by John Grisham
After eleven years of having his ass thoroughly kicked by the state, it was difficult to believe that Raymond had now, at this late hour, managed to turn the tide. Leon and Butch nodded gravely, as if they bought this and believed that the inevitable was not about to happen. They had known for many years that their little brother had ambushed Coy and practically blown his head off with a stolen rifle. Raymond had told Butch years earlier, long after he’d landed on death row, that he’d been so stoned he could hardly remember the killing.
Plus we got some big-shot lawyers in Jackson puttin’ pressure on the governor, just in case the Supreme Court chickens out again, he said.
All three nodded, but no one mentioned the comments from the warden.
You got my last letter, Momma? The one about the new lawyer?
Sure did. Read it drivin’ over here, she said, nodding.
I’d like to hire him as soon as we get an order for the new trial. He’s from Mobile, and he is one bad boy, lemme tell you. But we can talk about him later.
Sure, son.
Thank you. Look, Momma, I know this is hard, but you gotta have faith in me and my lawyers. I been runnin’ my own defense for a year now, bossin’ the lawyers around ’cause that’s what you gotta do these days, and thangs’re gonna work out, Momma. Trust me.
I do, I do.
Raymond jumped to his feet and thrust his arms high above, stretching with his eyes closed. I’m into yoga now, did I tell ya’ll about it?
All three nodded. His letters had been loaded with the details of his latest fascination. Over the years the family had suffered through Raymond’s breathless accounts of his conversion to Buddhism, then Islam, then Hinduism, and his discoveries of meditation, kung fu, aerobics, weight lifting, fasting, and of course his quest to become a poet, novelist, singer, and musician. Little had been spared in his letters home.
Whatever the current passion, it was obvious that the fasting and aerobics had been abandoned. Raymond was so fat his britches strained in the seat.
Did you bring the brownies? he asked his mother. He loved her pecan brownies.
No, honey, I’m sorry. I’ve been so tore up over this.
You always bring the brownies.
I’m sorry.
Just like Raymond. Berating his mother over nothing just hours before his final walk.
Well, don’t forget them again.
I won’t, honey.
And another thang. Tallulah is supposed to be here any minute. She’d love to meet ya’ll because ya’ll have always rejected her. She’s part of the family regardless of what ya’ll thank. As a favor at this unfortunate moment in my life, I ask that ya’ll accept her and be nice.
Leon and Butch could not respond, but Inez managed to say, Yes, dear.
When I get outta this damned place, we’re movin’ to Hawaii and havin’ ten kids. No way I’m stayin’ in Mississippi, not after all this. So she’ll be part of the family from now on.
For the first time Leon glanced at his watch with the thought that relief was just over two hours away. Butch was thinking too, but his thoughts were far different. The idea of choking Raymond to death before the state could kill him posed an interesting dilemma.
Raymond suddenly stood and said, Well, look, I gotta go meet with the lawyers. I’ll be back in half an hour. He walked to the door, opened it, then thrust out his arms for the handcuffs.The door closed, and Inez said, I guess thangs’re okay.
Look, Momma, we’d best listen to the warden, Leon said.
Raymond’s kiddin’ himself, Butch added. She started crying again.
The chaplain was a Catholic priest, Father Leland, and he quietly introduced himself to the family. They asked him to have a seat.
I’m deeply sorry about this, he said somberly. It’s the worst part of my job.
Catholics were rare in Ford County, and the Graneys certainly didn’t know any. They looked suspiciously at the white collar around his neck.
I’ve tried to talk to Raymond, Father Leland continued. But he has little interest in the Christian faith. Said he hadn’t been to church since he was a little boy.
I shoulda took him more, Inez said, lamenting.
In fact, he claims to be an atheist.
Lord, Lord.
Of course, the three Graneys had known for some time that Raymond had renounced all religious beliefs and had proclaimed that there was no God. This, too, they had read about in excruciating detail in his lengthy letters.
We’re not church people, Leon admitted.
I’ll be praying for you.
Raymond stole the deputy’s wife’s new car outta the church parking lot, Butch said. Did he tell you that?
No. We’ve talked a lot lately, and he’s told me many stories. But not that one.
Thank you, sir, for bein’ so nice to Raymond, Inez said.
I’ll be with him until the end.
So, they’re really gonna do it? she asked.
It’ll take a miracle to stop things now.
Lord, help us, she said.
Let’s pray, Father Leland said. He closed his eyes, folded his hands together, and began: Dear Heavenly Father, please look down upon us at this hour and let your Holy Spirit enter this place and give us peace. Give strength and wisdom to the lawyers and judges who are laboring diligently at this moment. Give courage to Raymond as he makes his preparations. Father Leland paused for a second and barely opened his left eye. All three Graneys were staring at him as if he had two heads. Rattled, he closed his eye and wrapped things up quickly with: And, Father, grant grace and forgiveness to the officials and the people of Mississippi, for they know not what they’re doing. Amen.
He said good-bye, and they waited a few minutes before Raymond returned. He had his guitar, and as soon as he settled into the sofa he strummed a few chords. He closed his eyes and began to hum, then he sang:
I got the key to the highway,
and I’m billed out and bound to go
I’m gonna leave here runnin’,
’cause walkin’ is most too slow.
It’s an old tune by Big Bill Broonzy, he explained. One of my favorites.
I’m goin’ down to the border,
now where I’m better known
’Cause woman you don’t do nothin’,
but drive a good man way from home.
The song was unlike any they’d heard before. Butch had once picked the banjo in a bluegrass band, but had given up music many years earlier. He had no voice whatsoever, a family trait shared by his younger brother. Raymond crooned in a painful guttural lurch, an affected attempt to sound like a black blues singer, apparently one in severe distress.
Now when the moon creeps over the mountain,
I’ll be on my way
Now I’m gonna walk this old highway,
until the break of day.
When the words stopped, he kept strumming and did a passable job of playing a tune. Butch, though, couldn’t help but think that after eleven years of practice in his cell, his guitar playing was rudimentary.
That’s so nice, Inez said.
Thanks, Momma. Here’s one from Robert Johnson, probably the greatest of all. He’s from Hazlehurst, you know? They did not know. Like most white hill folks, they knew nothing about the blues and cared even less.
Raymond’s face contorted again. He hit the strings harder.
I went to the crossroad,
Fell down on my knees
I went to the crossroad,
Fell down on my knees
Asked the Lord above, Have mercy now,
Save poor Ray if you please.
Leon glanced at his watch. It was almost 11:00 p.m., just over an hour to go. He wasn’t sure he could listen to the blues for another hour, but resigned himself. The singing unnerved Butch as well, but he managed to sit
still with his eyes closed, as if soothed by the words and music.
Standin’ at the crossroad,
Tried to flag a ride Whee-hee,
I tried to flag a ride
Didn’t nobody seem to know me, babe
Everybody pass me by.
Raymond then forgot the words, but continued with his humming. When he finally stopped, he sat with his eyes closed for a minute or so, as if the music had transported him to another world, to a much more pleasant place.
What time is it, bro? he asked Leon.
Eleven straight up.
I gotta go check with the lawyers. They’re expectin’ a ruling right about now.
He placed his guitar in a corner, then knocked on the door and stepped through it. The guards handcuffed him and led him away. Within minutes a crew from the kitchen arrived with armed escort. Hurriedly, they unfolded a square card table and covered it with a rather large amount of food. The smells were immediately thick in the room, and Leon and Butch were weak with hunger. They had not eaten since noon. Inez was too distraught to think about food, though she did examine the spread. Fried catfish, French-fried potatoes, hush puppies, coleslaw, all in the center of the table. To the right was a mammoth cheeseburger, with another order of fries and one of onion rings. To the left was a medium-size pizza with pepperoni and hot, bubbling cheese. Directly in front of the catfish was a huge slice of what appeared to be lemon pie, and next to it was a dessert plate covered with chocolate cake. A bowl of vanilla ice cream was wedged along the edge of the table.
As the three Graneys gawked at the food, one of the guards said, For the last meal, he gets anything he wants.
Lord, Lord, Inez said and began crying again.
When they were alone, Butch and Leon tried to ignore the food, which they could almost touch, but the aromas were overwhelming. Catfish battered and fried in corn oil. Fried onion rings. Pepperoni. The air in the small room was thick with the competing yet delicious smells.
The feast could easily accommodate four people.
At 11:15, Raymond made a noisy entry. He was griping at the guards and complaining incoherently about his lawyers. When he saw the food, he forgot about his problems and his family and took the only seat at the table. Using primarily his fingers, he crammed in a few loads of fries and onion rings and began talking. Fifth Circuit just turned us down, the idiots. Our habeas petition was beautiful, wrote it myself. We’re on the way to Washington, to the Supreme Court. Got a whole law firm up there ready to attack. Thangs look good. He managed to deftly shove food into his mouth, and chew it, while talking. Inez stared at her feet and wiped tears. Butch and Leon appeared to listen patiently while studying the tiled floor.
Ya’ll seen Tallulah? Raymond asked, still chomping after a gulp of iced tea.
No, Leon said.
Bitch. She just wants the book rights to my life story. That’s all. But it ain’t gonna happen. I’m leavin’ all literary rights with the three of ya’ll. What about that?
Nice, said Leon.
Great, said Butch.
The final chapter of his life was now close at hand. Raymond had already written his autobiography—two hundred pages—and it had been rejected by every publisher in America.
He chomped away, wreaking havoc with the catfish, burger, and pizza in no particular order. His fork and fingers moved around the table, often headed in different directions, poking, stabbing, grabbing, and shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could swallow it. A starving hog at a trough would have made less noise. Inez had never spent much time with table manners, and her boys had learned all the bad habits. But eleven years on death row had taken Raymond to new depths of crude behavior.
Leon’s third wife, though, had been properly raised. He snapped ten minutes into the last meal. Do you have to smack like that? he barked.
Damn, son, you’re makin’ more noise than a horse eatin’ corn, Butch piled on instantly.
Raymond froze, glared at both of his brothers, and for a few long tense seconds the situation could’ve gone either way. It could’ve erupted into a classic Graney brawl with lots of cursing and personal insults. Over the years, there had been several ugly spats in the visitors’ room at death row, all painful, all memorable. But Raymond, to his credit, took a softer approach.
