A Time for Mercy

54

Ozzie was waiting at the jail when Jake arrived early Saturday morning. He was cordial enough but did not offer a handshake. Mr. Zack fetched the prisoner, and Drew appeared at the desk with an army surplus duffel stuffed with everything he owned. Jake signed several forms and Drew signed an inventory sheet. They followed Ozzie through a back door to where Jake was parked. Outside, Drew stopped for a second and looked around, his first taste of freedom in almost five months. When Jake opened his driver’s door, Ozzie said, “How ’bout lunch next week?”

“I’d like that, Ozzie. Anytime.”

They drove away without being seen and five minutes later parked in Jake’s driveway. Carla met them on the patio and grabbed Drew for a long, fierce hug. They went inside to the kitchen where a feast was being prepared. Jake led him downstairs to his bathroom and gave him a towel. “Take a hot shower, as long as you want, then we’ll have breakfast.”

Drew emerged half an hour later with wet hair, wearing a cool Springsteen T-shirt, denim shorts, and a pair of brand-new Nikes, which he said fit perfectly. Jake handed him three $1 bills and said, “For blackjack. Keep the change.”

He looked at the money and said, “Come on, Jake. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Take the money. You won it fair and square, and I always pay my gambling debts.”

Drew reluctantly took the money and sat at the table where Hanna was waiting. Her first question was “What was it like in jail?”

Jake said, “No, no, we’re not talking about jail. Pick another topic.”

“It was awful,” he said.

Over the course of the summer, Drew and Carla had spent many hours together studying history and science and reading mysteries, and they had become close. She placed a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of him and ruffled his hair. “Your mom’s gonna get you a haircut as soon as you get home.”

He smiled and said, “I can’t wait. And it’s a real apartment, right?”

“It is,” Jake said. “It’s not very big but it’ll do. You’ll like it over there, Drew.”

“I can’t wait.” He crammed a piece of bacon into his mouth.

“What was the food like in jail?” Hanna asked, staring at him.

“Hanna, eat your breakfast and no talk about jail.”

Drew demolished a stack of pancakes and asked for more. At first he said little, but was soon chatting away as he ate. The pitch of his voice rose and fell and squeaked at times. He had grown at least two inches since April, and, though still rail thin, he was looking more and more like a normal teenager. Puberty was finally arriving.

When he was stuffed, he thanked Carla, gave her another fierce hug, and said he wanted to go see his mother. On the road to Oxford, he grew quiet as he took in the sights with a pleasant smile. Halfway there, he began to nod and soon fell asleep.

Jake watched him and couldn’t help but wonder about his future. He knew how precarious Drew’s freedom would be. He did not share Noose and Lucien’s confidence that a conviction was unlikely. The next trial would be different — they always were. A different courtroom, a different jury, different tactics by the State.

Regardless of a win, a loss, or another draw, Jake knew that Drew Gamble would be a part of his life for years to come.

On Monday, Jake non-suited the Smallwood case in circuit court and sent a copy to opposing counsel. Walter Sullivan called his office three times that afternoon, but Jake was not in the mood to chat. He owed no explanation.

On Tuesday, he filed a wrongful death lawsuit in chancery court and faxed a copy to Judge Atlee.

On Wednesday, the Times, as expected, ran a front-page story under the headline “Kofer Suspect Released From Jail.” Dumas Lee did him no favors. His reporting was slanted and gave the impression that the defendant was being treated with leniency. Most galling was his reliance on comments made by former district attorney Rufus Buckley, who said, among other cheap shots, that he was shocked that Judge Noose would allow the release of a man indicted for capital murder. “It’s unheard of in this state,” Buckley said, as if he knew the history in all eighty-two counties. Not once did Dumas mention the fact that the defendant was presumed to be innocent, nor had he bothered to call Jake for a comment. Jake figured he had offered so many “No comments” that Dumas was tired of asking.

True to form, Buckley seemed to have plenty of time to talk. He had never met a reporter he didn’t like.

On Thursday, Judge Noose convened the trial in the matter of Jake Brigance v. Ford County. The main courtroom was practically empty. The five supervisors sat together in a front row, arms crossed over their chests, their frustration evident as they all glowered at Jake, the enemy. They were veteran politicians who had ruled the county for years, with little turnover in their ranks. Each came from a specified district, a little fiefdom where the boss doled out paving contracts, equipment purchases, and jobs. As a group they were not accustomed to being shoved around, not even by a judge.

Dumas Lee was there to snoop and watch the show. Jake refused to look at him but really wanted to curse him.

His Honor began with “Mr. Brigance, you’re the plaintiff. Do you have any witnesses?”

Jake stood and said, “No, Your Honor, but, for the record, I would like to say that I was appointed by the court to represent Mr. Drew Gamble in his capital murder trial. He was and still is quite indigent. I would like to introduce into evidence my statement of fees and expenses for his defense.” Jake walked to the court reporter and handed over the paperwork.

“So admitted,” Noose said.

Jake sat down and Todd Tannehill stood and said, “Your Honor, I represent the county, the defendant, and acknowledge receipt of Mr. Brigance’s bill, which I submitted to the board. Pursuant to the Mississippi Code, the maximum to be paid by any county in such a matter is one thousand dollars. The county is prepared to tender a check for this amount.”

Noose said, “Very well. I’d like for Mr. Patrick East to come to the witness stand.”

East was the current president of the board and was obviously surprised to be called. He made his way forward, was sworn in, and settled into the witness chair. He smiled at Omar, a man he had known twenty years.

Judge Noose asked a few preliminary questions to establish his name, address, and position, then picked up some papers. “Now, Mr. East, looking at the county’s budget for this fiscal year, I see that there is a surplus of some two hundred thousand dollars. Can you explain that?”

“Sure, Judge. It’s just good management, I guess.” East smiled at his colleagues. By nature he was folksy and funny and the voters loved him.

“Okay. And there is a line item labeled ‘Discretionary Account.’ The balance is eighty thousand dollars. Could you explain that?”

“Sure, Judge. It’s sort of a rainy day fund. We use it occasionally when there is an unexpected expense.”

“For example?”

“Well, last month we needed new lights at the softball complex over in Karaway. It wasn’t in the budget request, and we voted to spend eleven thousand dollars. Just stuff like that.”

“Are there any restrictions on how this money can be spent?”

“Not really. As long as the request is proper and approved by our attorney.”

“Thank you. Now, when the board was presented with Mr. Brigance’s bill, how did the five of you vote?”

“Five to zero against it. We’re just following the law, Your Honor.”

“Thank you.” Noose looked at the two lawyers and asked, “Any questions?”

Without standing, both shook their heads in the negative.

“Very well. Mr. East, you are excused.”

He returned to his colleagues on the front row.

Noose said, “Anything else?”

Jake and Todd had nothing.

“Very well. The court finds in favor of the plaintiff, Jake Brigance, and orders the defendant, Ford County, to proffer a check in the amount of twenty-one thousand dollars. We are adjourned.”

On Friday, Todd Tannehill called Jake with the news that he had been ordered by the board to appeal the decision. He apologized and said he had no choice but to do what his client wanted.

An appeal to the state supreme court would take eighteen months.

Friday was Portia’s last day at work. She would start classes on Monday and she was ready to go. Lucien, Harry Rex, Bev, Jake, and Carla gathered with her in the main conference room and opened a bottle of champagne. They toasted her, with a few light roasts in between, and each took a turn with a little speech. Jake went last and suddenly had a knot in his throat.

The gift was a handsome chestnut and bronze plaque that read: OFFICE OF PORTIA CAROL LANG, ATTORNEY AT LAW. It was to be mounted on the door of the office she had occupied for the past two years. She held it proudly, wiped her eyes, looked at the group, and said, “I’m overwhelmed, but then I’ve been overwhelmed many times around here. I thank you for your friendship, you have been dear. But I also thank you for something far more important. It is your acceptance. You have accepted me, a young black woman, as an equal. You have given me an incredible opportunity, and you have expected me to perform as an equal. Because of your encouragement, and acceptance, I have a future that, at times, I cannot believe. You have no idea what this means to me. Thank you. I love you all — even you, Lucien.”

There were no dry eyes when she finished.