A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,177

said, “Sheriff Walls, you are excused but you are still under subpoena, so you need to leave the courtroom. After you get your gun.”

Ozzie glared at Jake as he walked by.

“Mr. Dyer, please call your next witness.”

“The State calls Captain Hollis Brazeale of the Mississippi Highway Patrol.”

Brazeale looked out of place in a sharp navy suit with a white shirt and red tie. He zipped through his qualifications and many years of experience, proudly informing the jury that he had investigated over one hundred murders. He talked about his arrival at the crime scene and wanted to dwell on the photos, but Noose, along with everyone else, had seen enough blood. Brazeale described how his forensic team from the state crime lab pored over the scene, taking photographs and videos, collecting samples of blood and brain matter. The Glock’s magazine held fifteen bullets when fully loaded. Only one was missing, and they found it buried deep in the mattress near the headboard. Their tests matched it to the pistol.

Dyer handed him a small plastic zip-bag holding a bullet and explained that it was the one found in the mattress, and it came from the pistol. And asked him to identify it. No doubt about it. Dyer then pressed a button, and enlarged photos of the gun and bullet appeared. Brazeale launched into a mini-lecture about what happens when a bullet is fired: Primer and the powder explode within the cartridge, forcing the bullet down the barrel. The explosion produces gases that escape and land on the shooter’s hands and, often, his clothing. Gases and gunpowder particles follow the bullet and can provide evidence of the distance between the barrel and the entry wound.

In this case, their tests revealed that the bullet traveled only a short distance. In Brazeale’s opinion, “Less than two inches.”

He was cocksure of his opinions and the jurors listened intently. Jake, though, thought the testimony was dragging as it went on and on. He stole glances at the jurors, one of whom glanced around as if to say, “All right, all right. We get it. It’s pretty obvious what happened.”

But Dyer plowed onward, trying to cover everything. Brazeale said that after the body was removed, they took the sheets, two blankets, and two pillows. The investigation was routine and not complicated. The cause of death was obvious. The murder weapon was secure. A suspect had confessed to the murder to another credible witness. Later that Sunday morning, Brazeale and two technicians went to the jail and fingerprinted the suspect. They also swabbed the suspect’s hands, arms, and clothing to collect gunshot residue.

Next was a symposium on fingerprints, with Brazeale working through a series of slides and explaining that four latent prints were removed from the Glock and matched to partials taken from the defendant. Every person’s prints are unique, and, pointing to a thumbprint with “tented arches,” he said there was no doubt the four prints—three fingers and one thumb—were left on the gun by the defendant.

Next was a windy, technical analysis of chemical tests used to find and measure GSR—gunshot residue. No one was surprised when Brazeale finally reached the conclusion that Drew had fired the weapon.

When Dyer tendered the witness at 11:50, Jake stood, shrugged, and said, “The defense has no questions, Your Honor.”

Noose, along with everyone else, needed a break. He looked at a bailiff and said, “We’ll be in recess. Is the lunch prepared for the jurors?”

The bailiff nodded.

“Okay, we’re in recess until one-thirty.”

44

When the courtroom was empty, Drew sat alone at the table, twiddling his thumbs under the languid gaze of a crippled bailiff. Moss Junior and Mr. Zack appeared and said it was time for lunch. They led him through a side door, up a rickety set of ancient stairs to a third-floor room that had once housed the county law library. It, too, had seen its better days, and gave the impression that legal research was not a priority in Van Buren County. Shelves of dusty books sat at odd angles, with some leaning precariously, much like the courthouse itself. In an open area there was a card table with two folding chairs. “Over there,” Moss Junior said, pointing, and Drew took a seat. Mr. Zack produced a brown bag and a bottle of water. Drew removed a sandwich wrapped in foil and a bag of chips.

Moss Junior said to Mr. Zack, “He should be safe here. I’ll be downstairs.” He left and they listened as he lumbered down