal & Mal’s, his favorite restaurant, took a table in a corner, ordered a beer, and began waiting. Ten minutes later he ordered another one.

  During his law school days at Ole Miss, he had downed many beers with Doby Pittman, a wild man from the coast who had finished first in their class and chose the big-firm route in Jackson. He was now a partner in a fifty-lawyer group that did well representing insurance companies in major damage cases. Pittman was not involved with Smallwood but his firm was lead counsel. Another partner, Sean Gilder, had drawn the case.

  A month earlier, over beers in the same restaurant, Pittman had whispered to his old drinking buddy that the railroad might approach Jake and discuss the possibility of a settlement. The case was frightening for both sides. Four people had been killed at a bad crossing poorly maintained by the railroad. There would be enormous sympathy for the Smallwoods. And Jake had impressed the defense with his aggressiveness and demands for a trial. He had shown no reluctance in ramming through discovery and running to Noose when he thought the defense was stalling. He and Harry Rex had hired two top railroad-crossing experts, plus an economist who would tell the jury that the four lost lives were worth millions. The railroad’s biggest fear, according to bar talk from Doby, was that Jake was hungry and craving another big courtroom win.