by John Grisham
There was a loud click and the line was dead. His Honor had just given an order and hung up.
* * *
—
THE MARCH WINDS picked up late in the afternoon and the temperature dropped. With his girls lost in an old movie in the den, Jake left his house and went for a long walk through the quiet streets of Clanton. He often spent an hour or two alone in his office late on Sundays, reviewing the files he had not managed to close the previous week and deciding which ones to postpone next. At the moment he had eighty open files, but only a handful were decent cases. Such was the practice of law in a small, poor town.
These days his world was consumed with Smallwood, and most other matters were being ignored.
The facts were as simple as they were complicated. Taylor Smallwood, his wife Sarah, and two of their three children were killed instantly when their small import collided with a train at a dangerous crossing near the Polk County line. The accident happened around ten-thirty on a Friday night. A witness in a pickup truck a hundred yards behind the family said the red flashing crossing lights were not working at the time of the collision. The train’s engineer and brakeman swore that they were. The crossing was at the foot of a hill that dropped fifty degrees from a crest half a mile up.
Two months earlier, Sarah had given birth to their third child, Grace. At the time of the accident, Grace was being kept by Taylor’s sister who lived in Clanton.
Typically, such a sensational accident sent the local bar into a frenzy as every lawyer in town searched for an angle to land the case. Jake had never heard of the family and struck out immediately. Harry Rex, though, had handled a divorce for Sarah’s sister and she was pleased with the results. As the vultures were circling, he struck quick and got a contract signed by various family members. He then dashed to the courthouse, set up a guardianship for Grace, the sole heir and plaintiff, and filed a $10 million lawsuit against the railroad, Central & Southern.
Harry Rex knew his limitations and realized that he might not connect with jurors. He had a much better plan. He offered Jake half the fee if he would step in as lead counsel, do the heavy lifting, and push hard for a trial. Harry Rex had seen the magic with the Hailey jury. He had sat mesmerized like everyone else as Jake pleaded for his client’s life, and he knew that his younger friend had a way with jurors. If Jake could just land the right cases, he would someday make a lot of money in the courtroom.
They shook hands on the deal. Jake would take an aggressive role and lean on Judge Noose to speed things along. Harry Rex would work in the shadows, plowing through discovery, hiring experts, intimidating insurance lawyers, and, most important, picking the jury. They worked well together, primarily because they gave each other plenty of room.
The railroad tried to remove the case to federal court, a less friendly jurisdiction, but Jake blocked the move with a series of motions that Noose granted. So far, their judge had shown little patience with the defense lawyers and their usual stalling tactics.
The strategy was straightforward: just prove the crossing was dangerous, badly designed, not properly maintained, well known as a place of near misses, and that the warning lights had failed that night. The defense was just as simple: Taylor Smallwood hit the fourteenth boxcar without ever touching his brakes. How do you not see, whether at night or in clear daylight, a railroad boxcar that is fifteen feet tall, forty feet long, and covered with bright yellow reflective warning stickers?
The plaintiff had a strong case because the damages were enormous. The defense had a strong case because of the obvious facts.
For almost a year, the railroad’s insurance lawyers had refused to discuss settlement. However, now that the judge was setting a trial date, Harry Rex believed some money might be on the table. One of the defense lawyers was an acquaintance from law school and they had been drinking together.
* * *
—
JAKE PREFERRED HIS office when it was empty, which was rare these days. His current secretary was Portia Lang, a twenty-six-year-old army veteran who would be leaving in six months to start law school at Ole Miss. Portia’s mother, Lettie, had inherited a small fortune in a will dispute two years earlier, and Jake had battled an entire squad of lawyers to uphold the will. Portia had been so inspired by the case that she decided to go to law school. Her dream was to become the first black female lawyer in Ford County, and she was well on her way. Far more than a secretary, Portia not only answered the phone and ran interference with the clients and foot traffic, she was also learning legal research and wrote clearly. They were negotiating a deal in which she would continue to work part-time while in school, but both knew it would be nearly impossible the first year.
To complicate their lives, Lucien Wilbanks, the owner of the building and former owner of the law firm, was now in the habit of arriving for work at least three mornings each week and generally making a nuisance of himself. Disbarred years earlier, Lucien could not take cases or represent clients, so he spent too much of his time sticking his nose into Jake’s business and unloading unsolicited advice. He often claimed to be studying for the bar exam, a monumental challenge for an old man with much of his mental strength sapped by years of heavy drinking. Lucien claimed that by keeping hours at the office he stayed away from the whiskey cabinet at home, but before long he was sipping at his desk. He had assumed ownership of a small downstairs conference room, far away from Jake but too close to Portia, and usually spent the afternoons snoring off his liquid lunches with his feet on his desk.
Lucien had made one crude comment of a sexual nature to Portia, after which she threatened to break his neck. They had been civil ever since, though she was happier when he was absent.
To round out the firm’s lineup, most of the typing was being done by a twenty-hour-a-week former client named Beverly, a perfectly nice lady of middle age whose entire existence revolved around smoking cigarettes. She chain-smoked, knew the habit was killing her, and had tried every gimmick on the market to quit. The addiction prevented her from keeping a full-time job, and a husband. Jake fixed her an office behind the kitchen where all windows and doors could be left open and she could peck away in a blue haze. Even then, everything she touched reeked of stale smoke and Jake was worried about how long she would last. He quietly speculated to Portia that lung cancer might get her before he was forced to terminate her employment. But Portia did not complain, nor did Lucien, who still smoked cigars on his porch and often smelled of old fumes himself.
Jake eased upstairs to his grand office and did not turn on the lights because he did not want to attract attention. Even on Sunday afternoons, he had heard people knocking on his door. Not often, though. Not often enough. Some days he wondered where the next clients were coming from. Others, he wanted to get rid of all of them.
In the semidarkness, he stretched out on the old leather sofa purchased by the Wilbanks brothers decades earlier, and he stared at the dusty fan hanging from the ceiling and wondered how long it had been there. How much of the practice of law had changed over the years? What were the ethical dilemmas faced by those lawyers back then? Did they worry about taking unpopular cases? Were they afraid of a backlash if they represented murderers?
Jake chuckled at the stories he’d heard about Lucien. He had been the first, and for years the only, white member of the county’s chapter of the NAACP. And later, the same for the ACLU. He had represented unions, a rarity in rural north Mississippi. He sued the state over the lousy schools for blacks. He sued the state over capital punishment. He sued the city because it refused to pave the streets in Lowtown. Until he was disbarred, Lucien Wilbanks had been a fearless lawyer who never hesitated to fire off a lawsuit when he thought one was needed, and never failed to help a client who was being mistreated.
On the sidelines now for the past eleven years, Lucien was still a loyal friend who reveled in Jake’s success. If asked, there was no doubt in Jake’s m
ind that Lucien would advise him to not only take on the defense of young Drew Gamble but to do so with as much noise as possible. Proclaim innocence! Demand a speedy trial! Lucien had always believed that every person charged with a serious crime deserved a good lawyer. And, Lucien had never, throughout his colorful career, dodged the attention that a bad client could bring.
Jake’s other close friend, Harry Rex, had already weighed in and there was no reason to revisit the question with him. Carla was on the fence. Noose was waiting by the phone.
He wasn’t worried about the Kofers. He didn’t know them and believed they lived in the southern part of the county. Jake was thirty-seven years old and had practiced law successfully for twelve years without that family. He could certainly prosper in the future without knowing them.
He was thinking about the cops—the city policemen, and Ozzie, and his deputies. Six days a week, Jake had breakfast four doors down at the Coffee Shop, and Marshall Prather was often there, waiting with the morning’s first insult. Jake had done legal work for many on the force and knew that he was their favorite lawyer. DeWayne Looney had testified against Carl Lee Hailey, and had stunned the jury by admitting he admired the man who blew off his leg. Mick Swayze had a crazy cousin that Jake had successfully shipped off to the state mental hospital, at no charge.
Granted, the legal work wasn’t much—wills and deeds and small stuff that Jake charged little for. Pro bono work was not unusual.
As he studied the ceiling fan, he had to admit that not a single law enforcement officer had ever brought him a decent case. And wouldn’t they understand if he represented Drew? Sure they were in shock at the murder of a colleague, but they realized that someone, some lawyer, had to represent the accused. Might they feel better if the lawyer was Jake, a friend they trusted?
Was he about to make a courageous decision, or the biggest mistake of his career?
He finally walked to his desk, picked up the phone, and called Carla.
Then he called Judge Noose.
6
It was dark when he left the office and even darker as he walked around the deserted square. It was almost eight on a Sunday night and not a single store or café was open. The jail, however, was bristling with activity. As he turned down the street and saw the fleet of patrol cars parked haphazardly around the buildings, and the news trucks—one from Tupelo, one from Jackson—and the crowd of men loitering outside smoking and talking quietly, a sharp pain hit low in his stomach. He felt as though he was walking directly into enemy territory.
He knew the layout well and decided to duck down a side street and enter the sprawling office complex through a rear door. The buildings had been enlarged and renovated over time and with no clear plan as to what might be constructed next. Along with the twenty or so cells and holding rooms and reception areas and cramped hallways, the complex housed the sheriff’s department on one end and the Clanton City Police on the other. For the sake of simplicity, all of it was simply referred to as the “jail.”
And on that dark night the jail was packed with every person even remotely connected to law enforcement. It was indeed a brotherhood; the comfort in being with others who wore the badge.
A jailer told Jake that Ozzie was in his office with the door locked. Jake asked him to inform the sheriff that he needed to speak with him and would wait outside near the yard, a fenced area where the inmates often played basketball and checkers. In good weather, Jake and the other lawyers in town would sit on an old picnic table under a tree and chat with their clients through the chain-link fence. At night, though, the yard was dark as all prisoners were locked away. Their small cell windows were secured by rows of thick bars.
At that moment, Jake had no clients serving time in the jail, other than his latest one. He had two boys at the state penitentiary at Parchman, both for selling drugs. One had a mother with a big mouth and was blaming Jake for their family’s demise.
A door opened and Ozzie appeared, alone. He strolled over, in no hurry, as if his shoulders were weighted, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Instead of extending a hand, he cracked his knuckles and gazed across the yard.
“Rough day,” Jake said.
Ozzie grunted and said, “The worst one yet. Got the call at three this mornin’ and haven’t slowed down since. It’s tough losin’ a deputy, Jake.”
“I’m sorry, Ozzie. I knew Stu and liked him. I can’t imagine what you guys are going through.”
“He was a great guy, kept us all in stitches. Maybe a darker side, but we can’t talk about that.”
“And you’ve met with his family?”
Ozzie took a deep breath and shook his head. “I drove out, paid my respects. They’re not the most stable people I’ve met. They’ve called here this afternoon askin’ about the boy. Two of them showed up at the hospital, said they wanted to talk to the boy’s mother. Crazy stuff like that. So now I’ve got a deputy parked outside her room. You better watch these guys, Jake.”
Just what the little Brigance family needed. More crazies to worry about.
Ozzie cleared his throat and spat on the ground. “I just talked to Noose.”
“So did I,” Jake said. “He wouldn’t take no.”
“He told me he leaned on you, said you didn’t want to get involved.”
“Who would, Ozzie? Certainly nobody from around here. Noose promised me he would try to find a lawyer from outside the county, so I’m just sort of standing in for the preliminaries. At least that’s the plan.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m not. These cases are not easy to get rid of, especially when the rest of the bar goes into hiding and won’t take calls from the judge. There’s a good chance I’ll get stuck with it.”
“Why couldn’t you just say no?”
“Because Noose is standing on my neck and because there’s no one else, not now anyway. It’s hard to say no to a circuit judge, Ozzie.”
“Sounds like it.”
“He pushed pretty hard.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said. I guess we’re on opposite sides here, Jake.”
“Aren’t we usually on opposite sides? You bring ’em in, I try to get ’em off. Both doing our jobs.”
“I don’t know. This seems different. I’ve never buried a deputy before. Then we’ll have a trial, a big one, and you’ll do what good lawyers are supposed to do. Get the kid off, right?”
“That day is far away, Ozzie. I’m not thinking about a trial right now.”
“Try thinkin’ about a funeral.”
“I’m sorry, Ozzie.”
“Thanks. Should be a fun week.”
“I need to see the kid.”
Ozzie nodded to a row of windows on the back side of the jail’s most recent addition. “Right there.”
“Thanks. Do me a favor, Ozzie. Marshall, Moss, DeWayne, those guys are my friends, and they won’t like this at all.”
“You got that right.”
“So at least be honest and tell them that Noose appointed me, and that I didn’t ask for the case.”
“I’ll do that.”
* * *
—
THE JAILER OPENED the door and switched on a dim light. Jake followed him inside as his eyes tried to refocus in the semidarkness. He had been in the juvie cell before, many times.
The normal procedure would have been to handcuff the inmate and walk him down the hall to an interrogation room where he would meet face-to-face with his lawyer while a jailer stood guard just outside the door. No one could remember a lawyer being attacked in the jail by his client, but they were cautious nonetheless. There was a first time for everything and the clientele was not the most predictable.
However, it was obvious to Ozzie and the jailer that this inmate posed no threat. Drew had completely withdrawn and refused all food. He had said nothing since his
sister left twelve hours earlier.
The jailer whispered, “Shall I leave the door open, just in case?”
Jake shook his head no and the jailer left, closing the door behind him. Drew was still on the bottom bunk, using as little space as possible. Under a thin blanket, he was curled with his knees to his chest and his back to the door, wrapped tight and warm in his own little dark cocoon. Jake pulled over a plastic stool and sat down, making as much noise as possible. The kid did not flinch, did nothing to acknowledge the presence of his visitor.
Jake adjusted to the utter stillness, then coughed and said, “Say, Drew, my name is Jake. Are you there? Anybody home?”
Nothing.
“I’m a lawyer and the judge has assigned me to your case. I’ll bet you’ve met a lawyer before, right, Drew?”
Nothing.
“Okay. Well, you and I need to be friends because you’re about to spend a lot of time with me, and with the judge, and with the court system. You ever been to court before, Drew?”
Nothing.
“Something tells me that you’ve been to court.”
Nothing.
“I’m a good guy, Drew. I’m on your side.”
Nothing. A minute passed, then two. The blanket rose and fell slightly as Drew breathed. Jake could not see if his eyes were open.
Another minute. Jake said, “Okay, can we talk about your mother, Drew? Josie Gamble. You know she’s okay, right?”
Nothing. Then a slight movement under the blanket as he slowly uncurled his legs and stretched them.
“And your sister, Kiera. Let’s talk about Josie and Kiera. They’re both safe right now, Drew. I want you to know this.”
Nothing.
“Drew, we’re not getting anywhere here. I want you to turn around and look at me. It’s the least you can do. Roll over and say hello and let’s have a chat.”