A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,113

“Ozzie told us to be here at nine. Judge Noose’s orders.”

Buford glanced at his watch as if Jake couldn’t tell time. “I need to look at that,” he said, pointing to Jake’s briefcase. Jake opened it for a quick inspection. Satisfied but not pleased with the encounter, Buford looked at Carla’s bag and asked, “What’s in there?”

She opened it and said, “Textbooks and notepads.”

He poked around without removing anything and growled, “Follow me.”

Though Jake had reassured her, Carla’s stomach was in knots. She had never been inside the jail and half-expected to see real criminals leering at her through the bars. But there were no cells, only a dank, narrow hallway with worn carpet and doors on both sides. They stopped at one and Buford unlocked it with one of the many keys on his ring.

“Ozzie said two hours. I’ll be back at eleven.”

“I’d like to leave in an hour,” Jake said.

Buford shrugged as if he could not care less and opened the door. With a jerk of the head, he motioned for them to step inside and then locked the door behind them.

Drew was sitting at a small table in the same faded coveralls he wore every day. He did not stand or say hello. His hands were free and he’d been playing with a deck of cards.

Jake said, “Drew, this is my wife, Ms. Brigance, but you can call her Miss Carla.”

Drew smiled, because it was impossible not to smile at Carla. They sat in metal chairs across the narrow table.

Carla smiled and said, “Nice to meet you, Drew.”

Jake said, “Now, Drew, as I explained yesterday, Miss Carla will visit you twice a week and organize a plan for your schoolwork.”

“Okay.”

Carla said, “Jake tells me you were in the ninth grade last year, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

With a smile, Jake said, “Drew, I want you to get in the habit of saying ‘Yes ma’am’ and ‘No ma’am.’ ‘Yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ would be a good thing too. Can you practice this?”

“Yes sir.”

“Attaboy.”

Carla said, “I checked with your teachers and they told me your subjects were Mississippi history, Algebra One, English, and general science. Does that sound right?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you have a favorite subject?”

“Not really. I didn’t like any of them. I hate school.”

The teachers had verified this. They were unanimous in their assessment that he was indifferent to his studies, barely made passing grades, had few friends, kept to himself, and in general seemed miserable at school.

Carla’s first impression was similar to Jake’s. It was difficult to believe that the kid was sixteen years old. Thirteen would have been a good guess. He was frail, skinny, with a mop of blond hair that badly needed trimming. He was awkward, timid, and avoided eye contact. The thought that he had committed such a heinous murder was hard to fathom.

She said, “Okay, a lot of kids hate school, but you can’t drop out. Let’s just say that this is not school. Let’s call it private tutoring. What I want to do is take about thirty minutes with each subject and then leave you with some homework.”

“Homework sounds like school,” Drew said and they laughed. For Jake, it was a minor breakthrough, the first attempt at humor he had seen by his client.

“I guess it does. Where would you like to start?”

He shrugged and said, “I don’t care. You’re the teacher.”

“Okay. Let’s start with math.”

Drew frowned and Jake mumbled, “Not my favorite either.”

Carla reached into her bag, pulled out a notebook, and placed it on the table. She opened it and removed a single sheet of paper. “Here are ten basic math problems I want you to do for me.” She handed him a pencil. The problems were simple sums that any fifth grader could handle in a matter of minutes.

To ease the pressure, Jake removed a file from his briefcase and was soon lost in something lawyerly. Carla pulled out a history textbook and thumbed through it. Drew went to work and did not appear to struggle.

His academic progress had been uneven, to say the least. In his young life he had attended at least seven schools in different districts and states. He had dropped out at least twice and transferred numerous times. He had lived in three foster homes, one orphanage, with two relatives, in a borrowed camper, spent four months in a juvenile jail for stealing bikes, and there had been stretches of homelessness in which there had been no school at all. His most stable period