Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

With great effort, Jake managed to continue to suppress a smile as he entered the courtroom and sat next to his client. He leaned back and whispered to Portia, “Six–six.” Her jaw dropped before she caught herself.

There were no smiles either from the jurors as they filed in and took their seats. Noose watched them carefully and when they were settled, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the court has been advised that you appear to be deadlocked.”

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.