A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,100

was a terrible place and that’s where all cop killers were sent to die.

Mr. Zack arrived early with a tray of food—scrambled eggs and toast. He left it by the bunk and returned with a grocery bag and said, “Your preacher brought these by. Some clothes, real clothes that you need to put on and get dressed up.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re goin’ to court today. Didn’t your lawyer tell you?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember. What am I doin’ in court?”

“Hell if I know. I just handle the jail. When did you shower last?”

“I don’t know, don’t remember.”

“I think it was two days ago. You’re okay. You don’t smell too bad.”

“The water was ice cold. I don’t want to shower.”

“Then eat up and get dressed. They’re comin’ to get you at eight-thirty.”

When the jailer was gone, Drew chewed on a piece of toast and ignored the eggs. They were always cold too. He opened the grocery sack and removed a pair of jeans, a thick plaid shirt, two pairs of white socks, and a pair of scuffed white sneakers, all obviously hand-me-downs but smelling like strong detergent. He stepped out of his orange coveralls and got dressed. Everything fit reasonably well and he liked the fact that he was wearing real clothes again. He had one change in a cardboard box under his bunk where he kept his other valuables.

He retrieved a small bag of salted peanuts his lawyer had brought him and ate them slowly, one at a time. He was supposed to read for an hour each morning, strict instructions from his mother. She had delivered two books, one a history of the state that he had used in class and found incredibly boring. The other was a novel by Charles Dickens that his English teacher sent via his preacher. He had little interest in reading either one.

Mr. Zack returned to fetch his tray and said, “You didn’t eat your eggs.”

Drew ignored him and stretched out on the bottom bunk for another nap. Minutes later the door burst open and a thick deputy growled, “Get up, kid.”

Drew scrambled to his feet as Marshall Prather slapped cuffs on his wrists, yanked him by an elbow, and led him out of the cell, down the hall, and out the back door where a patrol car was waiting with DeWayne Looney behind the wheel. Prather shoved Drew into the rear seat and they sped away. The prisoner peeked out a window to see if anyone was watching.

Moments later they wheeled to a stop near the rear door of the courthouse where two men with cameras were waiting. With a slightly softer touch, Prather pulled Drew out and made sure he faced the cameras for full-frontal shots. Then they were inside and climbing a dark, narrow staircase.

* * *

—

JAKE SAT ON one side of the table, Lowell Dyer the other. Judge Noose was at the end, no robe, unlit pipe stuck between his teeth. All three men were frowning and apparently unhappy. Each for different reasons.

Noose placed some papers on the table and rubbed his eyes. Jake was irritated at even being there. The event was nothing but a first appearance for several freshly indicted defendants, and Jake had tried to waive it on behalf of Drew. However, His Honor wanted to be seen doing his job, presiding over the criminals and keeping them locked up. A crowd was expected, and Jake, cynically, believed Noose wanted to look good for the voters.

Jake, of course, wasn’t worried about the voters, and he had accepted the fact that he was about to look bad regardless of what happened. He would sit next to the defendant, stand next to him, consult with him, speak for him, and so on. The clear and obvious guilt of Drew Gamble was about to rub off on his lawyer.

Jake said, “Judge, I need to hire a psychiatrist for my client. And the State cannot expect me to pay for one.”

“He just came back from Whitfield. Didn’t he see the experts down there?”

“He did. However, they work for the State and the State is prosecuting him. We need our own private shrink.”

“I certainly do,” Lowell mumbled.

“So, this is headed toward an insanity defense?”

“Probably, but how can I make that decision without consulting with our own psychiatrist? I’m sure Lowell will be able to line ’em up in court and produce several experts from Whitfield who’ll say the kid knew precisely what he was doing when he pulled the trigger.”

Lowell shrugged and nodded