Джон Гришэм - A Time for Mercy

He again thanked the pastor for his help and promised to call later.

At the car, Ozzie said, “You drive,” and walked to the passenger door.

“Gladly. Where to?”

“Well, I haven’t seen a bloody corpse in several hours, so let’s have a look at Stuart, may he rest in peace.”

“I doubt he’s moved much.”

“And I need to speak to the state boys.”

“Surely they can’t screw up a case like this.”

“They’re good boys.”

“If you say so.” Tatum slammed the door and cranked the engine. Past the city limits, Ozzie said, “It’s eight-thirty and I’ve been up since three.”

“Same here, especially that bit about eight-thirty.”

“And I’ve had no breakfast.”

“I’m starvin’.”

“What’s open at this wonderful hour on the Sabbath?”

“Well, Huey’s is probably just now closin’ and they don’t do breakfast. What about Sawdust?”

“Sawdust?”

“Yep, as far as I know it’s the only place open this early on Sundays, at least in this part of the county.”

“Well, I know I’ll be welcome because they have a special door for me. Says, NEGROES ENTER HERE.”

“I heard they took that down. You ever been inside?”

“No, Deputy Tatum, I have never been inside the Sawdust country store. When I was a kid here it was still used by the Klan for meetings that were not so secret. We may be living in 1990, but the people who shop and dine at Sawdust, along with those who sit by the old iron stove in the wintertime and tell nigger jokes, and those who chew tobacco on the front porch and spit on the gravel as they whittle and play checkers, are not the kind of people I want to hang with.”

“They have great blueberry pancakes.”

“They’ll probably poison mine.”

“No, they won’t. Let’s order the same thing, then swap after we’re served. If I croak over and die, then Kofer and I can have a joint service. Damn, just think of the parade around the square.”

“I really don’t want to.”

“Ozzie, you’ve been elected sheriff of Ford County by two landslides. You are the Man around here, and I can’t believe you’re shy about walkin’ into a public café and havin’ a meal. If you’re afraid, I promise I’ll protect you.”

“That’s not the case.”

“A question. How many white-owned businesses have you ducked and dodged since you ran for sheriff seven years ago?”

“Well, I haven’t been to all the white churches.”

“That’s because it’s humanly impossible to visit them all. Must be a thousand and they’re still building. And I said businesses, not churches.”

Ozzie pondered the question as they flew by small farms and pine forests. Finally, he said, “Only one that I can think of.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Is that Confederate flag still flyin’ out front?”

“Probably.”

“Who owns the place now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t stopped by in a few years.”

They crossed a creek and turned onto another county road. Tatum gunned the engine as he straddled the center line. The road saw little traffic on workdays and was especially quiet on a Sunday morning. Ozzie said, “Pine Grove precinct. Ninety-five percent white and only thirty percent voted for me.”

“Thirty percent?”

“Yep.”

“I ever tell you about my mother’s father, Grumps they called him? Died before I was born, which was probably a good thing. Ran for sheriff in Tyler County forty years ago and got eight percent of the vote. So thirty is pretty impressive.”

“It didn’t feel too impressive on election night.”

“Give it up, boss. You won big. And this is your chance to impress the enlightened people who dine at Sawdust.”

“Why is it called Sawdust?”

“Bunch of sawmills around here, lots of loggers. Tough guys. I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.”

The parking lot was filled with pickups, some new, most old and dented, all parked haphazardly as if their drivers had sprinted to breakfast. An off-center flagpole hailed the great state of Mississippi and the glorious cause of the Confederacy. Two black bears nuzzled each other in a cage next to the side porch. The planks creaked as Ozzie and Moss Junior crossed them. The front door entered into a cramped country store with smoked meats hanging from the ceiling. The strong, heavy aroma of frying bacon and burning wood filled the air. Behind the counter, an old woman looked at Tatum, then at Ozzie, and managed to nod and say, “Mornin’.”

They spoke, kept walking, and entered the café in the rear where half the tables were crowded with men, all white men, no women. They were eating and drinking coffee, some were smoking, and all seemed to be chattering away, until they saw Ozzie. There was a noticeable decline in the noise, but only for the second or two it took them to realize who he was and that both were officers. Then, as if to prove their tolerance, they picked up their conversations with even more vigor and tried to ignore them.

Tatum waved to an empty table and they sat down. Ozzie immediately busied himself with a thorough perusal of the menu, though it was unnecessary. A waitress arrived with a pot of coffee and filled their cups.

A man at the nearest table looked for the second time and Tatum pounced. “This place used to have famous blueberry pancakes. That still the case?”

“You betcha,” the man said with a grin, then patted his ample stomach. “That and venison sausage. Helps me keep my figure.” This got a laugh or two.

Another man said, “Say, we just heard about Stuart Kofer.” The room was instantly silent. “Is it true?”

Tatum gave a quick nod to his boss, as if to say, “This is your moment. Act like the high sheriff.”

Ozzie’s back was turned to at least half of the diners, so he stood and looked at them all. He said, “Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. Stuart was shot and killed around three this morning, at home. We’ve lost one of our best.”

“Who shot him?”

“I can’t go into the details right now. We may have more to say tomorrow.”

“We heard it was a kid livin’ with him.”

“Well, we’ve taken a sixteen-year-old boy into custody. The boy’s mother was Kofer’s girlfriend. That’s all I can say. The state police are on the scene right now. Again, I can’t say much. Maybe later.”

Ozzie was smooth and friendly, and he could not have scripted what happened next. A rustic old man with dirty boots and faded overalls and a cap from a feed company said, respectfully, “Thank you, Sheriff.” There was a pause. The ice was broken, and several others offered their thanks too.

Ozzie sat down and ordered pancakes and sausage. As they drank coffee and waited, Tatum said, “Not a bad campaign stop, huh, boss?”

“I never think about politics.”

Tatum suppressed a laugh and looked away. “You know, boss, if you came here once a month and had breakfast, you’d get every vote.”

“Don’t want every vote. Just seventy percent of them.”

The waitress laid a copy of the Sunday edition of the Jackson paper on the table and smiled at Ozzie. Tatum grabbed the sports section, and to pass the time Ozzie read the state news. His eyes drifted above the print and he noticed the wall to his right. In the center were two large 1990 football schedules, one for Ole Miss, one for Mississippi State, and around them were banners for both teams and framed black-and-white photos of yesterday’s heroes in various action poses. All white, all from another era.

Ozzie had starred at Clanton High and dreamed of being the first black player at Ole Miss, but he wasn’t recruited. There were already two blacks in the program and Ozzie had always quietly assumed that, at that time, two were enough. He signed instead with Alcorn State, started for four years, got drafted in the tenth round, and made the L.A. Rams roster his rookie year. He played in eleven games before a knee injury sent him back to Mississippi.