Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

Lowell Dyer entered through a side door and greeted Jake. They agreed to have a word with Noose as soon as possible. At ten, His Honor called them back to his chambers and offered them coffee as he lined up his second round of daily medications. His robe was hanging on the door and his jacket was draped over a chair. “How’s the defendant?” he asked. Noose had always been gaunt with a long, lanky frame and a sloping nose that was often redder than the rest of his pale skin. He had never looked that healthy, and to watch him knock back an impressive collection of pills made the lawyers wonder just how sick he might be. But they didn’t dare ask what was ailing him.

Jake poured two cups of coffee into paper cups, and he and Lowell sat across from the judge. Jake replied, “Well, Judge, the kid is not doing too well. I saw him this morning for the third straight day and he’s shutting down. I think he’s traumatized and having some sort of breakdown. Can we get him evaluated and perhaps treated? This might be a sick little boy.”

“Boy?” Lowell asked. “Try telling that to the Kofers.”

“He’s sixteen, Jake,” Judge Noose said. “Hardly a boy.”

“Wait till you meet him.”

“Evaluated where?” Lowell asked.

“Well, I’d prefer that the pros do it, down at the state hospital.”

“Lowell?”

“The State objects, as for right now anyway.”

“I’m not sure you have the right to object, Lowell,” Jake said. “There’s no case yet. Shouldn’t you wait until you get the indictment?”

“I suppose.”

“Here’s the problem,” Jake said. “The kid needs help right now. Today. This very moment. He’s suffering from some type of trauma and he’s not improving sitting over there in the jail. He needs to be seen by a doctor, a psychiatrist, someone a lot smarter than we are. If that doesn’t happen, then he may continue to deteriorate. At times he refuses to talk to me. He can’t remember from one day to the next. He’s not eating. He’s having crazy dreams and hallucinating. At times he just sits and stares and makes this weird humming noise like he’s lost his mind. Don’t you want a healthy defendant, Lowell? If the boy’s crazy as a loon, you can’t put him on trial. There’s no harm in at least getting someone, some doctor, to take a look.”

Lowell looked at Noose, who was chewing a pill that must have been bitter.

Noose said, “Crime, suspect, arrest, jail. Looks to me like the defendant needs a first appearance.”

“We’ll waive it,” Jake said. “There’s nothing to be gained by hauling the kid over in a police car and dragging him into a courtroom. He simply can’t handle that right now. I’m being honest here, Judge, I don’t think the kid knows what’s happening around him.”

Lowell smiled and shook his head as if he had doubts. “Sounds to me like you’re already laying the groundwork for an insanity plea, Jake.”

“I am not, because Judge Noose here has promised me that he’ll find another lawyer to handle the trial, if there is a trial.”

“Oh, there will be a trial, Jake, I can promise that,” Lowell said. “You can’t kill a man in cold blood and walk away.”

“Nobody’s walking away here, Lowell. I’m just worried about this kid. He’s detached from reality. What’s the harm in having him evaluated?”

Noose had finished with his meds and was choking them down with a glass of water. He looked at Jake and asked, “Who would do it?”

“State Health has a regional office in Oxford. Maybe we can send him over there to be examined.”

“Can they send someone over here?” Noose asked. “I really don’t like the idea of the defendant leaving jail so soon.”

“Agreed,” Lowell said. “They haven’t had the funeral yet. I’m not sure the kid would be safe outside the jail.”

“Fine,” Jake said. “I don’t care how we do it.”

Noose raised his hands and called for order. “Let’s agree on a plan here, fellas. I assume, Mr. Dyer, that you plan to seek an indictment for capital murder, is this correct?”

“Well, Judge, it’s still a bit early, but, yes, that’s how I’m leaning as of today. It appears as if the facts call for such an indictment.”

“And when would you present this case to your grand jury?”

“We meet here in two weeks, but I can always call it early. Do you have a preference?”

“No. The grand jury is really none of my business. Mr. Brigance, how do you see the next few weeks unfolding?”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Since my client is so young I will have no choice but to ask you to transfer his case over to youth court.”

Lowell Dyer bit his tongue and gave Noose plenty of room to respond. Noose looked at him with raised eyebrows and Dyer said, “Of course, the State will oppose such a motion. We believe the case belongs in this court and that the defendant should be tried as an adult.”

Jake did not react. He took a sip of coffee and glanced at a legal pad as if he knew this was coming, which in fact he did because there was no chance at all that the Honorable Omar Noose was going to allow the Ford County Youth Court to handle such a serious crime. Lesser offenses committed by teenagers were often sent down—car theft, drugs, small-time larcenies and burglaries—and the juvenile judge was known to be judicious in dealing with them. But not serious crimes involving bodily harm, and certainly not murders.

Most white Southerners firmly believed that a sixteen-year-old like Drew Gamble who shot a man sleeping in his own bed must be tried as an adult and given a harsh sentence, even death. A small minority felt otherwise. Jake wasn’t sure, yet, how he felt, though he already doubted whether Drew had the wherewithal to understand criminal intent.

Jake also knew the political realities. Next year, 1991, both Omar Noose and Lowell Dyer faced reelection—Dyer for the first time, Noose for the fifth. Though His Honor was pushing seventy and took a lot of meds he was showing no signs of slowing down. He enjoyed the job, the prestige, the salary. He had always faced light opposition—few lawyers were willing to challenge a sitting and entrenched judge—but there was always the chance of that screwball election where an underdog caught fire and the voters decided they wanted a new face. Three years earlier, Noose had been hounded by a quack of a lawyer from Milburn County who made a bunch of wild claims about lenient sentences in criminal cases. He got a third of the vote, which was not unimpressive for a complete unknown with little credibility.

Now, a more ominous threat was looming. Jake had heard the rumors and he was sure Noose had heard them too. Rufus Buckley, the ex–district attorney, the showboat Dyer had defeated in a close election, was reportedly making waves and dropping hints about wanting Noose’s seat on the bench. Buckley had been banished to the sidelines, where he spent his days in a small office down in Smithfield drafting deeds and fuming and plotting his comeback. His greatest loss was the not-guilty verdict of Carl Lee Hailey, and he would forever blame Noose. And Jake. And everyone else remotely connected to the case. Everyone but himself.

“File your motion in due course,” Noose said, as if he’d already made up his mind.

“Yes sir. Now, about the psychiatric examination.”

Noose stood and grunted and walked to his desk where he took a pipe from an ashtray and stuck the stem between his stained teeth. “And you think this is urgent?”

“Yes I do, Judge. I’m afraid this kid is slipping as the hours pass.”

“Has Ozzie seen him?”

“Ozzie’s not a shrink. I’m sure he’s seen him because he’s at the jail.”

Noose looked at Dyer and asked, “And your position on this?”