A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,81

pulled over.

“Do you have any water?” he asked his wife.

“I don’t normally carry water.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you drink too much?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“How much did you drink?”

“I wasn’t counting but I was not excessive. Do I seem drunk now?”

She turned away and didn’t answer. The flashing lights seemed ready to burst, but thankfully the siren had been turned off. Another car passed, slowly. Jake handled at least one DUI charge each month and had been doing so for years. The great question was always: Do you agree to take a breath test, or do you refuse? Take or refuse? If you take the test and it registers too high, then you’re guaranteed a conviction. Take it and slide just under the limit, and you go free. Refuse, and the cops automatically take you to jail. You post bond, get out, hire a lawyer, and slug it out in court where you have a decent chance of winning. The sage advice, always given after the fact and far too late to be of any benefit, was to take the test if you’d had only a couple of drinks. If you know you’re bombed, refuse and take a trip to jail.

Take or refuse? As Jake sat there trying to act as though he had no worries, he realized his hands were shaking. Which humiliation would be greater? Getting handcuffed in front of his wife and taken away? Or dealing with the aftermath of a failed test and the embarrassment of losing his driver’s license? Could there even be a bar complaint? He had represented so many drunk drivers that he’d lost any sympathy he might have for someone facing a weekend in jail. You drink and drive, you deserve the punishment.

Now, though, with the minimum level set so low, at .10, even a few drinks during the evening was too much. Take or refuse?

Nesbit was back. He approached with his flashlight shining into Jake’s face. “Jake, have you been drinking?”

Another crucial question no one was ever prepared to answer. Say yes, and try to explain how little, and the officer would most certainly take the next step down the path to ruin. Say no, and lie, and face the consequences when he smelled the presence of alcohol. Say something like “Hell no! I don’t drink!” and really irritate the officer with slurred words and a thick tongue.

“Yes sir,” Jake said. “We’re returning from a dinner party and I had some wine. Not much, though. I’m not under the influence, Mike. I’m fine. May I ask what I did wrong?”

“Swerving.” Which, as Jake well knew, could mean exactly that, or it could mean anything else. Or nothing.

“Where was I swerving?”

“Will you agree to take a BAC test here on the road?”

Jake was about to say yes when more blue lights came over the hill in their direction. It was another deputy. He slowed, passed them, turned around, and parked behind Nesbit, who left to have a chat.

“I’m not believing this,” Carla said.

“Nor am I, dear. Just be cool.”

“Oh, I’m cool. You have no idea how cool this makes me.”

“I’d rather not fight here beside the road. Can you wait till we get home?”

“Are you going home, Jake? Or somewhere else?”

“I don’t know. I did not drink that much, I swear. I don’t even feel a buzz.”

Loss of license, time in jail, a stiff fine, increased insurance rates. Jake remembered the awful list of punishments he’d recited to a hundred clients. As a lawyer he could always game the system, at least for first-time offenders. Like himself. He could avoid jail, get some community service, cut the fine, justify his fee of $500.

Minutes dragged by as the blue lights flickered silently. Another car approached, slowed for a good look, and passed. Jake promised himself that if and when he was financially able to buy a new car, it would not be an exotic Swedish thing in a bright color. It would be either a Ford or a Chevrolet.

Nesbit approached for the third time and said, “Jake, would you please get out of the car.”

Jake nodded and told himself to take careful steps and speak clearly. The field sobriety test was designed to be flunked by all drivers, after which the police could then push hard for a breath test. Jake walked to the rear of his car where the second deputy was waiting. It was Elton Frye, a veteran he had known for years.

“Evenin’, Jake,” Frye said.

“Hello, Elton. Sorry to trouble you.”

“Mike