by John Grisham
As Noose methodically worked through the hardships, the lawyers studied their notes, scratched off names, and looked at the remaining members of the pool.
Two of the eleven with doctors’ notes were on Jake’s list of complete mysteries, and he was pleased when they left. After forty minutes of tedium, all eleven were gone. Down to seventy-nine.
Noose said, “Now, the rest of you are qualified to be examined during the selection process. We will do this by calling names at random. When you’re called, please have a seat over on this side, beginning with the front row.” He waved to his left, to the empty pews. A clerk stepped forward and handed him a small cardboard box, which he set on the defense table.
This little lottery was the most crucial part of the selection process. The final twelve would likely come from the first four rows, the first forty names pulled from the box.
The lawyers quickly moved their chairs to the other side of their tables, facing the pool, their backs to the bench. Noose removed a folded strip of paper and called out, “Mr. Mark Maylor.” A man stood with great uncertainty and shuffled down the row to the aisle.
Maylor. White male, age forty-eight, longtime algebra teacher at the only high school in the county. Two years at a junior college, degree in math from Southern Miss. Still married to his first wife, three children, the youngest still at home. Nice blazer and one of the few neckties in the pool. First Baptist Church of Chester. Jake wanted him.
As he sat at the far end of the front row, Noose called the name of Reba Dulaney. White female, age fifty-five, a housewife who lived in town and played the organ at the Methodist church. She took a seat next to Mark Maylor.
Number three was Don Coben, a sixty-year-old farmer whose son was a policeman in Tupelo. Jake would challenge him for cause, and if that didn’t work he would burn a peremptory challenge to get rid of him.
Number four was May Taggart, the first black chosen. She was forty-four and worked at the Ford dealership. It was the collective wisdom of the defense team, including Harry Rex and Lucien, that blacks were preferred because they were more likely to have less sympathy for white officers. Dyer, though, would be able to challenge them without the usual racial issues because both the defendant and the victim were white.
After an hour on his feet, His Honor was feeling some strain in his lower back. When the first row was seated, he retired to the bench, to his comfortable chair with thick cushions.
Jake studied the first ten. Two he would definitely take, three he would not. The others would be argued over later. Noose reached into his box and pulled out the first name for the second row.
* * *
—
CARLA ENTERED THE courthouse at ten and found the lobby filled with men in uniform. She said hello to Moss Junior and Mike Nesbit, and she recognized a few of the others. Jake had subpoenaed Ozzie’s entire force.
She eased away from them and walked to a first-floor annex where the county tax assessor had her office. Inside, sitting in plastic chairs and appearing to be completely overwhelmed, were Josie and Kiera. They were delighted to see a friendly face and quick to hug her. They followed her out of the building and to her car. Once inside, she asked, “Have you talked to Jake this morning?”
No, they had not. “Haven’t talked to anyone,” Josie said. “What’s going on?”
“Just jury selection. Probably last all day. How about some coffee?”
“Can we leave?”
“Sure. Jake said it’s okay. Have you seen Mr. Dyer or anyone working for him?”
Josie shook her head. They drove away and minutes later stopped on Main Street in Chester. “Have you had breakfast?” Carla asked.
“I’m starving,” Kiera blurted. “I’m sorry.”
“Jake says this is the only café in town. Let’s go.”
On the sidewalk, Carla got her first good look at Kiera. She was wearing a simple cotton summer dress that was tight around the middle and clearly revealed her pregnancy. But it was concealed somewhat by a light, fluffy, oversized vest that, when pulled together, would probably hide things. Carla doubted Jake had selected the garment, but she had no doubt that he had discussed the outfit with Josie.
* * *
—
THE CRACK OF NOON was heard louder in a courtroom than perhaps anywhere else. After three hours of tension, everyone was watching the clock and in need of a break. Hunger pains were overwhelming, and few judges ventured long into the afternoon. Noose had seated the seventy-nine in the first eight rows, and he had listened to three of them plead for relief. One was a grandmother who kept her daughter’s children every day. One was a woman who was sixty-two but looked twenty years older and was her dying husband’s full-time caregiver. One was a gentleman in a coat and tie who claimed he might lose his job. Noose listened thoughtfully but seemed unmoved. He said he would consider their requests during lunch. He learned years ago not to grant such exemptions in open court with the entire panel watching. If he showed too much sympathy, too many of the prospective jurors would soon be waving their hands and claiming all manner of hardship.
He would quietly dismiss the three after lunch.
The defense team, along with Harry Rex, went to Morris Finley’s office on Main Street, their headquarters for the duration of the trial. Finley had sandwiches and soft drinks waiting and they ate quickly.
Rodney Cote, Gwen Hailey’s cousin, was juror number twenty-seven, and certainly within reach. Jake knew for a fact that Carl Lee had met with him and discussed the case. Jake was still obsessed with the fact that Cote had been in the courtroom during the Hailey trial. What Jake didn’t know was whether Willie Hastings had told Ozzie about the connection. Several times during the morning, Jake had made clear eye contact with Cote, who appeared intrigued but noncommittal. And what exactly was he supposed to do? Wink at Jake? Give him a thumbs-up?
Finley, who’d been two years ahead of Jake in law school at Ole Miss, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and said, proudly, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a ringer.”
“I love it,” Harry Rex said.
“Let’s hear it,” Jake said.
“As you requested, Jake, I sent the jury list to about ten lawyer friends in nearby counties, just part of the fishing process, never works but what the hell, we all do it. Might get lucky with a name or two. Well, folks, we’re lucky. Juror number fifteen is Della Fancher, white, age forty, lives on a farm near the Polk County line, with husband either number two or three. They have two kids and appear to be stable, though virtually unknown. A buddy of mine—Jake, do you know Skip Salter over in Fulton?”
“No.”
“Anyway, Skip scanned the list and for some reason stopped at the name of Della Fancher. Della is not a common first name, not around here anyway, so he got curious, checked an old file, and made a few calls. When he met her about fifteen years ago she was Della McBride, married to David McBride, a man she desperately wanted to get away from. Skip filed the divorce on behalf of Della and when the deputy served papers on Mr. McBride, he beat the hell out of her, and not for the first time. Put her in the hospital. It turned into a really ugly divorce, not much money to fight over but he became violent, abusive, and threatening. There were all kinds of restraining orders and such. He stalked her and harassed her at work. Skip finally got the divorce and she fled the area. Found her way here and started a new life.”
“I’m surprised she registered to vote,” Jake said.
“This could be huge,” Harry Rex said. “A bona fide victim of domestic abuse sitting on the jury.”
“Maybe,” Jake said, obviously stunned by the story. “But she’s not there yet. Let’s think about this. The panel is about to be examined extensively—by me, Dyer, probably even by Noose. It’ll go on and on and take up the afternoon. At some point the questions will get around to domestic violence. I certainly plan to go there i
f the others don’t. If Della raises her hand and tells her story, then she’ll be challenged for cause and sent home. I’ll object and all that, but she’ll be off the jury, no question about it. However, what if she doesn’t speak up? Just sits there and thinks that no one in this county knows her past?”
Morris said, “It means she has an ax to grind, a score to settle, pick your cliché.”
Libby said, “Excuse me, but when will the pool learn more about the case?”
“Now, just after lunch, when we reconvene,” Jake said.
“So, Della will know before the questions start that there are allegations of domestic violence.”
“Yes.”
The four lawyers pondered the scenarios, each choosing to think for a moment and not speak. Then Portia said, “Excuse me, I’m just a lowly law clerk, soon to be first-year law student, but doesn’t she have the duty to speak up?”
The four nodded in unison. “Yes,” Jake said, “she certainly has the duty, but it’s no crime to stay quiet. Happens all the time. You can’t make people come forward and tell their secrets and reveal their biases during jury selection.”
“But that seems wrong.”
“It is, but it’s rare for a juror to be exposed after the trial. Keep in mind, Portia, she may have other motives. She may be hiding from her past and doesn’t want folks around here to know about it. It takes courage to admit being a victim of abuse. Guts. But if she doesn’t speak up, then maybe she wants to serve, and that’s where it gets interesting. Could it be a bad thing for us?”
“No way,” Libby said. “If she wants on that jury it’s because she’ll have no sympathy for Stuart Kofer.”
Another long pause as they considered what might happen. Finally, Jake said, “Well, we won’t know until we get there. She might jump out of her seat and flee the courtroom if given half a chance.”
“I doubt it,” Libby said. “We looked at each other a couple of times. I’ll bet she’s with us.”
42
By 1:30 the jurors were back in their seats, seventy-six in all now that the last three hardships had been quietly informed by a bailiff that they were free to go. Once the pool was in place, the doors opened to the public and a crowd swarmed in. Several reporters rushed to the front row on the left side behind the defense. The Kofer family and friends filed in, after having spent hours loitering in the humid hallway. Dozens of others jockeyed for seats. Harry Rex sat near the back, as far away from the Kofers as possible. Lucien eased into a middle row to observe the pool. There was rustling and creaking from above as the balcony opened up and spectators found their places in folding chairs.
Carla found a seat near the front, not far from Jake. She had taken Josie and Kiera to Finley’s office where they would spend the afternoon, waiting. If Dyer wanted to talk to Kiera, she was a phone call away.
When the lawyers were in place, Judge Noose reappeared and settled himself at the bench. He frowned around the room to make sure all was in order, then pulled his mike closer. “I see we have a number of spectators who’ve joined us in the gallery. Welcome. We will maintain order and decorum throughout these proceedings and anyone who becomes disruptive will be taken away.”
There had not been a disruptive squeak before the warning.
He looked at a bailiff and said, “Bring in the defendant.”
A door by the jury box opened and a deputy walked out, with Drew behind him, free of cuffs and shackles. At first he seemed overwhelmed by the size of the room, and the crowd, and so many people staring at him; then he looked down and watched the floor as he was led to the defense table. He sat in a chair between Jake and Miss Libby, with Portia behind them by the bar.
Noose cleared his throat and began, “Now, for the next few hours we will attempt to select a jury, twelve jurors and two alternates. This will not be that exciting and there will be no live testimony until tomorrow, assuming we have a jury chosen by then. This is a criminal case from Ford County. It’s styled The State of Mississippi v. Drew Allen Gamble. Mr. Gamble, would you please stand and face the jury pool.”
Jake said this would happen. Drew stood, turned and faced the courtroom with a serious face, no smile at all, then nodded and sat down. Jake leaned over and whispered, “I like that coat and tie.”
Drew nodded but was afraid to smile.
Noose continued, “We will not dwell on the facts at this time, but I will read to you a quick summary of the indictment, the formal charge against the defendant. It reads: ‘That on March 25, 1990, in Ford County, Mississippi, the defendant, one Drew Allen Gamble, age sixteen, did willfully and deliberately and with full criminal intent, shoot and kill the deceased, Stuart Lee Kofer, an officer of the law. Pursuant to section 97-3-19 of the Mississippi Code, the murder of an officer of the law, whether on duty or not, is a capital offense, punishable by death.’ Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, this is a capital case, and the State is seeking the death penalty.”
Apparently, Noose had squeezed the county for even more money, for a new PA system. His words were clear and loud, and “death penalty” rattled around the ceiling for a few seconds, then landed hard on the jurors.
Noose introduced the lawyers and rambled on a bit too long about each. Humorless and dull by nature, he was trying mightily to show some personality and make everyone feel right at home in his courtroom. It was a noble effort, but tension was high, there was work to be done, so everyone wanted to get on with it.
He explained to the courtroom that the selection process would be done in phases. Initially, he would examine the panel, and many of his questions were required by law. He urged the prospects to be forthcoming, not afraid to speak up, not afraid to let everyone know what was on their minds. Only by an honest and open give-and-take could they hope to find a fair and impartial jury. He then launched into a series of inquiries designed not so much to provoke discussion as to put people to sleep. Many of them were about jury service and qualifications, and Noose lost territory already gained. Age, physical limits, medications, doctors’ orders, dietary restrictions, addictions. After half an hour of this, Noose had managed not only to not raise a single hand, but he was boring them to death.
As the jurors watched and listened to the judge, the lawyers studied the jurors. On the front row there were nine whites and one black woman, May Taggart. On the second row there were seven white women, including Della Fancher at number fifteen, and three black men. Four blacks in the first twenty, not a bad percentage, and Jake asked himself for the hundredth time if he was correct in his assumption that blacks would be more sympathetic. Lucien thought so because a white cop was involved. Harry Rex had his doubts because the crime was white on white and race was not a factor. Jake had argued that in Mississippi race was always a factor. Looking at the faces, he still preferred younger female jurors of any color. And, he was assuming that Lowell Dyer wanted older white men.
On the third row there was one black, Mr. Rodney Cote, at number twenty-seven.
As Noose plodded on, Jake occasionally glanced at the spectators. His lovely wife was by far the most attractive person in the room. Harry Rex, in a plaid shirt, sat low in the back. For a second, his eyes met those of Cecil Kofer, who couldn’t help himself and offered a smirk behind his scraggly red beard. As if to say, “I kicked your ass once and I’d love to do it again.” Jake shook it off and returned to his notes.
When His Honor finished with the required questions, he shuffled papers and readjusted his posture. “Now, the deceased, the victim in this case, was a county deputy named Stuart Kofer, age thirty-three at the time of his death. He was born in Ford County and still has family there. Did any of you know him?”
No volunteers.
“Do any of you know anyone in his family?”
A hand went up on the fourth row. Finally, after an hour, a response from the pool. Number thirty-eight was Mr. Kenny Banahand.
&nbs
p; “Yes sir, please stand, give us your name, and explain your relationship with the family.”
Banahand stood slowly, somewhat embarrassed, and said, “Well, Judge, I don’t really know the family, but my son once worked with Barry Kofer at the distribution plant near Karaway.” Jake looked at Barry, who was seated next to his mother.
“Thank you, Mr. Banahand. Did you ever meet Barry Kofer?”
“No sir.”
“Thank you. Please be seated. Anyone else?”
“Okay. Now, you’ve already been introduced to the defendant, Mr. Drew Allen Gamble. Has anyone ever met him?”
Of course not. The trip from the jail was Drew’s first excursion into Van Buren County.
“His mother is Josie Gamble and his sister is Kiera. Anyone ever met them?”
No one.
Noose waited for a moment, then continued. “There are four lawyers involved in this trial and you’ve already met them. I’ll start with Mr. Jake Brigance. Has anyone ever met him?”
No volunteers. Jake had memorized the list and knew the sad truth that his struggling practice and meager reputation had not stretched far beyond Ford County. There was a chance that a few in the pool might recognize his name from the Hailey trial, but the question was: Had they ever met Jake? No they had not. That trial had been five years ago.
“Have you or anyone in your immediate family ever been involved in a case in which Mr. Brigance was one of the lawyers?”
No hands. Rodney Cote sat motionless, even stoic, with no expression whatsoever. If quizzed later, he could claim that the word “immediate” confused him. Gwen Hailey, Carl Lee’s wife, was a distant cousin, one of many Rodney didn’t consider to be “immediate.” He looked directly at Jake and their eyes met.
