by John Grisham
“And this started around Christmas?”
“Yes. She said she was at the house by herself on a Saturday, right before Christmas.”
Charles said, “That would’ve been the twenty-third of December.”
“I was at work. Drew was over at a friend’s. Stu came home early and decided to go to her room. He said he wanted to do it. She said no, please no. He forced himself on her, but was careful not to leave marks. When it was over, he said he’d kill her and Drew too if she ever told. He even asked her if she enjoyed it. Can you imagine? This happened several more times, five or six altogether, she thinks, and she says she was waitin’ for the right time to tell me. She said she couldn’t keep on like that, said she even thought about suicide. This is all my fault, Jake. See what I’ve done to my kids? All my fault.” She was sobbing again.
Jake walked to the sink and poured out the cold coffee. He refilled his cup and walked to the door to look out. When her noises stopped, he returned to his seat and looked at her. “A few more questions?”
“Sure. I’ll tell you anything, Jake.”
“Do Drew and Kiera know they have different fathers?”
“No. I’ve never told them. I figured they’d realize it soon enough. They look nothin’ alike.”
“Did Kofer physically abuse Drew?”
“Yes. He slapped him around, same for Kiera, but never with his fists. He beat me several times, always when he was drunk. Sober, Stu was okay, you know? But he was a crazy drunk. Very intimidating, though, drunk or sober.”
“Will you be able to take the witness stand and tell the jury about the physical abuse?”
“I suppose. I guess I’ll have to, right?”
“Probably. Will Kiera?”
“I don’t know, Jake. Poor thing is a total wreck right now.”
On cue, Kiera appeared in the door and walked over to the table. Her eyes were puffy, her hair a mess. She wore baggy jeans and a sweat shirt, and Jake couldn’t help but look at her stomach. He saw nothing suspicious. She smiled at him but didn’t speak. She had a beautiful smile with perfect teeth, and Jake tried to imagine the horror of being a fourteen-year-old girl who had just learned that her body was carrying a child she wanted nothing to do with. Why does biology allow children to have children?
Charles was saying, “Back to the trial. Any idea when it will take place?”
“None whatsoever. It’s still very early in the process. I know for minors who are tried as adults the courts tend to move pretty fast. Maybe this summer, but I’m not sure.”
“The sooner the better,” Josie said. “I want this mess behind us.”
“It’s not going away with a trial, Josie.”
“Oh, I know that, Jake,” she snapped. “It never goes away with me. Everything’s a mess, always has been and I guess it always will be. I’m so sorry for this. The kids were beggin’ me to leave Stu and I wanted to. If I had known about him and Kiera we would’ve fled in the middle of the night. Don’t ask me where, but we would’ve left. I’m just so sorry.”
There was another long pause as everyone—Jake, Charles, Meg, and even Kiera—tried to think of something to say that might be comforting.
Josie said, “I didn’t mean to be short, Jake. Please understand.”
“I do. It is imperative that this pregnancy be kept absolutely quiet. I’m sure you all get this, but the question is how do we go about it. Kiera is not in school so we don’t have to worry about her friends getting suspicious. What about folks around the church here?”
Charles said, “Well, we’ll have to tell Mrs. Golden, the tutor. She’s already suspicious.”
“Can you handle that?”
“Sure.”
Josie blurted, “Well, after we get the abortion we won’t have to worry about it, will we?”
Charles couldn’t hold his tongue any longer and snapped, “As long as you’re living in this church, abortion is out of the question. If she gets one, then you’ll have to leave.”
“We always leave. Jake, where’s the nearest abortion clinic?”
“Memphis.”
“How much does one cost these days?”
“Don’t know from experience, but I’ve heard it’s something like five hundred dollars.”
“Will you loan me five hundred?”
“I will not.”
“Okay, we’ll get us another lawyer.”
“I’m not sure you can find another one.”
“Oh, there are plenty out there.”
Charles said, “Everybody take a deep breath. It’s been a long day and nerves are frazzled.” A moment passed. Jake took a last sip of coffee, rose, and walked back to the sink.
He stepped to the end of the table and said, “I need to be going, but I want you to think about a scenario that’s hard to imagine. If there is an abortion, and I’m not in favor of one but that’s not my decision, then you not only destroy a life, but you also destroy valuable evidence. Kiera will be called to testify at trial. If there is an abortion, she will not be permitted to mention it, nor should she because of resentment among the jurors. She can tell the jury that Stuart Kofer raped her, repeatedly, but other than her word, she cannot prove it. The police were never called. However, if she is obviously pregnant, or if she has already given birth, then the baby will be powerful evidence of Kofer’s rapes. And Kiera will create enormous sympathy not only for herself, but, and more importantly, for her brother. Carrying the baby will be a huge factor in Drew’s favor at trial.”
“So she has the baby to save her brother?” Josie asked.
Jake replied, “She has the baby because it’s the right thing to do. And, it alone will not save her brother, but it could certainly help a very desperate cause.”
“She’s too young to get stuck raisin’ a kid,” Josie said.
“There are a lot of desperate and deserving couples, Josie,” Jake said. “I do three or four private adoptions a year and they’re my favorite cases.”
“What about its father? Not sure I’d want that gene pool.”
“Since when are we allowed to pick our parents?”
But Josie was shaking her head in disgust and disagreement. As Jake drove away, he was struck by the flashes of meanness that Josie had instinctively displayed. Not that he blamed her. She had been hardened by a life of bad choices and was desperate to provide something better for her children. She had probably gone the abortion route herself and was quietly thankful that she only had two kids to worry about. Two were proving to be enough.
* * *
—
HE ALMOST STOPPED at a country store for a beer, one for the road, a sixteen-ounce can of something ice-cold that would take him about twenty minutes to savor. Then his car phone rang. It was Carla, reminding him in clipped tones that they were supposed to leave the house in thirty minutes for dinner at the Atcavages’. He had forgotten this. She had been calling for an hour. Where had he been?
“I can explain it all later,” he said and hung up. In his sensitive cases he always struggled with how much to tell his wife. Divulging anything was technically an ethical violation, but every human, including lawyers, needed to confide in someone. Without fail, she provided a different perspective, especially when women were involved, and she never hesitated to argue a point. She would have some strong feelings about these latest developments in an already tragic story.
Crossing into Clanton and almost home, he decided he would wait a day or so, or maybe more, before he told Carla that Kiera was pregnant because she had been raped by Stuart Kofer. Just saying this to himself made his stomach churn. It was hard to imagine the raw anger that would boil in the courtroom if and when Jake detailed the sins of Stuart Kofer. A dead cop unable to defend himself.
Hanna was at a sleepover and the house was quiet. Carla was frosty because they were late, but
Jake didn’t care. It was Friday night, they were meeting friends, it was a casual dinner on the patio with a keg of beer. He took off his suit and changed into jeans, then sat and waited for her at the kitchen table.
As he drove, she asked, “So where have you been?”
“The Good Shepherd Bible Church, visiting with Josie and her team out there.”
“That wasn’t planned.”
“No, it just happened. Charles McGarry came to the office at three thirty and said they needed to talk, said they were upset and needed some hand-holding. That’s part of my job.”
“You’re getting stuck with this case, aren’t you?”
“Feels like quicksand.”
“We got another phone call about an hour ago. It’s time to change the number.”
“Did he give his name and address?”
“I doubt if he has an address, probably lives under a rock. Some bizarre, rambling nut yelling into the phone. Said that if that boy gets off he won’t last forty-eight hours on the streets. Said his lawyer won’t make it for twenty-four.”
“So, they’ll kill me first?”
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m not laughing. Let’s change the number.”
“Are you calling Ozzie?”
“Yes, not that it will do any good. We should continue that discussion about hiring private security.”
“Or maybe you should just tell Noose that you’ve had enough.”
“You want me to quit? I thought you were worried about Drew.”
“I am worried about Drew. I’m also worried about Hanna, and you and me, and surviving in this very small town.”
Stan Atcavage lived out by the country club in a wooded development of sprawling suburban homes built around the only golf course in the county. He ran Security Bank and held most of Jake’s mortgages, as well as the brand-new line of credit for the litigation expenses of the Smallwood case. Stan at first had balked at such a novel loan, as had Jake and Harry Rex. But as the case progressed they realized they had no choice but to borrow. After three divorces and now with a fourth wife, Harry Rex’s balance sheet was as unimpressive as Jake’s, though he currently had only one mortgage on his home. At fifty-one, Harry Rex was gazing at the future and worrying about it. Jake was only thirty-seven, but it seemed as though the longer he practiced law, the more money he owed.
Stan was a close friend but Jake couldn’t stomach his wife, nor could Carla. Her name was Tilda and she was from an old Jackson family she often described as wealthy, which turned off most people in Clanton. The town was far too small for her and her expensive tastes. Seeking brighter lights, she had forced Stan to join the Tupelo Country Club, a status symbol in the area, and a luxury they struggled to afford. She also drank too much, spent too much, and kept the pressure on her husband to earn more. As a banker in a small town, Stan said little, but he had confided enough in Jake to let him know the marriage was not going well. Fortunately, when they arrived half an hour late Tilda was already several drinks ahead and had moved beyond her customary stuffiness.
There were five couples, all in their late thirties and early forties, with kids ranging from three to fifteen. The women gathered at one end of the patio at a wine bar and talked about their children, while the men gathered at the keg and discussed other topics. First it was the stock market, a subject that bored Jake because he didn’t have the money to play it, and even if loaded with cash he thought he knew enough to avoid it. Next, it was the rather salacious rumor that a doctor they all knew had cracked up and run off with a nurse. She was well known too because she was drop-dead gorgeous and one of the most lusted-after women in the county, single or married. Jake had not heard the rumor, never met the woman, didn’t like the doctor, and tried to avoid the gossip.
It was Carla’s long-standing opinion that men, contrary to popular opinion, were worse gossips than women. Jake found it hard to disagree. He was relieved when the conversation drifted to sports, and even more pleased when Stan announced dinner. No one had mentioned the Kofer killing.
They dined on smoked ribs, corn on the cob, and slaw. It was a perfect spring evening, just warm enough to eat outside on the patio and enjoy the blooming dogwoods. The fourteenth fairway was fifty yards away, and after a dessert of store-bought coconut pie, the five men fired up cigars and walked to the golf course for a smoke. The Masters was in full swing at Augusta National and this dominated the talk. Nick Faldo and Raymond Floyd were battling it out, and Stan, a serious golfer, was generous with his analysis. Since he was hosting and wouldn’t be driving, he was drinking too much.
Jake had little experience with cigars and even less with golf, and as he gamely listened his mind went back to the scene at the church and the look of hopelessness and fear in young Kiera’s eyes. He shook it off, and wanted to go home and crawl into bed.
Stan, though, wanted to end the night with a digestif, a fine brandy someone had sent him. Back on the patio, he poured five generous shots and the boys drifted over to bother the girls.
Carla looked at the drink in Jake’s hand and whispered, “Haven’t you had enough?”
“I’m okay.”
One couple was paying a babysitter and needed to call it a night. Another had a new puppy that was all alone. It was almost 11:00 p.m., Friday night, and most of them were looking forward to a late morning sleeping in. Thanks and farewells were offered and accepted and the guests left.
At the car, Jake’s red Saab, Carla asked, “Are you okay to drive?”
“Sure. I’m fine.”
They got in and she asked, “How many drinks have you had?”
“I didn’t know we were counting. Not enough.”
She gritted her teeth, looked away, and said nothing else. Jake was determined to prove his sobriety and drove slowly and carefully. “So what did the girls talk about?” he asked, trying to break the ice.
“Usual stuff. Kids, school, mothers-in-law. You heard about Dr. Freddie and the nurse?”
“Oh yes. All the details. I’ve always avoided him.”
“He’s a creep, but then his wife is not much better. Watch your speed.”
“I’m doing just fine, Carla, thank you.” Jake fumed and concentrated on the road. He turned onto a bypass east of town and the bright lights of Clanton were just ahead. He glanced in his mirror and mumbled, “Crap! A cop.”
The patrol car had materialized from nowhere and was suddenly on his bumper, with blue lights flashing and a siren that could be heard for miles. Jake knew immediately that it was a county car. The town limits of Clanton were a mile away.
Carla turned around in horror and saw the lights close behind. “Why is he stopping us?” she asked.
“Hell if I know. I was under the speed limit.” Jake slowed and managed to stop on a wide shoulder.
“Do you have any gum?” he asked. Carla opened her purse, which in keeping with the current style was almost large enough to check in as luggage at the airport. Finding gum or breath mints in it, and in the dark, and under pressure, seemed unlikely. Fortunately, the officer was in no hurry. She found the gum and Jake crammed two pieces into his mouth.
It was Mike Nesbit, a deputy Jake knew well. He knew all of them, didn’t he? The officer shined his light inside and asked, “Jake, can I see your license and registration, please?”
“Sure, Mike. How you doing?” Jake said as he handed them over.
“Great.” Nesbit examined the cards and said, “Just a minute.” He strolled back to his car and got in, just as a green Audi passed them in the center of the road. Jake wasn’t positive but he believed the car was owned by the Janeways, a couple they had just enjoyed dinner with. And since Jake had the only red Saab within fifty miles, there was little doubt as to who was getting pulled over.
“Do you have any water?” he asked his wife.
“I don’t nor
mally carry water.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you drink too much?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“How much did you drink?”
“I wasn’t counting but I was not excessive. Do I seem drunk now?”
She turned away and didn’t answer. The flashing lights seemed ready to burst, but thankfully the siren had been turned off. Another car passed, slowly. Jake handled at least one DUI charge each month and had been doing so for years. The great question was always: Do you agree to take a breath test, or do you refuse? Take or refuse? If you take the test and it registers too high, then you’re guaranteed a conviction. Take it and slide just under the limit, and you go free. Refuse, and the cops automatically take you to jail. You post bond, get out, hire a lawyer, and slug it out in court where you have a decent chance of winning. The sage advice, always given after the fact and far too late to be of any benefit, was to take the test if you’d had only a couple of drinks. If you know you’re bombed, refuse and take a trip to jail.
Take or refuse? As Jake sat there trying to act as though he had no worries, he realized his hands were shaking. Which humiliation would be greater? Getting handcuffed in front of his wife and taken away? Or dealing with the aftermath of a failed test and the embarrassment of losing his driver’s license? Could there even be a bar complaint? He had represented so many drunk drivers that he’d lost any sympathy he might have for someone facing a weekend in jail. You drink and drive, you deserve the punishment.
Now, though, with the minimum level set so low, at .10, even a few drinks during the evening was too much. Take or refuse?
Nesbit was back. He approached with his flashlight shining into Jake’s face. “Jake, have you been drinking?”
Another crucial question no one was ever prepared to answer. Say yes, and try to explain how little, and the officer would most certainly take the next step down the path to ruin. Say no, and lie, and face the consequences when he smelled the presence of alcohol. Say something like “Hell no! I don’t drink!” and really irritate the officer with slurred words and a thick tongue.