A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,154

everybody. The race was on.

* * *

—

LEAVING THE COURTHOUSE in Gretna, Jake called Harry Rex and told him the trial would be in Chester. Harry Rex cursed and said, “Why that dump?”

“That’s the question of the day. Probably because Noose wants the trial in his backyard so he can go home for lunch. Get busy.”

He had just crossed into Ford County when a red warning light next to his odometer began flashing. His engine was losing power and he stopped in front of a country church without another car in sight. It had finally happened. He and his beloved 1983 Saab had traveled 270,000 miles together and their journey had finally come to an end. He called the office and asked Portia to send a tow truck. He sat on the shaded steps of the church for an hour and stared at his most cherished possession.

It had been the coolest in town when he bought it new, in Memphis, after settling a workers’ comp case. The fee went for the down payment but the monthly notes had stretched on for five years. He should have traded it in two years earlier when he had cash from the Hubbard will contest, but he didn’t want to spend the money. Nor did he want to part with the only red Saab in the county. But the repair bills had become outrageous because no mechanic in Clanton would touch the damned thing. Service required an all-day trip to Memphis, something he would not miss. The car attracted too much attention. He had been easy to spot driving away from Stan’s that night when Mike Nesbit pulled him over and almost charged him with DUI. And he had no doubt that his beating at Kroger had been facilitated by the fact that the red Saab was easy to follow.

The tow truck driver’s name was B.C., and Jake sat in the cab with him after he hitched up his car and they drove away. Jake had never been a passenger in a tow truck before.

“Mind if I ask what B.C. stands for?” he asked, loosening his tie.

B.C. had a mouth full of tobacco, and he spat in an old Pepsi bottle. “Battery Charger.”

“I like it. How’d you get tagged with Battery Charger?”

“Well, when I was a kid I liked to steal batteries out of cars. I’d take ’em to Mr. Orville Gray’s service station, sneak in at night, charge ’em real good, then sell ’em for ten bucks. Clear profit, no overhead.”

“You ever get caught?”

“Nope, I was too slick. But my buddies knew about it and that’s where the name came from. That’s a weird car back there, if I say so.”

“It certainly is.”

“Where do you get it fixed?”

“Not around here. Let’s take it to the Chevrolet place.”

At Goff Motors, Jake paid B.C. a hundred dollars in cash and gave him several business cards. With a grin Jake said, “Pass these out at the next car wreck.”

B.C. knew the game and asked, “What’s my cut?”

“Ten percent of the settlement.”

“I like it.” He stuffed the cash and cards in his pocket and drove away. Jake looked down a row of shiny new Impalas and eyed a gray one, with four doors. By the time he looked at the sticker a smiling salesman appeared from nowhere and stuck out a friendly hand. They went through the usual ritual and Jake said, “I’d like to trade in my old car.” He nodded at the Saab.

“What is it?” asked the salesman.

“1983 Saab with a lot of miles.”

“I think I’ve seen that around town. What’s the trade-in value?”

“Five thousand and change.”

He frowned and said, “That may be a bit high.”

“Can I get this financed through General Motors?”

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

“I’d like to stay away from the banks around here.”

“No problem.”

Laden with even more debt, Jake drove away an hour later in a leased Impala, gray in color and one that blended in nicely with the traffic. It was a good time for him to be inconspicuous.

39

At 9:00 a.m. Monday, Jake and Portia were standing at the fax machine drinking coffee and waiting anxiously for the jury list from Judge Noose. Ten minutes later it arrived—three sheets of paper with ninety-seven names in alphabetical order. Name, address, age, race, gender, nothing else. There was no standard form for the publication of the jury pools and it varied throughout the state.

Not surprisingly, Jake did not recognize a single name. Van Buren County had 17,000 people, the smallest