A Time for Mercy

by John Grisham

  “With Josie pushing hard, Stuart invited her to move in. He didn’t want her kids because, by his own admission, he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood. But it was a package deal. For the first time in two years, the Gambles had a real roof over their heads. For about a month things were okay, tense, but survivable, then Stuart began complaining about how much the arrangement was costing him. The kids ate too much, he said. Josie was working two jobs, at minimum wage, that’s all she’s ever earned, and trying her best to support the family.

  “Then the beatings started, and violence became a way of life. Now, you’ve heard a lot about Stuart and what kind of person he was when sober. Mercifully, that was most of the time. He never missed a day of work, never showed up drunk. Sheriff Walls said he was a good deputy and really enjoyed law enforcement. When he wasn’t drinking. But once on the bottle, he became a vile, vicious, violent man. He loved the honky-tonks, the nightlife, hard drinking with his buddies, and he was a brawler, loved a good fistfight, liked to shoot dice. Almost every Friday and Saturday night after work he hit the bars and would come home drunk. Sometimes he was aggressive and looking for trouble, other times he just went to bed and passed out. Josie and her kids learned to leave him alone and hide in their rooms, praying there would be no trouble.

  “But there was trouble, and plenty of it. The kids begged their mother to leave, but there was no place to go, nowhere to run. As the violence grew worse, she begged him to get help, to cut back on the drinking, and to stop hitting them. But Stuart was out of control. She threatened to leave him on several occasions, and this always sent him into a rage. He called her names, cursed her in front of the kids, made fun of her because she had nowhere to go, called her trailer park trash.”

  Dyer stood and said, “Your Honor, I object on the grounds of hearsay.”

  “Sustained.”

  Jurors number three and nine lived in trailers.

  Jake ignored Dyer and Noose and concentrated on the faces of three and nine. He continued, “On Saturday night, March twenty-four, Stuart was out. In fact he’d been gone all afternoon, and Josie was expecting the worst. They waited as the hours passed. Midnight came and went. The kids were upstairs in Kiera’s room with the lights off, hiding, hoping their mother wouldn’t get hurt again. They were in Kiera’s room because her door was sturdier and the lock worked better. They knew this from experience. The previous door had been kicked in by Stuart during one of his rages. Josie was downstairs, waiting for the headlights to appear in the driveway.” He paused for a long time, then said, “You know, I’ll let them tell the story.”

  He stepped behind the podium, glanced at his notes, and wiped sweat from his forehead. But for the funeral fans and the constant hum of the window units, the courtroom was silent and still. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a clear-cut case of premeditated murder, far from it. We will prove that during that horrifying moment, with his mother unconscious on the kitchen floor, with Stuart blind drunk and stomping through the house, with his sister crying and begging their mother to wake up, with both children alone and vulnerable, with the history of indescribable violence scarred into their frightened souls, with the belief that they were not safe and would never be safe from that man, what little Drew Gamble did was entirely justified.”

  Jake nodded at the jurors and turned to face the judge. “Your Honor, we are ready with our first witness, Josie Gamble.”

  “Very well. Please call her to the stand.”

  No one moved as Josie made her entrance. Jake met her at the railing, opened the low gate of the bar, and pointed to the witness stand. Because she had been superbly coached, she stopped by the court reporter, offered her a smile, and swore to tell the truth. For the occasion, she wore a simple sleeveless white blouse tucked into a pair of black linen slacks, and brown flat sandals. Nothing was tight or revealing. Her short blond hair was pulled back. No lipstick, little makeup. Carla was in charge of her appearance, and after studying the five female jurors she had loaned her the blouse and sandals and bought the slacks. The goal was to appear attractive enough to please the seven men but simple enough not to threaten the women. Her thirty-two years had been hard and she looked at least ten years older. Still, she was younger than most of the jurors and in better shape than virtually all of them.

  Jake began with some basic questions, and in doing so elicited her current address, which until then was unknown. The bill collectors had not found her in Oxford and he had debated which address to use. Without too much detail, they went through her past: two pregnancies before she was seventeen; no high school diploma; two bad marriages; the first conviction for possessing drugs at the age of twenty-three, a year in the county jail; the second drug conviction in Texas that landed her in prison for two years. She owned her past, said she was not proud of it and would give anything if she could go back and change things. She was at once stoic and vulnerable. She managed to smile at the jurors a time or two without making light of the situation. Her biggest regret was what she had done to her children, the lousy example she had set. Her voice cracked slightly when she talked about them, and she wiped her eyes with a tissue.

  Though every question and answer was thoroughly scripted, the conversation seemed genuine. Her story unfolded with ease at times, and with pain at other times. Jake held a legal pad as if he needed a prompt, but every word had been committed to memory and rehearsed. Libby and Portia could recite the exchange verbatim.

  Switching gears, Jake said, “Now, Josie, on December the third of last year, you made a 911 call to the county dispatcher. What happened?”

  Dyer stood and said, “Objection, Your Honor. Why is this relevant to the murder on March the twenty-fifth?”

  “Mr. Brigance?”

  “Your Honor, this 911 call is already before the jury. Sheriff Walls testified about it yesterday. It’s relevant because it goes to the abuse, violence, and fear these people were living with leading up to the events of March twenty-fifth.”

  “Overruled. Mr. Brigance.”

  Jake said, “Josie, tell us what happened on December the third?”

  She hesitated and took a deep breath, as if dreading the recall of another bad night. “It was a Saturday, around midnight, and Stuart came home in a foul mood, very drunk, as usual. I was wearin’ jeans and a T-shirt, no bra, and he began accusin’ me of sleeping around. This happened all the time. He liked to call me a slut and a whore, even in front of my children.”

  Dyer jumped up again and said, “Objection. This is hearsay, Your Honor.”

  Judge Noose said, “Sustained,” and looked down at the witness. “Ms. Gamble, I’ll ask you not to repeat specific statements made by the deceased.”

  “Yes sir.” It happened just the way Jake said it would. But her words would not be forgotten by the jurors.

  “You may continue.”

  She said, “Anyway, he flew into a rage and slapped me across the mouth, busted my lip, and there was blood. He grabbed me and I tried to fight him, but he was so strong, and angry. I told him that if he hit me again I was leavin’, which made matters worse. I managed to get away and ran to the bedroom, locked the door. I thought he was gonna kill me. I called 911 and asked for help. I cleaned up my face and sat on the bed for a while. The kids were upstairs hidin’ in their bedrooms. I listened to see if he was botherin’ them. After a few minutes I came out, went to the den. He was in his recliner, a chair we couldn’t touch, drinkin’ a beer and watchin’ television. I told him the cops were on the way and he laughed at me. He knew they wouldn’t do anything because he knew them all, they were his buddies. He told me that if I pressed charges he would kill me and the kids.”

  “Did the police arrive?”

  “Yes, Deputy Swayze came out. By then, Stuart had settled down, and he did a good job of fakin’ it, said everything was okay. Just a little domestic spat. The deputy looked at my face. My cheek and lips were swollen and
he noticed some blood at the corner of my mouth. He knew the truth. He asked me if I wanted to press charges and I said no. They left the house together, went outside, smoked a cigarette, just a couple of old friends. I went upstairs and spent the night with the kids in Kiera’s room. He didn’t come after us.”

  She dabbed her eyes with the tissue and looked at Jake, ready to proceed.

  He said, “On February the twenty-fourth of this year, you called 911 again. What happened?”

  Dyer stood and objected. Noose glared at him and said, “Overruled. Continue.”

  “It was a Saturday, and that afternoon a preacher, Brother Charles McGarry, had stopped by the house, just payin’ a call, you know. We had been visitin’ his church down the road and Stuart didn’t like it. When the preacher knocked on the door, Stuart got a beer and went into the backyard somewhere. He didn’t go out that night, for some reason, just hung around the house watchin’ basketball games. And drinkin’. I sat with him and tried to have a chat, you know. I asked him if he wanted to go to church with us the next day. He did not. He didn’t like church and didn’t like preachers and told me that McGarry was not welcome ever again in his house. It was always ‘his house,’ never ‘our house.’ ”

  Charles and Meg McGarry sat two rows behind the defense table, waiting for Josie to join them.

  “Why did you call 911?” Jake asked.

  She patted her forehead with the tissue. “Well, we started arguin’ about the church and he told me I couldn’t go back there. I said I’d go anytime I wanted. He was yellin’ and I wasn’t backin’ down and suddenly he threw a can of beer at me. It hit me in the eye and cut my eyebrow. I was covered in beer and I ran to the bathroom and saw the blood. He was bangin’ on the door, cussin’ like crazy, callin’ me all the usual names. I was afraid to come out and I just knew he was about to kick in the door. He finally quit and left and I heard him in the kitchen, so I ran to the bedroom, locked the door, and called 911. It was a mistake because I knew the police wouldn’t bother him, but I was scared to death and wanted to protect the kids. He heard me on the phone and started bangin’ on the bedroom door, said he would kill me if the cops showed up. After a few minutes, he settled down and said he wanted to talk. I didn’t want to talk but I knew if he blew up again he might hurt me or the kids. So I came out, went to the den where he was sittin’, and, for the first and only time, he said he was sorry. He begged me to forgive him and promised to get some help with his drinkin’. He seemed sincere, but he was only worried about the 911 call.”

  “Had you been drinking, Josie?”

  “No. I have a beer every now and then, but never in front of my kids. I really can’t afford to drink.”

  “When did the police arrive?”

  “Around ten. When I saw their headlights, I went outside to meet them. I said I was okay, things had settled down, it was just a misunderstandin’. I was holdin’ a bloody rag over my eye and they asked what happened. I said I fell in the kitchen, and they seemed eager to believe this.”

  “Did they talk to Stuart?”

  “Yes. He came outside and I went in. I could hear them laughin’ as they smoked a cigarette.”

  “And you didn’t press charges?”

  “No.”

  Jake walked to the defense table and took off his jacket. His armpits were soaked with sweat and the back of his light blue Oxford cloth was stuck to his skin. He returned to the podium and said, “What efforts did Stuart take to control his drinking?”

  “None whatsoever. It just got worse.”

  “On the night of March twenty-fifth, were you at home with your children?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was Stuart?”

  “Out. I don’t know where he was. He’d been gone all afternoon.”

  “What time did he come home?”

  “It was after two in the morning. I was waitin’. The kids were upstairs, supposedly asleep, but I could hear them movin’ around quietly. I guess all of us were waitin’.”

  “What happened when he got home?”

  “Well, I put on a little negligee, one that he liked, thinkin’, you know, that maybe I could get him in the mood for a little romance, anything to prevent more violence.”

  “How’d that work out?”

  “It didn’t. He was blind drunk, had trouble walkin’ and standin’ up. His eyes were glazed over, his breathin’ was very heavy. I’d seen him plenty drunk, but nothin’ like that.”

  “What happened?”

  “He saw what I was wearin’ and didn’t like it. He started his accusations. I didn’t want another fight because of the kids. God, they heard so much.” Her voice cracked and she broke down. Her sobbing was unscripted, but real and perfectly timed. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth with the tissue as she fought the tears.

  Libby noticed number seven, Mrs. Fife, drop her head and clench her jaws, seemingly ready to shed a sympathetic tear.

  After a painful, silent moment, Judge Noose leaned over and said softly, “Would you like to take a break, Ms. Gamble?”

  She shook her head firmly, gritted her teeth, and looked at Jake.

  He said, “Josie, I know this is not easy, but you have to tell the jury what happened.”

  She nodded rapidly and said, “He slapped me, hard, across the face, and I almost fell down. Then he grabbed me from behind, had his thick forearm around my neck and was chokin’ me. I knew it was the end, and all I could think about was my kids. Who would raise them? Where would they go? Would he hurt them too? It all happened so fast. He was growlin’ and cussin’ and I could smell his awful breath. I managed to elbow him in the ribs and tear myself away. Before I could run, he hit me hard with his fist. That’s the last thing I remember. He knocked me unconscious.”

  “You don’t remember anything else?”

  “Nothing. When I woke up I was in the hospital.”

  Jake stepped to the defense table where Libby handed him an enlarged color photo. “Your Honor, I’d like to approach the witness.”

  “Proceed.”

  Jake handed the photo to Josie and asked her, “Can you identify this photograph?”

  “Yes. It was taken of me the followin’ day in the hospital.”

  “Your Honor, I’d like to enter into the record this photo as defense exhibit number one.”

  Lowell Dyer, who had copies of eight photos taken of Josie, rose and said, “The State objects on the grounds of relevancy.”

  “Overruled. It is admitted into evidence.”

  Jake said, “Your Honor, I’d like the jury to see this evidence.”

  “Proceed.”

  Jake took the remote, pressed a button, and the startling image of a battered woman splashed onto the wide screen on the wall opposite the jurors. Everyone in the courtroom could see it. Josie in the hospital bed, the left side of her face swollen grotesquely, her left eye shut, thick gauze covering her chin and wrapped around her head. A tube ran into her mouth. Others hung from above. Her face was unrecognizable.

  Every juror reacted. Some shifted uncomfortably. Some leaned forward as if a few inches would provide a better look at what was perfectly clear. Number five, Mr. Carpenter, shook his head. Number eight, Mrs. Satterfield, stared openmouthed, as if in disbelief.

  Harry Rex would later say that Janet Kofer dropped her head.

  Jake asked, “Do you know what time you woke up?”

  “Around eight that mornin’, they said. I was on painkillers and other stuff and pretty groggy.”

  “How long were you in the hospital?”

  “That was Sunday. On Wednesday they moved me to the hospital in Tupelo for surgery to reset my jaw. It was shattered. I was released on Friday.”

  “And did you make a full recovery from your injuries?”

  She nodded and said, “I’m fine.”

>   Jake had other photos of Josie in the hospital, but at that moment they were not needed. He had other questions, but Lucien had taught him years ago to quit when you’re ahead. When you’ve driven home your points, leave something to the imagination of the jurors.

  He said, “I tender the witness.”

  Noose said, “Let’s take a break. Fifteen-minute recess.”

  * * *

  —

  LOWELL DYER AND his assistant Musgrove huddled in a first-floor restroom and tried to decide what to do next. Normally, a convicted felon was easy to cross-examine because his or her credibility was questionable. But Josie had already talked about her convictions, and some of her other problems as well. She was forthcoming, credible, sympathetic, and the jury would never forget the image of her in the hospital.

  They agreed that they had no choice but to attack. From some angle.

  When Josie retook the stand, Dyer began with, “Ms. Gamble, how many times have you lost custody of your children?”

  “Twice.”

  “What was the first time?”

  “Approximately ten years ago. Drew was around five or so, Kiera was three.”

  “And why did you lose custody?”

  “They were taken away by the State of Louisiana.”

  “And why did this happen?”

  “Well, Mr. Dyer, I was not a very good mother back then. I was married to a small-time drug dealer who peddled his goods out of our apartment. Someone complained and social services came in, got them, and took me to court.”

  “Were you selling drugs too?”

  “Yes, I was. I’m not proud of it. I wish I could do many things over, Mr. Dyer.”