A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,162

waited in the hallway. A bailiff called court to order and asked everyone to rise. As they did, the Honorable Omar Noose appeared from a door behind the bench. The lawyers settled around their tables and the clerks took their positions.

Noose stepped down and walked to the bar dividing the courtroom, his long black robe flowing behind him. Jake, seated only a few feet away, whispered to Libby, “Oh no, it’s the Flowing Robe Routine.” She gave him a blank look.

Occasionally, and especially when elections were looming, state trial judges liked to get closer to the masses, the voters, and greeted them not from a lofty perch on the bench but down on the floor, at their level, from just behind the bar.

Noose introduced himself to his home crowd and gave them a friendly welcome, thanking them for being there. As if they had a choice. He spent a moment rambling on about the importance of jury service to the orderly flow of justice. He hoped it would not be burdensome. Without going into detail, he described the nature of the case and explained that much of the day would be spent selecting a jury. He looked at a sheet of paper and said, “I have been informed by the clerk that three members of this pool have failed to show. Mr. Robert Giles, Mr. Henry Grant, and Mrs. Inez Bowen. All received proper subpoenas but have not bothered to check in this morning. I’ll ask the sheriff to round ’em up.” He looked gravely at the sheriff seated near the jury box and nodded, as if prison might just be an option here.

“Now, we have ninety-four people here in the pool, and our first order of business is to see who might be exempt. If you’re sixty-five or older, state law allows you to pass on jury service. Any volunteers for?”

Noose and the clerk had already culled the seniors chosen from the voter registration records, but there were eight in the pool between the ages of sixty-five and seventy. He knew from experience that not all of those would claim the exemption.

A man on the front row sprung up, waving his hand.

“And you are?”

“Harlan Winslow. I’m sixty-eight and I got better things to do.”

“You’re excused, sir.”

Winslow almost sprinted down the aisle. He lived deep in the country and had an NRA sticker on the bumper of his pickup. Jake happily struck his name. Good riddance.

Three others begged off and left the courtroom. Down to ninety.

Noose said, “Next, we’ll consider those with medical issues. If you have a note from your doctor, please step forward.” The pews creaked and rustled as a number of jurors stood and made their way forward, forming a line in the aisle in front of the judge. Eleven in all. The first one, a slothful younger man who was morbidly obese, looked as though he might collapse at any moment. He handed over a note that Noose studied carefully before smiling and saying, “You are excused. Mr. Larry Sims.” He smiled and lumbered toward the door.

As Noose methodically worked through the hardships, the lawyers studied their notes, scratched off names, and looked at the remaining members of the pool.

Two of the eleven with doctors’ notes were on Jake’s list of complete mysteries, and he was pleased when they left. After forty minutes of tedium, all eleven were gone. Down to seventy-nine.

Noose said, “Now, the rest of you are qualified to be examined during the selection process. We will do this by calling names at random. When you’re called, please have a seat over on this side, beginning with the front row.” He waved to his left, to the empty pews. A clerk stepped forward and handed him a small cardboard box, which he set on the defense table.

This little lottery was the most crucial part of the selection process. The final twelve would likely come from the first four rows, the first forty names pulled from the box.

The lawyers quickly moved their chairs to the other side of their tables, facing the pool, their backs to the bench. Noose removed a folded strip of paper and called out, “Mr. Mark Maylor.” A man stood with great uncertainty and shuffled down the row to the aisle.

Maylor. White male, age forty-eight, longtime algebra teacher at the only high school in the county. Two years at a junior college, degree in math from Southern Miss. Still married to his first wife, three children, the youngest still