by John Grisham
He gathered his A-team in his office and, politely, asked Doreen to guard the door and hold all calls. Moss Junior Tatum, Marshall Prather, and Willie Hastings. None were in uniform, nor was Ozzie. He passed around sheets of paper and asked them all to take a look. After enough time, he said, “Point-three-six. Can any of you remember catchin’ a drunk driver who registered point-three-six?”
The three veterans had seen it all, or thought so. Prather said, “I’ve had a couple of threes, but nothin’ higher. Not that I can remember.”
Moss Junior shook his head in disbelief and said, “Not here.”
Hastings said, “Butch Vango’s boy was point-three-five. I think that’s the record for Ford County.”
“And he died,” Prather said.
“Next day at the hospital. I didn’t bring him in so I didn’t do the test.”
“There was no test,” Prather said. “He wasn’t drivin’. They found him lyin’ in the middle of Craft Road one mornin’. Called it alcohol poisonin’.”
“Okay, okay,” Ozzie said. “Point is, our fallen brother was saturated with enough booze to kill most men. Point is, Kofer had a problem. Point is, Kofer was out of control and we didn’t know the extent of it, did we?”
Prather said, “We talked about this yesterday, Ozzie. You’re tryin’ to blame us for not rattin’ out a fellow officer.”
“I am not! But I smell a cover-up. There were at least two incident reports filed after Kofer’s girlfriend called when he slapped her around. I never saw them and now I can’t find them. We’ve looked all mornin’.”
Ozzie was the sheriff, elected and reelected by the people, and the only person in the room who was required to face the voters every four years. The other three were his top deputies and owed him their paychecks and careers. They understood the relationships, the issues, the politics. It was imperative that they protect him as much as possible. They weren’t sure if Ozzie had actually seen the memos, and they weren’t sure how much he knew, but at that moment they were on board with whatever image he wanted to project.
Ozzie continued, “Pirtle and McCarver filed one about a month ago after she called the dispatcher late one night, then she refused to press charges so nothin’ happened. They swear they filed the report, but it ain’t here. Turns out that four months ago the girlfriend called the dispatcher, same crap, Kofer came home drunk, slapped her around, Officer Swayze made the call but she wouldn’t press charges. He filed the report, now it’s gone. I never saw it, never saw either one. Here’s the problem, boys. Jake stopped by an hour ago. He’s been appointed by Noose and he claims he doesn’t want the case, says Noose will find somebody else as soon as possible. We can’t be sure of that and it’s out of our control. For now, Jake is the lawyer and it’ll take him about five minutes to sniff out missin’ paperwork. Not now, but down the road if this thing goes to trial. I know Jake well, hell we all know him, and he’ll be a step ahead of us.”
“Why would Jake get involved?” Prather asked.
“As I said, because Noose appointed him. The kid has to have a lawyer and, evidently, no one else would take it.”
“I thought we had a public defender,” Hastings said. “I like Jake and I don’t want him on the other side.” Willie Hastings was a cousin to Gwen Hailey, mother of Tonya, wife of Carl Lee, and in their world Jake Brigance walked on water.
“Our public defender is a greenhorn who’s yet to handle a serious case. I’ve heard that Noose doesn’t like him. Look, guys, Omar Noose is the circuit judge and has been for a long time. Love him or hate him, but he rules the system. He can make or break a lawyer and he’s quite fond of Jake. Jake couldn’t say no.”
“But I thought Jake was just doin’ the preliminary stuff until they brought in somebody else?” Prather asked.
“Who knows? A lot can happen and it’s still early. They may have trouble findin’ somebody else. Also, Jake’s an ambitious lawyer who likes the attention. Keep in mind he was hired and trained by Lucien Wilbanks, a radical in his day who would defend anyone.”
“I can’t believe it,” Tatum said. “Jake did a land deal for my uncle last year.”
Ozzie said, “He said they’re already gettin’ phone calls, threats. I’m gonna ride out again and talk to Earl Kofer, pay my respects and such, talk about the burial, and make sure those folks are under control.”
“The Kofers are okay,” Prather said. “I know some of them and they’re just in shock right now.”
“Aren’t we all?” asked Ozzie. He closed the file, took a deep breath, and looked at his three deputies. He settled on Prather and finally asked, “Okay, let’s hear it.”
Marshall tossed his sheet of paper on the desk and lit a cigarette. He walked to a window, cracked it for ventilation, and leaned against the wall. “I talked to my cousin. He wasn’t out with Kofer Saturday night. He called around and got the scoop. Seems there was a card game at Dog Hickman’s cabin near the lake. Poker, low stakes, not a high-dollar crowd, but an unnamed player showed up with some shine, peach flavored, fresh from the still, and they got into it. Everybody got wasted. Three of them passed out and stayed there. They don’t remember much. Kofer decided it would be smart to drive home. Somehow he made it.”
Ozzie interrupted with “Sounds like Gary Garver’s still.”
Prather took a drag and stared at the sheriff. “I didn’t ask for names, Ozzie, and none were offered, except for Kofer and Dog Hickman. Kofer’s dead and the other four are kinda scared right now.”
“Scared of what?”
“I don’t know, maybe they feel some responsibility. They were gamblin’ and hittin’ the moonshine and now their buddy is dead.”
“They must be stupid.”
“I didn’t say they weren’t.”
“If we start raidin’ dice and poker games we’ll have to build a new jail. Get me their names, okay, and assure them that they will not be charged.”
“I’ll try.”
“Get their names, Marshall, because you can bet that Harry Rex Vonner will have the names by tomorrow, and Jake’ll get to them first.”
Moss Junior said, “They’ve done nothin’ wrong. What’s the big deal? The only crime here is murder and we got the killer, right?”
“Nothin’ is that simple,” Ozzie said. “If this thing goes to trial you can bet your ass the defense lawyer, whoever it is, will make hay out of Kofer’s bad behavior that led to the shootin’.”
“They can’t do that,” Prather said. “He’s dead.”
“And why is he dead? Is he dead because he came home drunk and fell asleep and this stupid kid thought it would be fun to blow his brains out? No. Is he dead because his girlfriend wanted his money? No, Marshall. He’s dead because he had the bad habit of gettin’ bombed and punchin’ her around and her boy tried to protect her. This will be an ugly trial, boys, so just get ready for it. That’s why it’s imperative now that we know everything that happened. Start with Dog Hickman. Who can talk to him?”
“Swayze knows him,” Willie said.
“Okay. Get Swayze to run him down as soon as possible. And make sure these clowns know we’re not after them.”
“Got it, boss.”
* * *
—
WITH CARLA TEACHING school and spending many of her evenings preparing lesson plans and grading papers and trying to monitor Hanna’s homework, there was little time for the kitchen. The three ate dinner together most evenings at exactly seven. Jake occasionally stayed at the office until late or was out of town, but the life of a small-time practitioner did not require much time on the road. Dinner was always something quick and as healthy as possible. A lot of chicken and vegetables, baked fish, few breads or grains, and they avoided red meat and added sugar. Afterward, they hustled to clear the table and tidy up the kitchen and get on with more pleasant matters like television, reading, or pl
aying games once Hanna had finished her homework.
On perfect nights, Jake and Carla enjoyed walks through the neighborhood, short little excursions with the doors locked and Hanna safe in her room. She refused to walk with them because being all alone in the house was such a cool move for a big girl. She would settle in with Mully the mutt and read a book as the house became quiet and still. Her parents were never more than ten minutes away.
After one of the longest Mondays in recent memory, Jake and Carla locked the doors and walked to the edge of the street where they paused by the dogwoods and enjoyed the aroma. Their home, known as the Hocutt House, was one of twenty on a shady old street eight blocks from the Clanton square. Most of the homes were owned by elderly pensioners who struggled to keep up with the ever-increasing maintenance, but a few had been reclaimed by younger families. Two doors down was a young doctor from Pakistan who at first had not been well received because no one could pronounce his name and his skin was darker, but after three years and thousands of consultations he knew more secrets than anyone in town and was widely admired. Across the street from him and his pleasant wife lived a young couple with five children and no jobs. He claimed to run the family timber business his grandfather started and handed down, but he seldom left the country club. She played golf and bridge and spent most of her time supervising the staff that was raising her brood.
Besides those two homes, though, and the Hocutt House, the rest of the street was dark, as the older folks turned in early.
Carla suddenly stopped, pulled on Jake’s hand, and said, “Hanna’s alone.”
“So?”
“You think she’s safe?”
“Of course she’s safe.”
Nonetheless, they instinctively turned around. After a few steps, Carla said, “I can’t do this again, Jake. We’ve just settled into a normal routine and I really don’t want to start worrying again.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Oh really?”
“Okay, yes, there’s something to worry about, but the threat level is low. A few strange phone calls here and there, all made by cowards who wouldn’t give their names and hid behind pay phones.”
“I think I’ve heard this before, right before they burned down our house.”
They walked a few steps, still holding hands. “Can you get rid of the case?” she asked.
“I just got it yesterday.”
“I know. I remember. And you see Judge Noose in the morning?”
“Bright and early. For motions in Smallwood.”
“Will you talk about this case?”
“I’m sure we will. It’s the only case that’s being discussed anyway. Drew needs help right now, or at least he needs to be seen by a professional. If I get the chance I’ll ask Noose about it. And if by chance he’s found another lawyer, then I’m sure he’ll tell me.”
“But that’s unlikely?”
“Yes, it’s unlikely this soon. I’ll do the preliminary stuff, make sure the kid’s rights are protected, try to get him some help and so on, and then in a few weeks I’ll push Noose hard to find a replacement.”
“Promise.”
“Yes, I promise. You doubt me?”
“Sort of, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you care, Jake, and I already get the sense that you’re worried about this kid and his family and you want to protect them. And if Judge Noose has a difficult time finding another lawyer, it’ll be easy for him to just lean on you again. You’ll be in place. The family will trust you. And, be honest, Jake, you enjoy being in the center of the ring.”
They turned into their narrow driveway and admired their lovely home, all safe and quiet.
Jake said, “I thought you wanted me to represent the kid.”
“I thought so too, but that was before we started getting phone calls.”
“They’re just phone calls, Carla. Nothing counts until they start shooting.”
“Well, that makes me feel better.”
* * *
—
ACCORDING TO EARL’S lawyer, the property was owned solely by Stuart, having been passed down through probate, courtesy of his grandfather who died twelve years earlier. The two ex-wives were long gone and their names had never been on the deed. Stuart fathered no known children. He died without a will, and under Mississippi law the property would be inherited by his parents, Earl and Janet, and his younger siblings, in equal shares.
After dinner Monday night, Earl and his two surviving sons, Barry and Cecil, drove to the house for the first look around since it was released by the state investigators that afternoon. It was not a visit they wanted to make, but it had to be done. When Earl parked behind Stuart’s pickup and turned off the headlights, they sat and stared at the dark house, a place they had known forever. Barry and Cecil asked if they could remain in the car. Earl said no, it was important for them to see where he died. In the rear seat, Barry tried to muffle his sobs. Finally, they got out and walked to the front door, which was not locked.
Earl braced himself and entered the bedroom first. The mattress had been stripped of its sheets and blankets, and a large, hideous stain of dried blood dominated the center of it. Earl backed into the only chair in the room and covered his eyes. Barry and Cecil stood in the door and gawked at the gruesome spot where their brother had breathed his last. There were specks of blood on the wall above the headboard and a hundred tiny divots where the technicians had removed matter for whatever was to be done with it later. The room smelled of death and evil, and a sharp pungent odor not unlike that of roadkill grew heavier the more they inhaled.
Ozzie said they could burn the mattress. They dragged it through the kitchen and across the small wooden deck to a spot in the backyard. They did the same with the headboard, frame, box springs, and pillows. No one would ever again sleep on Stuart’s bed. In a small closet in the hall, they found Josie’s clothes and shoes, and after taking stock of her belongings, Earl said, “Let’s burn ’em too.” In a dresser they found her undergarments, pajamas, socks, and so on, and in the bathroom they found her hair dryer and toiletries. Her purse was on a kitchen counter by the phone, and beside it was a set of car keys. Cecil left the keys and did not look inside the purse, but tossed it onto the mattress with the rest of her things.
Earl poured lighter fluid and lit a match. They watched the fire grow quickly and took a step back. “Get the kids’ stuff too,” he said to Cecil and Barry. “They ain’t comin’ back here.”
They raced upstairs to the boy’s room and grabbed everything that might burn—bed linens, clothing, shoes, books, a cheap CD player, banners on the wall. Barry cleaned out the girl’s room. She had a few more items than her brother, including some stuffed bears and other animals. In her closet he found a box of old dolls and other toys, which he hauled downstairs and outside and happily tossed on the roaring fire. They inched away from it and, mesmerized, watched it grow until it began to die out.
Barry asked his father, “What about her car?”
Earl sneered at the old Mazda parked beside the house and for a moment thought about torching it, too. But Barry said, “I think she owes money on it.”
“Better leave it alone,” Earl said.
They had discussed gathering Stuart’s personal effects, his guns and clothing and such, but Earl decided they could do it later. The house had been in the family for a long time and was secure. He would change the locks tomorrow and drive over to check on it each day. And he would pass along the word, through Ozzie, that there was no reason for that woman or her kids or any of her friends to ever set foot on Kofer property again. Ozzie could deal with her car.
* * *
—
DOG HICKMAN RAN the only motorcycle shop in town and sold new and used bikes. Though he was familiar with illegal activities, he had been smart enough
to avoid getting caught and had no record, other than an old drunk-driving conviction. The police knew him well, but since he didn’t bother people he was left alone. Dog’s vices were primarily gambling, bootlegging, and dealing in pot.
Mick Swayze had traded several motorcycles with Dog and knew him well. He stopped by the shop after dark on Monday and, after assuring him that he was off-duty, took a beer. Mick got right to the point and promised Dog that Ozzie was not looking for people to accuse. He just wanted to know what happened on Saturday night.
“I’m not worried about Ozzie,” Dog said confidently. They were outside, leaning on his Mustang, smoking cigarettes. “I’ve done nothin’ wrong. I mean I wish I hadn’t drunk so much so maybe I could’ve stopped Stu before he got lit, you know? I should’ve stopped him, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We know that,” Swayze said. “And we know there were five of you at your cabin, passin’ around a jug. Who were the other three?”
“I ain’t snitchin’.”
“How can you snitch, Dog, if there’s no crime?”
“If there’s no crime, what are you doin’ here askin’ questions?”
“Ozzie wants to know, that’s all. Kofer was one of us and Ozzie liked him a lot. We all liked Stuart. Good cop. Great guy. He was also drunk as a skunk, Dog. Point-three-six.”
Dog shook his head in disbelief at this news and spat on the ground. “Well, I’ll tell you the truth. When I woke up yesterday mornin’ my head felt like it was point-five-five. I stayed in bed all day and barely got out this mornin’. Crazy shit, man.”
“What was it?”
“Fresh batch from Gary Garver. Peach flavored.”
“That’s three. Who were the other two?”
“This is confidential, right? You ain’t tellin’ nobody.”
“Got it.”
“Calvin Marr and Wayne Agnor. We started off with a case of beer, just playin’ poker in my cabin, no big plans really. Then Gary showed up with two quarts of his good stuff. We all got hammered. I mean, blacked out. First time in a long time and it was bad enough to make me think about quittin’.”