A Time for Mercy

37

In 1843, an unstable Scottish woodturner named Daniel M’Naghten believed that the British prime minister Robert Peel and his Tories were following and persecuting him. He saw Peel walking along a London street and shot him in the back of the head, killing him. He got the wrong man. His victim was Edward Drummond, Peel’s private secretary and longtime civil servant. At his trial for murder, both sides agreed that M’Naghten suffered from delusions and other mental problems. The jury found him not guilty by reason of insanity. His case became famous and led to an insanity defense that was widely accepted in England, Canada, Australia, Ireland, and in most of the United States, including Mississippi.

The M’Naghten Rule states: To establish a defense on the ground of insanity it must be clearly proved, that, at the time of committing the act, the party accused was laboring under such a defect of reason from disease of the mind, as not to know the nature and quality of the act he was doing, or if he did know it, that he did not know that what he was doing was wrong.

For decades the M’Naghten Rule ignited fierce debates among legal scholars, and it was modified and rejected outright in some jurisdictions. But in 1990 it was still the standard in most of the states, including Mississippi.

Jake filed a M’Naghten notice and attached a thirty-page brief in support that he and Portia, and Lucien, worked on for two weeks. On July 3, Drew was again taken to the state mental hospital at Whitfield to be examined by its doctors, one of whom would be selected to testify against him at trial. The defense had little doubt that Lowell Dyer would find one if not more psychiatrists willing to say that Drew was not mentally ill, did not suffer from mental disease, and knew what he was doing when he pulled the trigger.

And the defense would not argue otherwise. So far, there was nothing in Drew’s profile to suggest he suffered from mental illness. Jake and Portia had obtained copies of his youth court abstracts, intake and discharge summaries, incarceration records, school reports, and evaluations from Dr. Christina Rooker in Tupelo and Dr. Sadie Weaver at Whitfield. Taken as a whole, they portrayed an adolescent physically, emotionally, and mentally immature and whose first sixteen years had been shockingly chaotic. He had been traumatized by Stuart Kofer and threatened repeatedly, and on the night in question was certain that his mother had been killed. But, he was not mentally ill.

Jake knew it was possible to find and hire an expert who would say otherwise, but he did not want a courtroom fight over insanity that he could not win. Portraying Drew as deranged and unaccountable would backfire with the jury. He planned to pursue the ruse of M’Naghten for the next few weeks, then drop it before trial. It was, after all, a chess match, and there was nothing wrong with sending Lowell Dyer off in the wrong direction.

Stan Atcavage was at his desk when Jake interrupted with “Hey, got a minute?”

Stan was genuinely glad to see him. He had stopped by the house a week earlier, as soon as Carla would allow it, and had a glass of lemonade on the patio.

“Good to see you out and about,” he said.

Seventeen days after the beating, Jake was almost back to normal. The scars were small but visible, and his eyes were clear with only a trace of bruising under them.

“Glad to be out,” he said as he handed over some papers. “A little gift for you and the boys in Jackson.”

“What is it?”

“My mortgage cancellation. Security Bank is paid in full.”

Stan looked at the sheet on top. It was stamped CANCELED.

“Congratulations,” Stan said, shocked. “Who’s the lucky bank?”

“Third Federal in Tupelo.”

“Great. How much did they loan?”

“That’s really none of your business, now is it? And I’m moving all my accounts over there too. Meager as they are.”

“Come on, Jake.”

“No, seriously, they’re really nice folks and I didn’t have to beg. They recognized the full value of my lovely home and they have confidence in my ability to pay. How refreshing.”

“Come on, Jake. If it was left up to me, you know?”

“But it’s not, not anymore. All you have to worry about now is the litigation loan. Tell your boys down there to relax and it’ll get paid soon enough.”

“Sure it will. I have no doubts. But you don’t have to move your business. Hell, Jake, we’ve handled your accounts and loans since the beginning.”

“Sorry, Stan, but this bank couldn’t help me when I really needed it.”

Stan tossed the paperwork onto his desk and cracked his knuckles. “Okay, okay. Are we still pals?”

“Always.”

On Friday, July 6, Jake awoke in the dark from a nightmare and realized he was soaked with sweat. The dream was the same — his head stuck on the hot asphalt as a hulking, faceless thug battered his face. His heart was pounding and he was breathing heavily, but he managed to settle himself without moving and waking Carla. He glanced at the clock — 4:14. Slowly he calmed himself and his breathing returned to normal. For a long time he was still, afraid to move a muscle because they all still ached, and he stared at the black ceiling and tried to shake off the nightmare.

The trial was one month away, and once he started thinking about it there would be no more sleep. At 5:00, he managed to gently pull down the sheets and swing his stiff legs to the side of the bed. As he stood, Carla said, “And where do you think you’re going?”

“I need coffee. Go back to sleep.”

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay? I’m fine, Carla, go back to sleep.”

He went quietly into the kitchen, made the coffee, and stepped onto the patio where the air was still warm from the day before and would only grow hotter with the hours. He was still wet with sweat and the coffee did little to cool things, but he needed it because it was an old friend and starting the day without it was unthinkable. Thinking — that was the curse these days. Too much to think about. He dwelt on Cecil Kofer and the beating and how badly he wanted to press charges and sue for civil damages, to at least get some measure of justice, not to mention a few bucks to cover his medical expenses. He thought of Janet and Earl Kofer and their tragic loss, and as a parent he tried mightily to feel sympathy. But the sins of their son had caused heartbreak that could not be measured and would last for decades. Sympathy was an emotion he could not feel. He tried to imagine them sitting in the courtroom and absorbing blow after blow as Jake put their son on trial, but the facts could not be changed. He thought of Drew and for the thousandth time tried to define justice, but it was not within his grasp. Murder must be punished, but murder can also be justified. He engaged himself in his daily debate about putting Drew on the witness stand. To prove the crime was justified it would be necessary to hear from the defendant, to re-create the horror of the moment, to visualize for the jury the unmitigated fear in the house as his mother lay unresponsive and Kofer roamed the house looking for the kids. Jake was almost convinced that he could adequately prep his client with hours of practice before he took the stand.

He needed a long hot shower to wash away the dried sweat and soothe the aches. He went to the basement to take one without making noise. When he returned to the kitchen in his bathrobe, Carla was at the breakfast table in her pajamas, sipping coffee, and waiting. He kissed her on the cheek, told her he loved her, and sat across the table.

“Rough night?” she asked.

“I’m okay. Some bad dreams.”

“How do you feel?”

“Better than yesterday. Did you sleep well?”

“The usual. Jake, I want to go to Oxford tomorrow, a Saturday day trip, just the two of us. We can picnic with Josie and Kiera, and I want to ask them for the baby.”

It sounded odd, as if asking for a favor, for advice, for a recipe or even something more tangible like a book to borrow. Her eyes were moist and Jake looked at them for a long time. “You’ve made up your mind?”

“Yes. Have you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Jake, it’s time to make a decision because I can’t keep on like this. We either say yes or forget about it. I think about it every day, every hour, and I’m convinced it’s the right thing to do. Look down the road, one year, two years, five years, when all this is behind us, when Drew is wherever Drew will be, when the gossip has died down and people have accepted it, when this mess is over, and we’ll have a beautiful little boy that will be ours forever. Somebody gets him, Jake, and I want him to grow up in this house.”

“If we still have the house.”

“Come on. Let’s make the decision tonight.”

The decision had been made and Jake knew it.

6:00 A.m. sharp, Jake walked into the Coffee Shop for the first time in weeks. Dell greeted him at the front with a sassy “Well, good morning, handsome. What have you been up to?”

Jake gave her a quick hug and nodded to the regulars. He took his old seat where Bill West was reading the Tupelo paper and drinking coffee. Bill said, “Well, well, look what the dogs drug up. Good to see you.”

“Good morning,” Jake said.

“We heard you were dead,” Bill said.

“You can’t believe anything around here. The gossip is terrible.”

Bill gawked at him and said, “Looks like your nose is a bit crooked.”

“You should’ve seen it last week.”

Dell poured him coffee and asked, “The usual?”

“Why would I change after ten years?”

“Just tryin’ to be nice.”

“Give it up. It doesn’t suit you. And tell the chef to hurry up. I’m starving.”

“You want your butt kicked again?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I do not.”

One table over, a farmer named Dunlap asked, “Say, Jake, we heard you got a good look at those boys. Any idea who it was?”

“Professionals, sent in by the CIA to silence me.”

“Seriously, Jake. Tell us who it is and I’ll send Willis here out for a little payback.”

Willis was eighty years old with one lung and one leg. “Damned right,” he said, tapping his cane. “I’ll get those bastards.”

“Watch your language,” Dell yelled from across the café as she refilled coffee.

“Thanks, fellas, but I have no idea,” Jake said.

“That ain’t what I heard,” Dunlap said.

“Well, if you heard it here it can’t be right.”

The day before, Jake had sneaked down to the café late in the day to catch up with Dell. He had talked to her twice on the phone when he was being held hostage at home by his nurse, and so he knew what his breakfast regulars were saying about him. At first they were shocked and angry, and then concerned. There was a general belief that it was related to the Kofer case, and that was confirmed four days after the attack when the rumor surfaced that it was one of Earl’s boys. The following day, the gossip was that Jake was refusing to press charges. Roughly half the crowd admired him for this while the others wanted justice.

His grits and wheat toast arrived and the talk moved to football. The pre-season magazines were out and Ole Miss was ranked higher than expected. This pleased some and upset others, and Jake was relieved that things were returning to normal. The grits slid down with ease, but the toast needed chewing. He did so slowly, careful not to indicate that his jaw still ached and he was avoiding the temporary crowns. A week earlier he’d been dining on fruit shakes through a straw.

Late in the afternoon, Harry Rex called to check on him. He asked, “You see the legals in the Times?”

Every lawyer in town checked the weekly legal notices to see who had been arrested, who had filed for divorce or bankruptcy, which dead person’s estate had been opened for probate, and whose land was being foreclosed. The notices were in the back with the classifieds, all in fine print.

Jake was behind with his reading and said, “No. What’s up?”

“Take a look. They’re probating Kofer’s estate. He died with no will and they need to transfer his land to his heirs.”

“Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

Harry Rex studied the legals with a magnifying glass to keep abreast of the news and gossip. Jake usually just scanned them, but he had not ignored Stuart Kofer’s property. The county assessed the house and ten acres at $115,000, and there were no mortgages or liens. The title was free and clear, and all potential creditors had ninety days from July 2 to file claims against the estate. Kofer had been dead for over three months and Jake wondered what took so long, though such a delay was not unusual. State law provided no deadline to open probate.

He thought of at least two possible lawsuits. One filed on behalf of Josie for her medical bills, now in excess of $20,000 — but the debt collectors couldn’t find her. The second could be filed on behalf of Kiera for child support. And he could not forget his own lawsuit against Cecil Kofer for the beating and the bills it created, only half of which were covered by Jake’s no-frills health insurance policy.

But suing the Kofers at this point could be counterproductive. His sympathy for the family had dissipated in the Kroger parking lot, but they had suffered enough. For now. He would wait until after Drew’s trial and reassess the situation. The last thing he needed was more bad press. Lucien be damned.