by John Grisham
Have all motions been properly filed? Were the jury instructions ready? The final summation was often the most dramatic moment, but preparing it ahead of time was difficult because the witnesses had not yet been heard. He’d won the Hailey acquittal with a stunning closing argument. Could he do it again? What magic words or phrases could he conjure up to save his client?
His greatest moment would be ambushing the State with Kiera’s pregnancy, and he had lost hours of sleep thinking about it. How could he protect the secret that very morning, in just a few hours, as all the players gathered in the crowded courtroom?
He drifted away again and woke up from a moment of deep sleep to the distant aroma of frying bacon. It was 4:45 and Carla was at the stove. He said good morning, kissed her, poured coffee, and said he was taking a quick shower.
They ate quietly at the breakfast nook—bacon and scrambled eggs with toast. Jake had eaten little over the weekend and had no appetite.
She said, “I’d like to run through my plan again, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. You’re basically babysitting.”
“Nice to be so necessary.”
“I assure you your role is crucial. Let’s hear it.”
“I’ll meet Josie and Kiera outside the courthouse at ten and keep them in the hallway on the first floor. We’ll wait there while the selection process begins. What am I supposed to do if Dyer wants to talk to them?”
“Not sure. Dyer will have plenty on his mind first thing this morning. Like me, he’ll be consumed with worry about the jury pool, but if he asks about Kiera and Josie I’ll tell him they’re on the way. Selection will drag on through the morning and probably the entire day, and I’ll send instructions to you. If I get a break, I’ll come find you. They’re under subpoena so they have to be close by.”
“And if Dyer finds us?”
“He has the right to talk to Kiera, not Josie. He’ll probably realize she’s pregnant but I doubt he’ll have the guts to ask who’s the father. Keep in mind the only thing Dyer wants from her is the testimony that Drew shot Kofer. He has to have that, and I doubt he’ll go much further.”
“I can do this,” she said nervously.
“Sure you can. There will be a crowd swarming around the courthouse so just try to get lost in it. At some point I’ll want you in the courtroom as we narrow the pool and start picking the twelve.”
“And what am I supposed to do in the courtroom, exactly?”
“Study the jurors, especially those on the first four rows. Especially the women.”
After a few bites, he said, “Gotta go. I’ll see you over there.”
“You need to eat, Jake.”
“I know, but I’ll probably lose it anyway.”
He kissed her on the cheek and left the house. In his car, he removed a pistol from his briefcase and hid it under the seat. He parked in front of his office, unlocked the door, and turned on the lights. Portia arrived half an hour later, and at seven Libby Provine made her entrance in a tight pink designer dress, high heels, and a loud paisley scarf. She had arrived in Clanton late Sunday afternoon and they had worked until eleven.
“You look rather smashing,” Jake observed, with reservations.
“You like it?” she shot back.
“I don’t know. It’s pretty bold. I doubt if we’ll see another pink dress in the courtroom today.”
“I like to be noticed, Jake,” she sang in her best Scottish brogue. “I know it’s rather nontraditional, but I’ve found that jurors, especially the men, like a bit of fashion amongst all the dark suits. You look quite handsome.”
“Thanks, I guess. My newest lawyer suit.”
Portia kept staring at the pink dress.
Libby said, “Just wait till they hear me talk.”
“They probably won’t understand a word.”
She wouldn’t be talking much, not at first. Her role was to assist Jake during the guilt, or second, phase of the trial, and say little until then. If Drew were convicted of capital murder, she would play a bigger role in the war over his sentencing. Dr. Thane Sedgwick was on standby at Baylor in case he was needed to sprint over to try and save the kid’s life. Jake was praying that would not be necessary, but he expected it. He didn’t have time to worry about it that morning.
Jake looked at her and said, “Tell me about Luther Redford.”
Libby shot back, “White male, age sixty-two, lives in the country on Pleasant Valley Road, raises organic chickens and sells them to the best restaurants in Memphis. Married for forty years to the same woman, three adult children, scattered, a bunch of grandchildren. Church of Christ.”
“And what does ‘Church of Christ’ mean?”
“Devout, clannish, conservative, fundamental, strong on law and order with a dim view of violent crime. Almost certainly a teetotaler with no use at all for alcohol and drunkenness.”
“Would you take him?”
“Probably not, but he might be on the cusp. We defended a seventeen-year-old two years ago in Oklahoma and the defense lawyer avoided all Church of Christ members, as well as a lot of Baptists and Pentecostals.”
“And?”
“Guilty. It was an awful crime, but we hung the jury on sentencing and got life without parole, which is supposed to be a win, I guess.”
“Would you take him, Portia?”
“No.”
“We can play this game driving over. How many jurors are complete mysteries?”
“Seventeen,” Portia said.
“That’s a lot. Look, I’ll load the car while the two of you go through the hit-list of all jurors we will challenge for cause.”
“We’ve already done that, at least twice,” Portia said. “I have the list memorized.”
“Memorize it again.”
Jake left his office, went downstairs, and loaded three large document boxes into the trunk of his Impala, which had far more space than the old Saab. At 7:30, the defense team left Clanton with Portia behind the wheel and Jake in the backseat calling off the names of people they had never seen but were about to meet.
* * *
—
JOSIE PARKED AT the jail and told Kiera to stay in the car. Lying neatly on the rear seat was a navy blazer, white shirt, clip-on tie, and gray slacks, all arranged carefully on a hanger. Josie retrieved the outfit, which she had put together in the past week browsing through discount stores in and around Oxford. Jake had given her strict instructions on what to buy, and she had spent the previous day washing and ironing Drew’s trial ensemble. The shoes didn’t matter, Jake had said. He wanted his client to look nice and respectful but not too preppy. Drew’s secondhand sneakers would do just fine.
Mr. Zack was waiting at the jail desk and he led her down the hall to the juvenile cell. “He’s had his shower, but he didn’t want to,” he said quietly as he unlocked the door. Josie stepped in and he closed the door behind them.
The defendant was sitting at his table playing solitaire. He stood and hugged his mother and noticed her red eyes. “Are you cryin’ again, Mom?” he asked.
She did not reply but laid his outfit on the bottom bunk. On the top bunk she noticed an untouched tray of eggs and bacon and asked, “Why haven’t you eaten?”
“Not hungry, Mom. I guess this is my big day, huh?”
“It is. Let’s get dressed.”
“I gotta wear all that?”
“Yes sir. You’re goin’ to court and you gotta look nice, like Jake said. Let me have the overalls.” No sixteen-year-old boy wanted to strip in front of his mother, regardless of the circumstances, but Drew knew he couldn’t complain. He stepped out of the orange jail garb as she handed him the slacks first.
“Where’d you get this stuff?” he asked, taking them and quickly pulling them on.
“Here and there. You gotta wear this
every day, Jake’s orders.”
“How many days, Mom? How long will this take?”
“Most of the week, I think.” She helped him into his shirt and buttoned it for him. He stuffed in the shirttail and said, “It feels a little too big.”
“Sorry, it’s the best we can do.” She picked up the tie, clipped it over the top button, fussed with it, and said, “When’s the last time you wore a tie?”
He shook his head and wanted to complain, but why bother? “I’ve never worn one.”
“Didn’t think so. You’re gonna be in the courtroom with lots of lawyers and important people and you need to look nice, okay? Jake said the jury will look you over and appearances are important.”
“He wants me to look like a lawyer?”
“No, he wants you to look like a fine young man. And don’t stare at the jurors.”
“I know, I know. I’ve read his instructions a hundred times. Sit straight, pay attention, don’t show emotion. If I get bored, scribble something on some paper.”
The entire family had pages of written instructions from their lawyer.
She helped him into the navy blazer, another first, and stepped back to admire him. “You look great, Drew.”
“Where’s Kiera?”
“Outside in the car. She’s doin’ fine.”
She was not. She was a wreck, same as her mother. Three lost souls about to enter a lions’ den with no idea what was about to happen to any of them. She tousled his mop of blond hair and wished she had a pair of scissors. Then she grabbed him and squeezed him fiercely and said, “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry. I got us into this mess. It’s all my fault. All my fault.”
He stood stiff as a board and waited for the moment to pass. When she finally released him he looked at her moist eyes and said, “We’ve already talked about this, Mom. I did what I did and I don’t regret it.”
“Don’t say that, Drew. Don’t say it now and don’t say it in court. Don’t ever say that to anyone, you understand?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“I know you’re not.”
“What about my shoes?”
“Jake said to wear your sneakers.”
“Well, they don’t really go with the rest of my outfit, do they?”
“Just do as he says. Always, Drew, just do what he says. You look nice.”
“And you’ll be there, right, Mom?”
“Of course I’ll be there. On the front row, right behind you.”
41
The prospective jurors began arriving at the old courthouse at 8:30, and they were greeted by the sight of three brightly painted news vans, one from the station in Tupelo, one from an affiliate in Jackson, one from Memphis. Crews were setting up lights and cameras as close to the front door as a deputy would allow them. The hamlet of Chester had never felt so important.
The jurors, each holding a summons to validate their presence, were met at the front door by a polite clerk who checked their paperwork, made an entry of some sort on the master list, and asked them to continue on up the stairs to the courtroom on the second floor where they would receive further instructions. The courtroom was locked and guarded by men in uniform who asked them to wait a few minutes. A crowd soon gathered in the hallway as the nervous and curious jurors mingled and whispered. The summonses did not mention the matter at hand, but suspicions ran wild. Word soon spread that it was a criminal case involving a murdered deputy from over in Ford County.
Harry Rex, wearing a John Deere cap and dressed like a rustic good ol’ boy from the hollows, and holding a sheet of paper that could pass for his own summons, mixed with the locals and listened to the gossip. He knew virtually no one from the area and none of the jurors had ever laid eyes on him, but he nonetheless kept his guard up in case Lowell Dyer or anyone working for him ventured into the hallway. He chatted with a woman who said she had no time for jury duty and was needed at home to care for her aging mother. He overheard an older man say something to the effect that he had no qualms with the death penalty. He asked a younger woman if it was true that it was the case from Clanton where a deputy was murdered back in March. She said she didn’t know but seemed horrified at the prospect of sitting in judgment for such an awful matter. As the crowd thickened, he stopped talking and just listened, waiting for a stray word here or there that would reveal something crucial, something that might not be admitted in open court during the selection process.
Spectators joined the jurors, and when Harry Rex saw the Kofers arrive he eased into a restroom and lost the cap.
At 8:45, the door was opened and a clerk asked those summoned to step into the courtroom and have a seat on the left side. They filed down the aisle, gawking at the vastness of the large, freshly painted room, a place few of them had ever seen. Another clerk pointed to the pews on the left. The right side would remain vacant for a while longer.
Evidently, Noose had ordered the air-conditioners to run at full speed throughout the weekend and there was a noticeable chill in the air. August 6, with a high of ninety-five expected, but oddly enough the spruced-up courtroom was pleasant.
Jake, Portia, and Libby stood around the defense table, whispering about important matters as they sized up the prospects. A few feet away, Lowell Dyer and D. R. Musgrove chatted with their investigator, Jerry Snook, as clerks and bailiffs milled about in front of the bench.
Dyer stepped over and said to Jake, “I assume Mrs. Gamble and her daughter are here.”
“They’ll be here, Lowell, I gave you my word.”
“Did you give them their subpoenas?”
“I did.”
“I’d like to chat with Kiera at some point this morning.”
“No problem.”
Dyer was nervous and fidgety, obviously feeling the strain of his first big trial. Jake worked hard at appearing to be the seasoned veteran, but though he had more courtroom experience than his opponent, his stomach was in knots. Dyer didn’t have a belt notched with big convictions, but he still had all the advantages handed to the State—good over evil, law enforcement over the criminal, plenty of resources over an indigent defense.
* * *
—
WITH OZZIE BEHIND the wheel, the defendant arrived in the rear seat of the sheriff’s clean and shiny patrol car. For the benefit of the press, it was parked in front of the courthouse where Ozzie and Moss Junior, grim-faced and all business, yanked open a rear door and removed the alleged killer, handcuffed and ankle-chained but reasonably well dressed. They grabbed his skinny arms and walked him slowly in an old-fashioned perp march to the front door of the courthouse as the cameras clicked and rolled. Inside, they hustled him through a door that led to one of the building’s many appendages and soon found the meeting room of the Van Buren County Board of Supervisors. A local deputy opened it for them while saying to Ozzie, “Got this place secured for you, Sheriff.”
The room had no windows and not much in the way of air-conditioning. Drew was told to sit in a certain chair, then left there as Ozzie and Moss Junior stepped outside and closed the door.
Three hours would pass before it opened again.
* * *
—
BY 9:15 THE POOL was seated on one side; the other was still empty as the spectators waited in the hallway. A bailiff called court to order and asked everyone to rise. As they did, the Honorable Omar Noose appeared from a door behind the bench. The lawyers settled around their tables and the clerks took their positions.
Noose stepped down and walked to the bar dividing the courtroom, his long black robe flowing behind him. Jake, seated only a few feet away, whispered to Libby, “Oh no, it’s the Flowing Robe Routine.” She gave him a blank look.
Occasionally, and especially when elections were looming, state trial judges liked to get closer to the masses, the voters, and greeted them not from a lofty perch on the
bench but down on the floor, at their level, from just behind the bar.
Noose introduced himself to his home crowd and gave them a friendly welcome, thanking them for being there. As if they had a choice. He spent a moment rambling on about the importance of jury service to the orderly flow of justice. He hoped it would not be burdensome. Without going into detail, he described the nature of the case and explained that much of the day would be spent selecting a jury. He looked at a sheet of paper and said, “I have been informed by the clerk that three members of this pool have failed to show. Mr. Robert Giles, Mr. Henry Grant, and Mrs. Inez Bowen. All received proper subpoenas but have not bothered to check in this morning. I’ll ask the sheriff to round ’em up.” He looked gravely at the sheriff seated near the jury box and nodded, as if prison might just be an option here.
“Now, we have ninety-four people here in the pool, and our first order of business is to see who might be exempt. If you’re sixty-five or older, state law allows you to pass on jury service. Any volunteers for?”
Noose and the clerk had already culled the seniors chosen from the voter registration records, but there were eight in the pool between the ages of sixty-five and seventy. He knew from experience that not all of those would claim the exemption.
A man on the front row sprung up, waving his hand.
“And you are?”
“Harlan Winslow. I’m sixty-eight and I got better things to do.”
“You’re excused, sir.”
Winslow almost sprinted down the aisle. He lived deep in the country and had an NRA sticker on the bumper of his pickup. Jake happily struck his name. Good riddance.
Three others begged off and left the courtroom. Down to ninety.
Noose said, “Next, we’ll consider those with medical issues. If you have a note from your doctor, please step forward.” The pews creaked and rustled as a number of jurors stood and made their way forward, forming a line in the aisle in front of the judge. Eleven in all. The first one, a slothful younger man who was morbidly obese, looked as though he might collapse at any moment. He handed over a note that Noose studied carefully before smiling and saying, “You are excused. Mr. Larry Sims.” He smiled and lumbered toward the door.