Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

After the fourth rape, Kiera had written: “I’m getting used to the pain, it goes away after a couple of days. But I haven’t had a period in two months and I’m often dizzy in the morning. If I’m pregnant he’ll kill me. And probably Mom and Drew too. It’s better if I die. I read a story about a teenager who cut her wrists with razor blades. That’s what I’ll do. Where to find them?”

Reeling, Lowell Dyer asked for a moment to confer with Musgrove. They whispered, both shaking their heads as if they had no earthly idea what to do next. Dyer had to do something, though, in order to discredit a sympathetic witness, and salvage a disastrous cross, and somehow save his case. He managed to nod at Musgrove, as if one of the two had hit the nail on the head. He stepped to the podium and gave her another drippy smile.

“Now, Ms. Gamble, you say you were sexually assaulted by Mr. Kofer on a number of occasions.”

“No sir. I said I was raped by Stuart Kofer,” she said with ice. Another response scripted by Libby and Portia.

“But you never told anyone?”

“No sir. There was no one to tell.”

“You were enduring these terrible attacks, yet you never sought help?”

“From who?”

“What about law enforcement? The police?”

Jake’s heart froze at the question. He was stunned by it, but prepared, as was his witness. With perfect timing and diction, Kiera looked at Dyer and said, “Sir, I was being raped by the police.”

Dyer’s shoulders sagged as his mouth dropped open and he searched for a snappy retort. None arrived, nothing but warm air rushing over a parched tongue. He was suddenly mortified at the prospect of serving up another fat pitch that might land in the upper deck with the others. So he simply smiled and thanked her, as if she had really helped him, and retreated as fast as any prosecutor could possibly scurry away to the safety of his chair.

Noose said, “It’s almost noon. Let’s take a long lunch break and give the AC time to catch up. It’s already a bit cooler in here, I think. Jurors, I ask that you all go home for lunch and we’ll reconvene at two sharp. The usual precautions are still in order—do not discuss this case with anyone. We are in recess.”

47

Josie was parked behind the courthouse in a small, shaded gravel lot she had found on Monday. She and Kiera were almost to her car when a man with a gun approached. He was thick-chested, with a short-sleeved shirt, knotted tie, cowboy boots, and a black pistol on his hip. “Are you Josie Gamble?” he demanded. She had seen the type many times before, and he was either a small-town detective or a private investigator.

“I am. Who are you?”

“Name’s Koosman. These papers are for you.” He handed her a legal-sized envelope stuffed with folded papers.

“What is it?” she asked, reluctantly taking the envelope.

“Buncha lawsuits. Sorry.” He turned and walked away. Nothing but a process server.

They had finally found her—the hospitals and doctors and their bill collectors and lawyers. Four lawsuits for unpaid bills: $6,340 to the hospital in Clanton; $9,120 to the hospital in Tupelo; $1,315 to the doctors in Clanton; and $2,100 to the surgeon in Tupelo who reset her jaw. A total of $18,875, plus interest and attorney’s fees of an undetermined amount. All four filed by the same collection lawyer in Holly Springs.

The car was like a sauna and its AC did not work. They rolled down the windows and sped away. Josie was tempted to grab the lawsuits and toss them in a ditch. She had more important things to worry about and she couldn’t remember all the times some shifty collection lawyer had tracked her down.

“How’d I do, Mom?” Kiera asked.

“You were brilliant, baby, just brilliant.”

—

BRILLIANT WAS INDEED the verdict as the defense settled around the table in Morris Finley’s rather chilly conference room. For relief, his secretary had turned the thermostat down as low as possible. They ate quickly and savored Kiera’s brilliance and the collapse of the prosecution. Victory was still a long shot, but she had evoked enormous sympathy from the jury. However, the problem was obvious—Kiera wasn’t on trial.

Portia passed around a memo with the names of eleven witnesses and brief descriptions of their expected testimony. The first was Samantha Pace, ex-wife of Stuart Kofer. She now lived in Tupelo and had grudgingly agreed to testify against her ex-husband.

“Why would you call her?” Harry Rex asked with a mouth full of chips.

“To prove he beat her,” Jake said. “I’m not advocating this, Harry Rex, this is just an exercise to make sure we cover everything. This is our witness list, the same one we filed before the trial. Frankly, I’m not sure who to put on next.”

“I’d forget her.”

“I agree,” said Libby. “She might be unpredictable, plus you’ve already proven abuse.”

Lucien was shaking his head.

“Next is Ozzie and three deputies. Pirtle, McCarver, and Swayze could testify about the 911 calls to the house. They saw a battered woman who refused to press charges. They filed paperwork that Ozzie can’t find. Someone, presumably Kofer, filched the incident reports to cover his trail.”

“Portia?”

“I don’t know, Jake. This is already in evidence and I wouldn’t trust the cops right now. They might say something that we’re not expecting.”

“Perfect instincts,” Lucien said. “Leave ’em alone, because you can’t trust ’em on the stand.”

“Carla?”

“Me? I’m just a schoolteacher.”

“Then pretend you’re a juror. You’ve heard every word of testimony.”

“You’ve already proven the domestic abuse, Jake. Why go through it again? I mean, all the jury needs to see is the photo of Josie’s face. A picture is worth a thousand words. Let it go.”

Jake smiled at her, then looked at Harry Rex. “You?”

“Right now these guys are meetin’ with Dyer, who’s tryin’ to figure out some way to save his case. I wouldn’t trust ’em. If you don’t need ’em, don’t call ’em.”

“Lucien?”

“Look, Jake. Your case is as strong right now as it will ever be. There is not a witness on this list who can make it stronger, yet every one of them can be potentially damaging.”

“So the defense rests?”

Lucien nodded slowly and everyone absorbed it. The strategy of resting after calling only two witnesses had not been discussed, had not even been contemplated. And it was frightening. The defense just put plenty of points on the board, and it had more points to add. Walking away with uncalled witnesses seemed like retreating.

Jake looked at the memo and said, “The next four, starting with Dog Hickman, are the drinking buddies who’ll give the down-and-dirty details of Kofer’s last binge. They’re all here, all under subpoena, missing work and pissed off. Libby?”

“I’m sure they’ll be good for some comic relief, but do we really need them? Dr. Majeski’s testimony is much more powerful. The point-three-six BAC has been seared into the brains of the jurors and they’ll never forget it.”

“Harry Rex?”

“Agreed. You can’t be sure what these clowns might say. I’ve read your summaries and all. They’re pretty stupid and they still think they might be implicated. Plus they’ll always be sympathetic to their buddy. I’d leave ’em alone.”

Jake took a deep breath and looked at his list. “We’re running out of ammo,” he said under his breath.

“You don’t need anymore,” Lucien said.

“Dr. Christina Rooker. She examined Drew four days after the shooting. You’ve read her report. She’s ready to testify about his trauma and what an emotional and mental wreck he was. I’ve spent hours with her and she will make an impressive witness. Libby?”