A Time for Mercy

41

The prospective jurors began arriving at the old courthouse at 8:30, and they were greeted by the sight of three brightly painted news vans, one from the station in Tupelo, one from an affiliate in Jackson, one from Memphis. Crews were setting up lights and cameras as close to the front door as a deputy would allow them. The hamlet of Chester had never felt so important.

The jurors, each holding a summons to validate their presence, were met at the front door by a polite clerk who checked their paperwork, made an entry of some sort on the master list, and asked them to continue on up the stairs to the courtroom on the second floor where they would receive further instructions. The courtroom was locked and guarded by men in uniform who asked them to wait a few minutes. A crowd soon gathered in the hallway as the nervous and curious jurors mingled and whispered. The summonses did not mention the matter at hand, but suspicions ran wild. Word soon spread that it was a criminal case involving a murdered deputy from over in Ford County.

Harry Rex, wearing a John Deere cap and dressed like a rustic good ol’ boy from the hollows, and holding a sheet of paper that could pass for his own summons, mixed with the locals and listened to the gossip. He knew virtually no one from the area and none of the jurors had ever laid eyes on him, but he nonetheless kept his guard up in case Lowell Dyer or anyone working for him ventured into the hallway. He chatted with a woman who said she had no time for jury duty and was needed at home to care for her aging mother. He overheard an older man say something to the effect that he had no qualms with the death penalty. He asked a younger woman if it was true that it was the case from Clanton where a deputy was murdered back in March. She said she didn’t know but seemed horrified at the prospect of sitting in judgment for such an awful matter. As the crowd thickened, he stopped talking and just listened, waiting for a stray word here or there that would reveal something crucial, something that might not be admitted in open court during the selection process.

Spectators joined the jurors, and when Harry Rex saw the Kofers arrive he eased into a restroom and lost the cap.

At 8:45, the door was opened and a clerk asked those summoned to step into the courtroom and have a seat on the left side. They filed down the aisle, gawking at the vastness of the large, freshly painted room, a place few of them had ever seen. Another clerk pointed to the pews on the left. The right side would remain vacant for a while longer.

Evidently, Noose had ordered the air-conditioners to run at full speed throughout the weekend and there was a noticeable chill in the air. August 6, with a high of ninety-five expected, but oddly enough the spruced-up courtroom was pleasant.

Jake, Portia, and Libby stood around the defense table, whispering about important matters as they sized up the prospects. A few feet away, Lowell Dyer and D. R. Musgrove chatted with their investigator, Jerry Snook, as clerks and bailiffs milled about in front of the bench.

Dyer stepped over and said to Jake, “I assume Mrs. Gamble and her daughter are here.”

“They’ll be here, Lowell, I gave you my word.”

“Did you give them their subpoenas?”

“I did.”

“I’d like to chat with Kiera at some point this morning.”

“No problem.”

Dyer was nervous and fidgety, obviously feeling the strain of his first big trial. Jake worked hard at appearing to be the seasoned veteran, but though he had more courtroom experience than his opponent, his stomach was in knots. Dyer didn’t have a belt notched with big convictions, but he still had all the advantages handed to the State — good over evil, law enforcement over the criminal, plenty of resources over an indigent defense.

With Ozzie behind the wheel, the defendant arrived in the rear seat of the sheriff’s clean and shiny patrol car. For the benefit of the press, it was parked in front of the courthouse where Ozzie and Moss Junior, grim-faced and all business, yanked open a rear door and removed the alleged killer, handcuffed and ankle-chained but reasonably well dressed. They grabbed his skinny arms and walked him slowly in an old-fashioned perp march to the front door of the courthouse as the cameras clicked and rolled. Inside, they hustled him through a door that led to one of the building’s many appendages and soon found the meeting room of the Van Buren County Board of Supervisors. A local deputy opened it for them while saying to Ozzie, “Got this place secured for you, Sheriff.”

The room had no windows and not much in the way of air-conditioning. Drew was told to sit in a certain chair, then left there as Ozzie and Moss Junior stepped outside and closed the door.

Three hours would pass before it opened again.

By 9:15 the pool was seated on one side; the other was still empty as the spectators waited in the hallway. A bailiff called court to order and asked everyone to rise. As they did, the Honorable Omar Noose appeared from a door behind the bench. The lawyers settled around their tables and the clerks took their positions.

Noose stepped down and walked to the bar dividing the courtroom, his long black robe flowing behind him. Jake, seated only a few feet away, whispered to Libby, “Oh no, it’s the Flowing Robe Routine.” She gave him a blank look.

Occasionally, and especially when elections were looming, state trial judges liked to get closer to the masses, the voters, and greeted them not from a lofty perch on the bench but down on the floor, at their level, from just behind the bar.

Noose introduced himself to his home crowd and gave them a friendly welcome, thanking them for being there. As if they had a choice. He spent a moment rambling on about the importance of jury service to the orderly flow of justice. He hoped it would not be burdensome. Without going into detail, he described the nature of the case and explained that much of the day would be spent selecting a jury. He looked at a sheet of paper and said, “I have been informed by the clerk that three members of this pool have failed to show. Mr. Robert Giles, Mr. Henry Grant, and Mrs. Inez Bowen. All received proper subpoenas but have not bothered to check in this morning. I’ll ask the sheriff to round ’em up.” He looked gravely at the sheriff seated near the jury box and nodded, as if prison might just be an option here.

“Now, we have ninety-four people here in the pool, and our first order of business is to see who might be exempt. If you’re sixty-five or older, state law allows you to pass on jury service. Any volunteers for?”

Noose and the clerk had already culled the seniors chosen from the voter registration records, but there were eight in the pool between the ages of sixty-five and seventy. He knew from experience that not all of those would claim the exemption.

A man on the front row sprung up, waving his hand.

“And you are?”

“Harlan Winslow. I’m sixty-eight and I got better things to do.”

“You’re excused, sir.”

Winslow almost sprinted down the aisle. He lived deep in the country and had an NRA sticker on the bumper of his pickup. Jake happily struck his name. Good riddance.

Three others begged off and left the courtroom. Down to ninety.

Noose said, “Next, we’ll consider those with medical issues. If you have a note from your doctor, please step forward.” The pews creaked and rustled as a number of jurors stood and made their way forward, forming a line in the aisle in front of the judge. Eleven in all. The first one, a slothful younger man who was morbidly obese, looked as though he might collapse at any moment. He handed over a note that Noose studied carefully before smiling and saying, “You are excused. Mr. Larry Sims.” He smiled and lumbered toward the door.

As Noose methodically worked through the hardships, the lawyers studied their notes, scratched off names, and looked at the remaining members of the pool.

Two of the eleven with doctors’ notes were on Jake’s list of complete mysteries, and he was pleased when they left. After forty minutes of tedium, all eleven were gone. Down to seventy-nine.

Noose said, “Now, the rest of you are qualified to be examined during the selection process. We will do this by calling names at random. When you’re called, please have a seat over on this side, beginning with the front row.” He waved to his left, to the empty pews. A clerk stepped forward and handed him a small cardboard box, which he set on the defense table.

This little lottery was the most crucial part of the selection process. The final twelve would likely come from the first four rows, the first forty names pulled from the box.

The lawyers quickly moved their chairs to the other side of their tables, facing the pool, their backs to the bench. Noose removed a folded strip of paper and called out, “Mr. Mark Maylor.” A man stood with great uncertainty and shuffled down the row to the aisle.

Maylor. White male, age forty-eight, longtime algebra teacher at the only high school in the county. Two years at a junior college, degree in math from Southern Miss. Still married to his first wife, three children, the youngest still at home. Nice blazer and one of the few neckties in the pool. First Baptist Church of Chester. Jake wanted him.

As he sat at the far end of the front row, Noose called the name of Reba Dulaney. White female, age fifty-five, a housewife who lived in town and played the organ at the Methodist church. She took a seat next to Mark Maylor.

Number three was Don Coben, a sixty-year-old farmer whose son was a policeman in Tupelo. Jake would challenge him for cause, and if that didn’t work he would burn a peremptory challenge to get rid of him.

Number four was May Taggart, the first black chosen. She was forty-four and worked at the Ford dealership. It was the collective wisdom of the defense team, including Harry Rex and Lucien, that blacks were preferred because they were more likely to have less sympathy for white officers. Dyer, though, would be able to challenge them without the usual racial issues because both the defendant and the victim were white.

After an hour on his feet, His Honor was feeling some strain in his lower back. When the first row was seated, he retired to the bench, to his comfortable chair with thick cushions.

Jake studied the first ten. Two he would definitely take, three he would not. The others would be argued over later. Noose reached into his box and pulled out the first name for the second row.

Carla entered the courthouse at ten and found the lobby filled with men in uniform. She said hello to Moss Junior and Mike Nesbit, and she recognized a few of the others. Jake had subpoenaed Ozzie’s entire force.

She eased away from them and walked to a first-floor annex where the county tax assessor had her office. Inside, sitting in plastic chairs and appearing to be completely overwhelmed, were Josie and Kiera. They were delighted to see a friendly face and quick to hug her. They followed her out of the building and to her car. Once inside, she asked, “Have you talked to Jake this morning?”

No, they had not. “Haven’t talked to anyone,” Josie said. “What’s going on?”

“Just jury selection. Probably last all day. How about some coffee?”

“Can we leave?”

“Sure. Jake said it’s okay. Have you seen Mr. Dyer or anyone working for him?”

Josie shook her head. They drove away and minutes later stopped on Main Street in Chester. “Have you had breakfast?” Carla asked.

“I’m starving,” Kiera blurted. “I’m sorry.”

“Jake says this is the only café in town. Let’s go.”

On the sidewalk, Carla got her first good look at Kiera. She was wearing a simple cotton summer dress that was tight around the middle and clearly revealed her pregnancy. But it was concealed somewhat by a light, fluffy, oversized vest that, when pulled together, would probably hide things. Carla doubted Jake had selected the garment, but she had no doubt that he had discussed the outfit with Josie.

The crack of noon was heard louder in a courtroom than perhaps anywhere else. After three hours of tension, everyone was watching the clock and in need of a break. Hunger pains were overwhelming, and few judges ventured long into the afternoon. Noose had seated the seventy-nine in the first eight rows, and he had listened to three of them plead for relief. One was a grandmother who kept her daughter’s children every day. One was a woman who was sixty-two but looked twenty years older and was her dying husband’s full-time caregiver. One was a gentleman in a coat and tie who claimed he might lose his job. Noose listened thoughtfully but seemed unmoved. He said he would consider their requests during lunch. He learned years ago not to grant such exemptions in open court with the entire panel watching. If he showed too much sympathy, too many of the prospective jurors would soon be waving their hands and claiming all manner of hardship.

He would quietly dismiss the three after lunch.

The defense team, along with Harry Rex, went to Morris Finley’s office on Main Street, their headquarters for the duration of the trial. Finley had sandwiches and soft drinks waiting and they ate quickly.

Rodney Cote, Gwen Hailey’s cousin, was juror number twenty-seven, and certainly within reach. Jake knew for a fact that Carl Lee had met with him and discussed the case. Jake was still obsessed with the fact that Cote had been in the courtroom during the Hailey trial. What Jake didn’t know was whether Willie Hastings had told Ozzie about the connection. Several times during the morning, Jake had made clear eye contact with Cote, who appeared intrigued but noncommittal. And what exactly was he supposed to do? Wink at Jake? Give him a thumbs-up?

Finley, who’d been two years ahead of Jake in law school at Ole Miss, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and said, proudly, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a ringer.”

“I love it,” Harry Rex said.

“Let’s hear it,” Jake said.

“As you requested, Jake, I sent the jury list to about ten lawyer friends in nearby counties, just part of the fishing process, never works but what the hell, we all do it. Might get lucky with a name or two. Well, folks, we’re lucky. Juror number fifteen is Della Fancher, white, age forty, lives on a farm near the Polk County line, with husband either number two or three. They have two kids and appear to be stable, though virtually unknown. A buddy of mine — Jake, do you know Skip Salter over in Fulton?”

“No.”

“Anyway, Skip scanned the list and for some reason stopped at the name of Della Fancher. Della is not a common first name, not around here anyway, so he got curious, checked an old file, and made a few calls. When he met her about fifteen years ago she was Della McBride, married to David McBride, a man she desperately wanted to get away from. Skip filed the divorce on behalf of Della and when the deputy served papers on Mr. McBride, he beat the hell out of her, and not for the first time. Put her in the hospital. It turned into a really ugly divorce, not much money to fight over but he became violent, abusive, and threatening. There were all kinds of restraining orders and such. He stalked her and harassed her at work. Skip finally got the divorce and she fled the area. Found her way here and started a new life.”

“I’m surprised she registered to vote,” Jake said.

“This could be huge,” Harry Rex said. “A bona fide victim of domestic abuse sitting on the jury.”

“Maybe,” Jake said, obviously stunned by the story. “But she’s not there yet. Let’s think about this. The panel is about to be examined extensively — by me, Dyer, probably even by Noose. It’ll go on and on and take up the afternoon. At some point the questions will get around to domestic violence. I certainly plan to go there if the others don’t. If Della raises her hand and tells her story, then she’ll be challenged for cause and sent home. I’ll object and all that, but she’ll be off the jury, no question about it. However, what if she doesn’t speak up? Just sits there and thinks that no one in this county knows her past?”

Morris said, “It means she has an ax to grind, a score to settle, pick your cliché.”

Libby said, “Excuse me, but when will the pool learn more about the case?”

“Now, just after lunch, when we reconvene,” Jake said.

“So, Della will know before the questions start that there are allegations of domestic violence.”

“Yes.”

The four lawyers pondered the scenarios, each choosing to think for a moment and not speak. Then Portia said, “Excuse me, I’m just a lowly law clerk, soon to be first-year law student, but doesn’t she have the duty to speak up?”

The four nodded in unison. “Yes,” Jake said, “she certainly has the duty, but it’s no crime to stay quiet. Happens all the time. You can’t make people come forward and tell their secrets and reveal their biases during jury selection.”

“But that seems wrong.”

“It is, but it’s rare for a juror to be exposed after the trial. Keep in mind, Portia, she may have other motives. She may be hiding from her past and doesn’t want folks around here to know about it. It takes courage to admit being a victim of abuse. Guts. But if she doesn’t speak up, then maybe she wants to serve, and that’s where it gets interesting. Could it be a bad thing for us?”

“No way,” Libby said. “If she wants on that jury it’s because she’ll have no sympathy for Stuart Kofer.”

Another long pause as they considered what might happen. Finally, Jake said, “Well, we won’t know until we get there. She might jump out of her seat and flee the courtroom if given half a chance.”

“I doubt it,” Libby said. “We looked at each other a couple of times. I’ll bet she’s with us.”