A Time for Mercy

14

The weather was perfect for a funeral, though the setting left something to be desired. On Saturday, the last day of March, the sky was dark and threatening, the wind cold and biting. A week earlier, on the last day of his life, Stuart Kofer had gone fishing with friends on the lake on a beautiful, warm afternoon. They wore T-shirts and shorts and drank cold beer in the sunshine as if summer had arrived early. But so much had changed, and now, on the day of his burial, raw winds swept across the land and added more gloom.

The service was at the National Guard Armory, a bland and sterile 1950s-style block building designed for troop gatherings and community events, but not for funerals. It could hold three hundred and the family was expecting a crowd. Though unchurched, the Kofers had lived in the county for a hundred years and knew a lot of people. Stu was a popular cop with friends, acquaintances, and colleagues with families. All funerals were open to the public, and tragic deaths always attracted the curious who had little else to do and wanted to get close to the story. At 1:00 p.m., an hour before the service, the first news van arrived and was ordered to park in a reserved area. Uniformed officers were everywhere, waiting for the crowd, the press, the pomp and ceremony. The front doors of the armory opened and the parking lot began to fill. Another news van arrived and began filming. Some reporters with cameras were allowed to congregate near the flagpole.

Inside, three hundred rented chairs had been neatly arranged in a half-moon around a temporary stage and podium. The wall behind it was layered with dozens of flower arrangements, and more lined the walls. A large color photo of Stuart Kofer stood on a tripod to one side. By 1:30 the meeting hall was almost full and a few ladies were already sobbing. In the place of proper hymns favored by real Christians, someone within the family had selected a playlist of sad tunes by some country crooner, and his mournful braying echoed from a set of cheap speakers. Fortunately, the volume was not high, but it was still loud enough to add to the somber mood.

The crowd filed in and before long all chairs were taken. Additional mourners were asked to stand against the walls. By 1:45, there was no more space and those trying to get in were told the service would be broadcast outside over a PA system.

The family gathered in a small office wing and waited for the hearse from Megargel Funeral Home, the last remaining mortuary for white people in Ford County. There were two for the blacks, who were buried in their cemeteries. The whites were buried in theirs, and, even in 1990, the graveyards were tightly segregated. No one had been put to rest out of place.

Because it was a big funeral, with a crowd and the chance of cameras, Mr. Megargel had leaned on friends in the business and borrowed some nicer cars. When he pulled his sleek black hearse into the drive beside the armory there were six identical black sedans behind him. They were empty for the moment and parked in a neat row behind the building. Mr. Megargel hopped out, as did his squad of men in somber suits, and began directing things. He opened the rear door of the hearse and called for the eight pallbearers to come forward. Slowly, they pulled the casket out and placed it on a gurney draped in velvet cloth. The family came out of the small office and stood behind the pallbearers. With Megargel leading the way, the small parade turned alongside the building and headed for the front where an impressive battalion of uniformed men awaited them.

Ozzie had worked the phones all week and his requests had been met, in fine fashion. Troops from a dozen counties, along with the state police and municipal officers from several cities, stood in formation as the casket rolled by. Cameras clicked and could be heard above the silence.

Harry Rex was in the crowd outside. He would later describe the scene to Jake by saying, “Hell, you’d’ve thought Kofer got killed in the line of duty, fightin’ crime like a real cop. Not passed out drunk after he beat his girlfriend.”

The throng parted as the pallbearers guided the casket through the front doors, into the armory, and across the small lobby. As it entered the center aisle, the pastor stood at the podium and said at full volume, “Please rise.” The crowd rose noisily but then fell deathly silent as the casket inched down the aisle, with Earl and Janet Kofer in step behind it. About forty family members followed them.

They had feuded for a week over the issue of a closed casket. It was not unusual to open the casket during a funeral service so that the loved ones and friends and other mourners could glimpse a profile of the deceased. This made the situation far more dramatic and maximized the grief, which of course was the purpose though no one would ever admit it. Rural preachers preferred open caskets because they made it easier to whip up emotions and make folks worry more about their sins and their own deaths. It was not uncommon to include a few remarks directed at the deceased, as if he or she might just rise up and yell “Repent.”

Earl had lost his parents and a brother, and their services had been “open,” though the presiding ministers hardly knew them. But Janet Kofer knew the service would be thoroughly gut-wrenching without actually looking at her dead son. In the end she prevailed and the casket remained closed.

When the casket was in place, a large American flag was unfolded and draped over it. Later, Harry Rex would say to Jake, “Sumbitch got kicked out of the army and they carried on like it was full honors.”

As the family shuffled into place in the front rows, reserved with Megargel’s monogrammed velvet roping, the preacher motioned for the crowd to sit and nodded to a dude with a guitar. Wearing a burgundy suit, black cowboy hat, and matching boots, he walked to a floor mike, strummed a few chords, and waited for everyone to be seated. When things were still, he began singing the first stanza of “The Old Rugged Cross.” He had a pleasant baritone and was deft with his guitar. He had once played in a bluegrass band with Cecil Kofer, though he had never met his deceased brother.

It was unlikely Stuart Kofer had ever heard the old gospel standard. Most of his grieving family members had not, but it was appropriate for the sad occasion and succeeded in heightening the emotions. When he finished the third stanza he gave a quick nod and returned to his seat.

The family had met the minister two days earlier. One of their more difficult chores during that awful week had been to locate a man of God willing to conduct the service for complete strangers. There were several country preachers who had tried to reach the Kofers over the years, but all said no to the service. As a group, they were turned off by the hypocrisy of getting involved with people who had no use for any church. Finally, a cousin bribed an unemployed Pentecostal lay preacher with three hundred dollars to be the man of the hour. His name was Hubert Wyfong and he was from Smithfield, down in Polk County. Reverend Wyfong needed the cash, but he also saw the opportunity to perform in front of a large crowd. Perhaps he could impress someone who knew a church that was looking for a part-time preacher.

He offered a long, flowery prayer, then nodded at a pretty teenaged girl, who stepped to the mike with her Bible and read the Twenty-third Psalm.

Ozzie sat next to his wife and listened and marveled at the difference between white funerals and black ones. He and his force and their spouses sat together in three rows to the left of the family, all in their finest matching uniforms, all boots spit-shined, all badges gleaming. The section behind them was packed with officers from north Mississippi, all white men.

Counting Willie Hastings, Scooter Gifford, Elton Frye, Parnell Johnson, and himself, along with their wives, there were exactly ten black faces in the crowd. And Ozzie knew full well that they were welcome only because of his position.

Wyfong said another prayer, a shorter one, and sat down as Stuart’s twelve-year-old cousin walked nervously to the mike holding a sheet of paper. He adjusted the mike, looked fearfully at the crowd, and began reciting a poem he had written about fishing with his favorite “Uncle Stu.”

Ozzie listened for a moment then began to drift. The day before he had driven Drew three hours south to Whitfield, the state mental hospital, and turned him over to the authorities there. By the time he returned to his office the news was raging around the county. The kid was already out of jail and was pretending to be crazy. Jake Brigance was pulling another fast one, just like he did five years earlier when he convinced a jury that Carl Lee Hailey was temporarily insane. Hailey killed two men in cold blood, in the courthouse even, and walked. Walked free as a bird. Late Friday afternoon, Earl Kofer drove to the jail and confronted Ozzie, who showed him a copy of the court order signed by Judge Noose. Kofer left, cursing and vowing to get even.

At the moment, the crowd was mourning a tragic death, but many of those seated around him were seething with anger.

The young poet had some talent and managed to get a laugh. His refrain was “But not with Uncle Stu. But not with Uncle Stu.” When he finally finished, he broke down and walked away bawling. This was contagious and others sobbed.

Wyfong rose with his Bible and began his sermon. He read from the Book of Psalms and spoke of God’s comforting words in a time of death. Ozzie listened for a moment with interest, then began to drift again. He had called Jake early in the morning, to pass along the latest about the funeral and give him a heads-up that the Kofers and their friends were upset. Jake said he’d already talked to Harry Rex, who’d called late Friday night and said the gossip was wild.

Ozzie would admit only to himself and to his wife that the boy was in bad shape. During the long drive to Whitfield, he had not said a word to either Ozzie or Moss Junior. They initially tried to engage him in small talk, but he said nothing. He didn’t rudely ignore them. Their words just didn’t register. With his hands cuffed in front of him, Drew was able to lie down and pull his knees to his chest. And he started that damned humming. For over two hours he hummed and groaned and at times seemed to hiss. “You okay back there?” Moss Junior had asked when he got louder. He quieted down but did not respond. Driving back to Clanton without him, Moss Junior thought it would be funny to mimic the kid and he started humming too. Ozzie told him to stop or he’d turn around and take him to Whitfield. It was good for a laugh, which they needed.

Earl Kofer’s only request to the preacher was to “keep it short.” And Wyfong complied with a fifteen-minute sermon that was remarkably short on emotion and long on comfort. He finished with another prayer, then nodded at the singer for a final song. It was a secular number about a lonesome cowboy and it worked. Women were bawling again and it was time to go. The pallbearers took their positions around the casket and “You’ll Never Walk Alone” began to play softly over the speakers. The family followed the casket down the aisle, with Earl holding Janet steady as she wept. The procession moved slowly as someone turned up the volume.

Outside, two lines of uniformed men led to the hearse with its rear door open and waiting. The pallbearers lifted the casket and carefully placed it inside. Megargel and his men directed the family to the waiting sedans. A parade formed behind them, and when everyone was in place, the hearse inched away, followed by the family, followed by rows of officers on foot, with the Ford County contingent leading. Any and all friends, relatives, and strangers who wanted to make the trek to the cemetery fell in behind. The procession moved slowly away from the armory and down Wilson Street where barricades were in place and children stood silently by them. Townsfolk gathered on sidewalks and watched from porches and paid their respects to the fallen hero.

Jake hated funerals and avoided them whenever possible. He viewed them as a serious waste of time, money, and, especially, emotion. Nothing was gained by having a funeral, only the satisfaction of showing up and being seen by the grieving family. And what was the benefit of that? After being shot at during the Hailey trial, he’d prepared himself a new will and left written instructions to be cremated as soon as possible and buried in his hometown of Karaway with only his family present. This was a radical idea for Ford County and Carla didn’t like it. She rather enjoyed the social aspects of a good funeral.

Saturday afternoon he left his office, drove across town, and parked behind a city rec center. He walked along a nature path, climbed a small hill, and veered down a gravel trail to a clearing where he sat at a picnic table with a view of the cemetery. Hidden among the trees, he watched the hearse stop in a sea of aging tombstones. The crowd worked its way to a bright purple burial tent with Megargel’s logo embroidered in bold yellow. The pallbearers labored with the casket for at least a hundred feet, and were followed by the family.

Jake was reminded of a well-known story of a lawyer down in Jackson who stole some clients’ money, faked his own death, and watched his own funeral while sitting in a tree. After he was caught and hauled back to Jackson, he refused to speak to friends who did not attend his funeral and burial.

How angry was the mob down there? At the moment, the prevailing emotion was one of great sorrow, but would that quickly yield to resentment?

Harry Rex, who apparently had decided to skip the burial, was convinced that Jake had thoroughly screwed up their chances with Smallwood. Jake had just become the most despised lawyer in the county, and the railroad and its insurance company would probably pull back from any settlement negotiations. And what about selecting a jury now? Any pool of prospective jurors would surely have people who knew of his representation of Drew Gamble.

He was too far away to hear the words or music at the burial. After a few minutes, he left and walked back to his car.

Late in the afternoon, family and friends gathered at the large metal building that housed the Pine Grove Volunteer Fire Company. No proper send-off was complete without a heavy meal, and the ladies of the community brought in platters of fried chicken, bowls of potato salad and slaw, trays of sandwiches and corn on the cob, casseroles of all varieties, and cakes and pies. The Kofer family stood at one end of the room in a receiving line and suffered through lengthy condolences from their friends. Pastor Wyfong was thanked and congratulated on such a fine service, and the young nephew received kind words about his poem. The cowboy brought his guitar and sang a few songs as the crowd filled their plates and dined at folding tables and chairs.

Earl stepped outside for a smoke and gathered with some friends near a fire truck. One man pulled out a pint of whiskey and passed it around. Half declined, half took a swig. Earl and Cecil passed.

A cousin said, “That sumbitch can’t claim to be crazy, can he?”

“Already done it,” Earl said. “They took him to Whitfield yesterday. Ozzie drove him down.”

“He had to, didn’t he?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Ozzie’s on our side this time.”

“Somebody said the judge ordered the boy taken away.”

“He did,” Earl said. “I saw the court order.”

“Damned lawyers and judges.”

“It ain’t right, I’m tellin’ you.”

“A lawyer told me they’ll keep him locked up till he’s eighteen, then turn him loose.”

“Turn him loose then. We can take care of him.”

“You can’t trust Brigance.”

“Will they even put him on trial?”

“Not if he’s crazy. That’s what the lawyer said.”

“The system sucks, you know. It ain’t right.”

“Can anybody talk to Brigance?”

“Of course not. He’ll fight like hell for the boy.”

“That’s what lawyers do. The system is designed to protect the criminal these days.”

“Brigance will get him off on one of those technicalities you hear about.”

“If I saw that sonofabitch on the street I’d kick his ass.”

“All I want is justice,” Earl said. “And we ain’t gonna get it. Brigance will plead insanity and the boy will walk, just like Carl Lee Hailey.”

“It ain’t right, I’m tellin’ you. It just ain’t right.”