Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

“Forty-five,” Jake said, but he was already gone.

“Why do so many white people love the death penalty?” Portia asked.

“It’s in the water. We grow up with it. We hear it at home, at church, at school, among friends. This is the Bible Belt, Portia, eye for an eye and all that.”

“What about the New Testament and Jesus’s sermons on forgiveness?”

“It’s not convenient. He also preached love first, tolerance, acceptance, equality. But most Christians I know are quite good at cherry-picking their way through the Holy Scriptures.”

“And not just white Christians,” she said with a laugh. They ate for a few minutes and enjoyed Claude’s verbal assaults on three black gentlemen in nice suits. One made the mistake of asking to see a menu. They were laughing by the time the abuse was over.

All tables were taken by 12:15 and Jake counted seven other white folks, not that it mattered. For a brief interlude, good food was more important than skin color. Portia ate in small bites with perfect manners. She was twenty-six now, and thanks to the army had seen more of the world than Jake or anyone he knew. She was also having trouble finding a suitable boyfriend.

“You gotta boy?” he asked, looking for trouble.

“No, and don’t ask.” She took a bite and looked around. “What are the prospects in law school?”

“Black or white?”

“Come on, Jake. If I brought a white boy home my family would go nuts. Surely there’ll be some talent in law school.”

“I doubt it. I finished twelve years ago and we had three blacks in our class.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” she said. “You sound like Momma. Always pecking away about me not getting married. I remind her that she got married and look how that turned out.” Her father, Simeon Lang, had a rough history and was currently serving time for vehicular homicide. Her mother, Lettie, had divorced him two years earlier.

Claude walked by and frowned at their baskets. He glanced at his wristwatch as if they were out of time.

“How are we supposed to enjoy lunch under this much pressure?” Jake asked him.

“You’re doin’ a pretty good job. Hurry up, though, I got folks waitin’ outside.”

They finished and Jake left a $20 bill on the table. Claude did not accept credit cards or checks and the town loved to speculate about how much money he made. He had a nice house in the country, drove a beautiful Cadillac, and had sent three kids to college. It was generally assumed that his disdain for printed menus, receipts, and credit cards also extended to the notion of income taxation.

On the sidewalk, Jake said, “I think I’ll walk over to the jail and sit with Drew for an hour or so. Kid’s cleaning my clock in blackjack and I need to get my money back.”

“Such a sweet boy. Can’t we get him out, Jake?”

“It’s not likely. Can you visit him tomorrow? He really likes you, Portia.”

“Sure. I’ll make some brownies and take ’em over. The jailers love my double fudge. Not that they need any.”

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Whatever, Jake. You’re the boss, for now anyway.”

52

Monday morning, Jake finished tallying up his hours and expenses for the defense of Drew Gamble, and faxed his bill to the Honorable Omar Noose.

Since the judge’s first phone call on Sunday, March 25, the actual date of Stuart Kofer’s death, Jake detailed 320 hours, or about a third of his total time. He added 100 hours for Portia’s work, and he billed every possible minute related to the case—driving time, phone time, everything. He padded his time sheets generously and did so with no guilt. The approved rate for court-appointed work was only $50 an hour, a paltry sum for any lawyer’s time. The most expensive attorney in town was rumored to be Walter Sullivan, who boasted of charging $200 an hour. The corporate firms in Jackson and Memphis were billing as much. Two years earlier, in the Seth Hubbard will contest, Judge Atlee had approved $150 an hour for Jake, and he considered himself worth every penny.

Fifty bucks an hour barely covered his overhead.

His total was $21,000, or $20,000 more than the statute allowed for capital murder, and as he submitted it he doubted he would ever see the money. For that reason alone, the thought of a retrial was depressing.

What was a reasonable fee? It was difficult to say because people of means were rarely indicted for murder. Three years earlier, a wealthy farmer over in the Delta was charged with killing his wife with a twelve-gauge. He hired a well-known trial lawyer and was acquitted. The fee was rumored to have been $250,000.

Those were the cases Jake wanted.

Thirty minutes later, Judge Noose was on the phone. Jake swallowed hard and took the call. “Seems reasonable to me,” His Honor said. “You did a fine job, Jake.”

Relieved, Jake thanked him and asked, “What’s next, Judge?”

“I’m faxing your bill to Todd Tannehill right now with instructions to tell the board to write a check.”

Give ’em hell, Judge. He thanked him again and hung up. The Board would decline, and the plan was for Jake to then sue the county in circuit court, Omar Noose presiding.

An hour later, Todd Tannehill called. Todd was a good lawyer and had been the attorney for the Board of Supervisors for many years. Jake had always liked him and they had even gone duck hunting together. Todd said, “Congratulations on the win, Jake.”

“Thanks, but it’s only temporary.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, the fee is quite reasonable and I’d love to write you a check, but there’s this statute staring us in the face.”

“I’m looking at it too.”

“Well, I’ll submit the bill. The Board meets this afternoon and I’ll put this at the top of the agenda, but we both know the Board will decline. Noose said you’ll probably sue the county.”

“That’s always an option.”

“Good luck. I’ll get the ball rolling.”

—

TUESDAY MORNING, Jake received a faxed letter from Tannehill.

Dear Mr. Brigance:

On Monday, August 13, the Ford County Board of Supervisors was presented with a bill for your court-appointed services in the defense of Drew Gamble. Your request exceeds the amount authorized by state law. Therefore, the Board has no choice but to decline to pay your bill. At your request, the Board will pay the statutory maximum of $1000.

Regretfully,

TODD TANNEHILL

Jake prepared a simple one-page lawsuit against the county and showed it to Lucien, who was in his room downstairs. He loved it and said, “Well, if these God-fearing creatures around here love the death penalty so much they can certainly pay for it.”

Because Dumas Lee combed the court records each Tuesday afternoon in search of news, Jake decided to wait a day or so before filing. The newspaper went to press at ten each Tuesday night, and the next day’s edition would undoubtedly scream about the mistrial in the Kofer murder. A story about Jake suing the county for his fees would just add fuel to the fire.

—

LOWELL DYER SHOWED no such restraint. On Tuesday afternoon, he convened the grand jury in a special session and walked them through the murder once again. Ozzie testified and produced the same crime scene photos. In a unanimous vote, Drew Gamble was re-indicted for capital murder and served with papers in his cell. Dyer called Jake afterward and the conversation was tense.

Not that the timing really mattered. The fresh indictment was expected. And with a possible reelection looming, Dyer needed to do something dramatic to mitigate his defeat.

—

EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING, Jake read the Times over coffee with Carla. There was hardly enough room on the front page for all the bold headlines about the hung jury, and the photos, and the breathless reporting by Dumas. The new indictment was on page two. Still no comment from Mr. Brigance.