A Time for Mercy

23

Of the three jailers who came to his cell with meals and instructions, room checks and lights out, and occasionally a kind word, Mr. Zack was his favorite because he seemed to care. His voice was never harsh like the others. Sergeant Buford was the worst. He had once told Drew that he’d better enjoy the county jail because death row was a terrible place and that’s where all cop killers were sent to die.

Mr. Zack arrived early with a tray of food — scrambled eggs and toast. He left it by the bunk and returned with a grocery bag and said, “Your preacher brought these by. Some clothes, real clothes that you need to put on and get dressed up.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re goin’ to court today. Didn’t your lawyer tell you?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember. What am I doin’ in court?”

“Hell if I know. I just handle the jail. When did you shower last?”

“I don’t know, don’t remember.”

“I think it was two days ago. You’re okay. You don’t smell too bad.”

“The water was ice cold. I don’t want to shower.”

“Then eat up and get dressed. They’re comin’ to get you at eight-thirty.”

When the jailer was gone, Drew chewed on a piece of toast and ignored the eggs. They were always cold too. He opened the grocery sack and removed a pair of jeans, a thick plaid shirt, two pairs of white socks, and a pair of scuffed white sneakers, all obviously hand-me-downs but smelling like strong detergent. He stepped out of his orange coveralls and got dressed. Everything fit reasonably well and he liked the fact that he was wearing real clothes again. He had one change in a cardboard box under his bunk where he kept his other valuables.

He retrieved a small bag of salted peanuts his lawyer had brought him and ate them slowly, one at a time. He was supposed to read for an hour each morning, strict instructions from his mother. She had delivered two books, one a history of the state that he had used in class and found incredibly boring. The other was a novel by Charles Dickens that his English teacher sent via his preacher. He had little interest in reading either one.

Mr. Zack returned to fetch his tray and said, “You didn’t eat your eggs.”

Drew ignored him and stretched out on the bottom bunk for another nap. Minutes later the door burst open and a thick deputy growled, “Get up, kid.”

Drew scrambled to his feet as Marshall Prather slapped cuffs on his wrists, yanked him by an elbow, and led him out of the cell, down the hall, and out the back door where a patrol car was waiting with DeWayne Looney behind the wheel. Prather shoved Drew into the rear seat and they sped away. The prisoner peeked out a window to see if anyone was watching.

Moments later they wheeled to a stop near the rear door of the courthouse where two men with cameras were waiting. With a slightly softer touch, Prather pulled Drew out and made sure he faced the cameras for full-frontal shots. Then they were inside and climbing a dark, narrow staircase.

Jake sat on one side of the table, Lowell Dyer the other. Judge Noose was at the end, no robe, unlit pipe stuck between his teeth. All three men were frowning and apparently unhappy. Each for different reasons.

Noose placed some papers on the table and rubbed his eyes. Jake was irritated at even being there. The event was nothing but a first appearance for several freshly indicted defendants, and Jake had tried to waive it on behalf of Drew. However, His Honor wanted to be seen doing his job, presiding over the criminals and keeping them locked up. A crowd was expected, and Jake, cynically, believed Noose wanted to look good for the voters.

Jake, of course, wasn’t worried about the voters, and he had accepted the fact that he was about to look bad regardless of what happened. He would sit next to the defendant, stand next to him, consult with him, speak for him, and so on. The clear and obvious guilt of Drew Gamble was about to rub off on his lawyer.

Jake said, “Judge, I need to hire a psychiatrist for my client. And the State cannot expect me to pay for one.”

“He just came back from Whitfield. Didn’t he see the experts down there?”

“He did. However, they work for the State and the State is prosecuting him. We need our own private shrink.”

“I certainly do,” Lowell mumbled.

“So, this is headed toward an insanity defense?”

“Probably, but how can I make that decision without consulting with our own psychiatrist? I’m sure Lowell will be able to line ’em up in court and produce several experts from Whitfield who’ll say the kid knew precisely what he was doing when he pulled the trigger.”

Lowell shrugged and nodded his agreement.

Noose was perplexed and said, “Let’s talk about this later. I’d like to discuss our timing here and at least get a tentative trial date. Summer is approaching and it usually complicates our calendars. Jake, what are you thinking?”

Oh, lots. For one, his star witness was pregnant but still hiding it well. He was under no obligation to inform anyone of this. Indeed, it was likely that the State would call Kiera to the stand before Jake did. After long conversations with Portia and Lucien, Jake had decided that the better strategy was to push for a trial in late summer so that she would be visibly pregnant when she testified. The complicating factor was the threat of an abortion. Josie was working two minimum-wage jobs and she owned a car. Nothing prevented her from grabbing her daughter and going to Memphis for an abortion. The topic was so raw that it was not being discussed.

Second, little Drew Gamble was finally growing up. Jake was watching him carefully, as was his mother, and both had noticed some small pimples on his cheeks and a dash of new peach fuzz above his lips. His voice was changing too. He was eating more and had gained five pounds, according to the jailer.

Jake wanted a small kid sitting in the defendant’s chair at trial, not a gangly teenager trying to look older. “The sooner the better. Late summer, maybe.”

“Lowell?”

“There’s not a lot of preparation, Judge. Not many witnesses. We should be ready to go in a couple of months.”

Noose studied his docket and finally said, “Let’s say Monday, August 6, and set aside the entire week.”

Three months away. Kiera would be seven months along. Jake still could not envision the drama in the courtroom when she testified that she was indeed pregnant and Kofer was the father because he had repeatedly raped her.

What a nasty trial.

Drew was cuffed to a wooden chair in a small dark holding room with two other criminals, both fully grown black men who were amused by the age and size of their new colleague. Their crimes seemed insignificant, unimpressive.

One said, “Say, dude, you shot that deputy?”

Drew had been lectured by his lawyer to say nothing, but in the presence of other handcuffed men he felt safe. “That’s right.”

“With his own gun?”

“The only gun I could find.”

“He really pissed you off.”

“He beat my mother. I thought she was dead.”

“They gon’ fry your ass in the electric chair.”

“I think it’s the gas chamber,” the other said.

Drew shrugged as if he wasn’t sure. The door opened and a bailiff said, “Bowie.” One of the men stood as the bailiff took him by the elbow and led him away. When the door was closed the room was dark again and Drew asked, “What are you in for?”

“Stole a car. Wish I’d shot a cop.”

Small packs of lawyers were hovering around the courtroom as defendants were being processed. Some of the lawyers actually had business there, others were part of the courthouse crowd that never missed a show. The rumors were that the kid would finally make a public appearance and this drew them like vultures to a carcass.

When Jake emerged from Noose’s chambers, he was impressed with the number of people there to witness preliminary hearings that meant little on the road to justice. Josie and Kiera were huddled in the front row with Charles and Meg McGarry, and all four looked terrified. Across the aisle, there was a pack of Kofers and friends, all angry. Dumas Lee was sniffing around with another reporter.

Judge Noose called the name of Drew Allen Gamble, and Mr. Pete left to find him. They emerged from a side door next to the jury box and paused for a moment to remove the handcuffs. Drew looked around and tried to absorb the enormity of the room, and all the people gawking at him. He saw his mother and sister sitting out there but was too stunned to smile. Mr. Pete led him to a spot in front of the bench where Jake met him and they looked up at the judge.

Jake was six feet tall. Mr. Pete was at least six-one, and both seemed at least a foot taller than the defendant.

Noose looked down and said, “You are Drew Allen Gamble.”

Drew nodded and might have spoken.

“Please speak up, sir,” Noose almost yelled into his microphone. Jake looked down at his client.

“Yes sir.”

“And you are represented by the Honorable Jake Brigance, right?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you have been indicted by the grand jury of Ford County for the murder of Officer Stuart Kofer, right?”

In Jake’s biased opinion, Noose was being far too dramatic and playing to the crowd. Hell, the entire first appearance could have been dispensed with a signature.

“Yes sir.”

“And you have a copy of the indictment?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you understand the charges?”

“Yes sir.”

As Noose ruffled some papers, Jake wanted to say something like “Come on, Judge, how can he not understand the charges? He’s been locked up for over a month.” He could almost feel the stares drilling into the back of his nice gray blazer, and he knew that this day, May 8, was the day when he was unofficially crowned the most despised lawyer in town.

His Honor asked, “Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty.”

“Okay, you will be remanded to the custody of the sheriff’s department and await trial for the murder of Stuart Kofer. Anything else, Mr. Brigance?”

Anything else? Hell, we didn’t need this. “No sir.”

“Take him away.”

Josie was trying to control herself. Jake walked back to the defense table and tossed down a useless legal pad. He glanced at Pastor McGarry, then looked directly at the Kofer gang.

Two weeks earlier, Lowell Dyer had informed Jake that he and his investigator would like the opportunity to meet with Josie and Kiera and ask questions. It was quite a professional move because Dyer didn’t need Jake’s permission to talk to anyone except the defendant. Jake represented Drew, not his family, and if anyone working for law enforcement or the prosecution wanted to chat with a potential witness they could certainly do so.

Unlike civil litigation, where all witnesses were made known and their testimonies probed long before trial, in criminal matters neither side was required to reveal much of anything. In a simple divorce case, every dollar was accounted for, in theory. But in a capital murder trial, with a human life on the line, the defense was not entitled to know what the accusing witnesses might say or what opinions the experts might put forth.

Jake agreed to arrange a meeting in his office and invited Ozzie and Detective Rady as well. He wanted a crowded room because he wanted both Josie and Kiera to experience the tension of discussing what had happened before an audience.

Noose adjourned for lunch at 11:30. Jake and Portia walked Josie and Kiera across the street, and were followed by Dyer and his investigator. They reconvened in the main conference room where Bev had laid out coffee and brownies. Jake arranged everyone around the table and sat Josie at one end, alone as if on the witness stand.

Lowell Dyer was warm and pleasant and began by thanking her for her time. He had the full report from Detective Rady and knew a lot of her background. She kept her responses brief.

The day before, Jake had spent two hours coaching her and her daughter at the church. He had even written instructions for them to review, gems such as: “Keep your answers brief. Don’t volunteer anything. If you don’t know, don’t guess. Do not hesitate to ask Mr. Dyer to repeat the question. Say as little as possible about the physical abuse (we’ll save it for trial). And, most important: Always remember that he is the enemy and he is trying to put Drew on death row.”

Josie was tough and had been around the block. She got through the questions without emotion and gave only the barest of details about the beatings.

Kiera was next. For the occasion, and at Jake’s request, she wore jeans and a tight blouse. At fourteen, no one would have suspected that she was four months pregnant. Jake had readily agreed to the meeting because he wanted Lowell Dyer to have the opportunity to evaluate the witness before she began showing. On her list of instructions, Portia had typed in bold letters: “Do not mention your pregnancy. Do not mention the rapes. If asked about physical abuse, start crying and don’t answer. Jake will intervene.”

Her voice broke almost immediately and Dyer didn’t push. She was a frightened, fragile child who was now secretly carrying one of her own and seemed thoroughly overwhelmed.

Jake grimaced, shrugged, said to Dyer, “Maybe another time.”

“Sure.”