A Time for Mercy

7

After the Sunday night service at Good Shepherd, Reverend McGarry convened a special meeting of the board of deacons. Seven of the twelve were present, four women and three men, and they gathered in the fellowship hall with cookies and coffee. Kiera was next door in the small church parsonage, with Meg McGarry, the pastor’s wife, eating a sandwich for dinner.

The young preacher explained that since Kiera had no other place to go at the moment, she would be staying with them until — until what? Until a relative showed up to claim her, which didn’t appear likely? Until some court somewhere issued an order? Until her mother was discharged and could leave town with her? Regardless, Kiera was now an unofficial ward of the church. And she was traumatized and needed professional help. Throughout the afternoon she had talked of nothing but her mother and brother and her desire to be with them.

Meg had called the hospital and talked to an administrator who said that, yes, they could provide a foldaway bed for the girl to stay with her mother. Two of the lady deacons volunteered to spend the night down the hall in the waiting room. There was a discussion about food, clothing, and school.

Charles was of the firm opinion that Kiera should not return to classes for at least a few days. She was far too fragile and there was the near certainty that another student would say something hurtful. It was finally agreed that the school attendance issue would be dealt with on a day-by-day basis. One member of the church taught algebra at the middle school and would talk to the principal. Another member had a cousin who was a child psychologist and she would inquire about counseling.

Plans were formulated, and at ten o’clock they drove Kiera to the hospital where the staff had arranged a bed next to her mother’s. Josie’s vitals were normal and she said she felt okay. Her swollen and bandaged face, though, told another story. A hospital gown was provided for Kiera, and when the nurses turned down the lights, she was sitting at her mother’s feet.

At 5:30 a.m. Jake’s alarm clock started making noises. He silenced it with a slap and rolled back under the covers. So far, he had slept little and was not ready to begin his day. He burrowed deep, found Carla’s warm body, moved closer but was met with resistance. He withdrew, opened his eyes and thought about his newest client sitting in jail, and was about to surrender to the morning when thunder rolled in the distance. A cold front was expected, with potential storms, and perhaps it wasn’t safe to venture out. Another reason to sleep more was the desire to avoid the Coffee Shop on this dark day, when all the chatter and gossip would be about poor Stu Kofer and the teenage thug who murdered him.

Yet another reason was the fact that he was not due in court or anywhere else the entire day. As the reasons accumulated he felt them closing in, smothering him, and eventually he drifted off.

Carla wakened him with a pleasant kiss on the cheek and a cup of coffee, then she was off to rouse Hanna and get her ready for school. After two sips, Jake thought about the newspapers and hopped out of bed. He pulled on some jeans, found the dog, leashed him, and went outside. The morning editions from Tupelo, Jackson, and Memphis were strewn along his drive, and he quickly scanned each. All had the Kofer story on the front page. He tucked them under his arm, made the block, and returned to the kitchen where he poured more coffee and spread out the papers.

The gags were holding; no one was talking. Ozzie wouldn’t even confirm that he was the sheriff. Reporters had been shooed away from the crime scene, the jail, the home of Earl and Janet Kofer, and the hospital. Officer Kofer was thirty-three, an army veteran, single with no children, four years as a deputy. The sparse details of his bio were spread thin. The Memphis paper covered the story of Kofer’s deadly run-in with some drug dealers three years earlier on a rural road near Karaway, a shoot-out that left the bad guys dead and Lieutenant Kofer only slightly wounded. A bullet grazed his arm and he refused hospitalization and never missed a day of work.

Jake was suddenly in a hurry. He showered, skipped breakfast, kissed his girls goodbye, and headed to the office. He needed to visit the hospital and it was imperative that he see Drew again. He was convinced the kid was traumatized and needed help, medical as well as legal, but he wanted to pick the right moment for another attorney-client consultation.

Evidently, others felt differently. Portia was at her desk, standing, holding the receiver of her phone, looking puzzled. Her customary smile was missing as Jake walked into the office.

“This man just yelled at me,” she said.

“Who was it?”

She put the receiver away, picked up the Tupelo paper, pointed to the black-and-white photo of Stuart Kofer, and said, “Said he was his father. Said his boy got shot yesterday, shot dead, and that you’re the lawyer for the kid who shot him. Talk to me, Jake.”

Jake tossed his briefcase onto a chair. “Earl Kofer?”

“That’s him. Sounded crazy. Said the kid, Drew somebody, didn’t deserve no lawyer, crazy stuff like that. What’s the deal?”

“Have a seat. Is there any coffee?”

“It’s brewing.”

“Noose appointed me to the case yesterday. I met with the kid last night at the jail, so, yes, our little law firm now represents a sixteen-year-old boy who will probably be indicted for capital murder.”

“What about the public defender?”

“He couldn’t defend a bully in kindergarten and everybody, especially Noose, knows it. He called around and couldn’t find anyone else and he thinks I know what I’m doing.”

Portia sat down, tossed the newspaper aside, and said, “I like it. This will really liven up the place. Almost nine o’clock on a Monday morning and we’ve already had our first nasty phone call.”

“There will probably be others.”

“Does Lucien know?”

“I haven’t told him. And Noose is promising that he’ll replace me in thirty days, just wants me to handle the preliminary stuff.”

“Did the boy shoot him?”

“He didn’t talk much. In fact he clammed up and went into a daze. I think he needs some help. Based on what Ozzie said, he shot him once in the head with his own gun.”

“Do you — did you know Kofer?”

“I know all the cops, some better than others. Kofer seemed to be a good guy, a friendly sort. Last month he spoke to Carla’s sixth graders about drugs and she said he was wonderful.”

“Not a bad-lookin’ boy, for a white guy.”

“I’m going to the hospital in about an hour to see the kid’s mother. Looks like Kofer may have knocked her around some before his big moment. You want to go?”

Portia finally smiled and said, “Of course. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“What a good little secretary you are.”

“I’m a paralegal slash research assistant, soon to be law student, and before you know it I’ll be a full-blown partner around here and you’ll be fetching me coffee. One milk, two sugars.”

“I’ll write that down.” Jake climbed the stairs to his office and took off his jacket. He had just settled into his leather swivel when Lucien arrived, before the coffee.

“Heard you got a new case,” he said with a smile as he fell into a chair, one that he still owned because he owned all the other furniture as well as the building itself. Jake’s office, the grandest one, had belonged to Lucien before he was disbarred in 1979, and to his father before he was killed in a plane crash in 1965, and to his grandfather who built the Wilbanks firm into a powerhouse until Lucien took over and ran off all the paying clients.

Jake should have been surprised that Lucien knew, but he wasn’t. Like Harry Rex, Lucien seemed to hear the hottest news first, though both had entirely different sources.

“Noose appointed me,” Jake said. “I didn’t want the case, still don’t.”

“And why not? I need some coffee.”

Usually, on a Monday morning, Lucien did not bother with pushing himself out of bed, showering and shaving, and putting on semi-respectable clothes. Since he couldn’t practice law, his Mondays were normally spent on the porch trying to drink off the weekend’s hangover. The fact that he was awake and fairly presentable meant he wanted details.

“It’s coming,” Jake said. “Who told you?” A worthless question that was never answered.

“Sources, Jake, sources. And why don’t you want the case?”

“Harry Rex is afraid it might somehow damage the Smallwood settlement.”

“What settlement?”

“He thinks they’re getting ready to put money on the table. He also thinks that this killing could damage my stellar reputation as a noted trial lawyer. He thinks the public will turn on me and we won’t be able to pick fair and open-minded jurors.”

“When did Harry Rex become an expert on juries?”

“He thinks he’s an expert on people.”

“I wouldn’t let him in front of my jury.”

“That’s my job. I have the charisma.”

“And the ego, and right now your ego is telling you that you’re far more popular than you really are. Defending this kid will not affect your railroad case.”

“I’m not sure. Harry Rex thinks otherwise.”

“Harry Rex can be stupid.”

“He’s a brilliant lawyer who happens to be my co-counsel in what just might be the biggest case of our struggling careers. You don’t agree with him?”

“I seldom do. Sure, you’ll take some heat for defending an unpopular client, but what the hell? Most of my clients were unpopular, but that didn’t mean they were bad people. I didn’t care what these yokels thought about me or them. I had a job to do and it was completely unrelated to the gossip in the coffee shops and churches. They may talk about you behind your back but when they get in trouble they’ll want a lawyer who knows how to fight, and fight dirty if necessary. When’s the kid going to court?”

“I have no idea, Lucien. I plan to talk to the D.A. and to Judge Noose this morning. There’s also the matter of youth court.”

“Not a youth court matter, not in this backward state.”

“I know the law, Lucien.”

“A charge of murder is automatically excluded from youth court jurisdiction.”

“I know the law, Lucien.”

Portia opened the door and eased in with coffee and cups on a tray.

Lucien continued his lecture. “It really doesn’t matter how young the kid is either. Twenty years ago they put a thirteen-year-old on trial for murder down in Polk County. I knew his defense lawyer.”

“Good morning, Lucien,” Portia said politely as she poured coffee.

“Mornin’,” he said without looking at her. In the early days of her employment he enjoyed long, leering stares. He had touched her a few times, on the arms and shoulders, just little affectionate pats that meant nothing, but after some stern warnings from Jake and a direct threat of bodily harm from Portia, he’d backed off and grown to admire her.

“We had another call, Jake, about five minutes ago,” she said. “Anonymous. Some hick said if you tried to get this boy off like you got that Hailey nigger off, there would be hell to pay.”

“I’m sorry he said that, Portia,” Jake said, stunned.

“It’s okay. I’ve heard it before and I’m sure I’ll hear it again.”

“I’m sorry too, Portia,” Lucien said softly. “Real sorry.”

Jake waved at a wooden chair next to Lucien and she sat down. In unison, they sipped their coffee and thought about the N-word. Twelve years earlier, when Jake finished law school and arrived in Clanton as the rookie, the word was commonly used by white lawyers and judges as they gossiped and told jokes and even did their business without an audience. Now, though, in 1990, its usage was fading and it was deemed improper, even low-class, to use it. Jake’s mother hated the word and had never allowed it, but, growing up in Karaway, Jake knew that his home was different in that respect.

He looked at Portia, who at the moment seemed less bothered than the two men, and said, “I’m really sorry you heard that in this office.”

“Hey, I’m okay. I’ve heard it my entire life. I heard it in the army. I’ll hear it again. I can deal with it, Jake. But, just to clear the air here, all the players involved are white. Right?”

“Yes.”

“So, we shouldn’t expect the Kluckers and those guys to show up, like Hailey, right?”

“Who knows?” Lucien said. “There are plenty of nuts out there.”

“You got that right. Not yet nine on a Monday morning and two calls already. Two threats.”

“What was the first one?” Lucien asked.

“The father of the deceased, a man named Earl Kofer,” Jake said. “I’ve never met him but it looks like that might change.”

“The father of the deceased called the lawyer of the person arrested for the killing?”

Jake and Portia nodded. Lucien shook his head, then he smiled and said, “I love it. Makes me wish I was back in the trenches.”

The desk phone rang and Jake stared at it. Line three was blinking and that usually meant Carla was calling. He slowly lifted the receiver, said hello, and listened. She was at school, in her classroom, first period. The secretary in the principal’s office down the hall had just answered the phone, and a man who refused to give his name asked if Jake Brigance’s wife worked there. He said he was a good friend of Stuart Kofer, said Kofer had a lot of friends, and that they were upset because Carl Lee Hailey’s lawyer was now trying to get that kid out of jail. Said jail was the only thing keeping the boy alive at the moment. When she asked his name for the second time, he hung up.

The secretary informed the principal, who told Carla, then called the city police.

When Jake wheeled to a stop in front of the school, he parked behind two patrol cars. An officer named Step Lemon, a former bankruptcy client of Jake’s, was at the front door and greeted Jake like an old friend. Lemon said, “The call came from a pay phone at Parker’s store, down by the lake. That’s as far as we can dig. I’ll get Ozzie to ask around at the store but my guess is it’s a waste of time.”

Jake said, “Thanks,” and they stepped inside where the principal was waiting with Carla, who seemed thoroughly unflustered by the phone call. She and Jake walked away for some privacy. “Hanna’s fine,” Carla whispered. “They checked on her right away and she knows nothing.”

“The asshole called the school where you work,” Jake whispered.

“Watch your language. It’s just some nut, Jake.”

“I know. But nuts can do stupid things. We’ve had two calls at the office already.”

“Do you think it’ll blow over?”

“No. There are too many big events just around the corner. The boy’s first court appearance. Kofer’s funeral. More court appearances, and one day there might be a trial.”

“But you’re just temporary, right?”

“Right. I’ll see Noose tomorrow and tell him what’s going on. He can find another lawyer from outside the county. You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Jake. You didn’t have to race over here.”

“Yes I did.”

He walked out of the building with Officer Lemon, shook hands with him and thanked him again, and got in his car. Instinctively, he slid back the lid of his console to make sure his automatic pistol was still there. It was, and he cursed it, and shook his head in frustration as he drove away.

At least a thousand times in the past two years he had vowed to put his firearms away and retrieve them only for hunting. But the gun nuts were loose and more rabid than ever. It was safe to assume that in the rural South every vehicle had a weapon. Old laws had made it necessary to hide them, but newer ones had brought them out into the open. Get a permit these days and you could hang rifles in your rear window and strap a six-shooter on your hip. Jake despised the idea of keeping guns in his car, his desk at work, his nightstand at home, but once they take shots at you, burn your house, and threaten your family, notions of self-preservation become priority one.