The Reckoning

by John Grisham

  “I’ve been thinking about it all year.”

  “That’s wonderful. Where will you go?”

  “I’m not sure. Not Vanderbilt. I like Nashville but I need a change. Maybe Tulane or Texas. I was considering Ole Miss but now I have this strong desire to get far away from this here.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  Florry went to the kitchen and filled a large bowl with stew from the pot on the stove. She served it to him with leftover corn bread and a glass of water. Before she sat down, she reached deep into the cupboard and retrieved a bottle of gin. She mixed two ounces with a splash of tonic water, and sat across from him.

  He smiled and said, “Stella and I found your gin once. Did you know that?”

  “No! Did you drink it?”

  “We tried to. I was about sixteen and we knew you kept it hidden in the cupboard. I poured a little in a glass and took a sip. Almost puked. It burned to my toes and tasted like hair tonic. How do you drink that stuff?”

  “With practice. What was Stella’s reaction?”

  “The same. I don’t think she’s touched alcohol since.”

  “I’ll bet she has. You seem to have developed a taste.”

  “I’m a college boy, Aunt Florry. It’s part of my education.” He took a large spoonful of stew and then another. After four or five, he put down his spoon and paused to allow his food to settle. He helped it with a sip of sour mash, then smiled at his aunt and said, “I want to talk about my mother, Aunt Florry. There are secrets back there and you know a lot that you haven’t told us.”

  Florry shook her head and looked away.

  He went on, “I know she broke down when they told us he was dead, or presumed dead. Hell, didn’t we all, Aunt Florry? I couldn’t leave the house for a week. Remember that?”

  “How could I forget? It was awful.”

  “We were like ghosts, just sleepwalking through the days and dreading the nights. But we somehow found a little strength to go on, and I think Mom did okay, don’t you? Didn’t Mom sort of get tough and put on a brave face?”

  “She did. We all did. But it wasn’t easy.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was a living hell, but we survived. I was at Vanderbilt when she called that night with the news that he wasn’t dead after all, that he’d been found and rescued. They said he was badly wounded, but that didn’t seem important. He was alive! I hurried home and we celebrated, and I remember Mom being quite happy. Am I right, Aunt Florry?”

  “Yes, that’s the way I remember it. We were elated, almost euphoric, and that lasted for a few days. Just the fact that he was alive was a miracle. Then we began reading stories about how badly the POWs were treated over there, and we worried about his injuries, and so on.”

  “Sure, now back to my mother. We were thrilled when he was released, and when he came home a hero my mother was the proudest woman in the world. They could not have been happier, hell, we were all ecstatic, and that was only a year ago, Aunt Florry. So what happened?”

  “Don’t assume I know what happened because I don’t. For the first few weeks all was well. Pete was still recovering and getting stronger by the day. They were happy; things seemed to be fine. Then they weren’t. I was not aware of their troubles until long after they had started. Nineva told Marietta that they were fighting, that Liza was acting crazy, prone to long bouts of foul moods and time alone in her room. They stopped sleeping together and your father moved into your bedroom. I wasn’t supposed to know this so I couldn’t really ask. And you know it’s a waste of time to ask your father anything about his private matters. I’ve never been close to Liza and she would never confide in me. So, I was in the dark, and, frankly, that’s not always a bad place to be.”

  A long pull on the whiskey and Joel said, “Then she was sent away.”

  “Then she was sent away.”

  “Why, Aunt Florry? Why was my mother committed to the state mental hospital?”

  Florry sloshed her gin around her glass and studied it at length. Then she took a sip, grimaced as if it was awful, and set down the glass. “Your father decided she needed help, and there’s no one around here. The professionals are at Whitfield, and that’s where he sent her.”

  “Just like that? She got shipped off?”

  “No, there were proceedings. But let’s be honest, Joel, your father knows the right people and he’s got the Wilbanks boys in his back pocket. They talked to a judge; he signed the order. And your mother acquiesced. She did not object to the commitment order, not that she had a choice. If Pete insisted, which I’m sure he did, she could not fight him.”

  “What’s her diagnosis?”

  “I have no idea. Being a woman, I guess. Keep in mind, Joel, that it’s a man’s world, and if a husband with connections feels as though his wife is suffering through the change and depressed and her moods are swinging right and left, well, he can send her off for a spell.”

  “I find it hard to believe that my father would have my mother committed to a mental institution because of the change. She seems kind of young for that. There’s a lot more to it, Aunt Florry.”

  “I’m sure there is, but I was not privy to their discussions and conflicts.”

  Joel returned to his stew and gulped a few bites, followed with more of his whiskey.

  In a futile effort to change the subject, Florry asked, “Are you still seeing that girl?”

  “Which girl?”

  “Well, I guess that’s enough of an answer. Any girl in your life these days?”

  “Not really. I’m too young and I have law school in front of me. You said on the phone that you’ve spoken with John Wilbanks. I assume he’s taken charge of the defense.”

  “He has, or what there is of it. Your father is not cooperating. Wilbanks wants to use an insanity defense, says it’s the only way to save his life, but your father will have none of it. Says he’s got more sense than Wilbanks or the next lawyer, which I won’t argue.”

  “More proof that he’s crazy. He has no choice but to plead insanity, there’s no other defense. I did the research myself at the law school yesterday.”

  “Then you can help Wilbanks. He needs it.”

  “I’ve written him a letter and I thought about seeing him tomorrow.”

  “That’s a bad idea, Joel. I doubt he works on Sundays, and you cannot be seen around town. Your father would be upset if he knew you were here. My advice to you is to leave town as quietly as you sneaked in, and not to return until Pete says so.”

  “I’d like to talk to Buford and check on the crops.”

  “You can’t do a thing to help the crops. You’re not a farmer, remember. Besides, Buford has things under control. He reports to me; I plan to run by the jail and report to Pete. We’re in the midst of a good harvest so don’t try to screw things up. Besides, Buford would tell your father that you’re here. Bad idea.”

  Joel managed a laugh, his first, and swigged his whiskey. He shoved his bowl away, which prompted her to say, “Half a bowl. You should eat more, Joel. You’re finally filling out but you have a ways to go. You’re still too thin.”

  “Not much of an appetite these days, Aunt Florry, for some reason. Mind if I smoke?”

  She nodded and said, “On the porch.” Joel stepped outside with a cigarette while she cleared the table, then she refreshed her drink, laid another log on the fire in the den, and fell into her favorite armchair to wait for him. When he returned, he grabbed his flask, joined her in the den, and sat on the worn leather sofa.

  She cleared her throat and said, “There’s something you should know, since we were discussing the cotton. I suppose it’s no real secret since there is a public record of it in the courthouse. About a month ago, your father hired a lawyer in Tupelo to write a deed transferring ownership of his farm to you and Stella jointly. My
land, of course, belongs to me and was not involved. John Wilbanks told me this last Wednesday in his office. Of course, you and Stella would one day inherit the land anyway.”

  Joel thought for a moment, obviously surprised and confused. “And why did he do this?”

  “Why does Pete do anything? Because he can. It wasn’t very smart, according to Wilbanks. He was moving his assets to protect them from the family of a man he was planning to murder. Plain and simple. In doing so, though, he handed a gift to the prosecution. The DA can prove at trial that the murder was premeditated. Pete planned everything.”

  “Is the land protected?”

  “Wilbanks doesn’t think so, but we didn’t go into it. It was the day after and we were still stunned. Still are, I guess.”

  “Aren’t we all? Wilbanks thinks Bell’s family will come after the land?”

  “He implied that but didn’t say it outright. It might be fodder for your research, now that you’ve found the law library.”

  “This family needs a full-time lawyer.” He took a drink and finished his flask. Florry watched him carefully and loved every ounce of his being. He favored her side, the Bannings, tall with dark eyes and thick hair, while Stella was the image of Liza, both in looks and in temperament. He was grieving, and Florry ached with his pain. His happy, privileged life was taking a dramatic turn for the worse, and he could do nothing to correct its course.

  Quietly, he asked, “Has anyone talked about Mom getting out? Is it even a possibility? Dad sent her away, and now that his influence is rather limited, is there a chance she can come home?”

  “I don’t know, Joel, but I’ve heard nothing about that. Before this, your father would drive to Whitfield once a month to see her. He never said much, but on a couple of occasions he mentioned his visits, said she was not getting any better.”

  “How is one supposed to improve in an insane asylum?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  “And why can’t I visit her?”

  “Because your father said no.”

  “I can’t see my father and I can’t visit my mother. Is it okay to admit that I miss my parents, Florry?”

  “Of course you do, dear. I’m so sorry.”

  They watched the fire for a long time and nothing was said. It hissed and crackled and began dying for the night. One of the cats jumped up onto the leather sofa and looked at Joel as if he were trespassing. Finally, Joel said softly, “I don’t know what to do, Florry. Nothing makes sense right now.”

  For the first time his words were not clear, his tongue thick.

  She took a sip and said, “Well, coming home tonight is not the answer. The train for Memphis leaves at nine thirty in the morning, and you’ll be on it. There’s nothing to do here but worry.”

  “I suppose I can worry at college.”

  “I suppose you can.”

  Chapter 8

  The Ford County grand jury convened on the third Monday of each month to listen to evidence of the latest crimes among the locals. On the docket for October 21 was the usual laundry list: a domestic dispute that devolved into a severe beating; Chuck Manley and his alleged stolen car; a Negro who fired a pistol at another, and though he missed, the bullet shattered the window of a rural white church, which added gravity to the incident and elevated it to a felony; a con man from Tupelo who had blanketed the county with bad checks; a white man and a black woman who were caught in the act of enthusiastically violating the state’s antimiscegenation laws; and so on. The list totaled ten crimes, all felonies, and that was about average for a peaceful community. Last on the list was the matter of Pete Banning and his murder charge.

  Miles Truitt had been the district attorney since his election seven years earlier. As the chief prosecutor, he handled the grand jury, which was little more than a rubber stamp for whatever he wanted. Truitt selected the eighteen people who served, picked which crimes needed to be pursued, called witnesses who gave evidence that favored only the prosecution, leaned heavily on the jury when the evidence seemed a bit shaky, and secured the indictments that were then served upon the defendants. After that, Truitt controlled the criminal trial docket and decided which cases would be tried first and last. Almost none actually went to trial. Instead they were settled with a deal, a plea bargain in which the defendant confessed to being guilty in return for as light a sentence as possible.

  After seven years of routine prosecutions, Miles Truitt had been lulled into the mundane rut of putting away bootleggers, wife beaters, and car thieves. His jurisdiction covered the five counties of the Twenty-Second District, and the year before he had tried only four cases to verdicts. All other indictees had pled out. His job had lost its luster, primarily because there simply was not enough exciting crime in his corner of northern Mississippi.

  But Pete Banning had broken the monotony, and in spectacular fashion. Every prosecutor dreams of the sensational murder trial, with a prominent (white) defendant, a well-known victim, a crowded courtroom, lots of press, and, of course, an outcome favorable to the prosecutor and all the fine citizens who voted for him. Truitt’s dream was coming true, and he tried to control his eagerness to get on with the prosecution of Pete Banning.

  The grand jury assembled in the courthouse in the same room used by trial juries. It was a cramped space hardly wide and long enough for a trial jury of twelve, with chairs wedged around a long narrow table. Of the eighteen, only sixteen were present, all white men. Mr. Jock Fedison from Karraway had called in sick, though it was widely believed he was really too busy in his cotton fields to be bothered with trifling judicial matters. Mr. Wade Burrell had not bothered to call at all and had been neither seen nor heard from in weeks. He was not a farmer but was rumored to be having trouble with his wife. She said flatly that the bum had gone off drunk and wasn’t coming back.

  Sixteen was a sufficient quorum, and Truitt called them to order. Sheriff Gridley was brought in as the first witness and sworn to tell the truth. Truitt began with Chuck Manley’s case and Gridley laid out the facts. The vote was sixteen to zero in favor of an indictment for grand larceny, with no discussion. The bad-check artist was next, and the sheriff presented copies of the checks and affidavits from some of the aggrieved merchants. Sixteen to zero again, and the same for the pulpwood cutter who broke his wife’s nose, among other injuries.

  Justice was sailing right along until Truitt called up the miscegenation case. The two lovers had been caught in the act in the back of a pickup truck parked in an area known for such activities. Deputy Roy Lester had received an anonymous tip by phone that the two were planning such a rendezvous, and he got there first. The identity of the tipster was unknown. Lester hid in the darkness and was pleased to learn that the tip was accurate. The white man, who later admitted to having a wife and a kid, drove his truck to a spot very near Lester’s hiding place, and commenced to partially undress while the black girl, aged eighteen and single, did likewise. The area being deserted at that moment, they decided to get down to business in the back of the truck.

  Testifying before the grand jury, Lester claimed he watched calmly from behind some trees. In truth, though, he found the encounter quite erotic and was anything but calm. The grand jurors hung on every word, and Lester was discreet, even understated, with his descriptions. As the white man was reaching his climax, Lester jumped from his hiding place, brandished his weapon, and yelled, “Stop right there!” Which was probably the wrong command because who could really stop at that critical juncture? As they hurriedly dressed, Lester waited with the handcuffs. He walked them to his patrol car hidden down a dirt trail, and hauled them to jail. Along the way, the white man began crying and begging for mercy. His wife would certainly divorce him and he loved her so.

  When he finished his testimony, the room was silent, as if the grand jurors were lost in their own imaginations and wanted more of the narrative. Finally, Mr. Phil H
obard, a science teacher at Clanton High and a transplanted Yankee from Ohio, asked, “If he’s twenty-six years old and she’s eighteen, then why is having relations against the law?”

  Truitt was quick to take control of the discussion. “Because sex between a Caucasian and a Negro is against the law, and it’s against the law because the state legislature made it illegal many years ago.”

  Mr. Hobard was not satisfied. He ignored the frowns from his colleagues and pressed on. “Is adultery against the law?”

  A few of the men dropped their stares and glanced at some papers on the table. Two even squirmed, but the zealots looked even fiercer as if to say, “If it’s not it certainly should be.”

  Truitt replied, “No, it is not. At one time it was, but the authorities found it rather difficult to enforce.”

  Hobard said, “So, let me get this straight. In Mississippi today it’s not against the law to have sex with a woman who’s not your wife so long as she is of the same race. A different race, though, and you can be arrested and prosecuted, right?”

  “That’s what the code says,” Truitt answered.

  Hobard, who was evidently the only one on the grand jury with the courage to dig deeper, asked, “Don’t we have better things to do than to prosecute two consenting adults who were evidently having a lot of fun, in bed, or in the back of a truck, or wherever?”

  Truitt replied, “I didn’t write the law, Mr. Hobard. And if you want to change it, then take up the matter with your state senator.”

  “Our state senator is an idiot.”

  “Well, perhaps, but that’s outside the scope of our jurisdiction. Are we ready to vote on this indictment?” Truitt asked.

  “No,” Hobard said sharply. “You’re trying to speed things along. Fine, but before we vote I’d like to ask my colleagues on this grand jury how many of them have ever had sex with a black woman. If you have, then there’s no way you can vote to convict these two people.”

  An unseen vacuum sucked all the air out of the room. Several of the grand jurors turned pale. Several turned red with anger. One zealot blurted, “Never!” Others spoke: