A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,50

stand up at the pulpit and say all the usual happy stuff about a man who never darkened their door?”

“So, who’s officiating?”

“Don’t know. I think they’re still scrambling. Come back in the morning and maybe we’ll know something.”

“I’ll be here.”

* * *

—

THE TABLE IN the center of Lucien’s downstairs workroom was covered with thick lawbooks, legal pads, and discarded papers, as if the two non-lawyers had been plowing through research for days. Both wanted to be lawyers and Portia was well on her way. Lucien’s glory days were far in the past but he still, at times, found the law fascinating.

Jake walked in, admired the mess, and pulled up another mismatched chair. “So, please tell me your brilliant new legal strategies.”

“Can’t find one,” Lucien said. “We’re screwed.”

Portia said, “We’ve tracked down every youth court case over the past forty years and the law doesn’t budge. When a kid, a person under the age of eighteen, commits a murder, rape, or armed robbery, original jurisdiction is in circuit court, not juvenile.”

“What about an eight-year-old?” Jake asked.

“They don’t rape much,” Lucien mumbled, almost to himself.

Portia said, “In 1952, an eleven-year-old boy in Tishomingo County shot and killed an older kid who lived down the road. They kept him in circuit court and put him on trial. He was convicted and sent to Parchman. Can you believe that? A year later the Mississippi Supremes said he was too young and kicked it back to youth court. Then the legislature got involved and said the magic age is thirteen and older.”

Jake said, “It doesn’t matter. Drew is not even close, at least in age. I’d put his emotional maturity at about thirteen, but I’m not qualified.”

“Have you found a psychiatrist?” Portia asked.

“Still looking.”

“And what’s the goal here, Jake?” Lucien asked. “If he says the boy is certified batshit crazy, Noose ain’t movin’ the case. You know that. And can you really blame him? It’s a dead cop and they have the killer. If the case went to youth court the kid would be found guilty and put away in a kiddie jail. For two years! And the day he turns eighteen, youth court loses all jurisdiction and guess what happens.”

“He walks,” Portia said.

“He walks,” Jake said.

“So you can’t blame Noose for keeping the case.”

“I’m not trying to plead insanity here, Lucien, not yet anyway. But this kid is suffering from something and needs professional help. He’s not eating, bathing, is barely talking, and he can sit for hours staring at the floor and humming as if he’s dying inside. Frankly, I think he needs to be moved to the state hospital and put on medication.”

The phone rang and they stared at it. “Where’s Bev?” Jake asked.

“Gone. It’s almost five,” Portia said.

“Out for more cigarettes,” Lucien said.

Portia slowly lifted the receiver and said, quite officially, “Law office of Jake Brigance.” She smiled and listened for a second and asked, “And who’s calling, please?” A brief pause as she closed her eyes and racked her brain. “And this is in regard to which case?” A smile, then: “I’m sorry but Mr. Brigance is in court this afternoon.”

He was always in court, according to the office’s rules of engagement. If the caller was a non-client or other stranger, he or she was left with the impression that Mr. Brigance practically lived in the courtroom and getting an appointment for an office consultation would be difficult and probably expensive. And this was not unusual among the bored and timid office practitioners in Clanton. On the other side of the square, a worthless lawyer named F. Frank Mulveney trained his part-time secretary to go one step further and gravely inform all callers that “Mr. Mulveney is in federal court.” No lowly state work for F. Frank. He was off to the big leagues.

Portia hung up and said, “A divorce.”

“Thank you. Any more cranks today?”

“Not that I know of.”

Lucien stared at his wristwatch as if waiting for an alarm. He stood and announced, “It’s five o’clock. Who wants a drink?”

Jake and Portia waved him off. As soon as he was gone, she asked quietly, “When did he start drinking here?”

“When did he stop?”

12

The only child psychologist working for the state in north Mississippi was too busy to return phone calls. Jake assumed this meant that a request, if somehow made, that she drop everything and hustle over to the jail in Clanton would not be well received. There were no such specialists in private practice in Ford County,