John Grisham: The Last Juror

“This is it?” Gloria asked in absolute terror.

Frightened and bewildered, we followed the doctor out of the chapel, down the hall, up a flight of stairs, all of us moving with the heavy feet of someone marching to his own execution. The nurses helped herd us through the maze in ICU, their faces telling us what we dreaded the most.

As the family filed into the cramped little room, the doctor touched my arm and said, “This should be just for the family.”

“Right,” I said, stopping.

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “He’s with us.”

We packed around Miss Callie and her machines, most of which had been disconnected. The two smallest grandchildren were placed at the foot of her bed. Esau stood closest to her, gently patting her face. Her eyes were closed; she did not appear to be breathing.

She was very much at peace. Her husband and children touched some part of her, and the crying was heartbreaking. I was in a corner, wedged behind Gloria’s husband and Al’s wife, and I simply could not believe where I was or what I was doing.

When Max got his emotions under control, he touched Miss Callie’s arm and said, “Let us pray.” We bowed our heads and most of the crying stopped, for a moment anyway. “Dear Lord, not our will but yours. Into thine hands we commend the spirit of this faithful child of God. Prepare a place for her now in your heavenly kingdom. Amen.”

At sunrise, I was sitting on the porch outside my office. I wanted to be alone, to have a good cry in private. The crying around my house was more than I could bear.

As I had dreamed of traveling the world, I had the recurring vision of returning to Clanton with gifts for Miss Callie. I’d bring her a silver vase from England, linens from the Italy she would never see, perfumes from Paris, chocolates from Belgium, an urn from Egypt, a small diamond from the mines of South Africa. I would present these to her on her porch, before we had lunch, then we would talk about the places they came from. I would send her postcards at every stop. We would review my photographs in great detail. Through me, she would vicariously see the world. She would always be there, waiting eagerly for my return, anxious to see what I’d brought her. She would fill her home with little pieces of the world, and own things that no one, black or white, had ever owned in Clanton.

I ached with the loss of my dear friend. Its suddenness was cruel, as it always is. Its depth was so immense that I could not, at that time, imagine a recovery.

As the town slowly came to life below me, I walked to my desk, shoved some boxes out of the way, and sat down. I took my pen, and for a long time stared at a blank notepad. Eventually, slowly, with great agony, I began the last obituary.

Very few laws remain the same. Once enacted, they are likely to be studied, modified, amended, then often repealed altogether. This constant tinkering by judges and lawmakers is usually a good thing. Bad laws are weeded out. Weak laws are improved. Good laws are fine-tuned.

I took great liberty with a few of the laws that existed in Mississippi in the 1970s. The ones I mistreated in this book have now been amended and improved. I misused them to move my story along. I do this all the time and never feel guilty about it, since I can always disclaim things on this page.

If you spot these mistakes, please don’t write me a letter. I acknowledge my mistakes. They were intentional.

Thanks to Grady Tollison and Ed Perry of Oxford, Mississippi, for their recollections of old laws and procedures. And to Don Whitten and Mr. Jessie Phillips of The Oxford Eagle. And to Gary Greene for technical advice.