by John Grisham
Mrs. Whitaker added, “Drew’s teacher said the class was doing pen-pal letters to boys and girls in orphanages and Drew said he’d been there once, to an orphanage, and he wasn’t ashamed to talk about it. Seems like he’s more outgoing than his sister.”
“Any family around here?” Jake asked.
Both ladies shook their heads. No. Mrs. Huff said, “And I’m not sure how or why she took up with that Kofer fellow. He had a bad reputation in the area.”
“For what?” Portia asked.
“Well, there were a lot of rumors about the guy, down our way. Even though he was a deputy, he had a darker side.”
Jake was keen to pursue the dark side when a doctor walked in. The ladies proudly introduced him to the family’s lawyer and his paralegal. As in most hospitals, the presence of a lawyer chilled the conversation with the doctor. He assured them the patient was doing fine, still in pain, but getting restless. Once the swelling was under control, they would do the surgery to reset the broken bones in her cheek and jaw.
“Can she talk?” Jake asked.
“A little. She struggles but she wants to talk.”
“Could we see her?”
“Sure, just don’t overdo it, okay?”
Jake and Portia hurried from the room as Mrs. Whitaker and Mrs. Huff were pointing the doctor toward the latest casseroles and talking about lunch. It was 10:20.
The deputy on hall duty was Lyman Price, probably the oldest member of Ozzie’s force and the one least able to stalk drug dealers and chase down criminals. When he wasn’t pushing papers around his desk at the jail, he worked the courtrooms keeping order in the court. Killing hours outside a hospital room was another perfect job for old Lyman.
He greeted Jake with his usual gruffness, with no hint of an edge because of the Kofer business.
Jake knocked on the door as he opened it and smiled at Kiera, who was sitting in a chair, reading a teen magazine. Josie was on her back but propped up and alert. Jake introduced himself and Portia, and said hello to Kiera, who put down the magazine and stood near her mother’s feet.
Jake said they would just be there for a moment, but he had met with Drew the night before and promised him that he would see his mother and make sure she was okay. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it and through the gauze mumbled something like “How is he?”
“He’s okay. We’re on our way back to the jail to see him now.”
Kiera had moved closer and was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were moist and she wiped her cheeks, and Jake was struck by the fact that she was much taller than her brother, though two years younger. Drew could pass for a little boy far away from puberty. Kiera was physically mature for her age.
“How long in jail?” Josie asked.
“A long time, Josie. There’s no way to get him out for weeks or months. He’ll be charged with murder and face a trial and that’ll take a lot of time.”
Kiera leaned forward with a tissue and wiped her mother’s cheeks, then wiped her own. There was a long silent pause as a monitor beeped and nurses laughed in the hallway. Jake flinched first and was suddenly eager to leave. He clutched Josie’s hand, leaned down and said, “I’ll be back. Right now we’re going to check on Drew.”
She tried to nod but the pain hit and she grimaced. Backing away, Jake handed Kiera a business card and whispered, “There’s my number.” At the door he turned around for a last glance and saw the two clutching each other in a tight embrace, both crying, both terrified of the unknowns.
It was a heartbreaking image that he would never forget. Two little people facing nothing but fear and the wrath of the system, a mother and daughter who’d done nothing wrong but were suffering mightily. They had no voice, no one to protect them. No one but Jake. A voice told him that they, along with Drew, would be a part of his life for years to come.
* * *
—
THE CHIEF PROSECUTOR for the Twenty-second Judicial District—Polk, Ford, Tyler, Milburn, and Van Buren counties—was the district attorney, Lowell Dyer, from the even smaller town of Gretna, forty miles north of Clanton. Three years earlier, Dyer had challenged the great Rufus Buckley, the three-term D.A. who many believed would one day become governor, or at least try. With as much ceremony, publicity, grandstanding, and outright hotdogging as the state had ever seen, Buckley had prosecuted Carl Lee Hailey five years earlier and begged the jury for death. Jake convinced them otherwise and handed Buckley his greatest defeat. The voters then gave him another one, and he limped back to his hometown of Smithfield and opened a small office. Jake and virtually every other lawyer in the district had quietly supported Lowell Dyer, who had proven to be a steady hand at a rather dull job.
Monday morning was anything but dull. Dyer had taken a call late Sunday night from Judge Noose, and the two had discussed the Kofer case. Ozzie called early Monday morning, and by 9:00 a.m. Dyer was meeting with his assistant, D. R. Musgrove, to consider their options. From the outset, there was little doubt that the State wanted to push for a capital murder indictment and seek the death penalty. A man of the law had been murdered in his own bed, by his own gun, in cold blood. The killer had confessed and was in custody and, though only sixteen, he was certainly old enough to know right from wrong and appreciate the nature of his actions. In Dyer’s world, the Good Book taught an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, vengeance is mine saith the Lord. Or something like that. The exact wording from the Bible was really not that important, because capital punishment was still favored by an overwhelming majority of the population, especially those concerned enough to vote. Polls and public opinion surveys were of no consequence in the rural South, because the issue had long since been settled and public sentiment had not changed. Indeed, when Dyer ran for office he said several times on the stump that the problem with the gas chamber was that it was not being used enough. This had really pleased the crowds, or at least the white ones. In black churches, he had avoided the issue altogether.
The law currently considered murder to be exempt from youth court jurisdiction if the accused was at least thirteen years old. A twelve-year-old could not be prosecuted in circuit court, the tribunal for all criminal prosecutions. No other state had such a low threshold. In most, the defendant had to be at least sixteen to be tried as an adult. Up north, a few states had bumped the age up to eighteen, but not in the South.
Though the gravity of the moment throttled his enthusiasm, Lowell was secretly delighted to have such an important case. In his three years, he had not indicted anyone for capital murder, and as a prosecutor who saw himself getting tougher and tougher, he had grown frustrated with such a bland docket. If not for the production and peddling of drugs, and the gambling sting run by the Feds with local help, he’d have little to do. He had tried a drunk in Polk County for vehicular homicide and put him away for twenty years. He had won two bank robberies in Milburn County, same defendant, but the guy had escaped and was still on the lam. Probably still robbing banks.
Before the Kofer killing, Lowell was spending his time on a joint task force of prosecutors trying to fight the cocaine plague.
But with the Kofer killing, Lowell Dyer was suddenly the man in the middle. Unlike his predecessor, Rufus Buckley, who would have already called at least two press conferences, Lowell avoided the reporters Monday morning and went about his business. He spoke to Ozzie again, and Noose, and he placed a call to Jake Brigance but got voicemail. Out of respect, he called Earl Kofer and passed along his sympathies while promising a full measure of justice. He sent his investigator to Clanton to start digging.
And he took a call from a pathologist at the state crime lab. The autopsy revealed that Kofer died of a single bullet wound to the head, in through the left temple, out through the right ear. Nothing really remarkable, but for the fact that his blood alcohol level was .36. Point-three-six! Three and a half times the state’s limit of .10 t
o be legally drunk behind the wheel. Kofer was six feet one inch tall and weighed 197 pounds. A man that size, and that drunk, would have a difficult time doing anything—walking, driving, even breathing.
As a small-town lawyer with fifteen years’ experience, Lowell had never seen or heard of a case involving such a high level of alcohol. He expressed disbelief and asked the pathologist to test the blood again. Lowell would review the autopsy report as soon as he received it, and in due course he would hand it over to the defense. There would be no way to conceal the fact that Stuart Kofer was blind drunk when he died.
No set of facts was ever perfect. Every prosecution, as well as every defense, had its flaws in the proof. But for a deputy to be so raging drunk at two in the morning presented a lot of questions, and just hours after landing the case of a lifetime Lowell Dyer had his first doubt.
* * *
—
JAKE DROPPED PORTIA off at the square and drove to the jail. It was still busier than usual and he did not want to go inside and face the stares. But as he parked on the street he said to himself, “What the hell? You can’t defend a cop killer and still be loved by the cops.”
If they resented Jake for doing his job, a job that no one else wanted but had to be done, then he couldn’t worry about it. He entered the front room where the deputies liked to kill time gossiping and drinking gallons of coffee, and said hello to Marshall Prather and Moss Junior Tatum. They nodded because they had to, but within seconds Jake realized the battle lines had been drawn.
“Is Ozzie in?” he asked Tatum, who shrugged as if he had no clue. Jake kept walking and stopped at Doreen’s desk. She was Ozzie’s secretary and guarded his door like a Doberman. She also wore a full uniform and carried a gun, though it was no secret she had no law enforcement training and could not legally make an arrest. It was assumed she could use the pistol but no one had dared to test her.
“He’s in a meeting,” she said coolly.
“I called half an hour ago and we agreed to meet at ten-thirty,” Jake said as politely as possible. “It’s ten-thirty.”
“I’ll buzz him, Jake, but it’s been a crazy morning.”
“Thank you.”
Jake walked to a window that overlooked a side street. Beyond it was the first cluster of office buildings that lined the south side of the square. The dome of the courthouse rose above the buildings and the stately oaks that were two hundred years old. As he stood there he was aware that the usual chatter and banter behind him had died down. The deputies were still around, but now so was the defense lawyer.
“Jake,” Ozzie called as he opened his door.
Inside his office, the two old friends stood and looked at each other across the big desk.
Jake said, “We’ve already had two threatening phone calls at the office, and someone called the school asking about Carla. Wouldn’t leave a name, of course, they never do.”
“I know about the call to the school. What am I supposed to do, Jake? Tell people not to call your office?”
“Have you spoken with Earl Kofer?”
“Well, yes, twice. Yesterday at his farm and this morning on the phone. We’re tryin’ to work out some details about the funeral, Jake, if that’s okay.”
“I’m not thinking about the funeral, Ozzie. Could you politely inform Mr. Kofer to inform his people, whoever the hell they are, that they need to back off and leave us alone.”
“So you’re certain it’s the family?”
“Who else would it be? I’m told they’re a bunch of hotheads. They’re obviously upset about the killing. Who wouldn’t be? Just stop the threats, okay, Ozzie?”
“I think you’re upset too, Jake. Maybe you should settle down first. Nobody’s been hurt, other than Stuart Kofer.” Ozzie took a deep breath and slowly eased into his chair. He nodded and Jake sat down too.
Ozzie said, “Record the calls and bring them to me. I’ll do what I can. You want security again?”
“No. We got tired of that. I’ll just shoot them myself.”
“Jake, I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. The family is upset but they’re not crazy. We’ll get through the funeral, maybe things will settle down. You’ll be off the case soon, right?”
“I don’t know. I hope so. Have you checked on the boy this morning?”
“I talked to the jailer. Kid’s really shut down.”
“Has he eaten anything?”
“Some chips maybe, drank a Coke.”
“Look, Ozzie, I’m no expert, but I think the kid is traumatized and needs help. He could be in the middle of some type of a breakdown, for all we know.”
“Forgive me, Jake, but I’m not feelin’ the sympathy.”
“I get that. I’ll see Noose in the morning before the Civil Docket, and I plan to ask him to send the kid to Whitfield for tests. I need your help.”
“My help?”
“Yes. Noose admires you, and if you agree that the kid needs to see a professional, then he might go along. The kid is in your custody and you know more about his condition than anyone else right now. Bring the jailer over and we’ll meet with Noose in his chambers. Off the record. You won’t have to testify or anything. The rules are different for minors.”
Ozzie gave a sarcastic laugh and looked away. “Let me get this straight. This kid, regardless of his age, murdered my deputy, whose memorial service or funeral or whatever you white folks call these events, has not yet been planned, and here I am with the defense lawyer who’s askin’ me to help out with the defense. Right, Jake?”
“I’m asking you to do what’s right here, Ozzie. That’s all.”
“The answer is no. I haven’t even seen the kid since they brought him in. You’re pushin’ too hard, Jake. Back off.”
Ozzie was glaring across the desk when he gave the warning, and Jake got the message. He got to his feet, said, “Okay. I’d like to see my client.”
* * *
—
HE TOOK HIM a can of Mountain Dew and a package of peanuts, and after a few minutes managed to coax Drew from under the covers. He sat on the edge of his bed and opened the drink.
“I saw your mother this morning,” Jake said. “She’s doing great. Kiera is with her at the hospital and there are some folks from the church taking care of them.”
Drew’s eyes never left his feet as he nodded. His blond hair was stringy, matted, dirty, and his entire body needed a good scrubbing. They had yet to dress him in the standard orange jail jumpsuit, which would be an improvement over the cheap and wrinkled clothes he wore.
He kept nodding and asked, “What church?”
“I believe it’s called the Good Shepherd Bible Church. The pastor is a guy named Charles McGarry. You know him?”
“I think so. Stu didn’t want us to go to church. Is he really dead?”
“He’s dead, Drew.”
“And I shot him?”
“Sure looks that way. You don’t remember?”
“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I think I’m dreaming, you know? Like right now. Are you really here, talking to me? What’s your name?”
“Jake. We met last night when I stopped by. Do you remember that?”
A long silence followed. He took a sip and then tried to open the peanuts. When he couldn’t, Jake gently took the package, tore the top, and gave it back.
Jake said, “This is not a dream, Drew. I’m your lawyer. I’ve met your mother and sister and so now I represent the family. It’s important for you to trust me and talk to me.”
“About what?”
“About what. Let’s talk about the house where you live with Kiera and your mother and Stuart Kofer. How long have you lived there?”
More silence as he stared at the floor, as if he’d heard nothing Jake said.
“How long, Drew? How lo
ng did you live with Stuart Kofer?”
“I don’t remember. Is he really dead?”
“Yes.”
The can slipped from his hand and hit the floor with foam splashing near Jake’s feet. It rolled a bit, then stopped but continued leaking the soda. Drew did not react to the dropped can, and Jake tried his best to ignore it too as the puddle inched closer to his shoes. Drew closed his eyes and began to make a low humming sound, a soft painful groan that came from somewhere deep within. His lips began moving slightly, as if he was mumbling to himself. After a moment, Jake almost said something to interrupt him, but decided to wait. Drew could have been a monk in a deep trance-like meditation, or a mental patient drifting away again, into the darkness.
But Drew was a wounded child in need of help that Jake was unqualified to give.
9
By noon Monday Ozzie was fed up with the crowds and noise, the off-duty guys hanging around to gather or spread the latest gossip, the retired cops just wanting to be part of the brotherhood, the useless reserves taking up space, the reporters, the nosy old ladies from town stopping by with brownies and doughnuts as if massive quantities of sugar would help in some way, the curious with no discernible reason for being there, the politicians hoping their presence would remind the voters that they believed in law and order, and friends of the Kofers who thought they were helping the situation by offering their support for the good guys and supporting the boys in blue. Ozzie ordered everyone who wasn’t on duty out of the building.
For over thirty hours he had worked hard at maintaining the facade of a pro untouched by the tragedy, but fatigue was settling in. He had barked at Doreen, who barked back. The tension was palpable.