John Grisham: The Last Juror

Visitors were not allowed, so there was little to do but wait and pray and greet friends as they came and went. After an hour in the chapel, I was ready for bed. Max, third in the birth order but the undeniable leader, organized a schedule for the night. At least two of Miss Callie’s children would be somewhere in the hospital at all times.

We checked with the doctor again around eleven, and he sounded reasonably optimistic that she was still stable. She was “asleep” as he put it, but upon further questioning admitted that they had her knocked out to prevent another stroke. “Go home and rest,” he said. “Tomorrow could be a long day.” We left Mario and Gloria in the chapel, and moved en masse to the Hocutt House where we ate ice cream on a side porch. Sam had taken Esau home to Lowtown. I was delighted that the rest of the family preferred staying at my place.

Of the thirteen adults there, only Leon and Carlota’s husband, Sterling, would touch alcohol. I opened a bottle of wine, and the three of us passed on the ice cream.

Everyone was exhausted, especially the children. The day had begun with an adventure to the courthouse for a peek at the man who’d been terrorizing our community. That seemed like a week ago. Around midnight, Al gathered the family together in my den for one last word of prayer. A “chain prayer” as he called it, in which every adult and child gave thanks for something and asked for God’s protection of Miss Callie. Sitting there on my sofa, fervently holding hands with Bonnie and with Mario’s wife, I felt the presence of the Lord. I knew my beloved friend, their mother and grandmother, would be fine.

Two hours later I was lying in bed, wide awake, still hearing the sharp crack of the rifle in the courtroom, the thud of the bullet as it hit Danny, the panic that followed. I rewound and replayed every word of Dr. Vero’s, and wondered in what manner of hell poor Hank Hooten had been living for the past few years. Why had he been set loose on society again?

And I worried about Miss Callie, though her condition seemed to be under control and she was in good hands.

I eventually slept for two hours, then eased downstairs where I found Mario and Leon drinking coffee at the kitchen table. Mario had left the hospital an hour earlier; there’d been no change. They were already plotting the stringent weight reduction plan the family would impose on Miss Callie when she was back home. And she would begin an exercise program that would include long walks each day around Lowtown. Regular checkups, vitamins, lean foods.

They were serious about this new health regimen, though everyone knew that Miss Callie would do exactly as she wished.

A few hours later, I began the chore of boxing up the things and junk I’d collected in nine years, and cleaning out my office. The new editor was a pleasant lady from Meridian, Mississippi, and she wanted to get started by the weekend. Margaret offered to help, but I wanted to go slowly and reminisce as I emptied drawers and files. It was a personal moment, and I preferred to be alone.

Mr. Caudle’s books were finally removed from the dusty shelves where they had been placed long before I arrived. I planned to store them somewhere at home, in case an ancestor of his showed up and asked questions.

My emotions were mixed. Everything I touched brought back a story, a deadline, a trip deep into the county to chase a lead, interview a witness, or meet someone I hoped would be interesting enough for a profile. And the sooner I finished the packing, the closer I would be to walking out of the building and catching an airplane.

Bobby Ruffin called at nine-thirty. Miss Callie was awake, sitting up, sipping some tea, and they were allowing visitors for a few minutes. I hurried to the hospital. Sam met me in the hall and led me through the maze of rooms and cubicles in ICU. “Don’t talk about anything that happened yesterday, okay?” he said as we walked.

“Sure.”

“Nothing exciting. They won’t even allow the grandkids in; afraid that would make her heart rate go crazy. Everything is real quiet.”

She was awake, but barely. I had expected to see the bright eyes and brilliant smile, but Miss Callie was barely conscious. She recognized me, we hugged, I patted her right hand. The left one had an IV. Sam, Esau, and Gloria were in the room.

I wanted a few minutes alone so I could finally tell her I was selling the paper, but she was in no condition for such news. She’d been awake for almost two hours, and she obviously needed more sleep. Perhaps in a day or so we could have a lively chat about it.

After fifteen minutes, the doctor showed up and asked us to leave. We left, we came back, and the vigil continued throughout the Fourth of July, though we were not allowed inside the ICU again.

The Mayor decided there would be no fireworks for the Fourth. We’d heard enough explosions, suffered enough from gunpowder. Given the town’s lingering jumpiness, there was no organized objection. The bands marched, the parade went on, the political speeches were the same as before, though with fewer candidates. Senator Theo Morton was a conspicuous no-show. There was ice cream, lemonade, barbecue, cotton candy — the usual food and snacks on the courthouse lawn.

But the town was subdued. Or maybe it was just me. Maybe I was just so tired of the place that nothing seemed right about it. I certainly had the remedy.

After the speeches, I left the square and drove back to the hospital, a little detour that was becoming monotonous. I spoke to Fuzzy, who swept the hospital parking lot, and to Ralph, who washed the windows of the lobby. I stopped by the canteen and bought another lemonade from Hazel, then spoke to Mrs. Esther Ellen Trussel, who was manning the front information desk on behalf of the Pink Ladies, the hospital’s auxiliary. In the waiting room on the second floor I found Bobby with Al’s wife; they were watching television like two zombies. I had just opened a magazine when Sam came running in.

“She’s had another heart attack!” he said.

The three of us jumped to our feet as if we had somewhere to go.

“It just happened! They got the red team in there!”

“I’ll call the house,” I said, and stepped to the pay phone in the hall. Max answered the phone, and fifteen minutes later the Ruffins were streaming into the chapel.

The doctors took forever before giving us an update. It was almost eight P.M. before her treating physician entered the chapel. Doctors are notoriously hard to read, but his heavy eyes and wrinkled brow conveyed an unmistakable message. As he described a “significant cardiac arrest” the eight children of Miss Callie deflated as a group. She was on a respirator, no longer able to breathe by herself.

Within an hour, the chapel was full of her friends. Reverend Thurston Small led a nonstop prayer group near the altar, and people joined it and left it as they wished. Poor Esau sat on the back row, slumped over, thoroughly drained. His grandchildren surrounded him, all very quiet and respectful.

For hours, we waited. And though we tried to smile and be optimistic, there was a feeling of doom. It was as if the funeral had already begun.

Margaret stopped by and we chatted in the hallway. Later, Mr. and Mrs. Fargarson found me and asked to speak to Esau. I led them into the chapel, where they were welcomed warmly by the Ruffins, all of whom expressed great sympathy for the loss of their son.

By midnight we were numb and rapidly losing track of time. Minutes dragged by, then I would look at the clock on the wall and wonder where the past hour went. I wanted to leave, if only to walk outside and breathe fresh air. The doctor, however, had warned us to stay close.

The horror of the ordeal hit when he gathered us around and gravely said it was time for a “final moment with the family.” There were gasps, then tears. I’ll never forget hearing Sam say out loud, “A final moment?”