A Time for Mercy

5

Sunday lunch was a light salad and soup, the usual unless Jake’s mother was in the mood to put on a spread, a treat that happened about once a month. But not today. After a quick lunch, he helped Carla clear the table and stack the dishes and toyed with the idea of a Sunday nap, but Hanna had other plans. She wanted to take Mully for a walk to the city park and Carla volunteered Jake for the adventure. He was fine with it. Anything to kill time and avoid the return call to Judge Noose. By two he was back and Hanna disappeared into her room. Carla boiled water and served them green tea at the breakfast table.

She asked, “He can’t make you take the case, can he?”

“I really don’t know. I’ve thought about it all morning and I can’t remember a case where the court tried to appoint a lawyer and he refused. Circuit judges have enormous power and I suppose Noose could make my life miserable if I said no. Frankly, that’s why you don’t say no. A small-town lawyer is dead if he alienates his judges.”

“And you’re worried about Smallwood?”

“Of course I’m worried about it. Discovery is almost complete and I’m pestering Noose for a trial date. The defense is stalling as always but I think we have them on the run. Harry Rex thinks they might be ready to talk settlement, but not until they’re staring at a firm trial date. We need to keep Noose happy.”

“Are you saying he might carry a grudge from one case to the next?”

“Omar Noose is a wonderful old judge who almost always gets it right, but he can also be prickly. He’s human and makes mistakes, and he’s also accustomed to getting whatever he wants, at least in his own courtroom.”

“So he would allow one case to affect another?”

“Yes. It has happened.”

“But he likes you, Jake.”

“He sees himself as my mentor and he wants me to do great things, and that’s a perfect reason to keep the old guy happy.”

“Do I get a vote in this?”

“Always.”

“Okay. This is not the Hailey case. There is no racial tension here. As far as I know, everybody is white, right?”

“So far.”

“So the Klan and those crazies won’t show up this time. To be sure, you’ll rankle some people who want to string the kid up right now and they’ll resent any lawyer who takes his case, but doesn’t that go with the territory? You’re a lawyer, the best in my opinion, and right now there’s a sixteen-year-old boy in serious trouble and he needs help.”

“There are other lawyers in town.”

“And which one would you hire if you were facing the death penalty?”

Jake hesitated too long and she said, “See.”

“Tom Motley is a promising trial lawyer.”

“And one who doesn’t get his hands dirty on the criminal side. How many times have I heard you give that rant?”

“Bo Landis is good.”

“Who? I’m sure he’s great but his name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s young.”

“And you would trust him with your life?”

“I didn’t say that. Look, Carla, I’m not the only lawyer in town and I’m sure Noose can twist somebody else’s arm. It’s not uncommon in nasty cases like this to appoint a lawyer from outside the county. Remember that terrible rape out in Box Hill three or four years ago?”

“Sure.”

“Well, we begged off and Noose protected us by hooking in a lawyer from Tupelo. No one here knew him and he handled it as well as could be expected. Bad facts.”

“And that was a plea bargain, right?”

“Yes. Thirty years in prison.”

“Not enough. What are the chances of a plea bargain in this case?”

“Who knows? We’re talking about a minor, so Noose might cut him some slack. But there’ll be a big push for blood. The death penalty. The victim’s family will make noise. Ozzie will want a big trial because one of his boys is dead. Everybody’s up for reelection next year so it’s a perfect moment to get tough on crime.”

“It doesn’t seem right to send a sixteen-year-old kid to death row.”

“Try telling that to the Kofer family. Don’t know them, but I’ll bet they’re thinking about the gas chamber. If some guy harmed Hanna, you wouldn’t be too concerned about his age, would you?”

“Probably not.”

They took a deep breath and allowed this sobering thought to pass.

“I thought you were ready to vote,” Jake said.

“I don’t know, Jake. It’s a tough call, but if Judge Noose pushes hard I don’t see how you can say no.”

The phone rang and they stared at it. Jake walked over and looked at the caller ID. He smiled at Carla and said, “It’s him.” Jake grabbed the receiver, said hello, then pulled the cord halfway across the kitchen and took a seat with his wife at the breakfast table.

They waded through the pleasantries. Families were all fine. The weather was changing. Terrible news about Stuart Kofer. They both professed admiration. Noose had spoken to Ozzie, and Ozzie had the kid locked away, safe and secure. Good ole Ozzie. Most sheriffs Noose dealt with would’ve had the kid on the rack and signing a ten-page confession.

Hitting his stride, Noose said, “Jake, I want you to represent this kid through the preliminaries. Don’t know if it’ll turn into a capital case but that’s always a real possibility. Nobody else in Clanton has any recent experience with the death penalty and you’re the lawyer I trust the most. If it goes capital, then we’ll revisit your representation and I’ll try to find someone else.”

Jake closed his eyes and nodded and, at the first pause, jumped in. “Judge, you and I both know that if I step in now there’s an excellent chance I’ll be stuck with it all the way.”

“Not necessarily, Jake. I just spoke with Roy Browning over in Oxford, damned fine lawyer, you know him, Jake?”

“Everybody knows Roy, Judge.”

“He has two capital trials this year and is swamped, but he has a young partner who he thinks highly of. He promised me they would take a look at the case down the road if it goes capital. Right now, though, Jake, I want someone in that jail talking to the kid and keeping the police away from him. I don’t want to be faced with some bogus confession or a jailhouse snitch.”

“I trust Ozzie.”

“And so do I, Jake, but this is a dead policeman, and you know how worked up those boys can get. I would just feel better if that kid had some protection right now. I’ll make the appointment good for thirty days. You get over there and see the kid, then we’ll meet at nine Tuesday morning before the Civil Docket. I believe you have motions pending in the Smallwood case.”

“But I knew the victim, Judge.”

“So what? It’s a small town and everybody knows everybody, right?”

“You’re pushing pretty hard, Judge.”

“I’m sorry, Jake, and sorry to be bothering you on a Sunday. But this situation can get dicey and needs a steady hand. I trust you, Jake, and that’s why I’m asking you to step in. You know, Jake, when I was a young lawyer I learned that we don’t always get to choose our clients, right?”

And why not, Jake asked himself. “I’d like to discuss this with my wife, Judge. As you know, we went through a lot five years ago with Hailey and she may have an opinion or two.”

“This is nothing like Hailey, Jake.”

“No, but it is a dead policeman, and any lawyer who represents the alleged killer will face a backlash from the community. As you say, it’s a small town, Judge.”

“I really want you to step up to the plate here, Jake.”

“I’ll discuss it with Carla and I’ll see you first thing Tuesday morning, if that’s all right.”

“The kid needs a lawyer now, Jake. As I understand things, he has no father and his mother is in the hospital with injuries. There’s no other family in the area. He’s already admitted to the killing, so he needs to shut up. Yes, we both trust Ozzie but I’m sure there are some hotheads around the jail who cannot be trusted. Discuss it with your wife and call me back in a couple of hours.”

There was a loud click and the line was dead. His Honor had just given an order and hung up.

The March winds picked up late in the afternoon and the temperature dropped. With his girls lost in an old movie in the den, Jake left his house and went for a long walk through the quiet streets of Clanton. He often spent an hour or two alone in his office late on Sundays, reviewing the files he had not managed to close the previous week and deciding which ones to postpone next. At the moment he had eighty open files, but only a handful were decent cases. Such was the practice of law in a small, poor town.

These days his world was consumed with Smallwood, and most other matters were being ignored.

The facts were as simple as they were complicated. Taylor Smallwood, his wife Sarah, and two of their three children were killed instantly when their small import collided with a train at a dangerous crossing near the Polk County line. The accident happened around ten-thirty on a Friday night. A witness in a pickup truck a hundred yards behind the family said the red flashing crossing lights were not working at the time of the collision. The train’s engineer and brakeman swore that they were. The crossing was at the foot of a hill that dropped fifty degrees from a crest half a mile up.

Two months earlier, Sarah had given birth to their third child, Grace. At the time of the accident, Grace was being kept by Taylor’s sister who lived in Clanton.

Typically, such a sensational accident sent the local bar into a frenzy as every lawyer in town searched for an angle to land the case. Jake had never heard of the family and struck out immediately. Harry Rex, though, had handled a divorce for Sarah’s sister and she was pleased with the results. As the vultures were circling, he struck quick and got a contract signed by various family members. He then dashed to the courthouse, set up a guardianship for Grace, the sole heir and plaintiff, and filed a $10 million lawsuit against the railroad, Central & Southern.

Harry Rex knew his limitations and realized that he might not connect with jurors. He had a much better plan. He offered Jake half the fee if he would step in as lead counsel, do the heavy lifting, and push hard for a trial. Harry Rex had seen the magic with the Hailey jury. He had sat mesmerized like everyone else as Jake pleaded for his client’s life, and he knew that his younger friend had a way with jurors. If Jake could just land the right cases, he would someday make a lot of money in the courtroom.

They shook hands on the deal. Jake would take an aggressive role and lean on Judge Noose to speed things along. Harry Rex would work in the shadows, plowing through discovery, hiring experts, intimidating insurance lawyers, and, most important, picking the jury. They worked well together, primarily because they gave each other plenty of room.

The railroad tried to remove the case to federal court, a less friendly jurisdiction, but Jake blocked the move with a series of motions that Noose granted. So far, their judge had shown little patience with the defense lawyers and their usual stalling tactics.

The strategy was straightforward: just prove the crossing was dangerous, badly designed, not properly maintained, well known as a place of near misses, and that the warning lights had failed that night. The defense was just as simple: Taylor Smallwood hit the fourteenth boxcar without ever touching his brakes. How do you not see, whether at night or in clear daylight, a railroad boxcar that is fifteen feet tall, forty feet long, and covered with bright yellow reflective warning stickers?

The plaintiff had a strong case because the damages were enormous. The defense had a strong case because of the obvious facts.

For almost a year, the railroad’s insurance lawyers had refused to discuss settlement. However, now that the judge was setting a trial date, Harry Rex believed some money might be on the table. One of the defense lawyers was an acquaintance from law school and they had been drinking together.

Jake preferred his office when it was empty, which was rare these days. His current secretary was Portia Lang, a twenty-six-year-old army veteran who would be leaving in six months to start law school at Ole Miss. Portia’s mother, Lettie, had inherited a small fortune in a will dispute two years earlier, and Jake had battled an entire squad of lawyers to uphold the will. Portia had been so inspired by the case that she decided to go to law school. Her dream was to become the first black female lawyer in Ford County, and she was well on her way. Far more than a secretary, Portia not only answered the phone and ran interference with the clients and foot traffic, she was also learning legal research and wrote clearly. They were negotiating a deal in which she would continue to work part-time while in school, but both knew it would be nearly impossible the first year.

To complicate their lives, Lucien Wilbanks, the owner of the building and former owner of the law firm, was now in the habit of arriving for work at least three mornings each week and generally making a nuisance of himself. Disbarred years earlier, Lucien could not take cases or represent clients, so he spent too much of his time sticking his nose into Jake’s business and unloading unsolicited advice. He often claimed to be studying for the bar exam, a monumental challenge for an old man with much of his mental strength sapped by years of heavy drinking. Lucien claimed that by keeping hours at the office he stayed away from the whiskey cabinet at home, but before long he was sipping at his desk. He had assumed ownership of a small downstairs conference room, far away from Jake but too close to Portia, and usually spent the afternoons snoring off his liquid lunches with his feet on his desk.

Lucien had made one crude comment of a sexual nature to Portia, after which she threatened to break his neck. They had been civil ever since, though she was happier when he was absent.

To round out the firm’s lineup, most of the typing was being done by a twenty-hour-a-week former client named Beverly, a perfectly nice lady of middle age whose entire existence revolved around smoking cigarettes. She chain-smoked, knew the habit was killing her, and had tried every gimmick on the market to quit. The addiction prevented her from keeping a full-time job, and a husband. Jake fixed her an office behind the kitchen where all windows and doors could be left open and she could peck away in a blue haze. Even then, everything she touched reeked of stale smoke and Jake was worried about how long she would last. He quietly speculated to Portia that lung cancer might get her before he was forced to terminate her employment. But Portia did not complain, nor did Lucien, who still smoked cigars on his porch and often smelled of old fumes himself.

Jake eased upstairs to his grand office and did not turn on the lights because he did not want to attract attention. Even on Sunday afternoons, he had heard people knocking on his door. Not often, though. Not often enough. Some days he wondered where the next clients were coming from. Others, he wanted to get rid of all of them.

In the semidarkness, he stretched out on the old leather sofa purchased by the Wilbanks brothers decades earlier, and he stared at the dusty fan hanging from the ceiling and wondered how long it had been there. How much of the practice of law had changed over the years? What were the ethical dilemmas faced by those lawyers back then? Did they worry about taking unpopular cases? Were they afraid of a backlash if they represented murderers?

Jake chuckled at the stories he’d heard about Lucien. He had been the first, and for years the only, white member of the county’s chapter of the NAACP. And later, the same for the ACLU. He had represented unions, a rarity in rural north Mississippi. He sued the state over the lousy schools for blacks. He sued the state over capital punishment. He sued the city because it refused to pave the streets in Lowtown. Until he was disbarred, Lucien Wilbanks had been a fearless lawyer who never hesitated to fire off a lawsuit when he thought one was needed, and never failed to help a client who was being mistreated.

On the sidelines now for the past eleven years, Lucien was still a loyal friend who reveled in Jake’s success. If asked, there was no doubt in Jake’s mind that Lucien would advise him to not only take on the defense of young Drew Gamble but to do so with as much noise as possible. Proclaim innocence! Demand a speedy trial! Lucien had always believed that every person charged with a serious crime deserved a good lawyer. And, Lucien had never, throughout his colorful career, dodged the attention that a bad client could bring.

Jake’s other close friend, Harry Rex, had already weighed in and there was no reason to revisit the question with him. Carla was on the fence. Noose was waiting by the phone.

He wasn’t worried about the Kofers. He didn’t know them and believed they lived in the southern part of the county. Jake was thirty-seven years old and had practiced law successfully for twelve years without that family. He could certainly prosper in the future without knowing them.

He was thinking about the cops — the city policemen, and Ozzie, and his deputies. Six days a week, Jake had breakfast four doors down at the Coffee Shop, and Marshall Prather was often there, waiting with the morning’s first insult. Jake had done legal work for many on the force and knew that he was their favorite lawyer. DeWayne Looney had testified against Carl Lee Hailey, and had stunned the jury by admitting he admired the man who blew off his leg. Mick Swayze had a crazy cousin that Jake had successfully shipped off to the state mental hospital, at no charge.

Granted, the legal work wasn’t much — wills and deeds and small stuff that Jake charged little for. Pro bono work was not unusual.

As he studied the ceiling fan, he had to admit that not a single law enforcement officer had ever brought him a decent case. And wouldn’t they understand if he represented Drew? Sure they were in shock at the murder of a colleague, but they realized that someone, some lawyer, had to represent the accused. Might they feel better if the lawyer was Jake, a friend they trusted?

Was he about to make a courageous decision, or the biggest mistake of his career?

He finally walked to his desk, picked up the phone, and called Carla.

Then he called Judge Noose.