Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

At any rate, the local bar swallowed the lesson whole and most lawyers kept up with their hours. In the Smallwood lawsuit, Jake had worked over a thousand hours in the fourteen months since Harry Rex landed the case and associated him. That was almost half his time and he anticipated being well compensated for it. Drew’s case, though, could possibly eat up huge chunks of time with little in the way of fees. Another reason to get rid of it.

The phone rang again and Jake waited for someone else to answer it. It was almost 5:00 p.m., and for a moment he thought of joining Lucien downstairs for a drink, but let it pass. Carla frowned on drinking, especially on weekdays. So his thoughts moved from hard alcohol back to Mack Stafford sipping rum drinks, studying bikinis, far away from bitching clients and cranky judges and, oh well, there you go again.

Through the intercom, Portia said, “Hey, Jake, it’s Dr. Rooker in Tupelo.”

“Thanks.” Jake tossed the phone slips onto his desk and picked up the receiver. “Hello, Dr. Rooker. Thanks again for seeing Drew today.”

“It’s my job, Mr. Brigance. Are you near your fax machine?”

“I can be.”

“Good, I’m sending over a letter I’ve addressed to Judge Noose and copies to you. Give it a look and if you agree, I’ll send it to him in a moment.”

“Sounds urgent.”

“In my opinion, it is.”

Jake hustled downstairs and found Portia standing at the fax machine. The letter read:

TO THE HONORABLE OMAR NOOSE

CIRCUIT COURT—22ND JUDICIAL DISTRICT

Dear Judge Noose:

At the request of Mr. Jake Brigance, this afternoon I met and examined Drew Allen Gamble, age 16. He was brought to my office in Tupelo, in handcuffs, and wearing what appeared to be a standard orange jump suit issued by the Ford County Jail. In other words, he was not properly clothed and this was not an ideal way to begin a consultation. Everything I witnessed when he arrived suggested to me that the child is being treated like an adult and is presumed to be guilty.

I observed a teenaged boy who is frightfully small for his age and could easily pass for a child several years younger. I did not, nor was I expected to, examine him physically, but I saw no signs of stage three or stage four pubescent developments.

I observed the following, all of which are highly unusual for a sixteen-year-old: (1) little growth and no muscular development; (2) no sign of any facial hair; (3) no sign of acne; (4) a childlike voice with no deepening.

For the first hour of our two-hour visit, Drew was uncooperative and said little. Mr. Brigance had briefed me on some of his background, and using this I was finally able to engage Drew in conversation that can only be described as intermittent and strained. He was unable to grasp even the simplest concepts, such as being placed in jail and not being able to leave whenever he wants. He says that at times he remembers events, at times he forgets those same happenings. He asked me at least three times if Stuart Kofer was really dead, but I did not answer him. He became irritable and on two occasions told, not asked, me to “Shut up.” He was never aggressive or angry and often cried when he couldn’t answer a question. Twice he said he wished he could die and admits that he often thinks of suicide.

I learned that Drew and his sister have been neglected, physically abused, psychologically abused, and subjected to domestic violence. I cannot say, and do not know, all of the people responsible for this. He was simply not that forthcoming. I strongly suspect there has been a lot of abuse and Drew, and more than likely his sister too, has suffered at the hands of several people.

The sudden and/or violent loss of a loved one can trigger traumatic stress in children. Drew and his sister had been abused by Mr. Kofer. They thought, with good reason, that he had killed their mother, and that he was about to harm them, again. This is more than sufficient to trigger traumatic stress.

Trauma in children can bring about a variety of responses, including wide swings in emotions, bouts of depression, anxiety, fear, inability to eat or sleep, nightmares, slow academic progress, and many other problems which I will detail in my full report.

If left untreated, Drew will only regress and the damage can become permanent. The last place for him right now is a jail built for adults.

I strongly recommend that Drew be sent immediately to the state mental hospital at Whitfield, where there is a secure facility for juveniles, for a thorough examination and long-term treatment.

I will finish my report and fax it to you in the morning.

Respectfully,

DR. CHRISTINA A. ROOKER, M.D.

Tupelo, Mississippi

—

AN HOUR LATER, Jake was still at his desk, ignoring the phone and wanting to go home. Portia, Lucien, and part-time Bev had already left. He heard the familiar rattle of the fax machine downstairs, and, glancing at his watch, wondered who was still working at five minutes after six on a Thursday evening. He grabbed his jacket and briefcase, turned off his light, and went down to the fax machine. It was a single sheet of paper with the official heading: Circuit Court of Ford County Mississippi. Just under was the style of the case: State of Mississippi v. Drew Allen Gamble. There was no file number because there had been no official appearance by the defendant and no indictment. Someone, probably Judge Noose himself, had typed: “The Court does hereby direct the Sheriff of Ford County to transport the above named defendant to the state mental hospital with all possible speed, preferably on Friday, March 30, 1990, and there to surrender his person to Mr. Rupert Easley, Director of Security, until further orders of this court. So Ordered, Signed, Judge Omar Noose.”

Jake smiled at the outcome and placed the order on Portia’s desk. He had done his job and protected the best interests of his client. He could almost hear the courthouse gossip, the rumblings at the coffee shops, the cursing among the deputies.

He told himself he didn’t care anymore.

14

The weather was perfect for a funeral, though the setting left something to be desired. On Saturday, the last day of March, the sky was dark and threatening, the wind cold and biting. A week earlier, on the last day of his life, Stuart Kofer had gone fishing with friends on the lake on a beautiful, warm afternoon. They wore T-shirts and shorts and drank cold beer in the sunshine as if summer had arrived early. But so much had changed, and now, on the day of his burial, raw winds swept across the land and added more gloom.

The service was at the National Guard Armory, a bland and sterile 1950s-style block building designed for troop gatherings and community events, but not for funerals. It could hold three hundred and the family was expecting a crowd. Though unchurched, the Kofers had lived in the county for a hundred years and knew a lot of people. Stu was a popular cop with friends, acquaintances, and colleagues with families. All funerals were open to the public, and tragic deaths always attracted the curious who had little else to do and wanted to get close to the story. At 1:00 p.m., an hour before the service, the first news van arrived and was ordered to park in a reserved area. Uniformed officers were everywhere, waiting for the crowd, the press, the pomp and ceremony. The front doors of the armory opened and the parking lot began to fill. Another news van arrived and began filming. Some reporters with cameras were allowed to congregate near the flagpole.

Inside, three hundred rented chairs had been neatly arranged in a half-moon around a temporary stage and podium. The wall behind it was layered with dozens of flower arrangements, and more lined the walls. A large color photo of Stuart Kofer stood on a tripod to one side. By 1:30 the meeting hall was almost full and a few ladies were already sobbing. In the place of proper hymns favored by real Christians, someone within the family had selected a playlist of sad tunes by some country crooner, and his mournful braying echoed from a set of cheap speakers. Fortunately, the volume was not high, but it was still loud enough to add to the somber mood.