A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,13

the kind of people I want to hang with.”

“They have great blueberry pancakes.”

“They’ll probably poison mine.”

“No, they won’t. Let’s order the same thing, then swap after we’re served. If I croak over and die, then Kofer and I can have a joint service. Damn, just think of the parade around the square.”

“I really don’t want to.”

“Ozzie, you’ve been elected sheriff of Ford County by two landslides. You are the Man around here, and I can’t believe you’re shy about walkin’ into a public café and havin’ a meal. If you’re afraid, I promise I’ll protect you.”

“That’s not the case.”

“A question. How many white-owned businesses have you ducked and dodged since you ran for sheriff seven years ago?”

“Well, I haven’t been to all the white churches.”

“That’s because it’s humanly impossible to visit them all. Must be a thousand and they’re still building. And I said businesses, not churches.”

Ozzie pondered the question as they flew by small farms and pine forests. Finally, he said, “Only one that I can think of.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Is that Confederate flag still flyin’ out front?”

“Probably.”

“Who owns the place now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t stopped by in a few years.”

They crossed a creek and turned onto another county road. Tatum gunned the engine as he straddled the center line. The road saw little traffic on workdays and was especially quiet on a Sunday morning. Ozzie said, “Pine Grove precinct. Ninety-five percent white and only thirty percent voted for me.”

“Thirty percent?”

“Yep.”

“I ever tell you about my mother’s father, Grumps they called him? Died before I was born, which was probably a good thing. Ran for sheriff in Tyler County forty years ago and got eight percent of the vote. So thirty is pretty impressive.”

“It didn’t feel too impressive on election night.”

“Give it up, boss. You won big. And this is your chance to impress the enlightened people who dine at Sawdust.”

“Why is it called Sawdust?”

“Bunch of sawmills around here, lots of loggers. Tough guys. I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.”

The parking lot was filled with pickups, some new, most old and dented, all parked haphazardly as if their drivers had sprinted to breakfast. An off-center flagpole hailed the great state of Mississippi and the glorious cause of the Confederacy. Two black bears nuzzled each other in a cage next to the side porch. The planks creaked as Ozzie and Moss Junior crossed them. The front door entered into a cramped country store with smoked meats hanging from the ceiling. The strong, heavy aroma of frying bacon and burning wood filled the air. Behind the counter, an old woman looked at Tatum, then at Ozzie, and managed to nod and say, “Mornin’.”

They spoke, kept walking, and entered the café in the rear where half the tables were crowded with men, all white men, no women. They were eating and drinking coffee, some were smoking, and all seemed to be chattering away, until they saw Ozzie. There was a noticeable decline in the noise, but only for the second or two it took them to realize who he was and that both were officers. Then, as if to prove their tolerance, they picked up their conversations with even more vigor and tried to ignore them.

Tatum waved to an empty table and they sat down. Ozzie immediately busied himself with a thorough perusal of the menu, though it was unnecessary. A waitress arrived with a pot of coffee and filled their cups.

A man at the nearest table looked for the second time and Tatum pounced. “This place used to have famous blueberry pancakes. That still the case?”

“You betcha,” the man said with a grin, then patted his ample stomach. “That and venison sausage. Helps me keep my figure.” This got a laugh or two.

Another man said, “Say, we just heard about Stuart Kofer.” The room was instantly silent. “Is it true?”

Tatum gave a quick nod to his boss, as if to say, “This is your moment. Act like the high sheriff.”

Ozzie’s back was turned to at least half of the diners, so he stood and looked at them all. He said, “Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. Stuart was shot and killed around three this morning, at home. We’ve lost one of our best.”

“Who shot him?”

“I can’t go into the details right now. We may have more to say tomorrow.”

“We heard it was a kid livin’ with him.”

“Well, we’ve taken a sixteen-year-old boy into custody. The boy’s mother was Kofer’s girlfriend. That’s all I can say. The state