A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,60

met, in fine fashion. Troops from a dozen counties, along with the state police and municipal officers from several cities, stood in formation as the casket rolled by. Cameras clicked and could be heard above the silence.

Harry Rex was in the crowd outside. He would later describe the scene to Jake by saying, “Hell, you’d’ve thought Kofer got killed in the line of duty, fightin’ crime like a real cop. Not passed out drunk after he beat his girlfriend.”

The throng parted as the pallbearers guided the casket through the front doors, into the armory, and across the small lobby. As it entered the center aisle, the pastor stood at the podium and said at full volume, “Please rise.” The crowd rose noisily but then fell deathly silent as the casket inched down the aisle, with Earl and Janet Kofer in step behind it. About forty family members followed them.

They had feuded for a week over the issue of a closed casket. It was not unusual to open the casket during a funeral service so that the loved ones and friends and other mourners could glimpse a profile of the deceased. This made the situation far more dramatic and maximized the grief, which of course was the purpose though no one would ever admit it. Rural preachers preferred open caskets because they made it easier to whip up emotions and make folks worry more about their sins and their own deaths. It was not uncommon to include a few remarks directed at the deceased, as if he or she might just rise up and yell “Repent.”

Earl had lost his parents and a brother, and their services had been “open,” though the presiding ministers hardly knew them. But Janet Kofer knew the service would be thoroughly gut-wrenching without actually looking at her dead son. In the end she prevailed and the casket remained closed.

When the casket was in place, a large American flag was unfolded and draped over it. Later, Harry Rex would say to Jake, “Sumbitch got kicked out of the army and they carried on like it was full honors.”

As the family shuffled into place in the front rows, reserved with Megargel’s monogrammed velvet roping, the preacher motioned for the crowd to sit and nodded to a dude with a guitar. Wearing a burgundy suit, black cowboy hat, and matching boots, he walked to a floor mike, strummed a few chords, and waited for everyone to be seated. When things were still, he began singing the first stanza of “The Old Rugged Cross.” He had a pleasant baritone and was deft with his guitar. He had once played in a bluegrass band with Cecil Kofer, though he had never met his deceased brother.

It was unlikely Stuart Kofer had ever heard the old gospel standard. Most of his grieving family members had not, but it was appropriate for the sad occasion and succeeded in heightening the emotions. When he finished the third stanza he gave a quick nod and returned to his seat.

The family had met the minister two days earlier. One of their more difficult chores during that awful week had been to locate a man of God willing to conduct the service for complete strangers. There were several country preachers who had tried to reach the Kofers over the years, but all said no to the service. As a group, they were turned off by the hypocrisy of getting involved with people who had no use for any church. Finally, a cousin bribed an unemployed Pentecostal lay preacher with three hundred dollars to be the man of the hour. His name was Hubert Wyfong and he was from Smithfield, down in Polk County. Reverend Wyfong needed the cash, but he also saw the opportunity to perform in front of a large crowd. Perhaps he could impress someone who knew a church that was looking for a part-time preacher.

He offered a long, flowery prayer, then nodded at a pretty teenaged girl, who stepped to the mike with her Bible and read the Twenty-third Psalm.

Ozzie sat next to his wife and listened and marveled at the difference between white funerals and black ones. He and his force and their spouses sat together in three rows to the left of the family, all in their finest matching uniforms, all boots spit-shined, all badges gleaming. The section behind them was packed with officers from north Mississippi, all white men.

Counting Willie Hastings, Scooter Gifford, Elton Frye, Parnell Johnson, and himself, along with