A Time for Mercy

by John Grisham

  The summer before, and the summer before that, the Brigances had flown from Memphis to Raleigh where they rented a car for the vacation. Hanna wanted to fly again and was disappointed when she first learned of the family road trip. Twelve hours of it. She was too young to know of their belt-tightening, and her parents were careful with their words and actions. They planned the trip as a grand adventure and mentioned a few sites they might visit along the way. The truth was that they would take turns driving and hoped their daughter would get plenty of sleep.

  The Saab stayed home. Carla’s car was of a more recent vintage and had far fewer miles. Jake bought new tires and got it serviced properly.

  Off they went, at seven in the morning, with Hanna barely awake under the covers in the backseat and cuddled up with the dog. Jake found a ’60s station out of Memphis and he and Carla hummed along with the oldies as the sun rose before them. They had vowed to keep things light, not only for their benefit but for Hanna’s. The law practice was crumbling around them. The bank wanted money. Smallwood, their pot of gold, had become another kind of train wreck. The Gamble trial was two months away and loomed like its own execution date. As their income fell, their debts climbed and seemed insurmountable.

  But they were determined to survive. They were not yet forty years old, in good health, with a lovely home and plenty of friends and a law office that Jake still believed he could build into something bigger. This would be a difficult year financially, but they would get through it and emerge stronger.

  Hanna announced she was hungry and Carla challenged her to select the right breakfast place. She chose a fast-food restaurant beside the interstate and they went through the drive-thru. They were making good time and Jake wanted to arrive before dark. Mrs. McCullough promised to have dinner on the table.

  They played car games, card games, pick-the-billboard games, count-the-cows games, any kind of game Hanna could think of, and they sang along with the radio. When Hanna drifted off, Carla pulled out a paperback and everything was quiet. Lunch was a burger at another drive-thru, another place selected by Hanna, and before they drove away they changed drivers. Carla drove for an hour before getting sleepy. Jake wasn’t fond of her driving anyway, so they swapped again. Once in the passenger’s seat, she came to life and couldn’t nap. It was almost 2:00 p.m. and they had hours to go.

  Carla looked to make sure Hanna was sound asleep, and said, “Okay, I know we’re not talking about this, at least in front of her, but I can’t get it off my mind.”

  Jake smiled and said, “Neither can I.”

  “Good. So here’s a big question. A year from now, where will Drew Gamble be?”

  A mile passed as he considered this. “There are three possible answers, all dictated by what happens at trial. One, he’s found guilty of capital murder, which is likely because there’s no doubt about what happened, and he’s sent to Parchman to await an execution. It might be possible to pull strings and get him placed in some type of protective custody because of his age and size, but it will still be a horrible place. They’ll probably place him on the actual death row, where he might be safer because he’ll be in solitary confinement.”

  “And his appeals?”

  “They’ll go on forever. If he’s convicted, I suspect I’ll still be writing briefs for him when Hanna’s in college. Number two, he’s found not guilty by reason of insanity, which is unlikely. If so, he’ll probably be put in a treatment facility for an undetermined length of time and eventually released. I’m sure the Gambles will flee the area, and we might be right behind them.”

  “That doesn’t really seem fair either. Great for them. Terrible for the Kofers. We’re caught in the middle.”

  “True.”

  “I don’t want the kid to go to prison for the rest of his life, but to walk away after what he did is not fair. There should be something in between, some lesser form of punishment.”

  “I agree, but what is it?” Jake asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I do know something about the insanity defense because of Carl Lee. He wasn’t insane and he got off. Drew seems far more traumatized and detached from reality than Carl Lee.”

  “I agree again. Carl Lee knew exactly what he was doing when he killed those two. He planned it carefully and carried it out perfectly. His defense was not about his mental state, it was about sympathy from the jury. It will all come down to the jury, as always.”

  “And how do you make the jurors sympathetic?”

  Jake glanced over his shoulder. Hanna and Mully were fast asleep. Softly, he said, “The pregnant sister.”

  “And the dead mother?”

  “The dead mother will be a powerful element and we’ll use it continually. However, she wasn’t dead. She was still breathing, with a pulse, and the prosecution will make much of that. The kids should’ve known that Josie wasn’t dead.”

  “Come on, Jake. Two kids absolutely terrified, probably hysterical because their mother was unconscious and not responsive, once again beaten by a brute. It seems to me that was quite reasonable to believe she was dead.”

  “That’s what I’ll tell the jury.”

  “Okay, what’s the third scenario? A hung jury?”

  “Yes. A few of the jurors are sympathetic and refuse to go along with capital murder. They want something less, but the majority digs in and wants the gas chamber. Deliberations could be a free-for-all as the jury completely deadlocks and hangs itself. After a few days Noose has no choice but to declare a mistrial and sends everybody home. Drew goes back to his cell and waits for the retrial.”

  “And how likely is that?”

  “You tell me. Put yourself on the jury. You already know the facts. There aren’t many of them.”

  “Why do you always put me on the jury?”

  Jake chuckled. He was guilty, again. “A hung jury would be a big win. A guilty verdict is more likely. A not-guilty-by-reason-of-insanity is a long shot.”

  Carla watched the hills pass. They were on an interstate, somewhere in Georgia, and she wasn’t finished. She turned around again and checked on Hanna, then said, softly, “Josie promised you there will not be an abortion, right?”

  “She did, reluctantly. Plus, it’s too late.”

  “So there’ll be a baby in September, assuming nature cooperates. And Kiera seems to be doing well and seeing a doctor.”

  “Yes, we’re paying for some of that.”

  “And she has agreed to an adoption.”

  “You were there when she did. Josie is demanding it. She knows who’d end up raising the kid and right now she can barely feed Kiera and herself.”

  Carla took a deep breath and looked at her husband. “Have you thought about adopting the child?”

  “As a lawyer?”

  “No, as a father.”

  Jake almost gasped, and there was a slight jerk on the wheel. He looked at her in utter amazement, shook his head, and said, “Well, no, I have not thought about it. Obviously you have.”

  “Can we talk about it?”

  “What don’t we talk about?”

  Both turned to check on Hanna.

  “Well,” Carla said, in that tone that meant that the discussion they were about to have would be complicated. Jake stared straight ahead and ran through his own quick list of complications. “We talked about adoption years ago and then, for some reason I can’t really remember, we just stopped talking. Hanna was a toddler. The doctors had told us that we were lucky to get pregnant with her, after some false starts, and that it would not happen again. We wanted at least one more, maybe two.”

  “I remember. I was there.”

  “I guess we just got busy with life and became content with an only child.”

  “Very content.”

  “But the baby will need a good home, Jake.”

  “I’m sure they’ll find one
. I do several private adoptions a year and there’s always a demand for babies.”

  “We would have the inside track, Jake, don’t you think?”

  “I think there are at least two big issues here. Most important, are we as a family ready to expand? Do you, at the age of thirty-seven, want another baby?”

  “I think so.”

  “What about Hanna? How will she react?”

  “She’ll absolutely adore a little brother.”

  “Brother?”

  “Yes. Kiera told Meg two days ago that it’s a boy.”

  “And why wasn’t I informed?”

  “It’s girl talk, Jake, and you’re always too busy. Think about it, Jake, a little boy with a big sister almost ten years older.”

  “Why am I suddenly thinking about diapers and walking the floor at night?”

  “They outgrow that. The worst part of having a child is giving birth.”

  “I rather enjoyed it.”

  “Easy for you to say. Now we can avoid all that.”

  They were quiet for several miles as both plotted their next moves. Jake was reeling and trying to organize his thoughts. Carla had planned the attack and was prepared for any resistance.

  He seemed to relax, and then he smiled at his adorable wife. “When exactly did you start thinking about this?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been mulling it over for some time. At first I thought it was a ridiculous idea, and I thought of all the reasons to let it go. You’re the de facto attorney for the family. How would it look for you to use your inside position to get the baby? How would the town react?”

  “That’s the least of my worries.”

  “What type of relationship, if any, would the child have with Kiera and Josie? What about the Kofers? I’m sure they’ll be horrified when they learn that Stuart left a grandchild behind. I doubt if they’ll want anything to do with the child, but you never know. I’ve thought of a lot of issues and a lot of reasons not to do it. But then I keep thinking about the child. Someone, some lucky couple somewhere, will get the magical phone call. They’ll drive to the hospital and leave with a little baby boy. It will be all theirs. Why can’t it be us, Jake? We’re just as qualified as anyone else.”

  From the rear seat a sweet, sleepy little voice said, “Anybody thinking about a potty break?”

  Jake quickly said, “We are now,” and began looking at exit signs.

  * * *

  —

  THEY WERE ON the beach at dusk, ambling along in the surf with Hanna splashing and chattering nonstop as she held hands with both grandparents. Jake and Carla held hands too and fell behind, happy at the sight of their little girl being smothered in love. Carla wanted to talk but Jake was not ready for another discussion about expanding the family.

  “I have an idea,” she said.

  “I’m sure you’re about to share it.”

  Ignoring him, she said, “Drew is sitting in jail every day, falling further behind in his education. He’s been there since the end of March with no tutoring. Josie said he’s already two years behind.”

  “At least.”

  “Could you arrange for me to go to the jail two or three days a week and tutor the kid?”

  “Do you have the time?”

  “I have the summer, Jake, and I can always find the time. We can ask your mother to keep Hanna, she never says no, and we can also find a babysitter to help.”

  “Or I can babysit. The way my practice is drying up I’ll have plenty of time.”

  “Seriously. I can get the textbooks from the school and at least get him on some type of schedule.”

  “I don’t know. Ozzie would have to approve it and he’s not too cooperative these days. Maybe I can ask Judge Noose.”

  “Would it be safe? I’ve never been to the jail.”

  “You’re lucky. I’m not sure I like the idea. You’d be close to some rough characters and you’d be around some cops who are not my best friends these days. Ozzie would have to take some precautions and he’d probably balk.”

  “Will you talk to him?”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

  “No chance he could leave the jail for a few hours each week to meet somewhere else?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Hanna and her grandparents had turned around and were getting close. Mrs. McCullough said, “How about a glass of wine while I get dinner ready?”

  “Sounds delightful,” Jake said. “We’ve eaten two meals in the car today and I’m ready for some real food.”

  26

  After five days of walking the beach, swimming, reading, sleeping late and napping, and getting slaughtered in chess by Mr. McCullough, Jake was ready for a break. Early on the morning of May 31 he hugged Carla, said goodbye to his in-laws, and happily drove away, eager to spend the next five hours in blissful solitude.

  The Kids Advocacy Foundation had an office on M Street near Farragut Square in central Washington. The building was a 1970s-style block of gray brick with five floors and far too few windows. The directory in the lobby listed the names of dozens of associations, nonprofits, coalitions, federations, brotherhoods, and so on, everything from AMERICAN RAISIN GROWERS to the DISABLED RURAL MAIL CARRIERS.

  Jake got off the elevator on the fourth floor and found the right door. He stepped inside to a cramped reception room where a small dapper gentleman of about seventy sat behind a neat desk and greeted him with a smile. “You must be Mr. Brigance, all the way from Mississippi.”

  “I am, yes,” Jake said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.

  “I’m Roswell, the boss around here,” he said, standing. He wore a tiny red bowtie and a crisp white shirt. “A pleasure to meet you.” They shook hands.

  Jake, in khakis and a button-down, no tie, no socks, said, “And nice to meet you.”

  “You drove up from the beach, right?”

  “Yes.” Jake glanced around and took in the decor. The walls were covered with framed portraits of young people in prison whites and jail coveralls, some looking out from behind bars, others in handcuffs.

  “Welcome to our headquarters,” Roswell said with another cheerful smile. “That’s quite a case you have down there. I’ve read your summaries. Libby expects us to read everything.” He waved at a door as he spoke. “She’s waiting.”

  Jake followed him into a hallway and they stopped at the first door. Roswell said, “Libby, Mr. Brigance is here. Mr. Brigance, meet the real boss, Libby Provine.”

  Ms. Provine was waiting in front of her desk and quickly offered a hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Brigance. Mind if I call you Jake? We’re quite informal around here.” The accent was thick Scottish. The first time they had spoken on the phone, Jake struggled to handle the brogue.

  “Jake’s fine. Nice to meet you.”

  Roswell disappeared and she pointed to a small conference table in the corner of her office. “I thought you might want some lunch.”

  On the table were two deli sandwiches on paper plates and bottles of water. “Lunch is served,” she said. They took their places at the table but neither made a move for the food.

  “An easy drive?” she asked.

  “Uneventful. I was happy to get away from the beach and the in-laws.”

  Libby Provine was about fifty, with red curly hair that was graying, and she wore sleek designer frames that made her almost attractive. From his research he knew she had founded the nonprofit twenty years earlier, not long after she finished law school at Georgetown. KAF, as it was known, had a staff of paralegals and four lawyers, all in-house. Its mission was to assist in the defense of teenagers on trial for serious crimes, and, more specifically, to try and rescue them during the sentencing phase after they had been convicted.

  After a few minutes of chitchat, with neither reaching for the sandwiches, though
Jake was starving, Libby asked, “And you expect the State to proceed with capital murder?”

  “Oh yes. We have a hearing in two weeks on the issue, but I do not expect to win. The State is going full speed ahead.”

  “Even though Kofer was not actually on duty?”

  “That’s the issue. As you know, the statute was changed two years ago and the new one is hard to ignore.”

  “I know. Such a needless change of law. What’s it called, the Death Penalty Enhancement Act? As if the State needed more muscle in its quest to fill up death row. Total rubbish.”

  She knew everything. Jake had spoken to her twice on the phone and sent a forty-page review that he and Portia had put together. He had talked to two other lawyers, one in Georgia, one in Texas, who had relied on KAF at trial and their opinions were glowing.

  She said, “Only Mississippi and Texas allow the death penalty for the killing of an officer regardless of whether he was on duty. It makes no sense.”

  “We’re still fighting the war down there. I’m starving.”

  “Chicken salad or turkey-and-Swiss?”

  “I’ll take the chicken salad.”

  They unwrapped the sandwiches and took a bite, hers much smaller than his. She said, “We dug up some newspaper reports about the Hailey trial. Sounds like a real show.”

  “You could call it that.”

  “Looks like the insanity defense worked for a man who wasn’t insane.”

  “It was all about race, something that will not be a factor with Gamble.”

  “And your expert, Dr. Bass?”

  “I wouldn’t dare use him again. He’s a drunk and a liar and I used him only because he was free. We got lucky. Have you found us the right expert?”