by John Grisham
“I have to go. Something happened to Mom, otherwise she’d be up here. I’m sure she’s hurt. Stay put and keep the door locked.”
He moved the metal shaft and silently opened her door. He peeked down the stairs and saw nothing but darkness and the faint glow of a porch light. Kiera watched and closed the door behind him. He took the first step down as he clutched the can of pepper spray and thought how great it would be to blast that son of a bitch in the face with a cloud of poison, burn his eyes and maybe blind him. Slowly, one step at a time without making a sound. In the den he stopped dead still and listened. There was a distant sound from Stu’s bedroom down the short hallway. Drew waited a moment longer and hoped that maybe Stu had put Josie to bed after slapping her around. The light was on in the kitchen. He peeked around the door face and saw her bare feet lying still, then her legs. He dropped to his knees and scurried under the table to her side where he shook her arm roughly, but didn’t speak. Any sound might attract him. He noticed her breasts but was too frightened to be embarrassed. He shook again, hissed, “Mom, Mom, wake up!” But there was no response. The left side of her face was red and swollen, and he was certain she wasn’t breathing. He wiped his eyes and backed away, and crawled into the hallway. At the end of it Stu’s bedroom door was open, a dim table light was on, and after he focused Drew could see a pair of boots hanging off the bed. Stu’s snakeskin pointed-toes, his favorites. Drew stood and walked quickly to the bedroom, and there, sprawled across the bed with his arms thrown open wide above his head and still fully dressed, was Stuart Kofer, passed out again. As Drew glared at him with unbridled hatred, the man actually snored.
Drew ran up the stairs, and as Kiera opened the door, he cried, “She’s dead, Kiera, Mom’s dead. Stu’s killed her. She’s on the kitchen floor and she’s dead.”
Kiera recoiled and shrieked and grabbed her brother. Both were in tears as they went down the stairs and to the kitchen where they cradled their mother’s head. Kiera was weeping and whispering, “Wake up, Mom! Please wake up!”
Drew delicately grabbed his mother’s left wrist and tried to check her pulse, though he wasn’t sure he was doing it properly. He felt nothing.
He said, “We gotta call 911.”
“Where is he?” she asked, glancing around.
“In the bed, asleep. I think he passed out.”
“I’m holding Mom. You go call.”
Drew went to the den, turned on a light, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. After many rings the dispatcher finally said, “911. What’s your emergency?”
“My mother has been killed by Stuart Kofer. She’s dead.”
“Son, who is this?”
“I’m Drew Gamble. My mother is Josie. She’s dead.”
“And where do you live?”
“Stuart Kofer’s house, out on Bart Road. Fourteen-fourteen Bart Road. Please send someone to help us.”
“I will, I will. They’re on the way. And you say she’s dead. How do you know she’s dead?”
“ ’Cause she ain’t breathing. ’Cause Stuart beat her again, same as always.”
“Is Stuart Kofer in the house?”
“Yep, it’s his house and we just live here. He came in drunk again and beat my mother. He killed her. We heard him do it.”
“Where is he?”
“On his bed. Passed out. Please hurry.”
“You stay on the line, okay?”
“No. I’m checkin’ on my mom.”
He hung up and grabbed a quilt from the sofa. Kiera had Josie’s face cradled in her lap, gently rubbing her hair as she wept and kept saying, “Come on, Mom, please wake up. Please wake up. Don’t leave us, Mom.” Drew covered his mother with the quilt, then sat by her feet. He closed his eyes and pinched his nose and tried to pray. The house was still, silent; the only sounds were Kiera’s whimpering as she begged her mother. Minutes passed and Drew willed himself to stop crying and do something to protect them. Stuart might be asleep back there but he might wake up, too, and if he caught them downstairs he would fly into a rage and beat them.
He had done that before: get drunk, rage, threaten, slap, pass out, then wake up ready for another round of fun.
Then he snorted and made a drunken noise, and Drew was afraid he might wake himself from his drunkenness. Drew said, “Kiera, be quiet,” but she did not hear him. She was in a trance, pawing at her mother as tears dripped from her cheeks.
Slowly, Drew crawled away and left the kitchen. In the hall he crouched and tiptoed back to the bedroom where Stuart hadn’t moved. His boots still hung off the bed. His stocky body was spread across the covers. His mouth was open wide enough to catch flies. Drew stared at him with a hatred that almost blinded him. The brute had finally killed their mother, after months of trying, and he would certainly kill them next. And no one would bother Stuart for it because he had connections and knew important people, something he often bragged about. They were nothing but white trash, castaways from the trailer parks, but Stuart had clout because he owned land and carried a badge.
Drew took a step back and looked down the hall where he saw his mother lying on the floor and his sister holding her head and moaning in a low pained hum, completely detached, and he walked to a corner of the bedroom, to a small table on Stuart’s side of the bed where he kept his pistol and his thick black belt and holster and his badge in the shape of a star. He took the gun out of the holster and remembered how heavy it was. The pistol, a Glock nine-millimeter, was used by all deputies on the force. It was against the rules for a civilian to handle it. Stu cared little for silly rules, and one day not long ago when he was sober and in a rare good mood he walked Drew to the back pasture and showed him how to handle and fire the weapon. Stu had been raised with guns; Drew had not, and Stu poked fun at the kid for his ignorance. He boasted of killing his first deer when he was eight years old.
Drew had fired the gun three times, badly missing an archery target, and was frightened by the kick and noise of the gun. Stu had laughed at him for his timidity, then fired six quick rounds into the bull’s-eye.
Drew held the gun with his right hand and examined it. He knew it was loaded because Stu’s guns were always at the ready. There was a cabinet in the closet packed with rifles and shotguns, all loaded.
In the distance Kiera was moaning and crying, and before him Stu was snoring, and soon the police would come barging in and they would eventually do as little as they had done before. Nothing. Nothing to protect Drew and Kiera, not even now with their mother lying dead on the kitchen floor. Stuart Kofer had killed her, and he would tell lies and the police would believe him. Then Drew and his sister would face an even darker future without their mother.
He left the room holding the Glock and slowly walked to the kitchen, where nothing had changed. He asked Kiera if their mother was breathing and she did not respond, did not interrupt her noises. He walked to the den and looked out the window into the darkness. If he had a father he didn’t know him, and once again he asked himself where was the man of the family? Where was the leader, the wise one who gave advice and protection? He and Kiera had never known the security of two stable parents. They had met other fathers in foster care, and they had met youth court advocates who had tried to help, but they had never known the warm embrace of a man they could trust.
The responsibilities were left to him, the oldest. With their mother gone, he had no choice but to step up and become a man. He and he alone had to save them from a prolonged nightmare.
A noise startled him. There was a groan or a snort or some such noise from the bedroom and the box spring and mattress rattled and heaved, as if Stu was moving and coming back to life.
Drew and Kiera could not take any more. The moment had come, their only chance to survive was at hand, and Drew had to act. He returned to the bedroom and stared at Stu, still on his back and dead to the world, but oddly one boot was off and on the fl
oor. Dead was what he deserved. Drew slowly closed the door, as if to protect Kiera from any involvement. How easy would it be? Drew clasped the pistol with both hands. He held his breath and lowered the gun until the tip of the barrel was an inch from Stu’s left temple.
He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
2
Kiera never looked up. She stroked her mother’s hair and asked, “What did you do?”
“I shot him,” Drew said matter-of-factly. His voice had no expression, no fear or regret. “I shot him.”
She nodded and said nothing else. He went to the den and looked out the front window again. Where were the red and blue lights? Where were the responders? You call and report your mother has been killed by a brute and no one shows up. He turned on a lamp and glanced at the clock. 2:47. He would always remember the exact moment he shot Stuart Kofer. His hands were shaking and numb, his ears were ringing, but at 2:47 a.m. he had no regrets for killing the man who’d killed his mother. He walked back to the bedroom and turned on the ceiling light. The gun was beside Stu’s head, which had a small, ugly hole in the left side. Stu was still looking at the ceiling, now with his eyes open. A circle of bright red blood was spreading in an arc through the sheets.
Drew walked back to the kitchen, where nothing had changed. He went to the den, turned on another light, opened the front door, and took a seat in Stu’s recliner. Stu would have a fit if he caught anyone else sitting on his throne. It smelled like him—stale cigarettes, dried sweat, old leather, whiskey and beer. After a few minutes, Drew decided he hated the recliner, so he pulled a small chair to the window to wait for the lights.
The first were blue, blinking and swirling furiously, and when they topped the driveway’s last incline Drew was stricken with fear and had trouble breathing. They were coming to get him. He would leave in handcuffs in the rear seat of a deputy’s patrol car, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
The second responder was an ambulance with red lights, the third was another police car. Once it was known that there were two bodies and not just one, another ambulance arrived in a rush, followed by more law enforcement.
Josie had a pulse and was quickly loaded onto a stretcher and raced away to the hospital. Drew and Kiera were sequestered in the den and told not to move. And where would they go? Every light in the house was on and there were cops in every room.
Sheriff Ozzie Walls arrived by himself and was met in front of the house by Moss Junior Tatum, his chief deputy, who said, “Looks like Kofer came home late, they had a fight, he slapped her around, then passed out on his bed. The kid got his gun and shot him once in the head. Instant.”
“You talked to the kid?”
“Yep. Drew Gamble, age sixteen, son of Kofer’s girlfriend. Wouldn’t say much. I think he’s in shock. His sister is Kiera, age fourteen, she said they’ve lived here about a year and that Kofer was abusive, beat their mom all the time.”
“Kofer’s dead?” Ozzie asked in disbelief.
“Stuart Kofer is dead, sir.”
Ozzie shook his head in disgust and disbelief and walked to the front door, which was wide open. Inside, he stopped and glanced at Drew and Kiera who were sitting beside each other on the sofa, both staring down and trying to ignore the chaos. Ozzie wanted to say something but let it pass. He followed Tatum into the bedroom, where nothing had been touched. The gun was on the sheets, ten inches from Kofer’s head, and there was a wide circle of blood in the center of the bed. On the other side, the bullet’s exit had blown out a section of the skull, and blood and matter had been sprayed against the sheets, pillows, headboard, and wall.
At the moment, Ozzie had fourteen full-time deputies. Now thirteen. And seven part-timers, along with more volunteers than he cared to fool with. He’d been the sheriff of Ford County since 1983, elected seven years earlier in an historic landslide. Historic because he was, at the time, the only black sheriff in Mississippi and the first ever from a predominantly white county. In seven years he’d never lost a man. DeWayne Looney had his leg blown off in the courthouse shooting that put Carl Lee Hailey on trial in 1985, but Looney was still on the force.
But there, in all its ghastliness, was his first. There was Stuart Kofer, one of his best and certainly his most fearless, dead as a doornail as his body continued to leak fluids.
Ozzie removed his hat, said a quick prayer, and took a step back. Without taking his eyes off Kofer, he said, “Murder of a law enforcement officer. Call in the state boys and let them investigate. Don’t touch anything.” He looked at Tatum and asked, “You talked to the kids?”
“I did.”
“Same story?”
“Yes sir. The boy won’t talk. His sister says he shot him. Thought their mother was dead.”
Ozzie nodded and thought about the situation. He said, “All right, no more questions for the kids, no more interrogation. From this point on, everything we do will be picked through by the lawyers. Let’s take the kids in, but not a word. In fact, put ’em in my car.”
“Handcuffs?”
“Sure. For the boy. Do they have any family around here?”
Deputy Mick Swayze cleared his throat and said, “I don’t think so, Ozzie. I knew Kofer pretty well and he had this gal livin’ with him, said she had a rough background. One divorce, maybe two. I’m not sure where she’s from but he did say she ain’t from around here. I came out here a few weeks ago on a disturbance call, but she didn’t press charges.”
“All right. We’ll figure it out. I’ll take the kids in. Moss, you ride with me. Mick, you stay here.”
Drew stood when asked and offered his hands. Tatum gently cuffed them in the front and led the suspect out of the house and to the sheriff’s car. Kiera followed, wiping tears. The hillside was manic with a thousand flashing lights. Word was out that an officer was down, and every off-duty cop in the county wanted a look.
* * *
—
OZZIE DODGED THE other patrol cars and ambulances and weaved down the drive to the county road. He turned his blue lights on and hit the gas.
Drew asked, “Sir, can we see our mother?”
Ozzie looked at Tatum and said, “Turn on your tape recorder.”
Tatum removed a small recorder from a pocket and flipped a switch.
Ozzie said, “Okay, we are now recording anything that’s said. This is Sheriff Ozzie Walls and today is March twenty-fifth, nineteen ninety, at three fifty-one in the morning, and I’m driving to the Ford County jail with Deputy Moss Junior Tatum in the front seat, and in the backseat we have, what’s your full name, son?”
“Drew Allen Gamble.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen.”
“And your name, Miss?”
“Kiera Gale Gamble, age fourteen.”
“And your mother’s name?”
“Josie Gamble. She’s thirty-two.”
“Okay. I advise you not to talk about what happened tonight. Wait until you have a lawyer. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Now, you asked about your mother, right?”
“Yes sir. Is she alive?”
Ozzie glanced at Tatum, who shrugged and said into the recorder, “As far as we know, Josie Gamble is alive. She was taken from the scene in an ambulance and is probably already at the hospital.”
“Can we go see her?” Drew asked.
“No, not right now,” Ozzie said.
They rode in silence for a moment, then Ozzie said, in the direction of the recorder, “You were the first on the scene, right?”
Tatum said, “Yes.”
“And did you ask these two kids what happened?”
“I did. The boy, Drew, said nothing. I asked his sister, Kiera, if she knew anything, and she said her brother shot Kofer. At that point I stopped askin’ questions. It was pretty clear what happened.�
�
The radio was squawking and all of Ford County, even in the darkness, seemed to be alive. Ozzie turned down the volume and went silent himself. He kept his foot on the gas and his big brown Ford roared down the county road, straddling the center line, daring any varmint to venture onto the pavement.
He had hired Stuart Kofer four years earlier, after Kofer returned to Ford County from an abbreviated career in the army. Stuart had managed a passable job in explaining his dishonorable discharge, said it was all about technicalities and misunderstandings and so on. Ozzie gave him a uniform, put him on probation for six months, and sent him to the academy in Jackson where he excelled. On duty, there were no complaints. Kofer had become an instant legend when he single-handedly took out three drug dealers from Memphis who had gotten lost in rural Ford County.
Off-duty was another matter. Ozzie had dressed him down at least twice after reports of drinking and hell-raising, and Stuart, typically, apologized in tears, promised to clean up his act, and swore allegiance to Ozzie and the department. And he was fiercely loyal.
Ozzie had no patience with unpleasant officers and the jerks didn’t last long. Kofer was one of the more popular deputies and liked to volunteer in schools and with civic clubs. Because of the army he had seen the world, an oddity among his rather rustic colleagues, most of whom had hardly stepped outside the state. In public he was an asset, a gregarious officer who always had a smile and a joke, who remembered everyone’s name, who liked to walk through Lowtown, the colored section, on foot and without a gun and with candy for the kids.
In private there were problems, but as brothers in uniform his colleagues tried to keep them from Ozzie. Tatum and Swayze and most of the deputies knew something of Stuart’s dark side, but it was easier to ignore it and hope for the best, hope no one got hurt.
Ozzie glanced in the mirror again and looked at Drew in the shadows. Head down, eyes closed, not a sound. And although Ozzie was stunned and angry, it was difficult to picture the kid as a murderer. Slight, shorter than his sister, pale, timid, obviously overwhelmed, the kid could pass for a shy twelve-year-old.