A Time for Mercy

by John Grisham

  There were noises from the spectators—gasps, murmurs, shifting.

  His Honor then unloaded what was commonly referred to as the Dynamite Charge: “Each of you took an oath to weigh the evidence with an open and impartial mind, to bring no personal biases or preferences into the courtroom, and to follow the law as I have given it to you. I now instruct you to return to your deliberations and do your duty. I want each of you, regardless of how you now feel about this case, to begin anew from the position of accepting the opposing view. For a moment, look at the other side and tell yourselves that it might just be the correct one. If you now believe Drew Gamble to be guilty, then, for a moment, tell yourself that he is not, and defend that position. Same if you believe he is not guilty. Look at the other side. Accept the other arguments. Go back to square one, all of you, and begin a new round of deliberations with the goal of agreeing on a final, unanimous verdict in this case. We are in no hurry, and if this takes several days then so be it. I have no patience with a hung jury. If you fail, then this case will be tried again, and I assure you that the next jury will not be any smarter, or better informed, or more impartial, than you are. Right now you’re the best we have and you are certainly up to the task. I expect nothing less than your full cooperation and unanimous verdict. You may retire to the jury room.”

  Chastened, but unmoved, the jurors retreated like first graders headed for the time-out chair.

  “In recess until four p.m.”

  * * *

  —

  THE DEFENSE TEAM huddled at the end of a cramped hallway on the first floor. They were elated but tempered their desire to celebrate.

  Jake said, “Noose brought in the foreman, Regina Elmore. She said they’ve had two fights and expects more. Nobody’s giving an inch. She described the split as ‘a hard six–six’ and said everybody wants to go home.”

  Carla asked, “What will happen at four?”

  “Who knows? If they make it until then without killing each other, I expect Noose to lecture them again, maybe send them home for the night.”

  “And you’ll move for a mistrial?” Lucien asked.

  “Yes.”

  Carla said, “Well, I’m going to get our daughter. See you at home.” She kissed Jake on the cheek and left. Jake looked at Portia, Libby, and Thane Sedgwick, and said, “You guys kill some time. I’m going to see Drew.”

  He walked to another hallway and found Moss Junior Tatum and a local deputy sitting in chairs outside the meeting room of the Board of Supervisors. He said to them, “I’d like to see my client.” Moss Junior shrugged and opened the door.

  Drew was sitting alone at the end of a long table with his jacket off, reading a Hardy Boys mystery. Jake sat across from him and said, “How you doing, pal?”

  “Okay. Kinda tired of this crap.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “What’s happening out there?”

  “Looks like a hung jury.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you won’t be found guilty, which is a major win for us. It also means they’ll take you back to the jail in Clanton and you’ll wait there for another trial.”

  “So we have to do this again?”

  “In all likelihood, yes. Probably a few months from now. I’ll try my best to get you out, but that’s not likely.”

  “Great. And I’m supposed to be happy with this?”

  “Yes. It could be a lot worse.”

  Jake pulled out a deck of cards and said, “How about some blackjack?”

  Drew smiled and said, “Sure.”

  “What’s the score?”

  “You’ve won seven hundred and eighteen games. I’ve won nine hundred and eighty. You currently owe me two dollars and sixty-two cents.”

  “I’ll pay you when you get out,” Jake said, and he shuffled the deck.

  * * *

  —

  AT FOUR, THEY filed in, angry and defeated, and took their seats, careful not to brush against each other. Three of the men immediately folded their arms across their chests and glared at Jake and his client. Two of the women were red-eyed and just wanted to go home. Joey Kepner glanced at Libby with a confident smirk.

  His Honor said, “Ms. Elmore, as foreman, I ask you if the jury has made any progress since two o’clock. Keep your seat.”

  “No sir, not at all. Things have just gotten worse.”

  “And what is the vote?”

  “Six guilty of capital murder, six not guilty on all charges.”

  Noose stared at them as if they had disobeyed him, and said, “Okay. I’m going to poll the jury by asking each of you one question. A simple yes or no will suffice. Nothing more is needed. Juror number one, Mr. Bill Scribner, in your opinion, can this jury reach a unanimous verdict?”

  “No sir,” came the quick response.

  “Number two, Mr. Lenny Poole?”

  “No sir.”

  “Number three, Mr. Slade Kingman?”

  “No.”

  “Number four, Ms. Harriet Rydell?”

  “No sir.”

  All twelve responded firmly in the negative, their body language more emphatic than their verbal responses.

  Noose took a long pause as he scribbled some meaningless notes. He looked at the prosecutor and said, “Mr. Dyer.”

  Lowell stood and said, “Judge, it’s been a long day. I suggest we recess now, let the jurors go home and rest on this for a few hours, come back in the morning and try again.”

  Most if not all of the jurors shook their heads in disagreement.

  “Mr. Brigance.”

  Jake said, “Your Honor, the defense moves for a mistrial and the dismissal of all charges against the defendant.”

  Noose said, “It appears as if further deliberations will be a waste of time. Motion granted. I declare a mistrial. The defendant will remain in the custody of the Ford County sheriff.” He rapped his gavel loudly and left the bench.

  * * *

  —

  AN HOUR LATER, Libby Provine and Thane Sedgwick left the courthouse and headed for the airport in Memphis. Lucien was already gone. Jake and Portia loaded their files and boxes into the trunk of the new Impala and headed to Oxford, forty-five minutes away. They parked on the square and went to a burger joint, one of Jake’s favorites from his college days. It was the ninth of August and the students were trickling back to town. In two weeks, Portia would be back as a first-year law student and she was counting the days. After two years as Jake’s secretary and paralegal, she was leaving the firm and Jake had no idea what he would do without her.

  Over beers they talked about law school, not the trial. Anything but the trial.

  At seven sharp, Josie and Kiera walked in smiling; hugs all around. They gathered at a table and ordered sandwiches and fries. Josie had a thousand questions and Jake patiently answered as many as possible. The truth was that he didn’t know what would happen to Drew. He would certainly be re-indicted on the same charges, and there would be another trial. When? Where? Jake didn’t know.

  They would worry about that tomorrow.

  51

  Late Friday morning, Jake grew weary of the unanswered phone ringing incessantly and decided to leave his gloomy office. Portia had the day off, at his insistence, and no one else was there. The calls were coming from reporters, and a few lawyer pals who wanted to chat, and several strangers who did nothing but rant without identifying themselves. There were no calls from potential new clients. He listened to the messages as they came in and realized that work was impossible. He reminded himself that in the business of criminal law a mistrial was a victory. The State, with all its resources, had failed to meet its burden. His client was still not guilty, and Jake was pleased with the defense he had mounted. But the State would be back, and Drew would be tried again, and again if necessary. There was
no limit on the number of hung juries a defendant could face for a crime, and the murder of a police officer would keep the same indictments coming for years. But, that was not an altogether depressing thought. Jake had found his home in the old courtroom. He had thrived on the pressure. His witnesses had been thoroughly prepared and performed beautifully. His strategies and ambushes had worked to perfection. His appeals to the jury had been carefully rehearsed and nicely delivered. Most importantly, Jake had reached the point of not giving a damn about what others thought. The police, the opposing lawyers, the crowd watching, the entire community. He didn’t care. His job was to fight for his client, regardless of how unpopular the cause.

  He walked down the street, ducked into the Coffee Shop, and found Dell at the counter drying glasses. He gave her a quick hug and they huddled in a booth in the rear.

  “You hungry?” she asked.

  “No. Just coffee.”

  She went to the counter, returned with a pot, filled two cups, sat down and asked, “How you doing?”

  “I’m good. It’s a win but it’s only temporary.”

  “I hear they’ll do it again.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard a lot this week.”

  She laughed and said, “Yes, I have. Prather and Looney were in this morning and there was plenty of talk.”

  “Let me guess. Brigance pulled another slick one and got the boy off.”

  “Several versions of that, yes. The guys were pretty ticked off because you kept them in court all week over there under subpoena, then didn’t call them to the stand.”

  Jake shrugged it off. “That’s part of their job. They’ll get over it.”

  “Sure they will. Prather said you ambushed them with the pregnant girl, said you kept her in hiding.”

  “It was a fair fight, Dell. Lowell Dyer got out-lawyered and the facts fell our way. And the boy’s still in jail.”

  “Can he get out?”

  “I doubt it. He should get out, you know? He’s still innocent until proven guilty. Was that ever mentioned?”

  “No, of course not. They said the testimony was pretty ugly, said you made Kofer look like a monster.”

  “I didn’t change a single fact, Dell. And yes, Stuart Kofer got what he deserved.”

  “Old man Hitchcock stood up for you. Said that if he ever got in trouble you’d be the first lawyer he called.”

  “That’s just what I need—another client who can’t pay a dime.”

  “It’s not all bad, Jake. You still have some friends here, and on some level there’s a certain amount of admiration for your skills in the courtroom.”

  “That’s nice to hear, Dell, but I really don’t care anymore. I’ve starved for twelve years because I’ve worried about the gossip. Those days are over. I’m tired of starving.”

  She squeezed his hand and said, “I’m proud of you, Jake.”

  The bell on the door rattled and a couple walked in. Dell smiled at him and left to see what they wanted. Jake stepped to the counter and picked up a copy of the Tupelo paper. He returned to the booth and sat with his back to the door. There was a photo of Drew on the front page, under the headline: “Judge Declares Mistrial After Jury Splits.” He had read the story hours earlier and didn’t need to read it again. So he flipped to the sports page and read a preview of the SEC football season.

  * * *

  —

  PORTIA WAS AT her desk clipping newspaper articles. Jake walked in and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Got bored just sitting around the house. Plus, Momma’s in a mood this morning. I really can’t wait to get out and go to law school.”

  Jake laughed and sat across from her. “What are you doing?”

  “Putting together your scrapbook. You gonna talk to any of these reporters? All the articles say: ‘Mr. Brigance had no comment.’ ”

  “Mr. Brigance has nothing to say, and the case is not over.”

  “Well, you sure had plenty to say back in the Hailey trial. I’ve read your file full of clippings for that one, and Mr. Brigance thoroughly enjoyed talking to reporters back then.”

  “I’ve learned. Lawyers should stick with ‘No comment,’ but they find it impossible. Never stand between a hotshot lawyer and a television camera. It’s dangerous.”

  She shoved the clippings away and said, “Look, I know I’ve said this before, but I want to say it again before I leave. What you and Judge Atlee did with the Hubbard money was just wonderful. Because of the education fund, me and my cousins get to go to college. My law school is paid for, Jake, and I’ll always be thankful.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s not my money, I just get to control the checkbook.”

  “Well, you’re a great trustee, and we appreciate it.”

  “Thank you. It’s an honor to dole out the money for worthy students.”

  “I’m gonna do well in law school, Jake, I promise. And when I finish I’m coming back here to work.”

  “Looks like you’re already hired. You’ve had this office for two years and most of the time you act like you own the place.”

  “I’ve even learned to like Lucien, which, as we know, is not that easy.”

  “He likes you, Portia, and he wants you here. But you’ll get offers from big firms. Things are changing and they’re looking for diversity. You perform too well in law school and they’ll throw money at you.”

  “I have no interest in that. I want to be in the courtroom, Jake, like you, helping people, my people. You gave me the chance to sit through that trial, just like I was a real lawyer. You’ve inspired me.”

  “Thanks, but let’s not get too carried away. I may have won the case, but I’m broker now than before I met Drew Gamble. And he’s not going away.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll survive, Jake. Won’t you?”

  “I will, somehow.”

  “Well, you gotta hang on until I finish law school.”

  “I’ll be here. And I’ll need you over the next three years. There’s always plenty of research to do.” Jake glanced at his watch and smiled. “Hey, it’s Friday, white folks’ day at Claude’s. Let’s do a firm lunch.”

  “Can the firm afford one?”

  “No,” he said with a laugh. “But Claude will extend credit.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They walked around the square to the restaurant and arrived just before the noon crowd. Claude hugged them both and pointed to a table near the window. He had never seen the need to invest in printed menus, and his customers were offered whatever he happened to be cooking, usually ribs, catfish, barbecue chicken, baked beans with plenty of vegetables.

  Jake spoke to an elderly couple he had known since high school. No one seemed even remotely interested in the Gamble trial. Portia ordered ribs and Jake was in the mood for catfish. They sipped sweet tea and watched the place fill up.

  “A question,” she said. “Something has been bothering me.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “I’ve read all of the reports from the Hailey trial, five years ago. You did an interview with a Mr. McKittrick from The New York Times, and you gave a fairly spirited defense of the death penalty. You said, among other things, that the problem with the gas chamber was that it wasn’t used often enough. I know you don’t feel that way now. What happened?”

  Jake smiled and watched the foot traffic on the sidewalk. “Carl Lee happened. Once I got to know him, and his family, it hit me pretty hard that he could well be convicted and sent to Parchman for ten or fifteen years while I fought his appeals, and that one day the State would strap him down and turn on the gas. I couldn’t live with that. As his lawyer, I would spend his last moments with him in the holding room, next door to the gas chamber, probably with a minister or a chaplain, and then they would take him away. I would walk around a corner to a witness room and si
t with Gwen, his wife, and Lester, his brother, and probably other family members, and we would watch him die. I lost sleep with those nightmares. I studied the history of the death penalty, really for the first time in my life, and saw the obvious problems. The unfairness, the inequalities, the waste of time, money, and lives. I’m also struck by the moral quandary. We treasure life and can all agree that it is wrong to kill, so why do we allow ourselves, through the state, to legally kill people? So, I changed my mind. I guess it’s part of growing up, of living, of maturing. It’s only natural to question our beliefs.”

  Claude practically tossed the two baskets on the table and said, “You got thirty minutes.”

  “Forty-five,” Jake said, but he was already gone.

  “Why do so many white people love the death penalty?” Portia asked.

  “It’s in the water. We grow up with it. We hear it at home, at church, at school, among friends. This is the Bible Belt, Portia, eye for an eye and all that.”

  “What about the New Testament and Jesus’s sermons on forgiveness?”

  “It’s not convenient. He also preached love first, tolerance, acceptance, equality. But most Christians I know are quite good at cherry-picking their way through the Holy Scriptures.”

  “And not just white Christians,” she said with a laugh. They ate for a few minutes and enjoyed Claude’s verbal assaults on three black gentlemen in nice suits. One made the mistake of asking to see a menu. They were laughing by the time the abuse was over.

  All tables were taken by 12:15 and Jake counted seven other white folks, not that it mattered. For a brief interlude, good food was more important than skin color. Portia ate in small bites with perfect manners. She was twenty-six now, and thanks to the army had seen more of the world than Jake or anyone he knew. She was also having trouble finding a suitable boyfriend.