A Time for Mercy

by John Grisham

  “Yes sir,” Jake said. “We’re returning from a dinner party and I had some wine. Not much, though. I’m not under the influence, Mike. I’m fine. May I ask what I did wrong?”

  “Swerving.” Which, as Jake well knew, could mean exactly that, or it could mean anything else. Or nothing.

  “Where was I swerving?”

  “Will you agree to take a BAC test here on the road?”

  Jake was about to say yes when more blue lights came over the hill in their direction. It was another deputy. He slowed, passed them, turned around, and parked behind Nesbit, who left to have a chat.

  “I’m not believing this,” Carla said.

  “Nor am I, dear. Just be cool.”

  “Oh, I’m cool. You have no idea how cool this makes me.”

  “I’d rather not fight here beside the road. Can you wait till we get home?”

  “Are you going home, Jake? Or somewhere else?”

  “I don’t know. I did not drink that much, I swear. I don’t even feel a buzz.”

  Loss of license, time in jail, a stiff fine, increased insurance rates. Jake remembered the awful list of punishments he’d recited to a hundred clients. As a lawyer he could always game the system, at least for first-time offenders. Like himself. He could avoid jail, get some community service, cut the fine, justify his fee of $500.

  Minutes dragged by as the blue lights flickered silently. Another car approached, slowed for a good look, and passed. Jake promised himself that if and when he was financially able to buy a new car, it would not be an exotic Swedish thing in a bright color. It would be either a Ford or a Chevrolet.

  Nesbit approached for the third time and said, “Jake, would you please get out of the car.”

  Jake nodded and told himself to take careful steps and speak clearly. The field sobriety test was designed to be flunked by all drivers, after which the police could then push hard for a breath test. Jake walked to the rear of his car where the second deputy was waiting. It was Elton Frye, a veteran he had known for years.

  “Evenin’, Jake,” Frye said.

  “Hello, Elton. Sorry to trouble you.”

  “Mike says you been drinkin’.”

  “At dinner. Look at me, Elton, I’m obviously not drunk.”

  “So you’ll take the test?”

  “Of course I’ll take it.”

  The two officers looked at each other and seemed uncertain as to their next move. Nesbit said, “Stu was a friend of mine, Jake. A great guy.”

  “I liked Stu too, Mike. Sorry about what happened. I know it’s tough for you guys.”

  “It’s gonna be tougher if that punk gets off, Jake. Talk about rubbin’ salt into some pretty raw wounds.”

  Jake offered a sappy smile at such foolishness. At that moment he would say just about anything to score a few points. “He’s not getting off, I can promise you that. Besides, I’m just handling his case on a temporary basis. The court will appoint another lawyer for the trial.”

  Mike liked this and nodded at Frye, who extended a hand that held Jake’s license and registration. Mike said, “We called Ozzie. He told us to follow you home. Take it easy, okay?”

  Jake’s shoulders sagged as he exhaled. “Thanks, fellas. I owe you one.”

  “You owe Ozzie, Jake, not us.”

  He got in the car, latched his seat belt, cranked the engine, glanced at his mirror, and ignored his wife, who appeared to be praying. As he pulled away, she asked, “What happened?”

  “Nothing. It was Mike Nesbit and Elton Frye and they both could tell I’m not drunk. They called Ozzie, told him so, and he said follow us home. Everything’s fine.”

  The blue lights were turned off as the two patrol cars followed the red Saab into Clanton. Inside the car, nothing else was said.

  * * *

  —

  THE KITCHEN PHONE showed three voice mails received during the evening. Carla was rinsing the coffeepot to prepare for the morning, as Jake poured a glass of ice water and punched a button. The first call was a wrong number, some poor soul searching for takeout pizza. The second call was from a reporter in Jackson. The third call was from Josie Gamble, and as soon as Jake hit PLAY he wished he had not. She said:

  Hello Jake, it’s Josie and I’m sorry to bother you at home. Really sorry. But Kiera and I have been talkin’, it’s been a long day as you might guess and we’re sorta tired of talkin’ but anyway I just want to say I’m sorry about jumpin’ on you like that and askin’ you for money for an abortion. I was outta line and I feel real bad. See you soon. Good night.

  Carla was holding the coffeepot filled with water, her mouth open. Jake punched the CLEAR button and looked at his wife. It was difficult holding client confidences when the client left secrets in recorded voice mails.

  “Abortion?” Carla asked.

  Jake took a deep breath and said, “Do we have any decaf?”

  “I think so.”

  “Let’s make a pot. I’ll be up all night anyway. Between a near DUI and a pregnant fourteen-year-old, I won’t be sleeping much.”

  “Kiera?”

  “Yes. Make the coffee and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  19

  The seat of Van Buren County was the backwater town of Chester. According to the 1980 census, its population was 4,100, a decline of about 1,000 from 1970, and there was no doubt the next headcount would be even smaller. It was half the size of Clanton but seemed far more desolate. Clanton had a vibrant square with cafés, restaurants, busy offices, and shops of all varieties. Next door in Chester, though, half the window fronts along Main Street were boarded up and begging for tenants. Perhaps the clearest sign of economic and social decline was the fact that all but four lawyers had fled to bigger towns, several to Clanton. Back in the day, back when young Omar Noose hung out his shingle, there had been twenty lawyers in the county.

  Of the five courthouses in the Twenty-second Judicial District, Van Buren’s was by far the worst. It was at least a hundred years old and its nondescript, bland design was clear proof that the county fathers could not afford an architect. It began as a sprawling, three-story edifice of white clapboard with rows of tiny offices that housed everyone from the judges to the sheriffs to the assorted clerks, even the county’s crop inspector. Over the decades, and back when the county saw modest growth, various annexes and additions were attached here and there like tumors, and the Van Buren County Courthouse became somewhat notorious as the ugliest in the state. There was nothing official about this distinction, and it was so judged primarily by the lawyers who came and went and hated the place.

  The exterior was perplexing, but the interior was downright dysfunctional. Nothing worked. The heating system barely knocked off the chill in the winter, and in the summer the AC units gobbled electricity but produced precious little cool air. Entire systems—plumbing, electricity, security—collapsed with regularity.

  In spite of the complaining, the taxpayers had refused to pay for renovations. The most obvious remedy would have been to simply strike a match, but arson was still a crime.

  There were a few diehards who claimed to appreciate the quirkiness and character of the building, one of whom was the Honorable Omar Noose, senior judge of the Twenty-second circuit. For years he had owned the second floor where he ruled like a king in his large, antiquated courtroom, and practically lived in his chambers behind it. Down the hall he maintained a smaller courtroom for quieter matters. His secretary, court reporter, and clerk had offices near his.

  Most locals believed that if not for Omar Noose and his considerable influence, the building would have been razed years earlier.

  As he approached the age of seventy, he preferred to travel less to his other four counties, though he didn’t actually drive at all. Either his clerk or his court reporter handled the driving, to Clanton, Smithfield, Gretna, or Templ
e way over in Milburn County, almost two hours away. He was developing the bothersome habit of asking lawyers from those towns to come see him if they had business on off-days. By law he had no choice but to hold terms of court in all five counties, but he was proving adept at finding ways to stay at home.

  On Monday, Jake got the phone call asking him to see Noose at 2:00 p.m. on Tuesday, “in chambers.” All five courthouses had offices for the judges, but when Noose said “in chambers” he meant get your ass over here to lovely Chester, Mississippi. Jake explained to the judge’s secretary that he had appointments Tuesday afternoon, which he did, but she informed him that His Honor would expect Jake to cancel those.

  And so he drove through the quiet streets of Chester early Tuesday afternoon and was once again thankful he didn’t live there. Whereas Clanton had been laid out neatly by a general after the Civil War, and its streets formed a precise grid, for the most part, and the lovely courthouse sat majestically in the center of the square, Chester had somehow sprung to life in stages over the decades with little thought of symmetry or design. There was no square, no proper Main Street. Its business district was a collection of roads that met at odd angles and would have caused traffic nightmares had there been any traffic.

  The oddest part of the town was that the courthouse was not to be found within its limits. It sat alone, solitary and seemingly ready to crumble, on a state highway two miles east of town. Three miles further east was the village of Sweetwater, the longtime rival of Chester. After the war, there had been precious little in the county to fight over, but the two towns managed to fester hostilities for decades, and in 1885 they could not agree on which one would be declared the county seat. There was actually some gunfire and a casualty or two, but the governor, who’d never been to Van Buren County and had no plans to visit, chose Chester. To appease the hotheads in Sweetwater, the courthouse was built beside a bayou almost halfway between the two towns. At the turn of the century, a diphtheria epidemic wiped out most of Sweetwater and now there was nothing left but a couple of dying churches.

  Outside of Chester, Jake saw the courthouse sitting forlornly with cars parked around it. He could almost swear that one wing appeared to be leaning away from the central structure. He parked, went inside, and climbed the stairs to the second floor where he found the main courtroom dark and empty. He walked through it, past the ancient dusty pews for spectators, through the bar, and then stopped to take in the faded oils of dead politicians and judges, all old white men. Everything had a layer of dust, and the wastebaskets had not been emptied.

  He opened a door at the back and said hello to the secretary. She managed a smile and nodded toward a door off to the side. Keep walking, he’s waiting. Inside, “in chambers,” Judge Noose was behind his square oak desk. Neat piles of papers covered its surface and gave the impression that, as disorganized as things appeared, he could locate any document in an instant.

  “Come in, Jake,” he said with a smile but without getting to his feet. An ashtray big enough for pasta held half a dozen pipes, and the air was thick with their stale aroma. Two massive windows were each cracked about eight inches.

  “Good afternoon, Judge,” Jake said as he made his way over, stepping around a coffee table, a magazine rack stuffed with old editions, stacks of lawbooks that belonged on shelves and not the floor, and two yellow Labs that were almost as old as their owner. Jake was certain that they had been puppies when he first visited Noose, over ten years ago. The dogs and His Honor had certainly aged, but everything else was timeless.

  “Thanks for driving over, Jake. As you know, I had back surgery two months ago and I’m still recuperating. Pretty stiff down there, you know?”

  Because of his gawky frame and long sloping nose, Noose had been tagged early on with the nickname of Ichabod. It seemed to fit, and when Jake started lawyering the nickname was so popular that everyone used it, behind his back, of course. But over time “Ichabod” had lost its popularity. At the moment, though, Jake remembered something Harry Rex had said years ago: “No one loves bad health like Ichabod Noose.”

  “No problem, Judge,” Jake said.

  “There are some issues we need to discuss,” Noose said as he took a pipe, banged it on the edge of the ashtray, then hit it with a small flamethrower that almost singed his craggy eyebrows.

  Oh really? Jake thought. Why else would you send for me? “Yes sir, a number of issues.”

  Noose sucked on the stem and filled his jaws. As he exhaled he said, “First of all, how’s Lucien? We go way back, you know?”

  “Yes sir. Lucien is, well, he’s Lucien. Hasn’t changed much but is hanging around the office more.”

  “Tell him I asked about him.”

  “I will.” Lucien loathed Omar Noose, and Jake would never pass along the greeting.

  “How’s that kid doing, Mr. Gamble? Still at Whitfield?”

  “Yes sir. I speak with his counselor almost every day and she says he’s definitely dealing with trauma issues. She says he’s improving a little, but the kid has a lot of damage, and not just because of the shooting. It’ll take some time.” It would take an hour to fully brief the judge on everything Dr. Sadie Weaver had told Jake, and they didn’t have an hour. They would have the conversation later when a written report was received.

  “I’d like to get him back in the jail in Clanton,” Noose said, puffing.

  Jake shrugged because he had no control over Drew’s incarceration. However, he had said to Dr. Weaver that his client was much better off in a juvenile wing than in a county jail. “You can talk to them, Judge. You sent him down there and I’m sure his doctors would talk to you.”

  “I might do that.” He put the pipe down and clasped his hands behind his head. “I gotta tell you, Jake, I can’t get anyone else to take the case. God knows I’ve tried.” He suddenly reached over, picked up a legal pad, and tossed it to the front of his desk as if Jake was supposed to have a look. “I’ve called seventeen lawyers, names are all right there, hell, you know most of them, seventeen lawyers with capital experience, from all over the state. I’ve talked to all of them on the phone, Jake, and some more than others. I’ve begged, pleaded, cajoled, and I would have threatened but I have no jurisdiction outside the Twenty-second. You know that. And nothing. Not a one. Nobody is willing to step up. I’ve called all the nonprofits—the Children’s Capital Defense Fund, the Juvenile Justice Initiative, the ACLU, and others. The names are all right there. They are very sympathetic and would like to help, and may indeed help, but right now nobody can spare a trial lawyer to defend this kid. You have any ideas?”

  “No, but you promised, Judge.”

  “I know that, and I meant it, but at the time I was desperate. I’m in charge of the judicial system in these parts, Jake, and it all fell on me to make sure this kid was taken care of, legally. You know what I went through. I had no choice. You were man enough to step up when everybody else was hiding under their desks and running from the phone. Now I’m asking you to keep it, Jake, keep this case and make sure this defendant gets a fair trial.”

  “Obviously, you plan to deny my motion to move it to youth court.”

  “Of course. I’m keeping jurisdiction for a lot of reasons, Jake. If he goes through youth court he’ll be out when he’s eighteen. You think that’s fair?”

  “No, not in theory. Not at all.”

  “Good, then we agree. He stays in circuit court and you’re his lawyer.”

  “But, Judge, I’m not going to let this case bankrupt me. I practice alone and have a limited staff. So far, since your first phone call on March twenty-fifth, I have spent forty-one hours on this case and the work has just begun. As you know, the state legislature caps attorney’s fees in indigent cases at one thousand dollars. Hard to believe, Judge, but a fee of one thousand dollars for a capital defense is a joke. I have to get paid, Judge.”

  “I’ll make
sure you get paid.”

  “But how, Judge. The statute is pretty clear.”

  “I know, I know, believe me I understand, Jake. It’s an outrageous law and I’ve written letters to our lawmakers. I have an idea, something that’s never been done, at least not in the Twenty-second. You keep up with your hours, and when the case is over you submit a bill to the county. When the supervisors refuse to pay, then sue them in circuit court. I’ll handle the case and I’ll rule in your favor. How about that?”

  “It’s definitely a novel idea. Never heard of it.”

  “It’ll work because I’ll make it work. We’ll have a quick trial with no jury and I’ll see that you get paid.”

  “But that’s months away.”

  “That’s the best we can do, Jake. The law is the law.”

  “So I’ll get a thousand dollars now and pray for the rest.”

  “It’s the best we can do.”

  “What about experts?”

  “What about them?”

  “Come on, Judge. The State will have all manner of shrinks and mental health professionals at its disposal to testify.”

  “Are you implying an insanity defense?”

  “No, I’m not implying anything. I still can’t believe I’m getting stuck with the damned case.”

  “And the family has no money?”

  “Are you serious? They’re homeless. They’re wearing second- and third-hand clothing. Their relatives, wherever they are, washed their hands years ago, and they’d be starving right now if not for the generosity of a church.”

  “Okay, okay, just had to ask. I figured as much. I’ll do what I can, Jake, to make sure you get paid.”