Kid Lawyer

by John Grisham

  “What brings you around here?”

  “Just filing stuff for my parents.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sure you’re not snooping around here to see if the courtroom is ready for the big trial?”

  “That, too.”

  “That’s what I figured. We’ve had some traffic today. A television news crew just left. Should be interesting.”

  “Are you working tomorrow?”

  “Of course I’m working tomorrow,” Deputy Gossett said, and his chest puffed out a little, as if the trial would be impossible to put on without him. “Security will be tight.”

  “Why?” Theo asked, though he knew why. Deputy Gossett thought he knew a lot about the law, as if he’d absorbed a great body of knowledge just because he sat through trials and hearings. (He was often half asleep.) And, like many people who don’t know as much as they think they know, Deputy Gossett was quick to share his insights with the less informed.

  He glanced at his watch as if he had a tight schedule. “It’s a murder trial, a big one,” he said importantly. No kidding, Theo thought. “And, well, murder trials attract some folks who might be security risks.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, Theo, let me put it like this. In every murder there’s a victim, and the victim has friends and family, and these people are, naturally, not happy that their victim got murdered. Follow what I’m saying?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you have a defendant. In this case it’s Mr. Duffy, who claims he’s not guilty. They all say that, of course, but let’s assume he’s not guilty. If that’s the case, then the real killer is still out there. He might be curious about the trial.” Deputy Gossett glanced around suspiciously, as if the real killer could be close and might be offended.

  Theo almost asked: Why would the real killer be a security risk if he showed up to watch the trial? What’s he gonna do? Kill somebody else? In open court? In front of dozens of witnesses?

  “I see,” Theo said. “You guys better be careful.”

  “We’ll have things under control.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You’ll be here?”

  “Sure.”

  Deputy Gossett was shaking his head. “I don’t think so, Theo. This place will be packed. You won’t find a seat.”

  “Oh, I talked to Judge Gantry this morning. He promised to save me great seats.” Theo was walking away.

  Deputy Gossett could not think of a response.

  Ike was Theo’s uncle, the older brother of Woods Boone. Before Theo was born, Ike had started the firm of Boone & Boone with Theo’s parents. He had been a tax lawyer, one of the few in town. According to the scant information Theo could get on the subject, the three lawyers had enjoyed a pleasant and productive relationship until Ike did something wrong. Bad wrong. So wrong that he was stripped of his license to practice law. On several occasions Theo had asked his parents what, exactly, Ike did wrong, but his parents refused to give the details. They said they didn’t want to talk about it. Or, that they would explain things when Theo was old enough to understand.

  Ike was still doing tax work, but of a lesser variety. He was not a lawyer and not an accountant. But since he had to do something for a living, he prepared tax returns for working people and small businesses. His office was on the second floor of an old building downtown. A Greek couple ran a deli on the first floor. Ike did their tax work and was paid in part with a free lunch five days a week.

  His wife divorced him after he was disbarred. He was lonely and generally unpleasant, and Theo did not always enjoy stopping by every Monday afternoon. But Ike was family and that mattered, according to Theo’s parents, though they spent almost no time with him.

  “Hello, Theo,” Ike called out as Theo opened the door to a long, cluttered room and stepped inside.

  “Hello, Ike.” Though he was older than Theo’s father, he insisted on being called Ike. Like Elsa, it was part of his effort to stay young. He wore faded jeans, sandals, a T-shirt that advertised beer, and various beaded bracelets on his left wrist. His hair was long, wild, white, and gathered in the back in a ponytail.

  Ike was at his desk, a wide table stacked with files. The Grateful Dead played softly on a stereo. Cheap funky art covered the walls.

  According to Mrs. Boone, Ike had been the typical dark-suited, buttoned-up corporate tax man before he got into trouble. Now he fancied himself as an old hippie, anti-everything. A real rebel.

  “How’s my favorite nephew?” he asked as Theo settled into a chair across the desk.

  “Great.” Theo was the only nephew. “How was your day?”

  Ike waved at the debris littering his desk and said, “The usual. Just sorting out the money problems of people with no money. How are things over at Boone and Boone?”

  “The same.” Though he was only four blocks away, Ike seldom saw Theo’s parents. They were somewhat friendly, but the past was complicated.

  “How’s school going?”

  “Fine.”

  “Straight A’s?”

  “Yes. Maybe an A minus in Chemistry.”

  “I expect straight A’s.”

  You and everyone else, Theo thought. He wasn’t sure how or why Ike thought he was entitled to an opinion about Theo’s grades, but he figured that’s what uncles were for. According to his parents, Ike was brilliant and had finished college in just three years.

  “Your mother is well?”

  “Mom’s great, working hard.” Ike never asked about Mr. Boone.

  “I suppose you’re excited about the trial tomorrow.”

  “Yes. My Government class is taking a field trip to the courtroom. We’ll be there all day. Are you going?” Theo asked, but he knew the answer.

  Ike snorted in disgust. “Not me. I don’t voluntarily enter courtrooms. Plus, I have too much work.” A typical Boone.

  “I can’t wait,” Theo said.

  “So you still want to be a lawyer, a great trial lawyer?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Oh, nothing, I guess.” They had this same conversation every week. Ike wanted Theo to be an architect or an artist, something creative. “Most kids dream of being a policeman, or a fireman, or a great athlete or actor. I’ve never seen one so taken with the idea of being a lawyer.”

  “Everybody’s gotta be something.”

  “I suppose. This defense lawyer, Clifford Nance, is very good. You ever seen him in action?”

  “Not in a big trial. I’ve seen him in the courtroom arguing motions and stuff, but not in a trial.”

  “I knew Clifford well, at one point. Many years ago. I’ll bet he wins.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Sure. The prosecution has a weak case, from what I hear.” Though he kept to himself, Ike had a knack for hearing the courthouse rumors. Theo’s father suspected that Ike’s information came from his weekly poker games with a group of retired lawyers.

  “There’s really no proof that Mr. Duffy killed his wife,” Ike said. “The prosecutor might be able to establish a strong motive and arouse some suspicions, but nothing else.”

  “What’s the motive?” Theo asked, though he thought he knew the answer. He wanted to see how much Ike knew, or how much he was willing to tell.

  “Money. A million dollars. Mr. Duffy bought a million-dollar life insurance policy on his wife two years ago. In the event of her death, he gets a million dollars. His business was not doing well. He needed some cash, so the theory is that he, literally, took matters into his own hands.”

  “He choked her?” Theo had read every newspaper story about the murder and knew the cause of death.

  “That’s the theory. She died of strangulation. T
he prosecutor will claim that Mr. Duffy choked her, then ransacked the house, took her jewelry, tried to make it look as if she walked in on a burglar.”

  “What will Mr. Nance try and prove?”

  “He doesn’t have to prove anything, but he’ll argue that there’s no proof, no evidence that Mr. Duffy was at the scene of the crime. To my knowledge there are no witnesses who can place him there. It’s a very tough case for the prosecution.”

  “Do you think he’s guilty?”

  Ike cracked at least eight knuckles and locked his hands behind his head. He thought for a moment, then said, “Probably. I’ll bet Duffy planned it all very carefully, and that it went down exactly as he wanted it to. Those people do some strange things out there.”

  “Those people” were the residents of Waverly Creek, a wealthy community built around a twenty-seven-hole golf course and protected by gates. They were the newer residents, as opposed to the more established ones who lived in the town proper and considered themselves the real citizens of Strattenburg. The phrase “They live out at The Creek” was heard often and usually described people who added little to the community and were much too concerned with money. The divide made little sense to Theo. He had friends who lived out there. His parents had clients from Waverly Creek. It was only two miles east of the city, but it was often treated as if it belonged on another planet.

  Mrs. Boone said that people in small towns spend too much time looking up to or down on others. She had lectured Theo since he was a small boy on the evils of judging people.

  The conversation drifted to baseball, and, of course, the Yankees. Ike was a rabid Yankees fan and loved to spout statistics on all his favorite players. Though it was April, he was already predicting another World Series win. Theo argued as usual, but as a Twins fan he had little ammunition.

  After thirty minutes, he left with the promise to stop by next week.

  “Get that Chemistry grade up,” Ike said sternly.

  Chapter 5

  Judge Henry Gantry tugged on the right sleeve of his long black robe to adjust it properly, then stepped through the massive oak door behind the bench of his courtroom. A bailiff suddenly yelled, “All rise for the Court!”

  Everyone—spectators, jurors, lawyers, clerks, all the participants in the trial—bolted to their feet in one scramble. As Judge Gantry was establishing himself in his thronelike chair, the bailiff quickly rattled off his standard call to order: “Hear ye, hear ye, the Criminal Court of the Tenth District is now in session, the Honorable Henry Gantry presiding. Let all who have matters come forth. May God bless this Court.”

  “Please be seated,” Judge Gantry said loudly into the microphone before him. Just as suddenly as the crowd had jumped to its feet, it fell backward in one collective motion. Chairs squeaked. Benches cracked. Purses and briefcases were rearranged, and the two hundred or so people all seemed to exhale at once. Then everything was quiet.

  Judge Gantry quickly surveyed the courtroom. As expected, it was filled to capacity. “Well, we certainly have a lot of interest today,” he said. “Thank you for your presence.” He glanced up at the balcony, made eye contact with Theo Boone, then smiled at the presence of his classmates sitting shoulder to shoulder, all frozen at attention.

  “The matter at hand is the case of the State versus Mr. Peter Duffy. Is the State ready to proceed?”

  Jack Hogan, the prosecutor, stood and announced, “Yes, Your Honor, the State is ready.”

  “Is the defense ready to proceed?”

  Clifford Nance rose and solemnly said, “We are ready, Your Honor.”

  Judge Gantry turned to his right, looked at his jury, and said, “Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you were selected last week, and when you left here I gave you specific instructions not to discuss this case with anyone. I warned you that if anyone tried to approach you and discuss the case, then you were to notify me. I now ask if that has happened. Any contact from anyone about this case?”

  All jurors shook their heads in the negative.

  “Good. We have disposed of all pretrial motions, and we are now ready to begin. At this stage of the trial, both sides will have the opportunity to address you directly and make what we refer to as opening statements. An opening statement is not proof, not evidence, just a summary of each side’s version of what happened. Since the State has the burden of proving guilt, the State will always go first. Mr. Hogan, are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You may proceed.”

  Theo had been unable to eat breakfast, and he’d slept little. He’d read many stories of athletes who were so nervous they couldn’t eat or sleep before a big game. They were overcome with butterflies, queasy stomachs brought on by fear and pressure. Theo could certainly feel the pressure right now. The air in the courtroom was heavy and tense. Though he was only a spectator, he had the butterflies. This was the big game.

  Mr. Hogan was a career prosecutor who handled the major cases in Strattenburg. He was tall, wiry, bald, and wore a black suit every day. Behind his back folks joked about his black suits. No one knew if he had only one or a couple dozen. Though he rarely smiled, he began his opening statement with a friendly “good morning” and introduced himself and the two younger prosecutors at his table. He did a nice job of breaking the ice.

  Then he got down to business. He introduced the victim, Myra Duffy, by showing the jury a large color portrait of her. “She was only forty-six years old when she was murdered,” he said gravely. “The mother of two sons, Will and Clark, both college students. I’d like for them to stand.” He pointed to the front row, directly behind the prosecution’s table, and the two young men stood awkwardly and looked at the jurors.

  Theo knew from the newspaper reports that their father, her first husband, had been killed in a plane crash when they were little boys. Mr. Duffy was her second husband, and she was his second wife.

  People liked to say that there was a lot of remarrying “out at The Creek.”

  Mr. Hogan was describing the crime. Mrs. Duffy had been found in the living room of the large contemporary home she shared with Mr. Duffy. It was a new home, less than three years old, and it was on a wooded lot that backed up to the golf course. Because of all the trees, the house was barely visible from the street, but then the same could be said of most of the homes at Waverly Creek. Privacy was important out there.

  When her body was found, the front door of their home was unlocked and slightly open. The alarm system was in Standby mode. Someone had taken her jewelry from her closet, a set of antique watches owned by Mr. Duffy, and three handguns from a drawer by the television in the den. The estimated value of the missing loot was about thirty thousand dollars.

  The cause of death was strangulation. With the approval of Judge Gantry, Mr. Hogan stepped to a projector, hit a button, and a large color photo appeared on a screen opposite the jury. It showed Mrs. Duffy lying on the carpeted floor, well dressed, seemingly untouched, her high-heeled shoes still on her feet. Mr. Hogan explained that on the day she was murdered, a Thursday, she’d had a luncheon date at noon with her sister. Apparently, she was ready to leave the house when she was attacked and killed. Her murderer then went through the house, took the items that were missing, and left. Her sister began calling Mrs. Duffy’s cell phone, ten calls over the next two hours, and became concerned enough that she drove to Waverly Creek, to the Duffy home, and found her sister. As far as crime scenes go, this one looked rather peaceful. The victim could’ve simply fainted. At first, her sister and the police thought she had died of a heart attack or a stroke or some other natural cause. But given her age, fitness, and no history of drug abuse, they quickly became suspicious.

  An autopsy revealed the true cause of death. The person who killed Mrs. Duffy grabbed her from behind and pressed firmly on her carotid artery. Mr. Hogan placed his fingers against his own c
arotid artery, on the right side of his neck. “Ten seconds of firm pressure in just the right place and you lose consciousness,” he said, then waited while everyone else waited to see if he might just collapse himself right there in open court. He did not. He continued, “Once Mrs. Duffy passed out, her killer kept pressing, firmer and firmer, and sixty seconds later she was dead. There are no signs of struggle—no broken fingernails, no scratches, nothing. Why? Because Mrs. Duffy knew the man who killed her.”

  Mr. Hogan dramatically turned and glared at Mr. Duffy, who was seated between Clifford Nance and another defense lawyer.

  “She knew him because she was married to him.”

  There was a long, heavy pause as the entire courtroom looked at Mr. Duffy. Theo could see the back of his head. He wanted desperately to see his face.

  Mr. Hogan continued, “He was able to get so close because she trusted him.”

  Mr. Hogan stood by the projector and displayed more photographs. Using them, he laid out the entire scene—the interior of the house, the front door, the rear door, the close proximity to the golf course. He used a photo of the main entrance of Waverly Creek, with its heavy gates and guardhouse and security cameras. He explained that it was highly unlikely that an intruder, even a clever one, could breach all that security. Unless, of course, the intruder was not really an intruder because he lived there, too.

  None of the neighbors saw a strange vehicle leave the Duffy home. No one saw a stranger walking the streets, or running from the house. Nothing unusual was reported. In the past six years, there had been only two home burglaries at Waverly Creek. Crime was virtually unheard of in this quiet community.

  On the day of the murder, Mr. Duffy played golf, something he did almost every Thursday. He teed off at 11:10 a.m., according to the computer log in the golf shop. He was alone, which was not unusual, and, as always, he used his own electric golf cart. He told the course starter that he planned to play eighteen holes, the North Nine and the South Nine, the two most popular courses. The Duffy home bordered the sixth fairway of the Creek Course, a smaller course preferred by the ladies.