Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

And he took a call from a pathologist at the state crime lab. The autopsy revealed that Kofer died of a single bullet wound to the head, in through the left temple, out through the right ear. Nothing really remarkable, but for the fact that his blood alcohol level was .36. Point-three-six! Three and a half times the state’s limit of .10 to be legally drunk behind the wheel. Kofer was six feet one inch tall and weighed 197 pounds. A man that size, and that drunk, would have a difficult time doing anything—walking, driving, even breathing.

As a small-town lawyer with fifteen years’ experience, Lowell had never seen or heard of a case involving such a high level of alcohol. He expressed disbelief and asked the pathologist to test the blood again. Lowell would review the autopsy report as soon as he received it, and in due course he would hand it over to the defense. There would be no way to conceal the fact that Stuart Kofer was blind drunk when he died.

No set of facts was ever perfect. Every prosecution, as well as every defense, had its flaws in the proof. But for a deputy to be so raging drunk at two in the morning presented a lot of questions, and just hours after landing the case of a lifetime Lowell Dyer had his first doubt.

—

JAKE DROPPED PORTIA off at the square and drove to the jail. It was still busier than usual and he did not want to go inside and face the stares. But as he parked on the street he said to himself, “What the hell? You can’t defend a cop killer and still be loved by the cops.”

If they resented Jake for doing his job, a job that no one else wanted but had to be done, then he couldn’t worry about it. He entered the front room where the deputies liked to kill time gossiping and drinking gallons of coffee, and said hello to Marshall Prather and Moss Junior Tatum. They nodded because they had to, but within seconds Jake realized the battle lines had been drawn.

“Is Ozzie in?” he asked Tatum, who shrugged as if he had no clue. Jake kept walking and stopped at Doreen’s desk. She was Ozzie’s secretary and guarded his door like a Doberman. She also wore a full uniform and carried a gun, though it was no secret she had no law enforcement training and could not legally make an arrest. It was assumed she could use the pistol but no one had dared to test her.

“He’s in a meeting,” she said coolly.

“I called half an hour ago and we agreed to meet at ten-thirty,” Jake said as politely as possible. “It’s ten-thirty.”

“I’ll buzz him, Jake, but it’s been a crazy morning.”

“Thank you.”

Jake walked to a window that overlooked a side street. Beyond it was the first cluster of office buildings that lined the south side of the square. The dome of the courthouse rose above the buildings and the stately oaks that were two hundred years old. As he stood there he was aware that the usual chatter and banter behind him had died down. The deputies were still around, but now so was the defense lawyer.

“Jake,” Ozzie called as he opened his door.

Inside his office, the two old friends stood and looked at each other across the big desk.

Jake said, “We’ve already had two threatening phone calls at the office, and someone called the school asking about Carla. Wouldn’t leave a name, of course, they never do.”

“I know about the call to the school. What am I supposed to do, Jake? Tell people not to call your office?”

“Have you spoken with Earl Kofer?”

“Well, yes, twice. Yesterday at his farm and this morning on the phone. We’re tryin’ to work out some details about the funeral, Jake, if that’s okay.”

“I’m not thinking about the funeral, Ozzie. Could you politely inform Mr. Kofer to inform his people, whoever the hell they are, that they need to back off and leave us alone.”

“So you’re certain it’s the family?”

“Who else would it be? I’m told they’re a bunch of hotheads. They’re obviously upset about the killing. Who wouldn’t be? Just stop the threats, okay, Ozzie?”

“I think you’re upset too, Jake. Maybe you should settle down first. Nobody’s been hurt, other than Stuart Kofer.” Ozzie took a deep breath and slowly eased into his chair. He nodded and Jake sat down too.

Ozzie said, “Record the calls and bring them to me. I’ll do what I can. You want security again?”

“No. We got tired of that. I’ll just shoot them myself.”

“Jake, I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. The family is upset but they’re not crazy. We’ll get through the funeral, maybe things will settle down. You’ll be off the case soon, right?”

“I don’t know. I hope so. Have you checked on the boy this morning?”

“I talked to the jailer. Kid’s really shut down.”

“Has he eaten anything?”

“Some chips maybe, drank a Coke.”

“Look, Ozzie, I’m no expert, but I think the kid is traumatized and needs help. He could be in the middle of some type of a breakdown, for all we know.”

“Forgive me, Jake, but I’m not feelin’ the sympathy.”

“I get that. I’ll see Noose in the morning before the Civil Docket, and I plan to ask him to send the kid to Whitfield for tests. I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Yes. Noose admires you, and if you agree that the kid needs to see a professional, then he might go along. The kid is in your custody and you know more about his condition than anyone else right now. Bring the jailer over and we’ll meet with Noose in his chambers. Off the record. You won’t have to testify or anything. The rules are different for minors.”

Ozzie gave a sarcastic laugh and looked away. “Let me get this straight. This kid, regardless of his age, murdered my deputy, whose memorial service or funeral or whatever you white folks call these events, has not yet been planned, and here I am with the defense lawyer who’s askin’ me to help out with the defense. Right, Jake?”

“I’m asking you to do what’s right here, Ozzie. That’s all.”

“The answer is no. I haven’t even seen the kid since they brought him in. You’re pushin’ too hard, Jake. Back off.”

Ozzie was glaring across the desk when he gave the warning, and Jake got the message. He got to his feet, said, “Okay. I’d like to see my client.”

—

HE TOOK HIM a can of Mountain Dew and a package of peanuts, and after a few minutes managed to coax Drew from under the covers. He sat on the edge of his bed and opened the drink.

“I saw your mother this morning,” Jake said. “She’s doing great. Kiera is with her at the hospital and there are some folks from the church taking care of them.”

Drew’s eyes never left his feet as he nodded. His blond hair was stringy, matted, dirty, and his entire body needed a good scrubbing. They had yet to dress him in the standard orange jail jumpsuit, which would be an improvement over the cheap and wrinkled clothes he wore.

He kept nodding and asked, “What church?”

“I believe it’s called the Good Shepherd Bible Church. The pastor is a guy named Charles McGarry. You know him?”

“I think so. Stu didn’t want us to go to church. Is he really dead?”

“He’s dead, Drew.”

“And I shot him?”

“Sure looks that way. You don’t remember?”

“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I think I’m dreaming, you know? Like right now. Are you really here, talking to me? What’s your name?”

“Jake. We met last night when I stopped by. Do you remember that?”

A long silence followed. He took a sip and then tried to open the peanuts. When he couldn’t, Jake gently took the package, tore the top, and gave it back.

Jake said, “This is not a dream, Drew. I’m your lawyer. I’ve met your mother and sister and so now I represent the family. It’s important for you to trust me and talk to me.”