A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,210

enough. I know you don’t feel that way now. What happened?”

Jake smiled and watched the foot traffic on the sidewalk. “Carl Lee happened. Once I got to know him, and his family, it hit me pretty hard that he could well be convicted and sent to Parchman for ten or fifteen years while I fought his appeals, and that one day the State would strap him down and turn on the gas. I couldn’t live with that. As his lawyer, I would spend his last moments with him in the holding room, next door to the gas chamber, probably with a minister or a chaplain, and then they would take him away. I would walk around a corner to a witness room and sit with Gwen, his wife, and Lester, his brother, and probably other family members, and we would watch him die. I lost sleep with those nightmares. I studied the history of the death penalty, really for the first time in my life, and saw the obvious problems. The unfairness, the inequalities, the waste of time, money, and lives. I’m also struck by the moral quandary. We treasure life and can all agree that it is wrong to kill, so why do we allow ourselves, through the state, to legally kill people? So, I changed my mind. I guess it’s part of growing up, of living, of maturing. It’s only natural to question our beliefs.”

Claude practically tossed the two baskets on the table and said, “You got thirty minutes.”

“Forty-five,” Jake said, but he was already gone.

“Why do so many white people love the death penalty?” Portia asked.

“It’s in the water. We grow up with it. We hear it at home, at church, at school, among friends. This is the Bible Belt, Portia, eye for an eye and all that.”

“What about the New Testament and Jesus’s sermons on forgiveness?”

“It’s not convenient. He also preached love first, tolerance, acceptance, equality. But most Christians I know are quite good at cherry-picking their way through the Holy Scriptures.”

“And not just white Christians,” she said with a laugh. They ate for a few minutes and enjoyed Claude’s verbal assaults on three black gentlemen in nice suits. One made the mistake of asking to see a menu. They were laughing by the time the abuse was over.

All tables were taken by 12:15 and Jake counted seven other white folks, not that it mattered. For a brief interlude, good food was more important than skin color. Portia ate in small bites with perfect manners. She was twenty-six now, and thanks to the army had seen more of the world than Jake or anyone he knew. She was also having trouble finding a suitable boyfriend.

“You gotta boy?” he asked, looking for trouble.

“No, and don’t ask.” She took a bite and looked around. “What are the prospects in law school?”

“Black or white?”

“Come on, Jake. If I brought a white boy home my family would go nuts. Surely there’ll be some talent in law school.”

“I doubt it. I finished twelve years ago and we had three blacks in our class.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” she said. “You sound like Momma. Always pecking away about me not getting married. I remind her that she got married and look how that turned out.” Her father, Simeon Lang, had a rough history and was currently serving time for vehicular homicide. Her mother, Lettie, had divorced him two years earlier.

Claude walked by and frowned at their baskets. He glanced at his wristwatch as if they were out of time.

“How are we supposed to enjoy lunch under this much pressure?” Jake asked him.

“You’re doin’ a pretty good job. Hurry up, though, I got folks waitin’ outside.”

They finished and Jake left a $20 bill on the table. Claude did not accept credit cards or checks and the town loved to speculate about how much money he made. He had a nice house in the country, drove a beautiful Cadillac, and had sent three kids to college. It was generally assumed that his disdain for printed menus, receipts, and credit cards also extended to the notion of income taxation.

On the sidewalk, Jake said, “I think I’ll walk over to the jail and sit with Drew for an hour or so. Kid’s cleaning my clock in blackjack and I need to get my money back.”

“Such a sweet boy. Can’t we get him out, Jake?”

“It’s not likely. Can you visit him tomorrow? He really likes you, Portia.”

“Sure. I’ll make some brownies and take ’em over.