John Grisham - A time to kill

"Hello, Sheriff," he attempted to say, his tongue thick and ponderous.

"Evenin', Lucien. Where's Jake?"

Lucien nodded toward the end of the porch, where Jake lay sprawled on the swing.

"He's taking a nap," Lucien explained helpfully.

Ozzie walked across the squeaking boards and stood above the comatose figure snoring peacefully. He punched him gently in the ribs. Jake opened his eyes, and struggled desperately to sit up.

"Carla called my office lookin' for you. She's worried sick. She's been callin' all afternoon and couldn't find you. Nobody's seen you. She thinks you're dead."

Jake rubbed his eyes as the swing rocked gently. "Tell her I'm not dead. Tell her you've seen me and talked to me and you are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not dead. Tell her I'll call her tomorrow. Tell her, Ozzie, please tell her."

"No way, buddy. You're a big boy, you call her and tell her." Ozzie walked off the porch. He was not amused.

Jake struggled to his feet and staggered into the house. "Where's the phone?" he yelled at Sallie. As he dialed, he could hear Lucien on the porch laughing uncontrollably.

The last hangover had been in law school, six or seven years earlier; he couldn't remember. The date, that is. He couldn't remember the date, but the pounding head, dry mouth, short breath, and burning eyes brought back painful, vivid memories of long and unforgettable bouts with the tasty brown stuff.

He knew he was in trouble immediately, when his left eye opened. The eyelids on the right one were matted firmly together, and they would not open, unless manually opened with fingers, and he did not dare move. He lay there in the dark room on a couch, fully dressed, including shoes, listening to his head pound and watching the ceiling fan rotate slowly. He felt nauseated. His neck ached because there was no pillow. His feet throbbed because of the shoes. His stomach rolled and flipped and promised to erupt. Death would have been welcome.

Jake had problems with hangovers because he could not sleep them off. Once his eyes opened and his brain awoke and began spinning again, and the throbbing between his temples set in, he could not sleep. He had never understood this. His friends in law school could sleep for days with a hangover, but not Jake. He never managed more than a few hours after the last can or bottle was empty.

Why? That was always the question the next morning. Why did he do it? A cold beer was refreshing. Maybe two or three. But ten, fifteen, even twenty? He had lost count. After six, beer lost its taste, and from then on the drinking was just for the sake of drinking and getting drunk. Lucien had been very helpful. Before dark he had sent Sallie to the store for a whole case of Coors, which he gladly paid for, then encouraged Jake to drink. There were a few cans left. It was Lu-cien's fault.

Slowly he lifted his legs, one at a time, and placed his feet on the floor. He gently rubbed his temples, to no avail. He breathed deeply, but his heart pounded rapidly, pumping more blood to his brain and fueling the small jackhammers at work on the inside of his head. He had to have water. His

...putted to the point where it was easier to leave his mouth open like a dog in heat. Why, oh why?

He stood, carefully, slowly, retardedly, and crept into the kitchen. The light above the stove was shielded and dim, but it penetrated the darkness and pierced his eyes. He rubbed his eyes and tried to clean them with his smelly fingers. He drank the warm-water slowly and allowed it to run from his mouth and drip on the floor. He didn't care. Sallie would clean it. The clock on the counter said it was two-thirty.

Gaining momentum, he walked awkwardly yet quietly through the living room, past the couch with no pillow, and out the door. The porch was littered with empty cans and bottles. Why?

He sat in the hot shower in his office for an hour, unable to move. It relieved some of the aches and soreness, but not the violence swirling around his brain. Once in law school, he had managed to crawl from his bed to the refrigerator for a beer. He drank it, and it helped; then he drank another, and felt much better. He remembered this now while sitting in the shower, and the thought of another beer made him vomit.

He lay on the conference table in his underwear and tried his best to die. He had plenty of life insurance. They would leave his house alone. The new lawyer could get a continuance.

Nine days to trial. Time was scarce, precious,, and he had just wasted one day with a massive hangover. Then he thought of Carla, and his head pounded harder. He had tried to sound sober. Told her he and Lucien had spent the afternoon reviewing insanity cases, and he would have called earlier but the phones weren't working, at least Lucien's weren't. But his tongue was heavy and his speech slow, and she knew he was drunk. She was furious-a controlled fury. Yes, her house was still standing. That was all she believed.

At six-thirty he called her again. She might be impressed if she knew he was at the office by dawn working diligently. She wasn't. With great pain and fortitude, he sounded cheerful, even hyper. She was not impressed.

"How do you feel?" she insisted.

"Great!" he answered with closed eyes.

"What time did you go to bed?"

What bed, thought Jake. "Right after I called you."

She said nothing.

"I got to the office at three o'clock this morning," he said proudly.

"Three o'clock!"

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep."

"But you didn't sleep any Thursday night." A touch of concern edged through her icy words, and he felt better.

"I'll be okay. I may stay with Lucien some this week and next. It might be safer over there."

"What about the bodyguard?"

"Yeah, Deputy Nesbit. He's parked outside asleep in his car."

She hesitated and Jake could feel the phone lines thawing. "I'm worried about you," she said warmly.

"I'll be fine, dear. I'll call tomorrow. I've got work to do."

He replaced the receiver, ran to the restroom and vomited again.

The knocking persisted at the front door. Jake ignored it for fifteen minutes, but whoever it was knew he was there and kept knocking.

He walked to the balcony. "Who is it?" he yelled at the street.

The woman walked from the sidewalk under the balcony and leaned on a black BMW parked next to the Saab. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of faded, starched, well-fitting jeans. The noon sun burned brightly and blinded her as she looked up in his direction. It also illuminated her light, goldish red hair.

"Are you Jake Brigance?" she asked, shielding her eyes with a forearm.

"Yeah. Whatta you want?"

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm very busy."

"It's very important."

"You're not a client, are you?" he asked, focusing his

anu Knowing sne was indeed not a client.

"No. I just need five minutes of your time."

Jake unlocked the door. She walked in casually as if she owned the place. She shook his hand firmly.

"I'm Ellen Roark."

He pointed to a seat by the door. "Nice to meet you. Sit down."

Jake sat on the edge of Ethel's desk. "One syllable or two?"

"I beg your pardon."

She had a quick, cocky Northeast accent, but tempered with some time in the South.

"Is it Rork or Row Ark?"

"R-o-a-r-k. That's Rork in Boston, and Row Ark in Mississippi."

"Mind if I call you Ellen?"

"Please do, with two syllables. Can I call you Jake?"

"Yes, please."

"Good, I hadn't planned to call you Mister."

"Boston, huh?"

"Yeah, I was born there. Went to Boston College. My dad is Sheldon Roark, a notorious criminal lawyer in Boston."

"I guess I've missed him. What brings you to Mississippi?"

"I'm in law school at Ole Miss."

"Ole Miss! How'd you wind up down here?"