A Time for Mercy

2

Kiera never looked up. She stroked her mother’s hair and asked, “What did you do?”

“I shot him,” Drew said matter-of-factly. His voice had no expression, no fear or regret. “I shot him.”

She nodded and said nothing else. He went to the den and looked out the front window again. Where were the red and blue lights? Where were the responders? You call and report your mother has been killed by a brute and no one shows up. He turned on a lamp and glanced at the clock. 2:47. He would always remember the exact moment he shot Stuart Kofer. His hands were shaking and numb, his ears were ringing, but at 2:47 a.m. he had no regrets for killing the man who’d killed his mother. He walked back to the bedroom and turned on the ceiling light. The gun was beside Stu’s head, which had a small, ugly hole in the left side. Stu was still looking at the ceiling, now with his eyes open. A circle of bright red blood was spreading in an arc through the sheets.

Drew walked back to the kitchen, where nothing had changed. He went to the den, turned on another light, opened the front door, and took a seat in Stu’s recliner. Stu would have a fit if he caught anyone else sitting on his throne. It smelled like him — stale cigarettes, dried sweat, old leather, whiskey and beer. After a few minutes, Drew decided he hated the recliner, so he pulled a small chair to the window to wait for the lights.

The first were blue, blinking and swirling furiously, and when they topped the driveway’s last incline Drew was stricken with fear and had trouble breathing. They were coming to get him. He would leave in handcuffs in the rear seat of a deputy’s patrol car, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The second responder was an ambulance with red lights, the third was another police car. Once it was known that there were two bodies and not just one, another ambulance arrived in a rush, followed by more law enforcement.

Josie had a pulse and was quickly loaded onto a stretcher and raced away to the hospital. Drew and Kiera were sequestered in the den and told not to move. And where would they go? Every light in the house was on and there were cops in every room.

Sheriff Ozzie Walls arrived by himself and was met in front of the house by Moss Junior Tatum, his chief deputy, who said, “Looks like Kofer came home late, they had a fight, he slapped her around, then passed out on his bed. The kid got his gun and shot him once in the head. Instant.”

“You talked to the kid?”

“Yep. Drew Gamble, age sixteen, son of Kofer’s girlfriend. Wouldn’t say much. I think he’s in shock. His sister is Kiera, age fourteen, she said they’ve lived here about a year and that Kofer was abusive, beat their mom all the time.”

“Kofer’s dead?” Ozzie asked in disbelief.

“Stuart Kofer is dead, sir.”

Ozzie shook his head in disgust and disbelief and walked to the front door, which was wide open. Inside, he stopped and glanced at Drew and Kiera who were sitting beside each other on the sofa, both staring down and trying to ignore the chaos. Ozzie wanted to say something but let it pass. He followed Tatum into the bedroom, where nothing had been touched. The gun was on the sheets, ten inches from Kofer’s head, and there was a wide circle of blood in the center of the bed. On the other side, the bullet’s exit had blown out a section of the skull, and blood and matter had been sprayed against the sheets, pillows, headboard, and wall.

At the moment, Ozzie had fourteen full-time deputies. Now thirteen. And seven part-timers, along with more volunteers than he cared to fool with. He’d been the sheriff of Ford County since 1983, elected seven years earlier in an historic landslide. Historic because he was, at the time, the only black sheriff in Mississippi and the first ever from a predominantly white county. In seven years he’d never lost a man. DeWayne Looney had his leg blown off in the courthouse shooting that put Carl Lee Hailey on trial in 1985, but Looney was still on the force.

But there, in all its ghastliness, was his first. There was Stuart Kofer, one of his best and certainly his most fearless, dead as a doornail as his body continued to leak fluids.

Ozzie removed his hat, said a quick prayer, and took a step back. Without taking his eyes off Kofer, he said, “Murder of a law enforcement officer. Call in the state boys and let them investigate. Don’t touch anything.” He looked at Tatum and asked, “You talked to the kids?”

“I did.”

“Same story?”

“Yes sir. The boy won’t talk. His sister says he shot him. Thought their mother was dead.”

Ozzie nodded and thought about the situation. He said, “All right, no more questions for the kids, no more interrogation. From this point on, everything we do will be picked through by the lawyers. Let’s take the kids in, but not a word. In fact, put ’em in my car.”

“Handcuffs?”

“Sure. For the boy. Do they have any family around here?”

Deputy Mick Swayze cleared his throat and said, “I don’t think so, Ozzie. I knew Kofer pretty well and he had this gal livin’ with him, said she had a rough background. One divorce, maybe two. I’m not sure where she’s from but he did say she ain’t from around here. I came out here a few weeks ago on a disturbance call, but she didn’t press charges.”

“All right. We’ll figure it out. I’ll take the kids in. Moss, you ride with me. Mick, you stay here.”

Drew stood when asked and offered his hands. Tatum gently cuffed them in the front and led the suspect out of the house and to the sheriff’s car. Kiera followed, wiping tears. The hillside was manic with a thousand flashing lights. Word was out that an officer was down, and every off-duty cop in the county wanted a look.

Ozzie dodged the other patrol cars and ambulances and weaved down the drive to the county road. He turned his blue lights on and hit the gas.

Drew asked, “Sir, can we see our mother?”

Ozzie looked at Tatum and said, “Turn on your tape recorder.”

Tatum removed a small recorder from a pocket and flipped a switch.

Ozzie said, “Okay, we are now recording anything that’s said. This is Sheriff Ozzie Walls and today is March twenty-fifth, nineteen ninety, at three fifty-one in the morning, and I’m driving to the Ford County jail with Deputy Moss Junior Tatum in the front seat, and in the backseat we have, what’s your full name, son?”

“Drew Allen Gamble.”

“Age?”

“Sixteen.”

“And your name, Miss?”

“Kiera Gale Gamble, age fourteen.”

“And your mother’s name?”

“Josie Gamble. She’s thirty-two.”

“Okay. I advise you not to talk about what happened tonight. Wait until you have a lawyer. Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Now, you asked about your mother, right?”

“Yes sir. Is she alive?”

Ozzie glanced at Tatum, who shrugged and said into the recorder, “As far as we know, Josie Gamble is alive. She was taken from the scene in an ambulance and is probably already at the hospital.”

“Can we go see her?” Drew asked.

“No, not right now,” Ozzie said.

They rode in silence for a moment, then Ozzie said, in the direction of the recorder, “You were the first on the scene, right?”

Tatum said, “Yes.”

“And did you ask these two kids what happened?”

“I did. The boy, Drew, said nothing. I asked his sister, Kiera, if she knew anything, and she said her brother shot Kofer. At that point I stopped askin’ questions. It was pretty clear what happened.”

The radio was squawking and all of Ford County, even in the darkness, seemed to be alive. Ozzie turned down the volume and went silent himself. He kept his foot on the gas and his big brown Ford roared down the county road, straddling the center line, daring any varmint to venture onto the pavement.

He had hired Stuart Kofer four years earlier, after Kofer returned to Ford County from an abbreviated career in the army. Stuart had managed a passable job in explaining his dishonorable discharge, said it was all about technicalities and misunderstandings and so on. Ozzie gave him a uniform, put him on probation for six months, and sent him to the academy in Jackson where he excelled. On duty, there were no complaints. Kofer had become an instant legend when he single-handedly took out three drug dealers from Memphis who had gotten lost in rural Ford County.

Off-duty was another matter. Ozzie had dressed him down at least twice after reports of drinking and hell-raising, and Stuart, typically, apologized in tears, promised to clean up his act, and swore allegiance to Ozzie and the department. And he was fiercely loyal.

Ozzie had no patience with unpleasant officers and the jerks didn’t last long. Kofer was one of the more popular deputies and liked to volunteer in schools and with civic clubs. Because of the army he had seen the world, an oddity among his rather rustic colleagues, most of whom had hardly stepped outside the state. In public he was an asset, a gregarious officer who always had a smile and a joke, who remembered everyone’s name, who liked to walk through Lowtown, the colored section, on foot and without a gun and with candy for the kids.

In private there were problems, but as brothers in uniform his colleagues tried to keep them from Ozzie. Tatum and Swayze and most of the deputies knew something of Stuart’s dark side, but it was easier to ignore it and hope for the best, hope no one got hurt.

Ozzie glanced in the mirror again and looked at Drew in the shadows. Head down, eyes closed, not a sound. And although Ozzie was stunned and angry, it was difficult to picture the kid as a murderer. Slight, shorter than his sister, pale, timid, obviously overwhelmed, the kid could pass for a shy twelve-year-old.

They roared into the dark streets of Clanton and soon slid to a stop in front of the jail, two blocks off the square. Outside the main door to the jail a deputy was standing with a man holding a camera.

“Dammit,” Ozzie said. “That’s Dumas Lee, isn’t it?”

“Afraid so,” Tatum said. “I guess word’s out. They all have police scanners these days.”

“Y’all stay in the car.” Ozzie got out, slammed his door, and walked straight for the reporter, already shaking his head. “You ain’t gettin’ nothin’, Dumas,” he said roughly. “There’s a minor involved and you ain’t gettin’ his name or his picture. Get outta here.”

Dumas Lee was one of two beat reporters for The Ford County Times, and he knew Ozzie well. “Can you confirm an officer has been killed?”

“I ain’t confirmin’ nothin’. You got ten seconds to get outta here before I slap cuffs on you and haul your ass inside. Beat it!”

The reporter slinked away and soon disappeared into the darkness. Ozzie watched him, then he and Tatum unloaded the kids and hustled them inside.

“You want to process them?” asked the jailer.

“No, we’ll do it later. Let’s just get ’em in the juvenile cell.”

With Tatum bringing up the rear, Drew and Kiera were led through a wall of bars and down a narrow hallway to a thick metal door with a narrow window. The jailer opened it and they stepped into the empty room. There were two sets of bunk beds and a dirty commode in one corner.

Ozzie said, “Take off the handcuffs.” Tatum snapped them off and Drew immediately rubbed his wrists. “You’re gonna stay here for a few hours,” Ozzie said.

“I want to see my mother,” Drew said, more forcefully than Ozzie expected.

“Son, you’re in no position to want anything right now. You’re under arrest for the murder of a law enforcement official.”

“He killed my mother.”

“Your mother is not dead, thankfully. I’m about to drive to the hospital and check on her. When I come back I’ll tell you what I know. That’s the best I can do.”

Kiera asked, “Why am I in jail? I didn’t do anything.”

“I know. You’re in jail for your own safety, and you won’t be here long. If we released you in a few hours, where would you go?”

Kiera looked at Drew and it was obvious they had no idea.

Ozzie asked, “Do y’all have any kinfolks around here? Aunts, uncles, grandparents? Anybody?”

Both hesitated then slowly shook their heads, no.

“Okay. It’s Kiera, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“If you had to call someone right now to come get you, who would you call?”

She looked at her feet and shook her head. “Our preacher, Brother Charles.”

“Charles who?”

“Charles McGarry, out in Pine Grove.”

Ozzie thought he knew all the preachers but perhaps he had missed one. In all fairness, there were three hundred churches in the county. Most were small congregations scattered throughout the countryside and notorious for fighting and splitting and running off their preachers. It was impossible for anyone to keep score. He looked at Tatum and said, “Don’t know him.”

“I do. Good guy.”

“Give him a call, wake him up, ask him to get down here.” He looked at the kids and said, “We’ll leave you here where you’re safe. They’ll bring in some snacks and drinks. Make yourself at home. I’m goin’ to the hospital.” He took a breath and looked at them with as little sympathy as possible. His overwhelming concern was a dead deputy and he was looking at the killer. Still, they were so lost and pathetic it was difficult to want revenge.

Kiera lifted her wet eyes and asked, “Sir, is he really dead?”

“He is indeed.”

“I’m sorry, but he beat our mother a lot, and he came after us too.”

Ozzie held up both hands and said, “Let’s not go any further. We’ll get a lawyer in here to talk to you kids and you can tell him anything you want. For now, just keep it quiet.”

“Yes sir.”

Ozzie and Tatum left the cell and slammed the door behind them. At the front, the jailer hung up his phone and said, “Sheriff, that was Earl Kofer, said he just heard that his son Stuart had been killed. Really upset. I said I didn’t know but you need to call him.”

Ozzie cursed under his breath and mumbled, “Just fixin’ to do that. But I need to get to the hospital. You can handle it, can’t you?”

“No,” Tatum said.

“Sure you can. Give him a few facts and tell him I’ll call later.”

“Thanks for nothin’.”

“You got it.” Ozzie hustled out the front door and drove away.

It was almost 5:00 a.m. when Ozzie wheeled into the hospital’s empty lot. He parked near the ER, hurried inside, and almost bumped into Dumas Lee, who was one step ahead of him.

“No comment, Dumas, and you’re pissin’ me off.”

“That’s my job, Sheriff. Just searching for the truth.”

“I don’t know the truth.”

“Is the woman dead?”

“I’m not a doctor. Now leave me alone.”

Ozzie punched the elevator button and left the reporter in the lobby. On the third floor, two deputies were waiting, and they escorted their boss to a desk where a young doctor saw them coming and was waiting. Ozzie made introductions and everybody nodded without shaking hands. “What can you tell us?” he asked.

Without looking at a chart, the doctor said, “She’s unconscious but stable. Her left jaw is shattered and will need surgery soon to reset it, but it’s not that urgent. Looks like she just took a shot to the jaw and/or chin and got knocked out.”

“Any other injuries?”

“Not really, maybe some bruises on her wrists and neck, nothing that requires care.”

Ozzie took a deep breath and thanked God for only one murder at a time. “So she’ll pull through?”

“Her vitals are strong. Right now there’s no reason to expect anything but a recovery.”

“So when might she wake up?”

“Hard to predict, but I’d guess within forty-eight hours.”

“Okay. Look, I’m sure you’ll keep good records and all, but just remember that everything you do with this patient will probably be picked over in a courtroom one day. Keep that in mind. Be sure to take plenty of X-rays and color photos.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ll leave an officer here to monitor things.”

Ozzie marched away and returned to the elevator and left the hospital. As he drove back to the jail, he grabbed his radio and called Tatum. The conversation with Earl Kofer had been about as awful as one could expect.

“You’d better call him, Ozzie. He said he’s goin’ over there to see for himself.”

“Okay.” Ozzie ended the call as he stopped in front of the jail. He held his phone and stared at it and, as always at these terrible moments, remembered the other late night and early morning calls to families; terrible calls that would dramatically change and even ruin the lives of many; calls he hated to make but his job required it. A young father found with his face blown off and a suicide note nearby; two drunk teenagers hurled from a speeding car; a demented grandfather finally found in a ditch. It was by far the worst part of his life.

Earl Kofer was hysterical and wanted to know who killed his “boy.” Ozzie was patient and said he couldn’t talk about the details at the moment but was willing to meet with the family, another dreadful prospect that was unavoidable. No, Earl should not go to Stuart’s house because he would not be allowed in. The deputies there were waiting for investigators from the state crime lab, and their work would take hours. Ozzie suggested that the family meet at Earl’s house and he, Ozzie, would stop by later in the morning. The father was wailing into the phone when Ozzie finally managed to hang up.

Inside the jail, he asked Tatum if Deputy Marshall Prather had been notified. Tatum said yes, he was on his way. Prather was a veteran who had been a close friend of Stuart Kofer’s since they were kids at Clanton Elementary School. He arrived in jeans and a sweatshirt and a state of disbelief. He followed Ozzie to his office where they fell into chairs as Tatum closed the door. Ozzie recited the facts as they knew them, and Prather couldn’t hide his emotions. He gritted his teeth like a tough guy and covered his eyes, but he was obviously suffering.

After a long, painful pause, Prather managed to say, “We started school together in the third grade.” His voice faded and he lowered his chin. Ozzie looked at Tatum, who looked away.

After another long pause, Ozzie pressed on. “What do you know about this woman, Josie Gamble?”

Prather swallowed hard and shook his head as if he could shake off the emotion. “I met her once or twice but didn’t really know her. Stu took up with her I’d guess about a year ago. She and her kids moved in. She seemed nice enough, but she’d been around the block a few times. Pretty rough background.”

“What do you mean?”

“She served some time. Drugs, I think. Has a colorful past. Stu met her in a bar, no surprise, and they hit it off. He didn’t like the idea of her two kids hangin’ around, but she talked him into it. Lookin’ back, she needed a place to stay and he had extra bedrooms.”

“What was the attraction?”

“Come on, Ozzie. Not a bad-lookin’ woman, pretty damned cute really, looks good in tight jeans. You know Stu, always on the prowl but completely unable to get along with a woman.”

“And the drinkin’?”

Prather removed an old cap and scratched his hair.

Ozzie leaned forward with a scowl and said, “I’m askin’ questions, Marshall, and I want answers. This is no time for a cop cover-up where you look the other way and play dumb. I want answers.”

“I don’t know much, Ozzie, I swear. I stopped drinkin’ three years ago so I don’t hang out in the bars anymore. Yes, Stu was drinkin’ too much and I think it was gettin’ worse. I talked to him about it, twice. He said everything was fine, same as all drunks. I gotta cousin who still hits the joints and he told me that Stu was gettin’ quite the reputation as a brawler, which was not what I wanted to hear. Said he was gamblin’ a lot over at Huey’s, down by the lake.”

“And you didn’t think I should know this?”

“Come on, Ozzie, I was concerned. That’s why I had a chat with Stu. I was gonna talk to him again, I swear.”

“Don’t swear to me. So we had a deputy drinkin’, fightin’, and gamblin’ with the riffraff, and oh by the way beatin’ his girlfriend at home, and you thought I shouldn’t know about it, right?”

“I thought you knew.”

“We did,” Tatum interrupted.

“Say what?” Ozzie snapped. “I never heard a word about domestic abuse.”

“There was a report filed a month ago. She called 911 late one night and said Stu was on a rampage. We sent a car out with Pirtle and McCarver and they settled things down. The woman had obviously been slapped around but she refused to press charges.”

Ozzie was livid. “I never heard about this and never saw the paperwork. What happened to it?”

Tatum shot a look at Prather, but it was not returned. Tatum shrugged as if he knew nothing and said, “There was no arrest, just an incident report. Must’ve been misplaced, I guess. I don’t know, Ozzie, I wasn’t involved.”

“I’m sure no one was involved. If I looked high and low and grilled every man in my department I’m sure I wouldn’t find anyone who was involved.”

Prather glared at him and asked, “So you’re blamin’ Stu for gettin’ himself shot, is that right, Ozzie? Blame the victim?”

Ozzie sank in his chair and closed his eyes.

On the bottom bunk, Drew had curled up with his knees to his chest and was resting under a thin blanket with his head on an old pillow. He stared blankly at the dark wall. It had been hours since he said anything. Kiera sat at the foot of the bed, one hand touching his feet under the blanket and the other hand twirling her long hair as they waited for whatever might happen next. From time to time there were voices in the hallway but they faded, then disappeared for good.

For the first hour she and Drew had talked about the obvious — their mother’s condition, and the stunning news that she was not dead, and then the shooting of Stu. The fact that he was dead was a relief to both of them and they felt fear but no remorse. Stu had used their mother as a punching bag, but had slapped them around too, and threatened them repeatedly. That nightmare was over. They would never again hear the sickening sounds of their mother getting smacked around by a drunken thug.

The jail cell itself was insignificant. Such crude and unsanitary conditions might bother a new offender, but they had seen worse. Drew had once spent four months in a juvenile facility in another state. Just last year they had locked Kiera up for two days in what was supposed to be protective custody. Jail was survivable.

For a little family that was always on the move, one question before them was where to go next. Once they were with their mother they could plan their next move. They had met some of Stu’s relatives and had always felt unwelcome. Stu liked to boast that he owned the house “free and clear” of debt because his grandfather had left it to him in a will. The house really wasn’t that nice. It was dirty and needed repairs, and Josie’s efforts to clean up were always met with disapproval. They had decided that they would not miss Stu’s house.

During the second hour, they had speculated about how much trouble Drew might be facing. For them, it was a simple matter of self-defense, of survival, and of retribution. Slowly, Drew began to relive the shooting, step by step, or as much as he could remember. It had happened so fast and was a blur. Stu lying there, red-faced with his mouth open, snoring away as if he’d earned a good night’s sleep. Stu reeking of alcohol. Violent Stu who could awaken at any moment and slap the kids around for the fun of it.

The pungent smell of spent gunpowder. The flash of blood and matter hitting the pillows and the wall. The shock of seeing Stu’s eyes roll open after he was shot.

As the hours passed, though, Drew had grown quieter. He pulled the blanket to his chin and said he was tired of talking. She watched him slowly curl into himself and stare blankly at the wall.