Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

“I am.”

“How long can you leave them here?”

“I’m flexible. I have no plans.”

“Good. Leave them here for twenty-four hours, pick them up tomorrow.”

“Okay. How long will you keep Drew?”

“It’s hard to say. Weeks, not months. As a general rule, they’re better off here than in a county jail.”

“Right. Keep him as long as you can. Things are pretty tense in Ford County.”

“I understand.”

Charles made his way out of the building and eventually found his car. He cleared the checkpoints and by noon was back on the road, headed north. At a convenience store he bought a soft drink, retrieved his biscuits from the trunk, and enjoyed the solitude with his brunch and gospel music.

—

THE FORD COUNTY grand jury met twice a month. Its docket was typically mundane—petty drug busts, car thefts, a knifing or two at the clubs and tonks. The last killing had been a Wild West–style shootout after a black funeral where two warring families squared off and began firing. One man was killed, but it was impossible to determine who shot who. The grand jury indicted the most likely suspect for manslaughter and his case was still pending, with no one really pushing it. He was free on bond.

There were eighteen members of the grand jury, all registered voters from the county, and they had been empaneled by Judge Noose two months earlier. They met in the small courtroom down the hall from the main one and their meetings were private. No spectators, no press, none of the usual bored courthouse gang looking for a little drama.

Typically, for the first month or so the honor of being a member of the grand jury was worth bragging about, but after a few sessions the job grew tedious. They heard only one side of the story, the one presented by law enforcement, and there was almost never any dissent. So far, they had not failed to issue any of the indictments being sought. Whether they realized it or not, they had quickly become little more than a rubber stamp for the police and prosecutors.

A special session was unusual, and by the time they gathered on Tuesday afternoon, April 3, each of the sixteen present knew exactly why they had been summoned. Two were absent but there was easily a quorum.

Lowell Dyer welcomed them back, thanked them again as if they had a choice, and explained that they had a very serious matter in front of them. He gave the basics of the Kofer murder and asked Sheriff Walls to sit in the witness seat at the end of the table. Ozzie was sworn to tell the truth, and began his narrative: time and date, cast of characters, 911 call, the scene when Chief Deputy Moss Junior Tatum first arrived. He described the bedroom and the bloody mattress, and passed around enlarged color photos of Stuart with part of his head blown off. Several of the grand jurors took a look, reacted, then looked away. The service pistol was beside the body. The cause of death was fairly obvious. A single shot to the head, close range.

“The boy was in the living room and told Deputy Tatum that Stuart Kofer was in his bedroom and he thought he was dead. Tatum went to the bedroom, saw the body, and asked the boy, Drew, what happened but got no answer. The girl, Kiera, was in the kitchen, and when Tatum asked her what happened, she said, ‘Drew shot him.’ It’s an open-and-shut case.”

Dyer was pacing around the room and stopped to say, “Thank you, Sheriff. Any questions?”

The room was silent as the grand jurors felt the weight of such an awful crime. Finally, Miss Tabitha Green from Karaway raised her hand and asked Ozzie, “How old are these children?”

“The boy, Drew, is sixteen. His sister, Kiera, is fourteen.”

“And were they home by themselves?”

“No. Their mother was with them.”

“And who’s their mother?”

“Josie Gamble.”

“What’s her relationship with the deceased?”

“Girlfriend.”

“Forgive me, Sheriff, but you’re not exactly forthcoming with all the facts here. I feel like I’m prying stuff out of you and that makes me very suspicious.” Miss Tabitha looked around as she spoke, looking for support. So far there was none.

Ozzie glanced at Dyer as if he might need some help. He said, “Josie Gamble is the mother, and she and her two children had been living with Stuart Kofer for about a year.”

“Thank you. And where was Ms. Gamble when the shooting took place?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, according to the story, she was unconscious. When Stuart Kofer came home that night they had a fight and evidently Josie got injured and was unconscious.”

“He knocked her unconscious?”

“That seems to be what happened.”

“Well, Sheriff, why didn’t you tell us that? What are you trying to hide from us?”

“Nothing, nothing at all. Stuart Kofer was shot and killed by Drew Gamble, plain and simple, and we’re here to get him indicted for it.”

“Understood, but we’re not a bunch of kindergartners. You want us to indict a person for capital murder, and that of course could mean the gas chamber. Don’t you think it’s only natural that we might want all the facts?”

“I guess so.”

“We’re not guessing, Sheriff. This happened at two a.m. on a Sunday morning. Is it safe to assume that Stuart Kofer was not exactly sober when he came home and beat his girlfriend?”

Ozzie squirmed and looked about as guilty as an innocent man could look. He glanced at Dyer again and said, “Yes, it is safe to assume that.”

To Miss Tabitha’s rescue came Mr. Norman Brewer, a retired barber who lived in an old section of Clanton. “How drunk was he?” he asked.

A loaded question. If he had simply asked, “Was he drunk?” Ozzie could have simply answered, “Yes,” while avoiding the ugly details.

“He was quite intoxicated,” he said.

Mr. Brewer said, “So he came home quite drunk, as you say, and he punched her, knocked her out cold, then the suspect shot him. Is that what happened, Sheriff?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Basically? Did I get something wrong?”

“No sir.”

“Did he physically abuse the children?”

“They did not report that at the time.”

“What condition was Kofer in when he got shot?”

“Well, we believe he was lying on his bed, asleep. Evidently, there was no struggle with Drew.”

“Where was the gun?”

“We don’t know exactly.”

Mr. Richard Bland from down in Lake Village said, “So, Sheriff, it looks like Mr. Kofer was passed out drunk on his bed and was not awake when the kid shot him, is that right?”

“We don’t know if Stu was awake or asleep when he was shot, no sir.”

Lowell didn’t like the direction of the questioning and said, “I’d like to remind you that the condition of either the deceased or the defendant is not an issue for this grand jury. Claims of self-defense or insanity or whatever might be raised by the defense lawyers, but they are a matter for the trial jury to consider. Not you.”

“They’re already claiming insanity, from what I hear,” said Mr. Bland.

“Maybe so, but what you hear on the street is not important inside this room,” Lowell said in a lecturing tone. “We’re just dealing with the facts here. Any more questions?”

Miss Tabitha asked him, “Have you had a capital murder indictment before, Lowell? This is certainly the first one for us.”

“I have not, and I’m grateful for that.”

“It just seems so routine,” she said. “Like all the other cases we process in here. Present a few facts, the bare necessities, limit the discussion, and we vote. We just rubber-stamp whatever you want. But this is something else. This is the first step in a case that could send a man, or a kid, to death row at Parchman. It all seems too easy, too sudden to me. Anybody else feel this way?” She looked around but found little support.