Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

Jake stood beside the podium and asked, “Drew, were you and Kiera afraid of Stuart Kofer?”

“Yes sir.”

“Why?”

“He was a tough guy with a bad temper, a mean drunk, and he had plenty of guns, plus he was a deputy and liked to brag that he could get away with anything, includin’ murder. Then he started beatin’ Mom and things just got so bad…” His voice trailed off and he dropped his head. He was suddenly sobbing and shaking as he fought to keep his composure. A painful moment passed as everyone watched him.

Jake said, “Let’s talk about the night Stuart died.”

Drew took a deep breath, looked at his lawyer, and wiped his cheeks with the back of a sleeve. Because he and Kiera had been so thoroughly prepped, their stories matched perfectly until they reached the critical point when they found their mother unconscious and apparently dead. From then on, they were not thinking clearly and certainly couldn’t remember their exact words and movements. Both were crying and at times hysterical. He remembered moving around the house, looking at Stuart on the bed, looking at Kiera holding Josie on the kitchen floor, listening to her as she begged her to wake up, and waiting at the front window for help to arrive.

And then he heard something. A coughing, snorting sound, and the squeaking of the box spring and the mattress. Stuart was moving back there, and if he got up, as he had done a month earlier, he would fly into another rage and probably kill them all.

“And I went to the bedroom and he was still on the bed.”

“Had he moved?” Jake asked.

“Yes. His right arm was now across his chest. He wasn’t snorin’. I just knew he was about to get up. So I got his gun off the table where he always kept it, and I left the room with it.”

“Why did you take the gun?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was afraid he might use it.”

“What did you do with the gun?”

“I don’t know. I walked back to the window and waited some more, just kept waitin’ for blue lights or red lights or someone to come help us.”

“Were you familiar with the gun?”

“Yes sir. Stuart took me out in the woods one day for some target practice. We used his service gun, his Glock.”

“How many times did you fire it?”

“Three or four. He had a target on some hay bales. I couldn’t hit it and he laughed at me, called me a sissy, among other things.”

Jake pointed to exhibit number one lying on the table. “Is that the gun, Drew?”

“I think so. Sure looks like it.”

“So, Drew, you were standing at the window, waiting, holding that gun there, and what happened next?”

Staring at Jake, he said, “I remember hearin’ Kiera, and I remember bein’ so scared. I knew he was gettin’ up, comin’ after us, so I went to the bedroom. My hands were shakin’ so bad I could barely hold the gun. And I put it next to his head.”

His voice cracked again and he wiped his eyes.

Jake asked, “Do you remember pulling the trigger, Drew?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t. I’m not sayin’ I didn’t do it, I’m just sayin’ I don’t remember it. I remember closin’ my eyes, and the gun shakin’ so hard, and I remember the sound.”

“Do you remember putting the gun down?”

“No.”

“Do you remember telling Kiera that you shot Stuart?”

“No.”

“Well, Drew, what do you remember?”

“The next thing was sittin’ in the police car, with handcuffs, flyin’ down the road and wonderin’ what I was doin’ there and where was I goin’.”

“Was Kiera with you in the police car?”

“I don’t remember.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

—

LOWELL DYER HAD never believed for an instant that he would have the chance to cross-examine the defendant. At every turn in the pretrial, Jake had indicated that Drew would not testify. And, most crafty defense lawyers kept their clients away from the witness stand.

Dyer had spent little time preparing for the moment, and his trepidation was compounded by the fact that both Josie and Kiera had been so thoroughly coached they had actually scored more points than the D.A. during their cross-examinations.

Attacking the witness because of his criminal record wouldn’t work. Drew had already confessed, and, besides, who really cared about a stolen bike and a few ounces of pot?

Attacking anything in the kid’s past would backfire because it was unlikely that a single person on the jury had endured such a harsh childhood.

Dyer glared at the defendant. “Now, Mr. Gamble, when you moved in with Stuart Kofer, you were given your own bedroom, right?”

“Yes sir.”

Nothing about the shaggy-haired kid suggested the title of “Mister” was appropriate. Dyer, though, had to play it tough. Being too familiar would be a sign of weakness. Perhaps using the title might make him seem older.

“And your sister was just across the hall, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you have plenty of food to eat?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you have hot water for showers and clean towels and such?”

“Yes sir. We did our own laundry.”

“And you were in school every day?”

“Yes sir, almost every day.”

“And in church occasionally?”

“Yes sir.”

“And before you moved in with Stuart Kofer, I believe the family was living in a borrowed camper, is that correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“And from the testimony given by your mother and sister, we know that before the camper you lived in a car, in an orphanage, in foster care, and in a juvenile detention center. Anywhere else?”

What a stupid mistake! Bust him, Drew, Jake wanted to yell.

“Yes sir. We lived under a bridge one time for a couple of months, and there were some homeless shelters.”

“Okay. My point is that the home Stuart Kofer provided was the nicest place you ever lived, right?”

Another mistake. Do it, Drew! “No sir. A couple of the foster homes were nicer, plus you didn’t have to worry about gettin’ slapped around.”

Dyer looked at the bench and pleaded, “Your Honor, would you instruct the witness to respond to the questions without expounding on his answers?”

Jake expected a quick response, but Noose mulled it over. Jake stood and said, “Your Honor, if I may. Counsel described the Kofer home as ‘nice’ without defining what that means. I submit that any home where a kid lives with abuse and the threat of more is anything but ‘nice.’ ”

Noose agreed and said, “Please continue.”

Dyer was too stung to continue. He huddled with D. R. Musgrove and they again tried to find a strategy. He nodded smugly, as if he’d found the perfect line of questioning, and returned to the podium.

“Now, Mr. Gamble, I believe you said that you didn’t like Stuart Kofer and he didn’t like you. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“Would you say you hated Stuart Kofer?”

“That’s fair, yes sir.”

“Did you want to see him dead?”

“No sir. What I wanted was just to get away from him. I was tired of him beatin’ my mother and slappin’ us around. I was tired of the threats.”

“So when you shot him, you were killing him to protect your mother and sister and yourself, right?”

“No sir. At the time, I knew my mother was dead. It was too late to protect her.”

“Then you shot him out of revenge. For killing your mother. Right?”

“No sir, I don’t remember thinkin’ about revenge. I was too upset at the sight of Mom lying on the floor. I was just afraid that Stuart would get up and come after us, like he did before.”

Come on Dyer, take the bait. Jake was chewing on the tip of a plastic pen.