A Time for Mercy Read online

  He kept trying to dismiss it all, because it would be someone else’s problem. Right?

  At 10:45, with the pipe organ roaring away and calling all to worship, Jake and Carla made their way down the aisle to the fourth pew from the front, right side, and waited for Hanna to come bouncing in from her Sunday school class. Jake chatted with old friends and acquaintances, most of whom he rarely saw outside of church. Carla said hello to two of her students. First Presbyterian averaged 250 congregants for the morning service, and it seemed as if most were milling around and exchanging greetings. There was a lot of gray hair, and Jake knew their minister was concerned about the flagging popularity of worship among younger families.

  Old Mr. Cavanaugh, a perpetual grouch who most people tried to avoid but who wrote bigger checks than any other member, grabbed Jake by the arm and said, much too loudly, “You ain’t gettin’ involved with that boy who killed our deputy, are you?”

  Oh, the retorts he would love to use. First: Why can’t you ever mind your own business, you cranky old bastard? Second: You and your family have never thrown me a dime in legal work, so why are you now concerned with my law practice? Third: How can the case possibly affect you?

  Instead, Jake looked him square in the eye and without a trace of a smile replied, “Which deputy are you talking about?”

  Mr. Cavanaugh was taken aback, paused just long enough for Jake to free his arm, and managed to ask, “Oh, you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  The choir erupted in a call to worship and it was time to be seated. Hanna appeared and wedged herself between her parents, and not for the first time Jake smiled at her and wondered how long these days would last. She would soon start bugging them to let her sit with her friends during “Big Church,” and then not long after that boys would enter the picture. Don’t look for trouble, Jake reminded himself. Just enjoy the moment.

  The moments, though, were difficult to enjoy. Not long after the preliminary announcements and the first hymn, Dr. Eli Proctor assumed the pulpit and delivered the somber news that everyone already knew. With a bit too much drama, at least in Jake’s opinion, the pastor told of the tragic loss of Officer Stuart Kofer as if in some way it directly affected him. It was an irritating habit, one that Jake occasionally mentioned to Carla, though she had no patience for his complaints. Proctor could almost cry when describing typhoons in the South Pacific or famines in Africa, disasters that no doubt deserved the prayers of all Christians, but were on the other side of the world. The pastor’s only connection was the cable news shared by the rest of the country. He managed, though, to be more profoundly touched.

  He prayed long and hard for justice and healing, but was a bit light on mercy.

  The youth choir sang two hymns and the service switched gears. When the sermon started, at precisely 11:32 by Jake’s watch, he tried gamely to absorb the opening paragraph but was soon lost in the near dizzying scenarios that might be played out in the days to come.

  He would call Noose after lunch, that much was certain. He had great respect and admiration for his judge, and this was strengthened by the fact that Noose felt the same way about him. As a young lawyer, Noose had gotten himself involved in politics and gone astray. As a state senator, he had narrowly missed an indictment and was humiliated at reelection time. He once told Jake that he had wasted his formative years as a young lawyer and had never honed his courtroom skills. With great pride he had watched Jake grow up in the courtroom, and still relished his not-guilty verdict in the Hailey trial.

  Jake knew it would be next to impossible to say no to the Honorable Omar Noose.

  And if he said yes and agreed to represent the kid? That kid sitting over there in the jail, in the juvie cell that Jake had visited many times? What would these fine folks, these devout Presbyterians, think of him? How many of them had ever seen the inside of a jail? How many had an inkling of how the system worked?

  And, crucially, how many of these fine law-abiding citizens believed every defendant had the right to a fair trial? And the word “fair” was supposed to include the assistance of a good lawyer.

  The common question was: How can you represent a man who’s guilty of a serious crime?

  His common response was: If your father or son was charged with a serious crime, would you want an aggressive lawyer or a pushover?

  Typically, and with no small measure of frustration, he was again busying himself with thoughts about what others might think. A serious flaw for any lawyer, at least according to the great Lucien Wilbanks, a man who had never worried about the concerns of others.

  When Jake finished law school and found himself working in the Wilbanks law firm under Lucien’s tutelage, his boss had proclaimed such gems as: “Those pricks down at the Rotary Club and the church and the coffee shop will not make you a lawyer and will not make you a dime.” And, “To be a real lawyer, first you grow a thick skin, and second you tell everybody but your clients to go to hell.” And, “A real lawyer is not afraid of unpopular cases.”

  Such was the atmosphere of Jake’s apprenticeship. Before he was disbarred for all manner of bad behavior, Lucien was a successful lawyer who made a name for himself representing the underdogs—minorities, unions, poor school districts, abandoned kids, the homeless. Because of his brazenness, though, and his self-awareness issues, he often failed to connect with juries.

  Jack pinched himself and wondered why he was thinking of Lucien during the sermon.

  Because if he still had a license to practice law, Lucien would be calling Noose and demanding that he, Lucien, be appointed to represent the kid. And since all other locals were running from the case, Noose would appoint Lucien and everyone would be pleased.

  “Take the damned case, Jake!” he could hear him yelling.

  “Every person is entitled to a lawyer!”

  “You can’t always pick your clients!”

  Carla realized he was drifting and shot him a look. He smiled and patted Hanna’s knee, but she quickly shoved his hand away. After all, she was nine years old.

  * * *

  —

  IN THE PARLANCE of the Bible Belt, those within the faith used many words and terms to describe those outside of it. On the harsher end of the spectrum, the “lost” were referred to as heathen, unsaved, unclean, hell-bound, and just old-fashioned sinners. More polite Christians called them nonbelievers, future saints, backsliders, or—the favorite—unchurched.

  Whatever the term, it was safe to say that the Kofers had been unchurched for decades. Some distant cousins were members of congregations, but as a rule they as a clan had avoided involvement with the Word. They were not bad people, they had just never felt the need to pursue the holier way. They had had their chances. Dozens of well-meaning country preachers had tried to reach them, to no avail. And it was not unusual for traveling evangelists to target them and even call them by name in fiery sermons. They had often been at the top of prayer lists and subjected to door-to-door solicitations. Through it all, they had resisted all efforts to follow the Lord and were quite content to be left alone.

  On that somber morning, though, they needed the embrace and sympathy of their neighbors. They needed the usual outpouring of love and compassion of those closer to God, and it wasn’t there. Instead, they huddled en masse at Earl’s home and tried to cope with the unimaginable. The women sat and cried with Janet, Stu’s mother, while the men stayed outside on the porch and under the trees, smoking, cursing quietly, and talking of revenge.

  * * *

  —

  THE GOOD SHEPHERD Bible Church met in a picturesque white-frame building with a tall steeple and a manicured cemetery behind it. The building was historic, 160 years old, and had been built by Methodists, who handed it down to some Baptists, who disbanded and left it vacant for thirty years. The church’s founders had been an independent group, not fond of denomination
al labels and the rampant fundamentalism and political leanings that had swept through the South in the 1970s. The church, with about a hundred members, had bought the building out of foreclosure, renovated it with great care, and welcomed more enlightened souls who were weary of the prevailing dogma. Women were elected as elders, a radical notion that gave rise to the whispered claim that Good Shepherd was a “cult.” Blacks and all minorities were welcome, though they worshipped elsewhere, for other reasons.

  On that Sunday morning, attendance was up slightly as the members met to learn the latest details of the killing. Once Pastor Charles McGarry let it be known that the accused, young Drew Gamble, was practically one of them, and that his mother, Josie, was in the hospital, badly injured after a brutal beating, the church circled its wagons and embraced the family. Kiera, still in the jeans and sneakers she wore during the terrible ordeal of the night before, sat through Sunday school in a small classroom with other teenage girls and tried to comprehend where she was. Her mother was in the hospital and her brother was in the jail, and she had already been told that she could not go back to the house to gather her things. She tried not to cry but couldn’t help herself. During the worship hour she sat on the front pew with the pastor’s wife on one side, holding her arm, and a girl she knew from school close on the other. She managed to stop the tears but she couldn’t think clearly. She stood for the hymns, old songs she had never heard before, and she closed her eyes tight and tried to pray along with Pastor Charles. She listened to his sermon but heard nothing. She had not eaten in hours but had declined food. She could not imagine going to school tomorrow and decided she would not be forced to do so.

  All Kiera wanted was to sit on the edge of her mother’s hospital bed, with her brother on the opposite side, and touch her arms.

  5

  Sunday lunch was a light salad and soup, the usual unless Jake’s mother was in the mood to put on a spread, a treat that happened about once a month. But not today. After a quick lunch, he helped Carla clear the table and stack the dishes and toyed with the idea of a Sunday nap, but Hanna had other plans. She wanted to take Mully for a walk to the city park and Carla volunteered Jake for the adventure. He was fine with it. Anything to kill time and avoid the return call to Judge Noose. By two he was back and Hanna disappeared into her room. Carla boiled water and served them green tea at the breakfast table.

  She asked, “He can’t make you take the case, can he?”

  “I really don’t know. I’ve thought about it all morning and I can’t remember a case where the court tried to appoint a lawyer and he refused. Circuit judges have enormous power and I suppose Noose could make my life miserable if I said no. Frankly, that’s why you don’t say no. A small-town lawyer is dead if he alienates his judges.”

  “And you’re worried about Smallwood?”

  “Of course I’m worried about it. Discovery is almost complete and I’m pestering Noose for a trial date. The defense is stalling as always but I think we have them on the run. Harry Rex thinks they might be ready to talk settlement, but not until they’re staring at a firm trial date. We need to keep Noose happy.”

  “Are you saying he might carry a grudge from one case to the next?”

  “Omar Noose is a wonderful old judge who almost always gets it right, but he can also be prickly. He’s human and makes mistakes, and he’s also accustomed to getting whatever he wants, at least in his own courtroom.”

  “So he would allow one case to affect another?”

  “Yes. It has happened.”

  “But he likes you, Jake.”

  “He sees himself as my mentor and he wants me to do great things, and that’s a perfect reason to keep the old guy happy.”

  “Do I get a vote in this?”

  “Always.”

  “Okay. This is not the Hailey case. There is no racial tension here. As far as I know, everybody is white, right?”

  “So far.”

  “So the Klan and those crazies won’t show up this time. To be sure, you’ll rankle some people who want to string the kid up right now and they’ll resent any lawyer who takes his case, but doesn’t that go with the territory? You’re a lawyer, the best in my opinion, and right now there’s a sixteen-year-old boy in serious trouble and he needs help.”

  “There are other lawyers in town.”

  “And which one would you hire if you were facing the death penalty?”

  Jake hesitated too long and she said, “See.”

  “Tom Motley is a promising trial lawyer.”

  “And one who doesn’t get his hands dirty on the criminal side. How many times have I heard you give that rant?”

  “Bo Landis is good.”

  “Who? I’m sure he’s great but his name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He’s young.”

  “And you would trust him with your life?”

  “I didn’t say that. Look, Carla, I’m not the only lawyer in town and I’m sure Noose can twist somebody else’s arm. It’s not uncommon in nasty cases like this to appoint a lawyer from outside the county. Remember that terrible rape out in Box Hill three or four years ago?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, we begged off and Noose protected us by hooking in a lawyer from Tupelo. No one here knew him and he handled it as well as could be expected. Bad facts.”

  “And that was a plea bargain, right?”

  “Yes. Thirty years in prison.”

  “Not enough. What are the chances of a plea bargain in this case?”

  “Who knows? We’re talking about a minor, so Noose might cut him some slack. But there’ll be a big push for blood. The death penalty. The victim’s family will make noise. Ozzie will want a big trial because one of his boys is dead. Everybody’s up for reelection next year so it’s a perfect moment to get tough on crime.”

  “It doesn’t seem right to send a sixteen-year-old kid to death row.”

  “Try telling that to the Kofer family. Don’t know them, but I’ll bet they’re thinking about the gas chamber. If some guy harmed Hanna, you wouldn’t be too concerned about his age, would you?”

  “Probably not.”

  They took a deep breath and allowed this sobering thought to pass.

  “I thought you were ready to vote,” Jake said.

  “I don’t know, Jake. It’s a tough call, but if Judge Noose pushes hard I don’t see how you can say no.”

  The phone rang and they stared at it. Jake walked over and looked at the caller ID. He smiled at Carla and said, “It’s him.” Jake grabbed the receiver, said hello, then pulled the cord halfway across the kitchen and took a seat with his wife at the breakfast table.

  They waded through the pleasantries. Families were all fine. The weather was changing. Terrible news about Stuart Kofer. They both professed admiration. Noose had spoken to Ozzie, and Ozzie had the kid locked away, safe and secure. Good ole Ozzie. Most sheriffs Noose dealt with would’ve had the kid on the rack and signing a ten-page confession.

  Hitting his stride, Noose said, “Jake, I want you to represent this kid through the preliminaries. Don’t know if it’ll turn into a capital case but that’s always a real possibility. Nobody else in Clanton has any recent experience with the death penalty and you’re the lawyer I trust the most. If it goes capital, then we’ll revisit your representation and I’ll try to find someone else.”

  Jake closed his eyes and nodded and, at the first pause, jumped in. “Judge, you and I both know that if I step in now there’s an excellent chance I’ll be stuck with it all the way.”

  “Not necessarily, Jake. I just spoke with Roy Browning over in Oxford, damned fine lawyer, you know him, Jake?”

  “Everybody knows Roy, Judge.”

  “He has two capital trials this year and is swamped, but he has a young partner who he thinks highly of. He promised me they would take a look at the case down t
he road if it goes capital. Right now, though, Jake, I want someone in that jail talking to the kid and keeping the police away from him. I don’t want to be faced with some bogus confession or a jailhouse snitch.”

  “I trust Ozzie.”

  “And so do I, Jake, but this is a dead policeman, and you know how worked up those boys can get. I would just feel better if that kid had some protection right now. I’ll make the appointment good for thirty days. You get over there and see the kid, then we’ll meet at nine Tuesday morning before the Civil Docket. I believe you have motions pending in the Smallwood case.”

  “But I knew the victim, Judge.”

  “So what? It’s a small town and everybody knows everybody, right?”

  “You’re pushing pretty hard, Judge.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake, and sorry to be bothering you on a Sunday. But this situation can get dicey and needs a steady hand. I trust you, Jake, and that’s why I’m asking you to step in. You know, Jake, when I was a young lawyer I learned that we don’t always get to choose our clients, right?”

  And why not, Jake asked himself. “I’d like to discuss this with my wife, Judge. As you know, we went through a lot five years ago with Hailey and she may have an opinion or two.”

  “This is nothing like Hailey, Jake.”

  “No, but it is a dead policeman, and any lawyer who represents the alleged killer will face a backlash from the community. As you say, it’s a small town, Judge.”

  “I really want you to step up to the plate here, Jake.”

  “I’ll discuss it with Carla and I’ll see you first thing Tuesday morning, if that’s all right.”

  “The kid needs a lawyer now, Jake. As I understand things, he has no father and his mother is in the hospital with injuries. There’s no other family in the area. He’s already admitted to the killing, so he needs to shut up. Yes, we both trust Ozzie but I’m sure there are some hotheads around the jail who cannot be trusted. Discuss it with your wife and call me back in a couple of hours.”