Джон Гришэм - Rogue Lawyer

“What’s Glynna thinking these days?” I ask cautiously. She could be wearing a mike. Nothing surprises me.

“She thinks they’re all a bunch of liars.” We’re still walking, slowly, going nowhere, each afraid to look the other in the eyes. I am stunned to hear this. Reading her body language and knowing her background, I would bet the farm that Glynna Roston would be the first to yell “Guilty!”

I look behind us to make sure there’s no witness, then say, “Well, she’s a smart woman because they are lying. They have no proof.”

“Do you want me to tell her that?”

“I don’t care what you tell her,” I say, looking around as we stop and wait for one of the heavyweights to pass with his entourage. I have $2,000 on the guy. I’m up $6,000 for the night and I’m feeling pretty good. And to top it off, I’m hearing the shocking news that not all of my Gardy Baker jurors are brain-dead.

I ask, “Is she alone, or does she have buddies?”

“She says they’re not discussing the case.”

I want to laugh at this. If she’s not discussing the case, then how does this cutie know how her mother’s leaning? At this precise moment, I am violating the rules of ethics and perhaps a criminal statute as well. This is unauthorized contact with a juror, and though it’s not clear-cut, and not instigated by me, there’s no doubt it would be interpreted badly by the state bar association. And Judge Kaufman would blow a gasket.

“Tell her to stick to her guns because they’ve got the wrong guy,” I say, and walk away. I don’t know what she wants and there is nothing I can give her. I guess I could take ten minutes and point out the glaring deficiencies in the State’s evidence, but that would require her to absorb it all correctly and then give an accurate report to her mother. Fat chance. This gal is here for the fights.

I take the nearest stairway to a lower level, and as soon as I’m safely away from her, I duck into a restroom and replay what she said. I still can’t believe it. That jury, along with the rest of the town, convicted my client the day he was arrested. Her mother, Glynna Roston, gives every indication of being the model Milo citizen—uneducated, narrow-minded, and determined to be a heroine for her community in its time of need. Monday morning will be interesting. At some point, after we resume testimony, I’ll get the chance to glance into the jury box. So far Glynna has not been afraid to return my looks. Her eyes will reveal something, though I’m not sure what.

I shake it off and return to reality. The heavyweight fight lasts for a full forty seconds with my favorite still standing. I can’t wait to reconvene with my little gang. We meet in the same dark room with the door locked, and the trash talk is brutal. All six of us pull cash from our pockets. Frankie has the notes and keeps it all straight. For the evening, I’ve netted $8,000 from my wagers, though $2,000 of this will go to Tadeo for his impromptu bonus. I’ll get it back from his cut of the purse. That will go on the books for IRS purposes; this cash will not.

Tadeo earns $8,000 for his efforts, a great night that will allow him to add another gang member to his entourage. He’ll pay some bills, keep the family afloat, save nothing. I’ve tried to offer financial advice, but it’s a waste of time.

I stop by the locker room, hand over the $2,000, tell him I love him, and leave the arena. Partner and I go to a quiet bar and have some drinks. It takes a couple to settle me down. When you’re that close to the action, and you’ve got your own hitter in the ring two seconds away from a concussion or a broken bone, and five thousand idiots are screaming into your ears, your heart races wildly as your stomach flips and your nerves tingle. There’s a flood of adrenaline like nothing I’ve ever felt.

8.

Jack Peeley is a former boyfriend of the mother of the two Fentress girls. Their father was long gone when they were murdered, and their mother’s apartment was a revolving door for local tomcats and slimeballs. Peeley lasted about a year and got the boot when she met a used-tractor dealer with a little cash and a house without wheels. She moved up and Peeley moved out, with a broken heart. He was the last person seen near the girls when they disappeared. Early on, I asked the police why they did not treat him as a suspect, or at least investigate him, and their lame response was that they already had their man. Gardy was in custody and confessing right and left.

I strongly suspect Jack Peeley killed the girls in some sick act of revenge. And, if the cops had not stumbled onto Gardy, they might have eventually questioned Peeley. Gardy, though, with his frightening appearance, satanic leanings, and history of sexual perversion, became the clear favorite and Milo has never looked back.

According to the Bishop, who is relying on his low-life sources, Peeley hangs out almost every Saturday night at a joint called the Blue & White. It’s about a mile east of Milo and was originally a truck stop. Now it’s just a redneck dive with cheap beer, pool tables, and live music on the weekends.

On Saturday night, we ease into the gravel parking lot at around ten, and the place is packed, wall-to-wall pickups. We have our own, a rented Dodge club cab with Ram power and big tires, perhaps a bit too shiny for this joint but then it belongs to Hertz, not me. Behind the wheel, Partner is pretending to be a redneck but is a pathetic excuse for one. He’s ditched his daily black garb and is wearing jeans and a Cowboys T-shirt, but it’s not working.

“Let’s do it,” I say from the front passenger’s seat. Tadeo and Miguel jump from the rear seat and casually walk through the front door. They’re met just inside by a bouncer who wants ten bucks each for the cover. He looks them over and does not approve. They are, after all, darker-skinned Hispanics. But at least they’re not black. According to the Bishop, the Blue & White will tolerate a few Mexicans but a black face would start a riot. Not that there’s anything to worry about. Such a cracker dive has zero appeal to any sensible black guy.

But a riot is what they’ll get anyway. Tadeo and Miguel order a beer at the crowded bar and do a passable job blending in. They get some stares but nothing bad. If these fat, drunk rednecks only knew. Tadeo could take out any five with his bare hands in less than a minute. Miguel, his brother and sparring partner, could take out four. After fifteen minutes of surveying the crowd and getting the layout, Tadeo flags a bartender over and says in unaccented English, “Say, I need to get some money to a guy named Jack Peeley, but I’m not sure I can recognize him.”

The bartender, a busy man, nods to a row of booths near the pool table and says, “Third booth, the guy with the black cap on.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They order another beer and kill some time. In Peeley’s booth there are two women and one other man. The table is covered with empty beer bottles, and all four are chomping away on roasted peanuts. Part of the ambience of the Blue & White is that you toss your empty shells onto the floor. At the far end a band cranks up and a dozen folks ease that way for a dance. Evidently, Peeley is not a dancer. Tadeo sends me a text: “JP spotted. Waiting.”

They kill some more time. Partner and I sit and watch and wait, nervous as hell. Who can predict the outcome of a brawl in a roomful of drunken idiots, half of whom carry NRA membership cards?

Peeley and his buddy head to a pool table and get ready for a game. Their women stay in the booth, eating peanuts, swilling beer. “Here we go,” Tadeo says and drifts away from the bar. He walks between two pool tables, times it perfectly, and bumps hard into Peeley, who’s minding his own business and chalking up his cue. “What the hell!” Peeley yells angrily, hot-faced and ready to kick a wetback’s ass. Before he can swing his cue, Tadeo hits him with three punches that no one can possibly see. Left-right-left, each landing on an eyebrow, where the cuts are always easier, each drawing blood. Peeley goes down hard and it will be a while before he wakes up. The women scream and there’s the usual rumble of activity and loud voices as a melee unfolds. Peeley’s friend is slow to react but finally pulls back his stick to take off Tadeo’s head. Miguel, though, intervenes and lands a hard fist at the base of his skull. Peeley’s friend joins Peeley on the floor. Tadeo pounds Peeley’s face a few more times for good measure, then ducks low and darts into the men’s restroom. A beer bottle cracks and splashes just above his head. Miguel is right behind him, angry voices calling after them. They lock the door, then scramble through a window. They’re back in the pickup seconds later, and we casually drive away.