by John Grisham
The tow truck driver’s name was B.C., and Jake sat in the cab with him after he hitched up his car and they drove away. Jake had never been a passenger in a tow truck before.
“Mind if I ask what B.C. stands for?” he asked, loosening his tie.
B.C. had a mouth full of tobacco, and he spat in an old Pepsi bottle. “Battery Charger.”
“I like it. How’d you get tagged with Battery Charger?”
“Well, when I was a kid I liked to steal batteries out of cars. I’d take ’em to Mr. Orville Gray’s service station, sneak in at night, charge ’em real good, then sell ’em for ten bucks. Clear profit, no overhead.”
“You ever get caught?”
“Nope, I was too slick. But my buddies knew about it and that’s where the name came from. That’s a weird car back there, if I say so.”
“It certainly is.”
“Where do you get it fixed?”
“Not around here. Let’s take it to the Chevrolet place.”
At Goff Motors, Jake paid B.C. a hundred dollars in cash and gave him several business cards. With a grin Jake said, “Pass these out at the next car wreck.”
B.C. knew the game and asked, “What’s my cut?”
“Ten percent of the settlement.”
“I like it.” He stuffed the cash and cards in his pocket and drove away. Jake looked down a row of shiny new Impalas and eyed a gray one, with four doors. By the time he looked at the sticker a smiling salesman appeared from nowhere and stuck out a friendly hand. They went through the usual ritual and Jake said, “I’d like to trade in my old car.” He nodded at the Saab.
“What is it?” asked the salesman.
“1983 Saab with a lot of miles.”
“I think I’ve seen that around town. What’s the trade-in value?”
“Five thousand and change.”
He frowned and said, “That may be a bit high.”
“Can I get this financed through General Motors?”
“I’m sure we can work something out.”
“I’d like to stay away from the banks around here.”
“No problem.”
Laden with even more debt, Jake drove away an hour later in a leased Impala, gray in color and one that blended in nicely with the traffic. It was a good time for him to be inconspicuous.
39
At 9:00 a.m. Monday, Jake and Portia were standing at the fax machine drinking coffee and waiting anxiously for the jury list from Judge Noose. Ten minutes later it arrived—three sheets of paper with ninety-seven names in alphabetical order. Name, address, age, race, gender, nothing else. There was no standard form for the publication of the jury pools and it varied throughout the state.
Not surprisingly, Jake did not recognize a single name. Van Buren County had 17,000 people, the smallest population of any of the five in the Twenty-second Judicial District, and in his twelve years as a lawyer Jake had spent almost no time there. There had been no reason to. Not for the first time, he asked himself if he had made a mistake in insisting on a change of venue. At least in Ford County he would recognize a few of the names. Harry Rex would know even more.
Portia made ten copies, took one with her, said goodbye, and headed for the courthouse in Chester where she would spend the next three days poring over the public records for land transactions, divorces, wills, vehicle loans, and criminal charges. Jake faxed one copy to Harry Rex and one to Hal Fremont, a lawyer buddy across the square who had moved to Clanton a few years back when his practice in Chester dried up. He faxed another copy to Morris Finley, the only lawyer he knew in Van Buren County.
At ten, he met with Darrel and Rusty, two brothers who worked as Clanton city policemen and moonlit as private investigators. As was typical in small jurisdictions, the city police played second fiddle to the county sheriff’s department and there was no love lost between the two forces. Darrel knew Stuart Kofer in passing; Rusty did not. It didn’t matter—for $50 an hour each, they were happy to get the work. Jake gave them the list and firm instructions not to get noticed as they snooped around Van Buren County. They were expected to find and photograph, if possible, the homes, vehicles, and neighborhoods of the potential jurors. When they left, Jake mumbled to himself, “They’ll probably make more off this case than me.”
The Smallwood war room downstairs had been converted to the makeshift headquarters for the Gamble jury. On one wall there was a large map of the county, and on it Jake and Portia had marked every church, school, highway, county road, and country store. Another large map laid out the city streets of Chester. Working from the list, Jake began locating as many of the addresses as possible and memorizing names.
He could almost envision the jury. White with maybe two or three blacks. Hopefully more women than men. Average age of fifty-five. Rural, conservative, religious.
Booze could be a big factor in the trial. Van Buren was still a dry county, and fiercely so. Its last liquor vote was in 1947 and the drinkers lost in a landslide. Since then the Baptists had squelched any efforts to have another election. Each county controlled its liquor laws and half the state was still dry. As always, the bootleggers did a brisk business in the parched areas, but Van Buren had a reputation as the home of serious teetotalers.
How would these sober folks react to the testimony that Stuart Kofer was a raging drunk the night he died? That there was enough alcohol in his blood to practically kill him? That he’d spent the afternoon drinking beer and then topped it off with illegal moonshine as he and his friends blacked out?
The jurors would certainly be shocked and disapproving, but they would also be conservative enough to love the men in uniform. Killing an officer called for the death penalty, a punishment revered in those parts.
At noon, Jake left town and drove twenty minutes to a lumber mill deep in the county. He saw Carl Lee Hailey eating a sandwich with his men in the shade of a small pavilion and waited in his new car, which was not recognizable. When they finished lunch, Jake walked over and said hello. Carl Lee was surprised to see him and at first thought there might be some trouble. Jake explained what he was after. He gave Carl Lee a list of the jurors and asked him and Gwen to study the names and quietly ask around. Most of her large family still lived in Van Buren County and not far from Chester.
“This ain’t illegal, is it?” he asked, flipping a page.
“Would I ask you to do something illegal, Carl Lee?”
“Probably not.”
“This is pretty typical stuff in a jury trial. You sure can believe we did it for yours.”
“Something worked,” Carl Lee said with a laugh. He flipped another page and stopped laughing. “Jake, this guy here is married to Gwen’s cousin on her daddy’s side.”
“His name?”
“Rodney Cote. Know him pretty well. He was in the courtroom for my trial.”
Jake was thrilled but tried not to show it. “Is he a reasonable man?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means—can you talk to him? On the sly, you know, off the record, over a beer.”
Carl Lee smiled and said, “I get it.”
They were walking to Jake’s car. “What’s this?” Carl Lee asked.
“A new set of wheels.”
“What happened to that funky little red thang?”
“It quit.”
“About time.”
* * *
—
JAKE WAS ELATED as he drove back to town. With luck, and perhaps a bit of coaching from Carl Lee, Rodney Cote could survive the barrage of qualifying questions to be thrown at the pool during selection. Was he related to Drew Gamble? Obviously not. Did he know anyone in the defendant’s family? No. No one knew the Gambles. Did he know the deceased? No. Did he know any of the lawyers for either the prosecution or defense? Here, Rodney would have to be careful. Though he’d never
met Jake, he certainly knew who he was, which in itself would not disqualify him. In small towns it was inevitable that potential jurors knew some of the lawyers. Rodney should remain silent here. Mr. Brigance over there is involved in the private practice of law: He ever do any business for you or anyone in your family? Again, Rodney should not raise his hand. Jake had represented Carl Lee, not Gwen. Being married to a non-blood relative was not close enough to warrant further examination, at least not in Jake’s opinion.
Jake was suddenly obsessed with getting Rodney Cote on the jury, but he would need some luck. Next Monday, when they first arrived in the courtroom, the jurors would be seated at random, not alphabetically. Each would get a number pulled from a hat. If Rodney was in the first forty or so, he stood a good chance of making the final twelve, with some skillful manipulation by Jake. A high number meant he would not make it.
The problem would be Willie Hastings, Gwen’s cousin, on her mother’s side, and the first black deputy hired by Sheriff Walls. Ozzie was undoubtedly already working for the prosecution, polling his deputies, and if Willie spoke up about Rodney Cote, then he would be struck for good cause.
Perhaps Ozzie might not quiz Hastings. Perhaps Hastings didn’t know Cote, but that was unlikely.
Jake almost turned around for another chat with Carl Lee, but decided to do it later. Soon, though.
* * *
—
BY WEDNESDAY, THE walls of the jury room were covered with more maps and more names stuck to the maps with colored push-pins. Dozens of enlarged photos were tacked to the maps, photos of cars and old pickups, tidy homes in towns and trailers in the country, farmhouses, churches, gravel driveways with no homes in sight, small stores where people worked, and low-wage factories that produced shoes and lamps. The average household in the county earned $31,000 a year, barely enough to survive, and the photos told the tale. Prosperity had bypassed Van Buren County and its population was declining, a sad trend that was not unusual in rural Mississippi.
Harry Rex had tracked down seven names. Morris Finley added another ten. Hal Fremont recognized only a few names on the list. As small as the county was, trying to pinpoint ninety-seven names out of 17,000 was still an uphill battle. Darrel and Rusty had managed to procure eleven church directories, and these revealed the names of twenty-one prospective jurors. There were at least a hundred churches, though, and most were too small to print the names of their members. Portia was still digging through the public records but had found little of value. Four of the prospects had divorced in the last ten years. One bought a 200-acre tract of land the year before. Two had been arrested for drunk driving. How this gossip was supposed to help was lost on the team.
By Thursday, Jake and Portia were playing the name game as they worked. He picked a name from the list, announced it, and from memory she either rattled off what little info they had or admitted they had nothing. Then she picked a name and from memory he spouted the person’s age, race, gender, and anything else they had learned. They worked late into the nights, combing their data, nicknaming the jurors, and memorizing everything. The selection process could be slow and tedious, but there would also be moments when Jake would need to react quickly, saying yes or no after only a moment’s reflection, before moving on to the next prospect. Because it was a capital case, Noose would be in no hurry. He might even allow the lawyers to meet privately with a person on the list to probe even deeper. Each side would have twelve peremptory challenges, or rejections for no cause at all. If Jake didn’t like the sneer on a person’s face, he could cut her for no reason. These, though, were valuable, and had to be used with great discretion.
Any juror could be challenged for cause. If your husband was a police officer, so long. If you were related to the victim, hit the door. If you could not consider a death verdict, bye-bye. If you had been the victim of domestic violence, it was best if you didn’t serve. The fiercest fights were always over who to cut for cause. If the judge agreed that a person might not be impartial for a reason, then he dismissed him or her without burning either side’s peremptory challenges.
It had been Jake’s experience that most people, once they were subpoenaed and had gone to the trouble of showing up for selection, actually wanted to serve on the jury. This was especially true in the more rural areas where trials were rare and offered a little drama. However, when the death penalty was in play, virtually no one wanted to get near the jury box.
The longer he looked at the list, the more he became convinced that he could throw darts at it and take any twelve. As long as he got Rodney Cote.
Harry Rex thundered in Friday afternoon and said they needed a break. Portia was exhausted and Jake sent her home. He locked his office and insisted on driving. He and Harry Rex climbed into his shiny new Impala and, without stopping for beer, drove to Chester for a bit of recon. Along the way they argued trial strategy and scenarios. Harry Rex had become convinced that Noose would probably declare a mistrial when Kiera told the jury who had impregnated her, assuming that Dyer was caught off guard. Jake disagreed, though he was not completely confident he could pull off the ambush. At some point Monday morning, probably before they began jury selection, Dyer would want to meet with Kiera to go over her testimony once again. She was over seven months pregnant and that would be impossible to conceal.
They discussed putting Drew on the witness stand. Jake had spent hours with him and was still not sure the kid could withstand a brutal cross-examination. Harry Rex was adamant in his belief that the defendant should never testify.
It was Friday, and the courthouse was clearing out. They removed their coats and ties and made it upstairs to the courtroom without being noticed. Inside, they were surprised to feel cool air. Noose’s new window units were running at full speed and not making much noise. They would probably work overtime through the weekend. The courtroom had been cleaned thoroughly, not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. Two painters were hard at work adding a fresh coat of white enamel while another was on his knees brushing the woodwork around the bench with a new finish.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Harry Rex mumbled. “This place has never looked so good.”
The faded oil portraits of dead judges and politicians had been removed, no doubt sent to the basement where they belonged, and the bare walls gleamed with shiny new paint. The ancient pews had been refinished. Twelve new chairs with comfortable cushions were in the jury box. The large overhanging balcony had been cleared of neglected filing cabinets and storage boxes, replaced with two rows of rented chairs.
“Noose is spending some money on the place,” Jake whispered.
“About time. I guess it’s his big moment, too. Looks like he’s expecting a crowd.” They had no desire to see the judge and after a few minutes headed for the door. Jake stopped for another look and realized that his stomach was in knots.
Before his first jury trial, Lucien had said, “If you’re not nervous as hell when you walk into that courtroom, then you’re not ready.” Before the Hailey trial, Jake had locked himself in a toilet next to the jury room and vomited.
Down the hallway, Harry Rex stepped into a restroom. He emerged moments later and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. The commodes are actually flushing. Looks like old Ichabod has really cracked the whip around here.”
They left the town and headed east, in no hurry to go anywhere. When they crossed into Ford County, Jake stopped at the first country store and Harry Rex went in to buy a six-pack. They drove to Lake Chatulla and found a picnic table under a shade tree on a bluff, a hiding place both had visited in the past, together and alone.
40
Monday, August 6. Jake slept in short little naps interrupted by long stretches of wide-eyed worries about all the things that could go wrong. His dream was to become a great trial lawyer, but, as always on the first morning, he asked himself why anyone would want the stress. The meticulous pretrial preparation was tedio
us and nerve-racking, but nothing compared to the actual battle. In the courtroom, and in front of the jury, a lawyer has at least ten things on his mind, all crucial. He must concentrate on the witness, either his or an opponent’s, and hear every word of the testimony. Should he object, and why? Has he covered all of the facts? Are the jurors listening, and if so do they believe the witness? Do they like the witness? If they’re not paying attention, is this beneficial or not? He must observe every move made by his opponent and predict where he is going. What is his strategy? Has he changed midcourse, or is he laying a trap? Who was the next witness? And where was she or he? If the next witness was adverse, how effective would she be? If he was a defense witness, was he ready? Actually in the courthouse? And prepared? The absence of discovery in criminal trials only heightened the stress because the lawyers were not always certain what the witness might say. And the judge—was he on top of his game? Listening? Napping? Hostile or friendly or neutral? Were the exhibits properly prepared and ready? Would there be a fight over their admission into evidence, and if so did the lawyer know the rules of evidence inside and out?
Lucien had lectured him on the importance of being relaxed, cool, calm, unflappable, regardless of how the trial was progressing. The jurors missed nothing, and every move made by the lawyer was noticed. Acting was important: feigning disbelief at damaging testimony, showing compassion where needed, occasionally flashing anger when appropriate. But overacting could be devastating if it verged on phoniness. Humor could be lethal because in tense situations everyone needed a good laugh, but it was to be used rarely. A man’s life was on the line and a comment made too lightly could backfire. Watch the jurors constantly but don’t overdo it, don’t let them catch you trying to read them.