Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

“About what?”

“About what. Let’s talk about the house where you live with Kiera and your mother and Stuart Kofer. How long have you lived there?”

More silence as he stared at the floor, as if he’d heard nothing Jake said.

“How long, Drew? How long did you live with Stuart Kofer?”

“I don’t remember. Is he really dead?”

“Yes.”

The can slipped from his hand and hit the floor with foam splashing near Jake’s feet. It rolled a bit, then stopped but continued leaking the soda. Drew did not react to the dropped can, and Jake tried his best to ignore it too as the puddle inched closer to his shoes. Drew closed his eyes and began to make a low humming sound, a soft painful groan that came from somewhere deep within. His lips began moving slightly, as if he was mumbling to himself. After a moment, Jake almost said something to interrupt him, but decided to wait. Drew could have been a monk in a deep trance-like meditation, or a mental patient drifting away again, into the darkness.

But Drew was a wounded child in need of help that Jake was unqualified to give.

9

By noon Monday Ozzie was fed up with the crowds and noise, the off-duty guys hanging around to gather or spread the latest gossip, the retired cops just wanting to be part of the brotherhood, the useless reserves taking up space, the reporters, the nosy old ladies from town stopping by with brownies and doughnuts as if massive quantities of sugar would help in some way, the curious with no discernible reason for being there, the politicians hoping their presence would remind the voters that they believed in law and order, and friends of the Kofers who thought they were helping the situation by offering their support for the good guys and supporting the boys in blue. Ozzie ordered everyone who wasn’t on duty out of the building.

For over thirty hours he had worked hard at maintaining the facade of a pro untouched by the tragedy, but fatigue was settling in. He had barked at Doreen, who barked back. The tension was palpable.

He gathered his A-team in his office and, politely, asked Doreen to guard the door and hold all calls. Moss Junior Tatum, Marshall Prather, and Willie Hastings. None were in uniform, nor was Ozzie. He passed around sheets of paper and asked them all to take a look. After enough time, he said, “Point-three-six. Can any of you remember catchin’ a drunk driver who registered point-three-six?”

The three veterans had seen it all, or thought so. Prather said, “I’ve had a couple of threes, but nothin’ higher. Not that I can remember.”

Moss Junior shook his head in disbelief and said, “Not here.”

Hastings said, “Butch Vango’s boy was point-three-five. I think that’s the record for Ford County.”

“And he died,” Prather said.

“Next day at the hospital. I didn’t bring him in so I didn’t do the test.”

“There was no test,” Prather said. “He wasn’t drivin’. They found him lyin’ in the middle of Craft Road one mornin’. Called it alcohol poisonin’.”

“Okay, okay,” Ozzie said. “Point is, our fallen brother was saturated with enough booze to kill most men. Point is, Kofer had a problem. Point is, Kofer was out of control and we didn’t know the extent of it, did we?”

Prather said, “We talked about this yesterday, Ozzie. You’re tryin’ to blame us for not rattin’ out a fellow officer.”

“I am not! But I smell a cover-up. There were at least two incident reports filed after Kofer’s girlfriend called when he slapped her around. I never saw them and now I can’t find them. We’ve looked all mornin’.”

Ozzie was the sheriff, elected and reelected by the people, and the only person in the room who was required to face the voters every four years. The other three were his top deputies and owed him their paychecks and careers. They understood the relationships, the issues, the politics. It was imperative that they protect him as much as possible. They weren’t sure if Ozzie had actually seen the memos, and they weren’t sure how much he knew, but at that moment they were on board with whatever image he wanted to project.

Ozzie continued, “Pirtle and McCarver filed one about a month ago after she called the dispatcher late one night, then she refused to press charges so nothin’ happened. They swear they filed the report, but it ain’t here. Turns out that four months ago the girlfriend called the dispatcher, same crap, Kofer came home drunk, slapped her around, Officer Swayze made the call but she wouldn’t press charges. He filed the report, now it’s gone. I never saw it, never saw either one. Here’s the problem, boys. Jake stopped by an hour ago. He’s been appointed by Noose and he claims he doesn’t want the case, says Noose will find somebody else as soon as possible. We can’t be sure of that and it’s out of our control. For now, Jake is the lawyer and it’ll take him about five minutes to sniff out missin’ paperwork. Not now, but down the road if this thing goes to trial. I know Jake well, hell we all know him, and he’ll be a step ahead of us.”

“Why would Jake get involved?” Prather asked.

“As I said, because Noose appointed him. The kid has to have a lawyer and, evidently, no one else would take it.”

“I thought we had a public defender,” Hastings said. “I like Jake and I don’t want him on the other side.” Willie Hastings was a cousin to Gwen Hailey, mother of Tonya, wife of Carl Lee, and in their world Jake Brigance walked on water.

“Our public defender is a greenhorn who’s yet to handle a serious case. I’ve heard that Noose doesn’t like him. Look, guys, Omar Noose is the circuit judge and has been for a long time. Love him or hate him, but he rules the system. He can make or break a lawyer and he’s quite fond of Jake. Jake couldn’t say no.”

“But I thought Jake was just doin’ the preliminary stuff until they brought in somebody else?” Prather asked.

“Who knows? A lot can happen and it’s still early. They may have trouble findin’ somebody else. Also, Jake’s an ambitious lawyer who likes the attention. Keep in mind he was hired and trained by Lucien Wilbanks, a radical in his day who would defend anyone.”

“I can’t believe it,” Tatum said. “Jake did a land deal for my uncle last year.”

Ozzie said, “He said they’re already gettin’ phone calls, threats. I’m gonna ride out again and talk to Earl Kofer, pay my respects and such, talk about the burial, and make sure those folks are under control.”

“The Kofers are okay,” Prather said. “I know some of them and they’re just in shock right now.”

“Aren’t we all?” asked Ozzie. He closed the file, took a deep breath, and looked at his three deputies. He settled on Prather and finally asked, “Okay, let’s hear it.”

Marshall tossed his sheet of paper on the desk and lit a cigarette. He walked to a window, cracked it for ventilation, and leaned against the wall. “I talked to my cousin. He wasn’t out with Kofer Saturday night. He called around and got the scoop. Seems there was a card game at Dog Hickman’s cabin near the lake. Poker, low stakes, not a high-dollar crowd, but an unnamed player showed up with some shine, peach flavored, fresh from the still, and they got into it. Everybody got wasted. Three of them passed out and stayed there. They don’t remember much. Kofer decided it would be smart to drive home. Somehow he made it.”

Ozzie interrupted with “Sounds like Gary Garver’s still.”

Prather took a drag and stared at the sheriff. “I didn’t ask for names, Ozzie, and none were offered, except for Kofer and Dog Hickman. Kofer’s dead and the other four are kinda scared right now.”

“Scared of what?”

“I don’t know, maybe they feel some responsibility. They were gamblin’ and hittin’ the moonshine and now their buddy is dead.”