by John Grisham
The boy grunted the word “No.”
“Great, now we’re getting somewhere. You can talk after all. Ask me a question about your mother, okay? Anything.”
Softly, he asked, “Where is she?”
“Turn around and sit up and look at me when you talk.”
He rolled over and sat up, careful not to hit his head on the frame of the top bunk. He pulled the blanket tight around his neck as if it protected him and leaned forward with his feet hanging free. Dirty socks, shoes over by the commode. He stared at the floor and huddled under the blanket.
Jake studied his face and was certain there had to be a mistake. Drew’s eyes were red and puffy from a day spent under the covers and probably no small amount of crying. His blond hair was wild and in need of a trim. And he was tiny.
When Jake was sixteen years old he was the starting quarterback for Karaway High School, ten miles from Clanton. He also played basketball and baseball and was shaving, driving, and dating every cute girl who would say yes. This kid belonged on a bike with training wheels.
Chatter was important and Jake said, “Paperwork says you’re sixteen years old, right?”
No response.
“When’s your birthday?”
He stared at the floor, motionless.
“Come on, Drew, surely you know your own birthday.”
“Where’s my mother?”
“She’s at the hospital and she’ll be there for a few days. She has a broken jaw and I think the doctors want to operate. I’m going by there tomorrow to say hello and I’d like to tell her that you’re okay. Under the circumstances.”
“She’s not dead?”
“No, Drew, your mother is not dead. What do you want me to say to her?”
“I thought she was dead. So did Kiera. We both thought Stu had finally killed her. That’s why I shot him. What’s your name?”
“Jake. I’m your lawyer.”
“The last lawyer lied to me.”
“Sorry about that, but I’m not lying. I swear I don’t lie. Ask me something now, anything, and I promise I’ll give you a straight answer without lying. Try me.”
“How long will I be here in jail?”
Jake hesitated and said, “I don’t know and that’s not a lie. It’s the truth, because right now nobody knows how long you’ll stay in jail. A safe answer would be ‘a long time.’ They’re going to charge you with killing Stuart Kofer, and murder is the most serious crime of all.”
He looked at Jake and with red moist eyes said, “But I thought he killed my mother.”
“I get that, but the truth is, Drew, that he didn’t.”
“I’m still glad I shot him.”
“I wish you had not.”
“I don’t care if they keep me in prison forever because he can never hurt my mother again. And he can’t hurt Kiera and he can’t hurt me. He got what he deserved, Mr. Jake.”
“It’s just ‘Jake,’ okay? Drew and Jake. Lawyer and client.”
Drew wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. He closed his eyes tightly and began shaking, shivering as if the chills were sweeping through him. Jake pulled down another thin blanket from the top bunk and draped it over his shoulders. He was sobbing now, shaking and sobbing with tears dripping off his cheeks. He cried for a long time, a small, pitiful, terrified little boy so utterly alone in the world. More of a little boy than a teenager, Jake thought more than once.
When the shaking stopped, Drew went back into his own world and refused to speak, refused to acknowledge Jake’s presence. He wrapped himself in the blankets, lay down, and stared blankly at the mattress frame above him.
Jake brought up his mother again, but it didn’t work. He mentioned food and soft drinks but there was no response. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. When it became apparent that Drew was not going to respond, Jake said, “Okay, I’m outta here, Drew. I’ll see your mother in the morning and tell her you’re doing just great. While I’m away, you are not to speak to anyone else. No jailer, no policeman, no investigator, nobody, you hear? Which, for you, should not be a problem. Just say nothing until I get back.”
Jake left him much as he’d found him, lying still, trance-like, staring wide-eyed but seeing nothing.
He closed the door behind him. At the desk he signed out, avoided some familiar faces, and left the jail on foot for the long walk home.
* * *
—
OUT OF CURIOSITY, he took a detour near the square and saw an office light on, as he’d expected. Harry Rex often locked himself away late at night, especially on Sunday, to catch up with the madness that was his practice. During most days his dingy waiting room was filled with warring spouses and other unhappy clients, and he spent more time refereeing than settling disputes. In addition to that stress, his fourth marriage was not going well and he preferred the late-night tranquility of his office over the tension around the house.
Jake tapped on a window and entered through a rear door. Harry Rex met him in the kitchen and removed two cans of beer from the fridge. They settled into a cluttered workroom beside his office. “Why are you out so late?” he asked.
“Stopped by the jail,” Jake said, and Harry Rex nodded as if this was no surprise.
“Noose hazed you into it, right?”
“He did. Said the appointment was only for thirty days, just to get the kid through the preliminaries.”
“Bullshit. You’ll never get rid of this case, Jake, because no one else’ll take it. I tried to warn you.”
“You did, but it’s pretty hard saying no to the circuit judge, Harry Rex. When was the last time you looked at Noose and said no to a favor?”
“I stay away from Noose, not my domain. I prefer chancery court where we don’t have juries and the judges are afraid of me.”
“Chancellor Reuben Atlee is not afraid of anybody.”
Harry Rex swallowed some beer and looked at Jake in disbelief. He took another swallow and kicked back in an old wooden swivel. He’d lost fifty pounds the year before but had now regained at least that much, and because of his bulk he struggled to lift both feet to the table. But they made it, in ragged old jogging shoes that Jake could swear he’d been wearing for at least the past decade. Feet in place, cold beer in hand, he continued pleasantly, “A really stupid move on your part.”
“I may have stopped by for a beer but not for any abuse.”
As if he didn’t hear him, Harry Rex said, “My phone has been ringin’ all day as the gossip spread and I heard from people I thought were dead, hoped most of them were anyway, but, seriously, a murdered deputy? This county has never seen one of those, and so folks are prattlin’ away right now. And tomorrow and the next day and the rest of the week, that’s all this town will talk about. How much they all loved Stuart Kofer. Even the wags who hardly knew him will discover a deep admiration for the guy. And can you imagine the funeral or memorial or whatever Ozzie will put on with the family? Hell, you know how much cops love parades and funeral processions and burials with guns and cannons. It’ll be quite the show with the whole town tryin’ to get into the act. And when they’re not weepin’ over Kofer they’ll be vilifying his killer. Sixteen-year-old punk shot him with his own gun in his own bed. Cold-blooded murder. Let’s string him up now. As always, Jake, the guilt will rub off on the lawyer, on you. You’ll do your best to represent your client and they’ll hate you for it. It’s a mistake, Jake, a big one. You’ll regret this case for a long time.”
“You’re assuming too much, Harry Rex. Noose assured me it’s only temporary. I’ll meet with him Tuesday to discuss the possibility of approaching some of the national child advocacy groups to get some help down here. Noose knows the case is not good for me.”
“Y’all talk about Smallwood?”
“Of course not. That would be highly inappropriate.”
&
nbsp; Harry Rex snorted and swallowed more beer.
It was unethical to discuss a hotly contested case with the presiding judge when the opposing lawyers knew nothing of the conversation. Especially a phone chat on a Sunday afternoon that was initiated for other reasons. But such ethical formalities had never impressed Harry Rex.
He said, “Here’s what might happen, Jake, and this is my biggest fear. Right now those sumbitches on the other side of Smallwood are gettin’ nervous. I’ve convinced Doby that they don’t want to mess with you in your courtroom, in front of a Ford County jury. You’re good and all that but not nearly as good as I’ve made you out to be. I’ve blown a lot of smoke up his ass and he’s not much of a trial lawyer anyway. His partner is better, but they’re from Jackson and that can be a long ways off. Sullivan will be sitting at the table with them but he’s not a factor. So we’re talkin’ trial dates for Smallwood and I have a hunch the railroad will start droppin’ hints about a settlement. However.” A gulp of beer and the can was empty. “Yesterday you were the golden boy with a fine reputation, but that started changin’ today. By the end of the week your good name will be mud because you’re tryin’ to spring the kid who murdered our deputy.”
“I’m not sure it was murder.”
“You’re crazy, Jake. Have you been hangin’ around Lucien again?”
“No, not today. It could be insanity. Could be justifiable homicide.”
“Could be. Could be. Let me tell you what it will be. It’ll be suicide for you and your law practice in this small and unforgiving town. Even if you keep Noose happy, it’ll still kill Smallwood. Can’t you see that, Jake?”
“You’re overreacting again, Harry Rex. There are thirty-two thousand people in this county and I’m sure we can find twelve who’ve never heard of me or Stuart Kofer. The railroad’s lawyers can’t point at me in the courtroom and say, ‘Hey, that guy represents cop killers.’ They can’t do that and Noose won’t let them try.”
Harry Rex jerked his feet down as if he’d had enough, and he lumbered out of the room, went to the kitchen, fetched two more beers, and brought them to the table. He popped a top and began pacing along the far end of the table. “Here’s your problem, Jake. Your problem is that you want to be the center of attention. That’s why you fought to hang on to the Hailey case when all the black preachers and organizers and radicals were tellin’ Carl Lee to ditch the white boy before they sent his black ass to Parchman. You fought to keep the case and then you defended him brilliantly. You love it, Jake. I don’t expect you to admit it, but you love the big case, the big trial, the big verdict. You love being in the very center of the arena with all eyes on you.”
Jake ignored the second can and took a sip from his first.
“What’s Carla’s opinion?” Harry Rex asked.
“Mixed. She’s tired of me carrying a gun.”
Harry Rex drank some beer and stopped to stare at a bookcase filled with thick, leather-bound law treatises no one in his office had touched in decades. Not even to dust. Without looking at Jake, he asked, “Did you say the words ‘justifiable homicide’?”
“I did.”
“So you’re already at trial, right, Jake?”
“No, I’m just thinking out loud. Just a habit.”
“Bullshit. You’re already at trial and plannin’ the defense. Did Kofer beat the woman?”
“She’s in the hospital with a concussion and a broken jaw that will require surgery.”
“Did he beat the kids?”
“I don’t know.”
“So there was a pattern of Kofer comin’ home drunk late on Saturday night and slappin’ everybody around. And the way you see the defense is that you’ll in effect put him on trial. You’ll slander his good name by exposin’ all of his sins and bad habits.”
“It’s not slander if it’s true.”
“That could be a very nasty trial, Jake.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it, Harry Rex. I don’t plan on being anywhere near that courtroom.”
“Now you’re lyin’.”
“No, I think about trials because I’m a lawyer, but this one is for someone else. I’ll get through the preliminary stuff, then unload the kid.”
“I doubt that. I truly doubt that, Jake. I just hope you’re not screwin’ up Smallwood. Truthfully, I really don’t give a damn what happens to Stuart Kofer or his girlfriends and kids and people I’ve never met, but I do care about Smallwood. That case could be the biggest payday in our lousy little careers.”
“I don’t know. I got a thousand bucks for the Hailey case.”
“And that’s about all you’ll get for this turkey too.”
“Well, at least we have Noose on our side.”
“For now. I don’t trust him as much as you do.”
“Have you ever met a judge you trusted?”
“No. Nor a lawyer.”
“Look, I gotta go. I need a favor.”
“A favor? Right now I’d like to choke you.”
“Yeah, but you won’t. Tomorrow morning at six, I’ll walk into the Coffee Shop and say hello to Marshall Prather. Same routine. Might be another deputy or two at the table. I need a wingman.”
“You’ve lost your mind, Jake.”
“Come on, pal. Think of all the crazy stuff I’ve done for you.”
“Nope. You’re on your own. Tomorrow mornin’ you get another dose of life as a small-town criminal lawyer.”
“And you’re afraid to be seen with me?”
“No. I’m afraid of wakin’ up that early. Beat it, pal. You’re makin’ your own decisions these days, without regard to others. I’m pissed and I plan to stay that way for a long time.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“This time I mean it. You wanna play radical lawyer, get your buddy Lucien to join you for breakfast. See how the locals enjoy him.”
“He can’t get up that early.”
“And we know why.”
* * *
—
WITH HANNA TUCKED IN for the night and Jake out roaming the streets, Carla watched television and waited on the ten o’clock news. She started with the Tupelo station where, as expected, the murder of Stuart Kofer was the lead story with a large color image of the deputy in his nicely starched uniform posted as background. Details were still under wraps. A suspect, a minor, name not given, was in custody. There was footage of an ambulance leaving Kofer’s property with, presumably, a dead body inside but none visible. No comment from the sheriff or anyone else with authority. No comments anywhere, yet the intrepid reporter on the scene managed to ramble on about the killing for a solid five minutes while saying almost nothing. Filler was added with live shots of the Ford County Courthouse and even the jail, where some patrol cars were filmed coming and going. Carla switched to a Memphis station and learned even less, though for good measure the story included something vague about a “domestic disturbance,” with the mild implication that Kofer had been called to the scene to break up a fight and somehow got hit in the crossfire. There was no reporter on the scene to get to the bottom of things. Evidently, a weekend intern at a news desk was ad-libbing. Another Memphis station spent half its time recapping the city’s own daily carnage of home invasions, gang wars, and random murders. It then went south to the Kofer story and the real news that, allegedly, he was the first county officer to be killed “in the line of duty” since a moonshiner shot two deputies in 1922. Not surprisingly, the reporter spun things to give the impression that the county was still rife with illegal whiskey, drugs, and other lawlessness, a far cry from the safe streets of Memphis.
Jake walked in during the last report, and Carla turned off the television and briefed him on the others. He wanted some decaf coffee. She brewed a pot and they had a cup at the breakfast table where the long day had begun.
He replayed his con
versations with Ozzie, Drew, and Harry Rex, and he confessed that he was not looking forward to the coming week. She was sympathetic but obviously worried. She wanted the case to simply go away.
7
After the Sunday night service at Good Shepherd, Reverend McGarry convened a special meeting of the board of deacons. Seven of the twelve were present, four women and three men, and they gathered in the fellowship hall with cookies and coffee. Kiera was next door in the small church parsonage, with Meg McGarry, the pastor’s wife, eating a sandwich for dinner.
The young preacher explained that since Kiera had no other place to go at the moment, she would be staying with them until—until what? Until a relative showed up to claim her, which didn’t appear likely? Until some court somewhere issued an order? Until her mother was discharged and could leave town with her? Regardless, Kiera was now an unofficial ward of the church. And she was traumatized and needed professional help. Throughout the afternoon she had talked of nothing but her mother and brother and her desire to be with them.
Meg had called the hospital and talked to an administrator who said that, yes, they could provide a foldaway bed for the girl to stay with her mother. Two of the lady deacons volunteered to spend the night down the hall in the waiting room. There was a discussion about food, clothing, and school.
Charles was of the firm opinion that Kiera should not return to classes for at least a few days. She was far too fragile and there was the near certainty that another student would say something hurtful. It was finally agreed that the school attendance issue would be dealt with on a day-by-day basis. One member of the church taught algebra at the middle school and would talk to the principal. Another member had a cousin who was a child psychologist and she would inquire about counseling.
Plans were formulated, and at ten o’clock they drove Kiera to the hospital where the staff had arranged a bed next to her mother’s. Josie’s vitals were normal and she said she felt okay. Her swollen and bandaged face, though, told another story. A hospital gown was provided for Kiera, and when the nurses turned down the lights, she was sitting at her mother’s feet.