A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,82

says you been drinkin’.”

“At dinner. Look at me, Elton, I’m obviously not drunk.”

“So you’ll take the test?”

“Of course I’ll take it.”

The two officers looked at each other and seemed uncertain as to their next move. Nesbit said, “Stu was a friend of mine, Jake. A great guy.”

“I liked Stu too, Mike. Sorry about what happened. I know it’s tough for you guys.”

“It’s gonna be tougher if that punk gets off, Jake. Talk about rubbin’ salt into some pretty raw wounds.”

Jake offered a sappy smile at such foolishness. At that moment he would say just about anything to score a few points. “He’s not getting off, I can promise you that. Besides, I’m just handling his case on a temporary basis. The court will appoint another lawyer for the trial.”

Mike liked this and nodded at Frye, who extended a hand that held Jake’s license and registration. Mike said, “We called Ozzie. He told us to follow you home. Take it easy, okay?”

Jake’s shoulders sagged as he exhaled. “Thanks, fellas. I owe you one.”

“You owe Ozzie, Jake, not us.”

He got in the car, latched his seat belt, cranked the engine, glanced at his mirror, and ignored his wife, who appeared to be praying. As he pulled away, she asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing. It was Mike Nesbit and Elton Frye and they both could tell I’m not drunk. They called Ozzie, told him so, and he said follow us home. Everything’s fine.”

The blue lights were turned off as the two patrol cars followed the red Saab into Clanton. Inside the car, nothing else was said.

* * *

—

THE KITCHEN PHONE showed three voice mails received during the evening. Carla was rinsing the coffeepot to prepare for the morning, as Jake poured a glass of ice water and punched a button. The first call was a wrong number, some poor soul searching for takeout pizza. The second call was from a reporter in Jackson. The third call was from Josie Gamble, and as soon as Jake hit PLAY he wished he had not. She said:

Hello Jake, it’s Josie and I’m sorry to bother you at home. Really sorry. But Kiera and I have been talkin’, it’s been a long day as you might guess and we’re sorta tired of talkin’ but anyway I just want to say I’m sorry about jumpin’ on you like that and askin’ you for money for an abortion. I was outta line and I feel real bad. See you soon. Good night.

Carla was holding the coffeepot filled with water, her mouth open. Jake punched the CLEAR button and looked at his wife. It was difficult holding client confidences when the client left secrets in recorded voice mails.

“Abortion?” Carla asked.

Jake took a deep breath and said, “Do we have any decaf?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s make a pot. I’ll be up all night anyway. Between a near DUI and a pregnant fourteen-year-old, I won’t be sleeping much.”

“Kiera?”

“Yes. Make the coffee and I’ll tell you all about it.”

19

The seat of Van Buren County was the backwater town of Chester. According to the 1980 census, its population was 4,100, a decline of about 1,000 from 1970, and there was no doubt the next headcount would be even smaller. It was half the size of Clanton but seemed far more desolate. Clanton had a vibrant square with cafés, restaurants, busy offices, and shops of all varieties. Next door in Chester, though, half the window fronts along Main Street were boarded up and begging for tenants. Perhaps the clearest sign of economic and social decline was the fact that all but four lawyers had fled to bigger towns, several to Clanton. Back in the day, back when young Omar Noose hung out his shingle, there had been twenty lawyers in the county.

Of the five courthouses in the Twenty-second Judicial District, Van Buren’s was by far the worst. It was at least a hundred years old and its nondescript, bland design was clear proof that the county fathers could not afford an architect. It began as a sprawling, three-story edifice of white clapboard with rows of tiny offices that housed everyone from the judges to the sheriffs to the assorted clerks, even the county’s crop inspector. Over the decades, and back when the county saw modest growth, various annexes and additions were attached here and there like tumors, and the Van Buren County Courthouse became somewhat notorious as the ugliest in the state. There was nothing official about this distinction, and it was so judged primarily by