Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

“I thought she was dead.”

“I know you did, Drew.” Jake heard voices in the hall and looked at his watch. “Here’s the drill. The sheriff will drive you to Tupelo. You’ll sit in the backseat, probably alone, and you are not to say a word to anyone else in the car. Understand?”

“You’re not going?”

“I’ll be in my car behind you, and I’ll be there when you meet the doctor. Just don’t say anything to the sheriff or his deputies, okay?”

“Will they talk to me?”

“I doubt it.”

The door opened and Ozzie barged in with Moss Junior behind him. Jake stood and offered a terse “Mornin’ gentlemen,” but they only nodded. Moss Junior unsnapped the cuffs from his belt and said to Drew, “Stand up please.”

Jake asked, “Does he have to wear handcuffs? I mean, he’s not going anywhere.”

“We know our job, Jake, same as you,” Ozzie said like a real smart-ass.

“Why can’t he wear street clothes? Look, Ozzie, he’s going for a psychiatric evaluation, and sitting there in an orange jumpsuit will not help matters.”

“Back off, Jake.”

“I’m not backing off. I’ll call Judge Noose.”

“You do that.”

The jailer said, “He doesn’t have any extra clothes. Just one change, and it’s in the laundry.”

Jake looked at the jailer and asked, “You don’t allow the kids to have any clothes?”

Ozzie said, “He’s not a kid, Jake. He was in circuit court last time I checked.”

To benefit nothing, Moss Junior said, “They burned all his clothes. Same for his mother and sister.”

Drew shuddered and took a deep breath.

Jake looked at Drew, then looked at Moss Junior and asked, “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re askin’ ’bout more clothes. Ain’t got ’em.”

Ozzie said, “Let’s go.”

Every office had leaks, and Ozzie had been burned on occasion. The last thing he wanted was a front-page photo of him trying to sneak the accused killer out for a visit to a psychiatrist. His car was waiting behind the jail, with Looney and Swayze standing guard and prepared to shoot any reporter they saw. The getaway went smoothly, and as Jake raced to keep up with them in his Saab, he could barely see the top of Drew’s blond hair in the rear seat.

—

DR. ROOKER’S OFFICE was one of a dozen in a professional office building not far from downtown Tupelo. As directed, Ozzie turned into a service drive behind the building and was met by two marked patrol cars from the Lee County sheriff’s department. He parked, got out, left Moss Junior in the front seat to guard the defendant, and went inside with the local deputies to check out the premises. Jake remained in his car, not far from Ozzie’s, and waited. What else could he do? Driving over, he had called Portia who had called the hospital for information about Josie Gamble. Portia had learned nothing and was waiting for a return call from a nurse.

Half an hour dragged by. Moss Junior finally got out and lit a cigarette, and Jake walked over for a chat. He glanced into the rear seat and saw Drew lying down with his knees pulled to his chest.

Jake nodded at him and asked, “Did he say much?”

“Not a word, nothin’, course we didn’t pry. That’s a sick puppy, Jake.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you heard that hummin’ sound he does? Just sits there with his eyes closed and sorta hums and groans at the same time, like he’s in another world.”

“I’ve heard it.”

Moss blew a cloud of smoke at the sky and shifted weight from his right foot to his left. “Can he get off ’cause he’s crazy, Jake?”

“So that’s what’s going around?”

“Oh yeah. Folks think you’ll get him off like you did Carl Lee, by sayin’ he’s insane.”

“Well, folks have to say something, don’t they, Moss?”

“That they do, yes. But that ain’t right, Jake.” He cleared his throat and spat near the bumper as if disgusted. “Folks are gonna be upset, Jake, and I hate to see you take the blame.”

“I’m just a temp, Moss. Noose has promised to find somebody else if it goes all the way to a trial.”

“Is that where it’s goin’?”

“Don’t know. I’m pinch-hitting till there’s an indictment and something gets put on a calendar, then I’ll bail.”

“That’s good to hear. This might get nasty before it’s over.”

“It’s already nasty.”

Ozzie was back with the other deputies. He spoke to Moss Junior who opened a rear door and asked Drew to step out. They quickly escorted him inside the building and Jake followed along.

In a small conference room, Dr. Rooker was waiting and introduced herself to Jake. They had spoken on the phone several times and the introduction was brief. She was tall and slender, with bright red hair that was probably not natural, and she wore funky reading glasses of many colors that were perched on the tip of her nose. She was about fifty, older than any of the men and thoroughly unintimidated by any of them. This was her office, her show.

Once Ozzie felt the defendant was secure, he excused himself and said he and Moss Junior would be waiting down the hall. It was clear that Dr. Rooker did not like the idea of armed men waiting in her quiet little office suite, but under the circumstances she went along. It was not every day that she talked to a man, or a kid, who was charged with capital murder.

Drew looked even smaller in the oversized jumpsuit. The rubber shower shoes looked ridiculous and were several sizes too large. They barely touched the floor as he sat with his hands folded in his lap, chin down, eyes on the floor, as if too frightened to acknowledge those around him.

Jake said, “Drew, this is Dr. Rooker, and she is here to help you.”

With effort, he nodded at her, then looked back at the floor.

Jake said, “I’ll be here for just a moment, then I’ll disappear. I’m going to ask you to listen to her carefully and answer her questions. She’s on our side, Drew. Do you understand?”

He nodded and slowly lifted his eyes to the wall above Jake’s head, as if he heard something up there and didn’t like it. A slow, mournful groan came out, but he said nothing. As frightening as it was, Jake wanted the kid to start his incessant humming again. Dr. Rooker needed to hear it and evaluate it, if that was possible.

“How old are you, Drew?” she asked.

“Sixteen.”

“And when is your birthday?”

“February the tenth.”

“So last month. Did you have a party on your birthday?”

“No.”

“Did you have birthday cake?”

“No.”

“Did your friends at school know it was your birthday?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Who is your mother?”

“Josie.”

“And you have a sister, right?”

“Right. Kiera.”

“And there’s nobody else in your family?”

He shook his head.

“No grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins?”

He kept shaking his head.

“How about your father?”

His eyes were suddenly wet and he wiped them on an orange sleeve. “Don’t know him.”

“Have you ever known your father?”

He shook his head.

She estimated his height at five feet and his weight at a hundred pounds. There was no visible muscle development. His voice was high, soft, still childlike. There was no facial hair, no acne, nothing to indicate that the middle stages of puberty had arrived.

He closed his eyes again and began rocking, slightly, leaning forward from the waist, then easing back.

She touched his knee and asked, “Drew, are you afraid of something right now?”

He began to hum in that same steady emission that at times sounded more like a soft growl. They listened to him for a moment, exchanged glances, and then she asked, “Drew, why do you make that noise?”