Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

“He walks,” Portia said.

“He walks,” Jake said.

“So you can’t blame Noose for keeping the case.”

“I’m not trying to plead insanity here, Lucien, not yet anyway. But this kid is suffering from something and needs professional help. He’s not eating, bathing, is barely talking, and he can sit for hours staring at the floor and humming as if he’s dying inside. Frankly, I think he needs to be moved to the state hospital and put on medication.”

The phone rang and they stared at it. “Where’s Bev?” Jake asked.

“Gone. It’s almost five,” Portia said.

“Out for more cigarettes,” Lucien said.

Portia slowly lifted the receiver and said, quite officially, “Law office of Jake Brigance.” She smiled and listened for a second and asked, “And who’s calling, please?” A brief pause as she closed her eyes and racked her brain. “And this is in regard to which case?” A smile, then: “I’m sorry but Mr. Brigance is in court this afternoon.”

He was always in court, according to the office’s rules of engagement. If the caller was a non-client or other stranger, he or she was left with the impression that Mr. Brigance practically lived in the courtroom and getting an appointment for an office consultation would be difficult and probably expensive. And this was not unusual among the bored and timid office practitioners in Clanton. On the other side of the square, a worthless lawyer named F. Frank Mulveney trained his part-time secretary to go one step further and gravely inform all callers that “Mr. Mulveney is in federal court.” No lowly state work for F. Frank. He was off to the big leagues.

Portia hung up and said, “A divorce.”

“Thank you. Any more cranks today?”

“Not that I know of.”

Lucien stared at his wristwatch as if waiting for an alarm. He stood and announced, “It’s five o’clock. Who wants a drink?”

Jake and Portia waved him off. As soon as he was gone, she asked quietly, “When did he start drinking here?”

“When did he stop?”

12

The only child psychologist working for the state in north Mississippi was too busy to return phone calls. Jake assumed this meant that a request, if somehow made, that she drop everything and hustle over to the jail in Clanton would not be well received. There were no such specialists in private practice in Ford County, or anywhere else in the Twenty-second Judicial District for that matter, and it took Portia two hours on the phone to finally locate one in Oxford, an hour to the west.

On Wednesday morning, Jake talked to him briefly before the guy said he could evaluate Drew in a couple of weeks, and in his office, not at the jail. He did not make house calls. Nor did the two in Tupelo, though the second one, a Dr. Christina Rooker, warmed up quickly when she recognized the identity of the potential patient. She had read about the murder of the officer and was intrigued by what Jake told her on the phone. He described Drew’s condition, appearance, behavior, and near catatonic state. Dr. Rooker agreed that the situation was urgent and agreed to see him the following day, Thursday, in her office in Tupelo, not at the jail in Clanton.

Lowell Dyer objected to Drew’s leaving for any reason, as did Ozzie. Judge Noose was hearing motions at the Polk County Courthouse in Smithfield. Jake drove forty-five minutes south, walked into the courtroom, and waited until some rather long-winded lawyers finished their bickering and His Honor had a few moments to spare. In chambers, Jake again described his client’s condition, explained that Dr. Rooker felt the matter was urgent, and insisted that the kid be allowed out of the jail for an examination. He posed no safety or flight risk. Hell, he was barely capable of feeding himself. Jake finally convinced the judge that the ends of justice would be served by getting the defendant some immediate medical help.

“And her fee is five hundred dollars,” he added on his way out of the door.

“For a two-hour consultation?”

“That’s what she said. I promised her we, the State, because you and I are now on its payroll, right, would cover it. And that brings up the matter of my fees.”

“We’ll discuss them later, Jake. I have lawyers waiting.”

“Thanks, Judge. I’ll call Lowell and Ozzie and they’ll bitch and cuss and probably come crying to you.”

“That’s part of my job. I’m not worried about them.”

“I’ll tell Ozzie that you want him to drive the kid to Tupelo. He’ll like that.”

“Whatever.”

“And I’m filing a motion to transfer the case to youth court.”

“Please wait until there’s an indictment.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t waste a lot of time on the motion.”

“Is that because you don’t plan to waste a lot of time with it?”

“That’s correct, Jake.”

“Well, thanks for the candor.”

“As always.”

—

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK Thursday morning, Drew Gamble was led to a small dark room and told by the jailer that it was time for a shower. He had declined earlier requests and needed a good scrubbing. He was given a bar of soap and a towel and told to hurry, there was a five-minute limit on showers throughout the jail, and also warned that the hot water, if any, would last for only the first two minutes. He closed the door, stripped, and tossed out his soiled clothing, which the jailer collected and took to the laundry. When Drew was finished, he was given the smallest orange jumpsuit available and a pair of well-used rubber shower shoes, also orange in color, and taken back to his cell where he declined a plate of eggs and bacon. Instead, he munched on peanuts and drank a soda. As usual, he did not speak to the jailers even when spoken to. They had at first assumed their prisoner had some serious attitude but soon realized that his mind was functioning at a very low level. One whispered to another, “His light’s barely on but nobody’s home.”

Jake arrived just before nine with two dozen fresh doughnuts that he passed around the jail in an effort to score points with old friends who now viewed him as an enemy. A few were taken but most were ignored. He left one box at the front desk and walked back to the jail. Alone with Drew in his cell, he offered his client a doughnut, and, to his surprise, he ate two of them. The sugar seemed to jack up his energy and he asked, “Is something going on today, Jake?”

“Yes. You’re taking a trip to Tupelo to see a doctor.”

“I’m not sick, am I?”

“We’ll let the doctor decide that. She’ll ask you a lot of questions about yourself and your family, and where you’ve lived and all that, and you need to tell the truth and answer to the best of your ability.”

“Is she a shrink or something?”

The use of the word “shrink” caught Jake off guard. “She’s a psychiatrist.”

“Oh, a shrink. I’ve met one or two before.”

“Really? Where?”

“They put me in jail one time, in the juvenile pen, and I had to see a shrink once a week. It was a waste of time.”

“But I’ve asked you twice if you’ve ever been to juvenile court and you said no.”

“I don’t remember you asking me that. Sorry.”

“Why were you in the juvenile pen?”

Drew took another bite of a doughnut and thought about the question. “And you’re my lawyer, right?”

“This is the fifth straight day I’ve come here to the jail to talk to you. Only your lawyer would do that, right?”

“I really want to see my mom.”

Jake breathed deeply and told himself to be patient, something he did with every visit. “Your mother had surgery yesterday, they reset her jaw, and she’s doing fine. You can’t see her now but I’m sure they’ll allow her to come here for a visit.”