A Time for Mercy

49

Lucien invited the team to his house for dinner and would not accept no for an answer. With Sallie gone, and with absolutely no culinary skills of his own, he had leaned on Claude to prepare catfish po’boys, baked beans, sweet slaw, and a tomato salad. Claude owned the only black diner in downtown Clanton, and Jake ate lunch there almost every Friday, along with a few other white liberals in town. When the café had opened thirty years earlier, Lucien Wilbanks was there almost every day and insisted on sitting in the window to be seen by white folks passing by. He and Claude shared a long and colorful friendship.

Though he couldn’t cook he could certainly pour, and Lucien served drinks on the front porch and encouraged his guests to sit in wicker rockers as the day came to a close. Carla had managed to find a last-minute babysitter because she rarely had dinner in Lucien’s home and wasn’t about to miss the chance. Portia was equally curious, though she really wanted to go home and get some sleep. Only Harry Rex begged off, claiming his battle-hardened secretaries were threatening a mutiny.

Dr. Thane Sedgwick from Baylor had just arrived in town in the event he would be needed to testify during sentencing. Libby had called him the day before with the news that the trial was moving much faster than anticipated. After a few sips of whiskey he was off and running. He said, in his thick Texas drawl, “And so I asked her if I would be needed. And she said no. She is not anticipating a conviction. Is she alone?”

“I don’t see a conviction,” Lucien said. “Nor an acquittal.”

Libby said, “At least four of the five women are with us. Ms. Satterfield cried all day long, especially when Kiera was on the stand.”

“And Kiera was effective?” Sedgwick asked.

“You have no idea,” replied Libby. This led to a long replay of the epic day the Gamble family had in court as Josie and her children tag-teamed through their sad, chaotic history. Portia set the stage for Kiera’s dramatic testimony about the father of her child. Lucien laughed when he repeated Drew’s testimony about the nice foster homes where he didn’t worry about getting slapped around. Libby was astonished at the way Jake had slowly brought out the details of all the miserable places the family had lived. Instead of dumping them all on the jury in his opening statement, he had carefully dropped one bomb after another, to great dramatic effect.

Jake sat next to Carla on an old sofa, with his arm over her shoulders, sipping wine and listening to the different perspectives on what he had seen and heard in court. He said little, his mind often wandering to the challenge of his closing argument. He worried about resting his case so abruptly, but the lawyers, Libby, Lucien, and Harry Rex, were convinced it was the right move. He had lost sleep worrying about putting his client on the stand, but young Drew made no mistakes. All in all, he was pleased with the case so far, but he kept reminding himself that his client was guilty of killing Stuart Kofer.

At dark they moved inside and settled around Lucien’s handsome teak dining table. The house was old, but the interior decorating was modern, with plenty of glass and metal and odd accessories. The walls were adorned with a baffling collection of contemporary art, as if the king of the castle rejected everything old and traditional.

The king was enjoying his whiskey, as did Thane, and the war stories began, long tall tales of courtroom dramas over the years, all with the raconteur himself as the hero. Once Thane realized he probably wouldn’t be needed on Thursday, he poured another drink and seemed ready for a late night.

Portia, being a young black woman who’d grown up on the other side of town, was not to be shut out. She told a startling story of a military murder she had worked on in the army in Germany. And that reminded Thane of a double murder somewhere in Texas in which the alleged killer was only thirteen.

By 10:30 Jake was ready for bed. He and Carla excused themselves and went home. At 2:00 a.m. he was still awake.

The courtroom rose almost in unison to honor the appearance of Judge Omar Noose, who quickly waved them off and asked them to sit down. He welcomed the crowd, commented on the cooler temperature, said good morning to his jury and asked, gravely, if anyone had tried to contact any of them during the recess. All twelve jurors shook their heads. No.

Omar had presided over a thousand trials, and not once had a juror raised a hand to admit that he or she had been contacted out of court. If there was contact, it would probably involve the payment of cash, something no one would ever talk about in the first place. But Omar loved his traditions.

He explained that the next hour would probably be the dullest portion of the entire trial because, as required by law, he would instruct the jury. He would read into the record, and for the benefit of the jurors, the black letter law, the state’s statutes, that would dictate their deliberations. Their duty was to weigh the evidence and apply it to the law, and to take the law as it was written and apply it to the facts. Listen carefully. It was very important. And for their benefit, copies of the jury instructions would be available in the jury room.

When he had them thoroughly confused, Judge Noose began reading into his mike. Page after page of dry, verbose, complicated, badly written statutes that tried to define intent, murder, capital murder, murder of a law enforcement officer, premeditation, guilt, and justifiable homicide. They listened intently for about ten minutes, then began peeling off with glances around the courtroom. Some fought mightily to hang on every word. Others realized that they could read that stuff later if they wanted to.

After forty minutes Noose abruptly stopped, to the relief of everyone. He slapped his papers together, squared them up nicely, smiled at the jury as if he’d done a fine job, and said, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, both sides will be given the opportunity to make closing arguments. As always, the State goes first. Mr. Dyer.”

Lowell stood with great purpose, buttoned the top button of his light blue seersucker jacket, and walked to the jury box — the podium was optional at that point — and began. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this trial is almost over and it has moved along more efficiently than expected. Judge Noose has given each side thirty minutes to summarize things for you, but thirty minutes is far too long in this case. Half an hour is not needed to convince you of what you already know. You don’t need that much time to decide that the defendant, Drew Allen Gamble, did indeed murder Stuart Kofer, an officer of the law.”

A great opening, Jake thought. Any audience, whether twelve jurors in a box or two thousand lawyers at a convention, appreciates a speaker who promises to be brief.

“Let’s talk about that murder. Tuesday morning, when we started, I asked you to ask yourselves, as you listened to the witnesses, if, at that horrible moment, did Drew Gamble have to pull the trigger? Why did he pull the trigger? Was it in self-defense? Was he protecting himself, his sister, his mother? No, ladies and gentlemen, it was not in self-defense. It was not justifiable. It was nothing but cold, calculated murder.

“Now, the defense has had a field day slandering the reputation of Stuart Kofer.”

Jake jumped to his feet, raised both hands, and interrupted with, “Objection, Your Honor. Objection. I hate to disrupt a closing argument, Your Honor, but the use of the word ‘slander’ means the spreading of falsehoods. False testimony. And there is absolutely nothing in the record to even remotely indicate that any of the witnesses, for the State or for the defense, has lied.”

Noose seemed ready for the interruption. “Mr. Dyer, I ask you to refrain from using the word ‘slander.’ And the jury will disregard the use of that word.”

Dyer frowned and nodded, as if he was being forced to accept the ruling but didn’t agree with it. “Very well, Your Honor,” he replied.

“Now, you’ve heard a lot from the three Gambles about what a terrible person Stuart Kofer was, and I won’t rehash any of it. Just keep in mind that they, the Gambles, have every reason, every motive to tell only one side of the story, and to perhaps embellish and exaggerate here and there. Tragically, Stuart is not here to defend himself.

“So let’s not talk about the way he lived. You’re not here to judge him or his lifestyle, his habits, his problems, his demons. Your job is to weigh the facts regarding the way he died.”

Dyer stepped to the exhibit table and picked up the gun. He held it and faced the jury. “At some point during that terrible night, Drew Gamble took this gun, a Glock 22, forty caliber, fifteen in the magazine, issued by Sheriff Ozzie Walls to all of his deputies, and he held it and carried it around the house. At that moment, Stuart was sound asleep on his bed. He was drunk, as we know, but the alcohol had rendered him helpless. A blacked-out drunk, snoring away, not a threat to anyone. Drew Gamble held the gun and he knew how to use it because Stuart had taught him how to load it, hold it, aim it, and fire it. It’s rather ironic, and tragic, that the killer was taught to use the murder weapon by the victim himself.

“I’m sure it was a terrible scene. Two frightened kids, their mother unconscious on the floor. Minutes passed and Drew Gamble had the gun. Stuart was asleep, in another world. An emergency call had been made, the police and rescue personnel were on the way.

“And at some point, Drew Gamble made the decision to kill Stuart Kofer. He walked to the bedroom, closed the door for some reason, and he took the gun and placed the barrel an inch or two from Stuart’s left temple. Why did he pull the trigger? He claims he felt threatened, that Stuart might get up and harm them, and he had to protect himself and his sister. He wants you to believe that he had to pull the trigger.”

Dyer slowly returned to the exhibit table and laid down the gun.

“But why then? Why not wait a moment, or two? Why not wait to see if Stuart was getting up? Drew had the gun. He was armed and ready to defend himself and his sister in the event Stuart somehow managed to revive himself and come after them. Why not wait until the police arrived? Why not wait?”

Dyer stood squarely before the jurors and looked at each one of them. “At that moment, he did not have to pull the trigger, ladies and gentlemen. But he did. And he did so because he wanted to kill Stuart Kofer. He wanted revenge for what happened to his mother. He wanted revenge for all the terrible things Stuart did to them. And revenge means premeditation, and that means the deliberate act to kill.

“Ladies and gentlemen, premeditation equals capital murder. Enough said. I urge you to retire for your deliberations and return a just and true verdict. The only verdict that fits this crime. A verdict of guilty for the capital murder of Stuart Kofer. Thank you.”

It was a fine closing. Well planned, to the point, persuasive, and concise, something rare for a prosecutor in a big case. Not a single juror was bored. Indeed, each one seemed to follow every word.

“Mr. Brigance.”

Jake stood and tossed his legal pad on the podium. He smiled at the jurors and looked at each one of them. About half watched him, the rest stared straight ahead. He began with “I don’t blame the State for asking you to downplay much of what you’ve heard. It certainly isn’t pleasant to talk about abuse, and rape, and domestic violence. They are ugly topics, awful things to discuss anywhere, especially in a courtroom with so many people listening. But I didn’t create the facts, nor did you, nor did anyone but Stuart Kofer.

“The State tries to suggest, tries to imply, that perhaps the three Gambles are prone to embellish, to exaggerate. Seriously?” Suddenly, he raised his voice and was angry. He pointed at Kiera on the front row behind the defense table. “You see that little girl right there? Kiera Gamble, age fourteen and over seven months pregnant by Stuart Kofer? And do you think she’s exaggerating?”

He took a deep breath and let the anger pass. “When you deliberate, look at the photo of Josie Gamble in the hospital, with her jaw shattered, her face bruised, her eyes swollen, and ask yourselves if she’s embellishing. They’re not lying to you. Quite the contrary, they could tell many more stories about the horror of living with Stuart Kofer.

“What happened to Stuart Kofer? What happened to the local boy who joined the army and wanted to make it a career before being asked to leave? What happened to the fine young deputy known for his bravery and his involvement with the community? Where did the dark side come from? Perhaps something happened in the army. Perhaps the pressure of his work got to him? We’ll never know, I guess, but we can all agree that his loss is a tragedy.

“His dark side. We can’t understand what makes a man, a big strong tough cop and ex-soldier, kick, hit, and slap around a woman who weighs a hundred and twenty pounds, breaking her bones, her teeth, busting her lips, knocking her unconscious, then threatening to kill her if she tells anyone. We can’t understand why Kofer physically abused and threatened a skinny little kid like Drew. We can’t understand how a man becomes a sexual predator and goes after a fourteen-year-old girl just because she’s available, because she lives in his house. Nor can we understand how a man chooses to drink himself, time and time again, into a state of raging violence and unconsciousness. We can’t understand how an officer of the law, one known to be tough on drunk drivers, could spend the whole day drinking and saturate himself with alcohol to the point of passing out, then waking up and deciding it’s okay to get behind the wheel of a car. Point-three-six.”

Jake paused and shook his head as if disgusted by the ugliness of his own words. All twelve were staring at him, all uncomfortable at the ugliness.

“His house. A house that became a living hell for Josie and her kids. A house they wanted so badly to leave but had nowhere to go. A house that grew more terrifying each weekend. A house that was like a powder keg, where the stress and pressure mounted day by day until it became inevitable that someone was going to get hurt. A house that was so awful that Josie’s kids were begging her to leave.

“Now, the prosecution wants you to ignore all this, and concentrate instead on the last ten seconds of Stuart’s life. Mr. Dyer suggests that Drew should have waited. And waited. But waited for what? There was no one to help them. They had waited before for the police to come. They came all right, but they didn’t help. They had waited for weeks and months, desperately hoping that Kofer would find help and get a handle on his drinking and his temper. They had waited for hours during those long, terrifying nights, waiting for the headlights of Stuart’s car in the driveway, waiting to see if he could actually walk himself into his house, waiting for the inevitable fight. They had waited all right, and the waiting only brought them closer to disaster.

“Okay, I’ll take the bait. Let’s talk about the last ten seconds. As his mother lay unconscious and apparently dead, and with his sister tending to her and pleading with her to wake up, and with Kofer making noises in the bedroom, my client felt a fear and a danger that was unbearable. He feared great bodily harm, even death, not only for himself but for his sister, and he had to do something. It is wrong to take those last ten seconds and dissect them here in this courtroom, some five months after the crime, and far, far removed from the horror of the scene, and say, well he should have done this or he should have done that. Not a single one of us can know or predict what we would do in a situation like that. It’s impossible.

“However, what we do know is that we will take extraordinary measures to protect ourselves and those we love. And that’s exactly what my client did.”

He paused and took in the stillness of the courtroom and the rapt attention from everyone watching and listening. He lowered his voice and took a step closer to the jurors. “Josie and her kids have had a chaotic life. She was very honest about her mistakes and she would do anything to go back and do it all over. They haven’t had much luck, if any. And look at them now. Drew is on trial for his life. Kiera is pregnant after being raped repeatedly. What kind of future do they have? I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to show a little mercy, a little compassion. When you and I leave here we’ll go home and get on with our lives, and with time this trial will become a fading memory. They’re not so lucky. I plead with you for compassion, for understanding, for mercy to allow this sad little family — Drew, Kiera, Josie — the chance to rebuild their own lives. I plead with you to find Drew Allen Gamble not guilty. Thank you.”

When the jury was gone, Judge Noose said, “We’ll be in recess until two o’clock, at which time we’ll reconvene and check the status of the deliberations.” He tapped his gavel and disappeared.

Jake walked over and shook hands with Lowell Dyer and D. R. Musgrove and congratulated them on a fine job. Most of the spectators drifted out of the courtroom, but some stayed, as if waiting for a quick verdict. The Kofer gang didn’t budge and whispered among themselves. Drew was led away by three deputies and taken to his holding place, the meeting room of the Van Buren County Board of Supervisors.

Morris Finley’s mother lived on the family farm, deep in the countryside, ten miles from the courthouse. He met the defense team there for a pleasant lunch on a shaded patio with a lovely view of pastures and the pond where he had learned to swim. Mrs. Finley had been recently widowed and lived alone, and she relished the chance to throw a big lunch for Morris and his friends.

Over grilled chicken salads and ice tea, they rehashed the closing arguments and compared notes on the facial reactions and body language of the jurors. Harry Rex ate quickly and left to get to his office in Clanton, but Lucien hung around. He had little else to do and wanted to hear the verdict. “They’re all hung up,” he said, more than once.

Jake couldn’t eat and was exhausted. A trial was nothing but stress, but the worst part was waiting for the jury.