A Time for Mercy

by John Grisham

  Jake put up his hands in mock surrender. “We’ve had this conversation, Josie, and I really don’t want to go through it again.”

  “I’m sorry.” For a long time nothing was said. Jake gazed across the cemetery to the hills beyond it. Josie closed her eyes and seemed to meditate.

  Jake finally stood and said, “I need to be going.”

  She opened her eyes and flashed a pretty smile. “Thanks for stoppin’ by.”

  “I think she needs counseling, Josie.”

  “Hell, don’t we all?”

  “She’s been through a lot. She was raped repeatedly, and now she’s enduring another nightmare. Her situation is not going to improve.”

  “Improve? How can we improve, Jake? That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Do you mind if I talk to Dr. Rooker, the psychiatrist who examined Drew over in Tupelo?”

  “And talk about what?”

  “About seeing Kiera.”

  “Who’s gonna pay for it?”

  “I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

  “You do that, Jake.”

  * * *

  —

  THERE WAS NOTHING pleasant waiting at the office, and Jake wanted to avoid the square anyway. If he bumped into Walter Sullivan he might throw a punch. And by now every lawyer in town knew the gossip, knew that Brigance had been bounced out of court and had somehow managed to screw up Smallwood, the case they had all coveted. Only two or three of the thirty or so lawyers in town would truly be sad at the news. Some would be downright gleeful, and that was fine with Jake because he despised them too. Lost on the back roads, he called Lucien.

  He parked in the drive behind the 1975 Porsche Carrera with a million miles on it and trudged along the sidewalk to the steps of the sweeping old porch that wrapped around the first level of the house. Lucien’s grandfather had built it just before the Great Depression with the intention of having the most magnificent home in town. It sat on a hill, half a mile from the courthouse, and from the front porch where he spent his time Lucien looked down on his neighbors. He had inherited the house, along with the law firm, in 1965 when his father died suddenly.

  He was waiting, rocking, always reading a thick book of nonfiction, always with a glass on the table next to him. Jake fell into a dusty wicker rocker on the other side of the table and asked, “How can you start the day with Jack Daniel’s?”

  “It’s all about pacing, Jake. I talked to Harry Rex.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “No. He’s worried about you, thought maybe they’d find you in the woods with the motor running and a garden hose stuck in the tailpipe.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “You want a drink?”

  “No, I do not. But thanks.”

  “Sallie’s grilling pork chops and we have fresh corn from the garden.”

  “I didn’t want her to cook.”

  “That’s her job and I eat lunch every day. What in hell were you thinking?”

  “Maybe I wasn’t.”

  Sallie appeared from around a corner and ambled toward them in her usual confident way, as if time meant nothing and she ruled the house because she’d been sleeping with the boss for over a decade. She wore one of her short white dresses that made the most of her long brown legs. She was always barefoot. Lucien had hired her as a housekeeper when she was eighteen years old, and she had soon been promoted.

  “Hello, Jake,” she said with a smile. No one considered her a mere house servant and she had not said the words “Mister” or “Missus” in years. “Something to drink?”

  “Thanks, Sallie. Just some ice tea, no sugar.”

  She disappeared. “I’m listening,” Lucien said.

  “Maybe I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, maybe I do. Did you really think you could hide an eyewitness in such a major lawsuit?”

  “It wasn’t so much hiding as it was just hoping he would stay away.”

  Lucien nodded and put his book on the table. He lifted his glass and took a sip. He looked cold sober, no red eyes or nose. Jake was sure his innards were pickled but Lucien was a legendary drinker who could hold his liquor with anyone. He smacked his lips and said, “Harry Rex told me you guys made the decision together.”

  “That’s awfully big of him.”

  “I probably would’ve done the same thing. It’s a bad rule that lawyers have hated forever.”

  There wasn’t the slightest doubt in Jake’s mind that Lucien would have laughed at Sean Gilder’s interrogatories and declined to identify any and all troublesome witnesses. The difference was that Lucien would not have located someone like Neal Nickel to begin with. Jake stumbled across him because he was being too thorough.

  “You got a best-case scenario?” Lucien asked. “Harry Rex did not.”

  “Not really. Maybe we depose the witness and he’s not as solid as we fear, then we go to trial, something like six months from now. We’ve paid the experts so they’ll be on board. The jury guy will cost us another bundle, if we use him. The facts haven’t changed, though a couple have shifted a little. The crossing is dangerous. Its warning-light system was antiquated and poorly maintained. The railroad knew it had a problem and refused to fix it. Four people were killed. We’ll get to the jury and roll the dice.”

  “How much do you owe?”

  “Seventy thousand.”

  “You’re kiddin’? Seventy thousand dollars in litigation expenses?”

  “That’s not unusual these days.”

  “I never borrowed a dime on a lawsuit.”

  “That’s because you inherited money, Lucien. Most of us are not so lucky.”

  “My office, crazy as it was, always showed a profit.”

  “You asked for the best-case scenario. You see a better one?”

  Sallie came back with a tall glass of ice tea and some lemon. “Lunch in thirty minutes,” she said as she disappeared again.

  “You haven’t asked for my advice yet.”

  “Okay, Lucien, got any advice?”

  “You gotta go after this new guy. There’s a reason he held back and a reason he came forward.”

  “He told the investigator he got sued one time and hates lawyers.”

  “Go after him. Find out everything about that lawsuit. Find the dirt, Jake. You gotta bury this guy in front of the jury.”

  “I don’t want to go to court. I’d like to be trout fishing in some secluded mountain stream. That’s all I want.”

  Lucien took another sip and returned his glass to the table. “You talked to Carla?”

  “Not yet. I will when she gets home. What fun. Telling my wife, a person I adore, that I got caught cheating and tossed out of court.”

  “I never did well with wives.”

  “You think the railroad would settle?”

  “Don’t think like that, Jake. Don’t ever show weakness. You can rebound from this by pushing hard again, squawking at Noose until he gives a new trial date, and drag these sumbitches back into court. Attack the new witness. Pick a good jury. You can handle this, Jake. No talk of settling.”

  For the first time in hours, Jake managed a chuckle.

  * * *

  —

  THE HOCUTT HOUSE had been built a few years before Lucien’s. Thankfully, old man Hocutt didn’t care for yard work so he selected a small city lot for his fine new home. Jake didn’t care for it either, but once a week during warm weather he pulled out the lawn mower and edger and spent a couple of hours sweating.

  Monday afternoon seemed like a good time, and he was in the backyard laboring away when his girls got home from school. He was never there waiting for them, and Hanna was thrilled to see her father at home so early. He had cans of lemonade in a cooler, and they sat on the patio and talked about school until Hanna go
t bored with the adults and went inside.

  “Are you okay?” Carla asked with great concern.

  “No.”

  “You want to talk?”

  “Only if you promise to forgive me.”

  “Always.”

  “Thanks. It might be difficult.”

  She smiled and said, “I’m with you, okay?”

  23

  Of the three jailers who came to his cell with meals and instructions, room checks and lights out, and occasionally a kind word, Mr. Zack was his favorite because he seemed to care. His voice was never harsh like the others. Sergeant Buford was the worst. He had once told Drew that he’d better enjoy the county jail because death row was a terrible place and that’s where all cop killers were sent to die.

  Mr. Zack arrived early with a tray of food—scrambled eggs and toast. He left it by the bunk and returned with a grocery bag and said, “Your preacher brought these by. Some clothes, real clothes that you need to put on and get dressed up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re goin’ to court today. Didn’t your lawyer tell you?”

  “Maybe. I don’t remember. What am I doin’ in court?”

  “Hell if I know. I just handle the jail. When did you shower last?”

  “I don’t know, don’t remember.”

  “I think it was two days ago. You’re okay. You don’t smell too bad.”

  “The water was ice cold. I don’t want to shower.”

  “Then eat up and get dressed. They’re comin’ to get you at eight-thirty.”

  When the jailer was gone, Drew chewed on a piece of toast and ignored the eggs. They were always cold too. He opened the grocery sack and removed a pair of jeans, a thick plaid shirt, two pairs of white socks, and a pair of scuffed white sneakers, all obviously hand-me-downs but smelling like strong detergent. He stepped out of his orange coveralls and got dressed. Everything fit reasonably well and he liked the fact that he was wearing real clothes again. He had one change in a cardboard box under his bunk where he kept his other valuables.

  He retrieved a small bag of salted peanuts his lawyer had brought him and ate them slowly, one at a time. He was supposed to read for an hour each morning, strict instructions from his mother. She had delivered two books, one a history of the state that he had used in class and found incredibly boring. The other was a novel by Charles Dickens that his English teacher sent via his preacher. He had little interest in reading either one.

  Mr. Zack returned to fetch his tray and said, “You didn’t eat your eggs.”

  Drew ignored him and stretched out on the bottom bunk for another nap. Minutes later the door burst open and a thick deputy growled, “Get up, kid.”

  Drew scrambled to his feet as Marshall Prather slapped cuffs on his wrists, yanked him by an elbow, and led him out of the cell, down the hall, and out the back door where a patrol car was waiting with DeWayne Looney behind the wheel. Prather shoved Drew into the rear seat and they sped away. The prisoner peeked out a window to see if anyone was watching.

  Moments later they wheeled to a stop near the rear door of the courthouse where two men with cameras were waiting. With a slightly softer touch, Prather pulled Drew out and made sure he faced the cameras for full-frontal shots. Then they were inside and climbing a dark, narrow staircase.

  * * *

  —

  JAKE SAT ON one side of the table, Lowell Dyer the other. Judge Noose was at the end, no robe, unlit pipe stuck between his teeth. All three men were frowning and apparently unhappy. Each for different reasons.

  Noose placed some papers on the table and rubbed his eyes. Jake was irritated at even being there. The event was nothing but a first appearance for several freshly indicted defendants, and Jake had tried to waive it on behalf of Drew. However, His Honor wanted to be seen doing his job, presiding over the criminals and keeping them locked up. A crowd was expected, and Jake, cynically, believed Noose wanted to look good for the voters.

  Jake, of course, wasn’t worried about the voters, and he had accepted the fact that he was about to look bad regardless of what happened. He would sit next to the defendant, stand next to him, consult with him, speak for him, and so on. The clear and obvious guilt of Drew Gamble was about to rub off on his lawyer.

  Jake said, “Judge, I need to hire a psychiatrist for my client. And the State cannot expect me to pay for one.”

  “He just came back from Whitfield. Didn’t he see the experts down there?”

  “He did. However, they work for the State and the State is prosecuting him. We need our own private shrink.”

  “I certainly do,” Lowell mumbled.

  “So, this is headed toward an insanity defense?”

  “Probably, but how can I make that decision without consulting with our own psychiatrist? I’m sure Lowell will be able to line ’em up in court and produce several experts from Whitfield who’ll say the kid knew precisely what he was doing when he pulled the trigger.”

  Lowell shrugged and nodded his agreement.

  Noose was perplexed and said, “Let’s talk about this later. I’d like to discuss our timing here and at least get a tentative trial date. Summer is approaching and it usually complicates our calendars. Jake, what are you thinking?”

  Oh, lots. For one, his star witness was pregnant but still hiding it well. He was under no obligation to inform anyone of this. Indeed, it was likely that the State would call Kiera to the stand before Jake did. After long conversations with Portia and Lucien, Jake had decided that the better strategy was to push for a trial in late summer so that she would be visibly pregnant when she testified. The complicating factor was the threat of an abortion. Josie was working two minimum-wage jobs and she owned a car. Nothing prevented her from grabbing her daughter and going to Memphis for an abortion. The topic was so raw that it was not being discussed.

  Second, little Drew Gamble was finally growing up. Jake was watching him carefully, as was his mother, and both had noticed some small pimples on his cheeks and a dash of new peach fuzz above his lips. His voice was changing too. He was eating more and had gained five pounds, according to the jailer.

  Jake wanted a small kid sitting in the defendant’s chair at trial, not a gangly teenager trying to look older. “The sooner the better. Late summer, maybe.”

  “Lowell?”

  “There’s not a lot of preparation, Judge. Not many witnesses. We should be ready to go in a couple of months.”

  Noose studied his docket and finally said, “Let’s say Monday, August 6, and set aside the entire week.”

  Three months away. Kiera would be seven months along. Jake still could not envision the drama in the courtroom when she testified that she was indeed pregnant and Kofer was the father because he had repeatedly raped her.

  What a nasty trial.

  * * *

  —

  DREW WAS CUFFED to a wooden chair in a small dark holding room with two other criminals, both fully grown black men who were amused by the age and size of their new colleague. Their crimes seemed insignificant, unimpressive.

  One said, “Say, dude, you shot that deputy?”

  Drew had been lectured by his lawyer to say nothing, but in the presence of other handcuffed men he felt safe. “That’s right.”

  “With his own gun?”

  “The only gun I could find.”

  “He really pissed you off.”

  “He beat my mother. I thought she was dead.”

  “They gon’ fry your ass in the electric chair.”

  “I think it’s the gas chamber,” the other said.

  Drew shrugged as if he wasn’t sure. The door opened and a bailiff said, “Bowie.” One of the men stood as the bailiff took him by the elbow and led him away. When the door was closed the room was dark again and Drew asked, “What are you in for?”

&nbs
p; “Stole a car. Wish I’d shot a cop.”

  * * *

  —

  SMALL PACKS OF lawyers were hovering around the courtroom as defendants were being processed. Some of the lawyers actually had business there, others were part of the courthouse crowd that never missed a show. The rumors were that the kid would finally make a public appearance and this drew them like vultures to a carcass.

  When Jake emerged from Noose’s chambers, he was impressed with the number of people there to witness preliminary hearings that meant little on the road to justice. Josie and Kiera were huddled in the front row with Charles and Meg McGarry, and all four looked terrified. Across the aisle, there was a pack of Kofers and friends, all angry. Dumas Lee was sniffing around with another reporter.

  Judge Noose called the name of Drew Allen Gamble, and Mr. Pete left to find him. They emerged from a side door next to the jury box and paused for a moment to remove the handcuffs. Drew looked around and tried to absorb the enormity of the room, and all the people gawking at him. He saw his mother and sister sitting out there but was too stunned to smile. Mr. Pete led him to a spot in front of the bench where Jake met him and they looked up at the judge.

  Jake was six feet tall. Mr. Pete was at least six-one, and both seemed at least a foot taller than the defendant.

  Noose looked down and said, “You are Drew Allen Gamble.”

  Drew nodded and might have spoken.

  “Please speak up, sir,” Noose almost yelled into his microphone. Jake looked down at his client.

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you are represented by the Honorable Jake Brigance, right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And you have been indicted by the grand jury of Ford County for the murder of Officer Stuart Kofer, right?”

  In Jake’s biased opinion, Noose was being far too dramatic and playing to the crowd. Hell, the entire first appearance could have been dispensed with a signature.