A Time for Mercy

by John Grisham

  Dyer began with the routine questions about his background, election and reelection, his training. Like all good prosecutors, he was methodical, almost tedious. No one was expecting a long trial and there was no hurry.

  Dyer asked, “Now, Sheriff, when did you hire Stuart Kofer?”

  “May of ’85.”

  “Were you concerned about his dishonorable discharge from the army?”

  “Not at all. We discussed it and I was satisfied that he got a raw deal. He was really excited about law enforcement and I needed a deputy.”

  “And his training?”

  “I sent him to the police academy down in Jackson for its two-month program.”

  “How’d he perform?”

  “Outstanding. Stuart finished second in his class, got really high marks in everything, especially firearms and weaponry.”

  Dyer ignored his notes, looked at the jurors, and said, “So, he was on your force for about four years before his death, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And how would you rate his work as a deputy?”

  “Stuart was exceptional. He quickly became one of the favorites, a tough cop who never shied away from danger, always ready to take the worst assignments. About three years ago we got a tip that a drug gang out of Memphis was making a delivery that night at a remote spot not far from the lake. Stuart was on duty and volunteered to have a look. We weren’t expecting much—the informant was not that reliable—but when he got there he was ambushed and took fire from some pretty nasty guys. Within minutes, three were dead, and a fourth surrendered. Stuart was slightly wounded but never missed a day of work.”

  A dramatic story, which Jake knew was coming. He wanted to object on the grounds of relevance, but Noose would probably not stop the action. The defense team had discussed it at length and had finally agreed that the heroic story could benefit Drew. Let Dyer portray Stuart as a total badass, deadly with firearms, a dangerous man to be feared, especially by his girlfriend and her kids who were helpless when he got drunk and slapped them around.

  Ozzie told the jury that he arrived at the scene about twenty minutes after the call from Deputy Tatum, who was waiting at the front door. An ambulance was already there and the woman, Josie Gamble, was on the stretcher and being readied for the trip to the hospital. Both of her children were seated, side by side, on the sofa in the den. Ozzie was briefed by Tatum, then walked into the bedroom and saw Stuart.

  Dyer paused, glanced at Jake, and said, “Your Honor, at this time the State would like to show the jury three photographs of the crime scene.”

  Jake stood and said, “Your Honor, the defense will renew its objection to these photographs on the grounds that they are inflammatory, grossly prejudicial, and unnecessary.”

  Noose said, “Your objection is noted. For the record, a timely objection was filed by the defense and on July sixteenth the court held a hearing on this matter. After being fully briefed, the court ruled that three of the photos are admissible. Your objection, Mr. Brigance, is overruled. As a word of caution, to the jurors and the spectators, the photos are graphic. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have no choice but to examine the photographs. As for anyone else, please use your own discretion. Proceed, Mr. Dyer.”

  Regardless of how shocking and horrible they were, crime scene photos were rarely excluded in murder trials. Dyer handed a color eight-by-ten to Ozzie and said, “Sheriff Walls, this is State’s exhibit number two. Can you identify it?”

  Ozzie looked, grimaced, said, “This is a photo of Stuart Kofer, taken from the doorway of his bedroom.”

  “And does it accurately portray what you saw?”

  “Afraid so.” Ozzie lowered the photograph and looked away.

  Dyer said, “Your Honor, I’d like permission to hand the jurors three copies of the same photo, and to put the image on the screen.”

  “Proceed.”

  Jake had objected to blasting the blood and gore on the big screen. Noose had overruled him. Suddenly, there was Stuart, lying across his bed, his feet hanging off the side, pistol beside his head, with a pool of dark red blood soaking the sheets and mattress.

  There were groans and gasps from the spectators. Jake stole a few glances at the jurors, several of whom looked away from the photos and the screen. Several others glared at Drew with pure contempt.

  The second photo was taken from a spot near Stuart’s feet, a much closer view of his head and shattered skull, brains, lots of blood.

  A woman behind Jake was sobbing, and he knew it was Janet Kofer.

  Dyer took his time. He was playing his strongest hand and making the most of it. The third photo was a wider shot and clearly revealed the sprayed blood and matter across the pillows, headboard, and wall.

  Most of the jurors had seen enough and were preoccupied with their feet. The entire courtroom was stunned and felt as though it had been assaulted. Noose, sensing that everyone had seen enough, said, “That’ll do, Mr. Dyer. Please remove the image. And let’s take a fifteen-minute break at this time. Please take the jurors to the jury room for a little recess.” He rapped his gavel and disappeared.

  Portia had found only two cases in the last fifty years in which the Supreme Court had reversed a murder conviction because of gruesome and hideous crime scene photos. She had argued that Jake should object, but only for the record and not too strenuously. An overabundance of blood and gore might actually save their client on appeal. Jake, however, was not convinced. The damage was done, and the damage, at that moment, seemed insurmountable.

  * * *

  —

  JAKE BEGAN THE cross-examination of his former friend with “Now, Sheriff Walls, does your department have a protocol for internal affairs?”

  “Sure we do.”

  “And if a citizen has a complaint against one of your men, what do you do about it?”

  “The complaint has to be in writing. I review it first and have a private conversation with the officer. Then we have a three-person review panel—one current deputy, two former ones. We take complaints seriously, Mr. Brigance.”

  “How many complaints were filed against Stuart Kofer during his time as your deputy?”

  “Zero. None.”

  “Were you aware of any problems he was having?”

  “I have—had—fourteen deputies, Mr. Brigance. I can’t get involved in all of their problems.”

  “Were you aware that Josie Gamble, Drew’s mother, had called 911 on two prior occasions and asked for help?”

  “Well, I was not aware of it at the time.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because she did not press charges.”

  “Okay. When a deputy is dispatched after a 911 call to the scene of a domestic disturbance, does he file an incident report afterwards?”

  “Supposed to, yes.”

  “On February the twenty-fourth of this year, did officers Pirtle and McCarver answer a 911 call at the Kofer residence, a call made by Josie Gamble, who told the dispatcher that Stuart Kofer was drunk and threatening her and her kids?”

  Dyer jumped to his feet and said, “Objection, Your Honor, calls for hearsay.”

  “Overruled. Continue.”

  “Sheriff Walls?”

  “Not sure about that.”

  “Well, I have the 911 recording. You want to hear it?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Thank you. And Josie Gamble will testify about it.”

  “I said I’d take your word for it.”

  “So, Sheriff, where is the incident report?”

  “Well, I’ll have to go through the records.”

  Jake walked to three large storage boxes stacked together beside the defense table. He pointed to them and said, “Here they are, Sheriff. I’ve got copies of all of the incident reports from your
office for the past twelve months. And there’s not one here filed by Officers Pirtle and McCarver for February twenty-fourth in response to a call by Josie Gamble.”

  “Well, I guess it was misplaced. Keep in mind, Mr. Brigance, if no charges are filed by the complaining party, then it’s really no big deal. Not much we can do. Oftentimes we’ll answer a domestic call, settle things down without taking any official action. The paperwork is not always that important.”

  “I guess not. That’s why it’s missing.”

  “Objection,” Dyer said.

  “Sustained. Mr. Brigance, please refrain from testifying.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Now, Sheriff, on December the third of last year, was Deputy Swayze dispatched to the same house after a 911 call from Josie Gamble? Another domestic disturbance?”

  “You have the records, sir.”

  “But do you have the records? Where is the incident report filed by Deputy Swayze?”

  “It’s supposed to be in the file.”

  “But it’s not.”

  Dyer stood and said, “Objection, Your Honor. Does Mr. Brigance intend to introduce into evidence all of the records?” He waved at the boxes.

  Jake said, “Certainly, if necessary.”

  Noose removed his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes, and asked, “Where are you going with this, Mr. Brigance?”

  The perfect opening. Jake said, “Your Honor, we will prove that there was a pattern of domestic abuse and violence perpetrated by Stuart Kofer against Josie Gamble and her children, and that it was covered up by the sheriff’s office to protect one of its own.”

  Dyer responded, “Your Honor, Mr. Kofer is not on trial and he’s not here to defend himself.”

  “I’ll stop you at this time,” Noose said. “I’m not sure if you’ve established the relevance.”

  “Fine, Judge,” Jake said. “I’ll just call the sheriff back to the stand during our defense. No further questions.”

  Noose said, “Sheriff Walls, you are excused but you are still under subpoena, so you need to leave the courtroom. After you get your gun.”

  Ozzie glared at Jake as he walked by.

  “Mr. Dyer, please call your next witness.”

  “The State calls Captain Hollis Brazeale of the Mississippi Highway Patrol.”

  Brazeale looked out of place in a sharp navy suit with a white shirt and red tie. He zipped through his qualifications and many years of experience, proudly informing the jury that he had investigated over one hundred murders. He talked about his arrival at the crime scene and wanted to dwell on the photos, but Noose, along with everyone else, had seen enough blood. Brazeale described how his forensic team from the state crime lab pored over the scene, taking photographs and videos, collecting samples of blood and brain matter. The Glock’s magazine held fifteen bullets when fully loaded. Only one was missing, and they found it buried deep in the mattress near the headboard. Their tests matched it to the pistol.

  Dyer handed him a small plastic zip-bag holding a bullet and explained that it was the one found in the mattress, and it came from the pistol. And asked him to identify it. No doubt about it. Dyer then pressed a button, and enlarged photos of the gun and bullet appeared. Brazeale launched into a mini-lecture about what happens when a bullet is fired: Primer and the powder explode within the cartridge, forcing the bullet down the barrel. The explosion produces gases that escape and land on the shooter’s hands and, often, his clothing. Gases and gunpowder particles follow the bullet and can provide evidence of the distance between the barrel and the entry wound.

  In this case, their tests revealed that the bullet traveled only a short distance. In Brazeale’s opinion, “Less than two inches.”

  He was cocksure of his opinions and the jurors listened intently. Jake, though, thought the testimony was dragging as it went on and on. He stole glances at the jurors, one of whom glanced around as if to say, “All right, all right. We get it. It’s pretty obvious what happened.”

  But Dyer plowed onward, trying to cover everything. Brazeale said that after the body was removed, they took the sheets, two blankets, and two pillows. The investigation was routine and not complicated. The cause of death was obvious. The murder weapon was secure. A suspect had confessed to the murder to another credible witness. Later that Sunday morning, Brazeale and two technicians went to the jail and fingerprinted the suspect. They also swabbed the suspect’s hands, arms, and clothing to collect gunshot residue.

  Next was a symposium on fingerprints, with Brazeale working through a series of slides and explaining that four latent prints were removed from the Glock and matched to partials taken from the defendant. Every person’s prints are unique, and, pointing to a thumbprint with “tented arches,” he said there was no doubt the four prints—three fingers and one thumb—were left on the gun by the defendant.

  Next was a windy, technical analysis of chemical tests used to find and measure GSR—gunshot residue. No one was surprised when Brazeale finally reached the conclusion that Drew had fired the weapon.

  When Dyer tendered the witness at 11:50, Jake stood, shrugged, and said, “The defense has no questions, Your Honor.”

  Noose, along with everyone else, needed a break. He looked at a bailiff and said, “We’ll be in recess. Is the lunch prepared for the jurors?”

  The bailiff nodded.

  “Okay, we’re in recess until one-thirty.”

  44

  When the courtroom was empty, Drew sat alone at the table, twiddling his thumbs under the languid gaze of a crippled bailiff. Moss Junior and Mr. Zack appeared and said it was time for lunch. They led him through a side door, up a rickety set of ancient stairs to a third-floor room that had once housed the county law library. It, too, had seen its better days, and gave the impression that legal research was not a priority in Van Buren County. Shelves of dusty books sat at odd angles, with some leaning precariously, much like the courthouse itself. In an open area there was a card table with two folding chairs. “Over there,” Moss Junior said, pointing, and Drew took a seat. Mr. Zack produced a brown bag and a bottle of water. Drew removed a sandwich wrapped in foil and a bag of chips.

  Moss Junior said to Mr. Zack, “He should be safe here. I’ll be downstairs.” He left and they listened as he lumbered down the stairs.

  Mr. Zack sat across from Drew and asked, “What do you think of your trial so far?”

  Drew shrugged. Jake had lectured him about talking to anyone in a uniform. “Things don’t look so good.”

  Mr. Zack grunted and smiled. “You can say that again.”

  “What’s weird is how they make Stuart out to be such a nice guy.”

  “He was a nice guy.”

  “Yeah, to you. It was a different story livin’ with him.”

  “You gonna eat?”

  “Not hungry.”

  “Come on, Drew. You barely touched your breakfast. You gotta eat something.”

  “You know, you’ve been sayin’ that ever since I met you.”

  Mr. Zack opened his own bag and took a bite from a turkey sandwich.

  Drew asked, “You bring any cards?”

  “I did.”

  “Great. Blackjack?”

  “Sure. After you eat.”

  “You owe me a buck-thirty, right?”

  * * *

  —

  TWO MILES AWAY, in downtown Chester, the defense team ate sandwiches in Morris Finley’s conference room. Morris, a busy lawyer himself, was away tending to matters in federal court. He didn’t have the luxury of spending entire days watching another lawyer’s trial. Nor did Harry Rex, whose stressful office was being completely ignored by the only lawyer in his firm, but he wouldn’t miss the Gamble trial for anything. He, Lucien, Portia, Libby, Jake, and Carla ate quickly and went through the State’s case so far. The only surprise had been Noose’s refusal to allow
Brazeale to revisit the ghastly crime scene photos.

  Ozzie had done a passable job, though he had looked bad trying to cover for the missing paperwork. It was a small win for the defense, but one that would be forgotten soon enough. The fact that county deputies were not exactly thorough with their mundane reports would not be important when the jury debated guilt or innocence.

  Overall, the morning had been a huge win for the State, but that was no surprise. The case was simple, straightforward, and had no missing clues. Dyer’s opening was effective and captured the attention of every juror. Taking one name at a time, they talked about all twelve. The first six men were convinced and ready to vote guilty. Joey Kepner had revealed nothing in his facial expressions and body language. The five women did not appear to be any more sympathetic.

  Most of their lunch was consumed with Kiera. Dyer had proven that Drew had committed the murder beyond a reasonable doubt. The State didn’t need Kiera as a witness to bolster its case. Her statement to Tatum that Drew shot Stuart was already in evidence.

  “But he’s a prosecutor,” Lucien argued. “And as a breed they’re known to pile on. She’s the only person who can testify that she heard the gunshot and heard her brother admit to the shooting. Of course, Drew could admit this himself, but only if he takes the stand. Josie was there but unconscious. If Dyer doesn’t call Kiera to the stand, the jurors will wonder why not? And what about the appeal? What if the Supremes rule that Tatum’s testimony should have been excluded as hearsay? It’ll be a close call, right?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Jake said.

  “Okay, let’s say we win on hearsay. Dyer might be worried about that, and he might be thinking he needs to double down and get the girl to testify to it.”

  “Do they really need it?” Libby asked. “Isn’t there an abundance of physical evidence already in the record?”

  “It sure feels like it,” Jake said.

  Harry Rex said, “Dyer’s a dumbass if he puts her on. Plain and simple. He’s got his case made, why not just rest and wait on the defense?”