A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,98

who was wiping her cheeks too. These poor people.

Another car pulled into the parking lot. Josie watched it and said, “That’s Mrs. Golden, the tutor. She’s comin’ four days a week now, says Kiera is catchin’ up.”

Kiera stood and without a word walked to the door of the church and hugged Mrs. Golden, who waved at them. They went inside and closed the door.

“She’s nice to do this,” Jake said.

“I can’t believe how wonderful this church is, Jake. We live here for free. They’re feedin’ us. Mr. Thurber, who’s a foreman at the feed mill, got it worked out so I can do ten to twenty hours a week. It’s only minimum wage but I’ve worked for that before.”

“That’s good news, Josie.”

“If I have to work five jobs and do eighty hours a week I swear I’ll do it, Jake. She is not havin’ that baby and ruinin’ her life.”

Jake put up his hands in mock surrender. “We’ve had this conversation, Josie, and I really don’t want to go through it again.”

“I’m sorry.” For a long time nothing was said. Jake gazed across the cemetery to the hills beyond it. Josie closed her eyes and seemed to meditate.

Jake finally stood and said, “I need to be going.”

She opened her eyes and flashed a pretty smile. “Thanks for stoppin’ by.”

“I think she needs counseling, Josie.”

“Hell, don’t we all?”

“She’s been through a lot. She was raped repeatedly, and now she’s enduring another nightmare. Her situation is not going to improve.”

“Improve? How can we improve, Jake? That’s easy for you to say.”

“Do you mind if I talk to Dr. Rooker, the psychiatrist who examined Drew over in Tupelo?”

“And talk about what?”

“About seeing Kiera.”

“Who’s gonna pay for it?”

“I don’t know. Let me think about it.”

“You do that, Jake.”

* * *

—

THERE WAS NOTHING pleasant waiting at the office, and Jake wanted to avoid the square anyway. If he bumped into Walter Sullivan he might throw a punch. And by now every lawyer in town knew the gossip, knew that Brigance had been bounced out of court and had somehow managed to screw up Smallwood, the case they had all coveted. Only two or three of the thirty or so lawyers in town would truly be sad at the news. Some would be downright gleeful, and that was fine with Jake because he despised them too. Lost on the back roads, he called Lucien.

He parked in the drive behind the 1975 Porsche Carrera with a million miles on it and trudged along the sidewalk to the steps of the sweeping old porch that wrapped around the first level of the house. Lucien’s grandfather had built it just before the Great Depression with the intention of having the most magnificent home in town. It sat on a hill, half a mile from the courthouse, and from the front porch where he spent his time Lucien looked down on his neighbors. He had inherited the house, along with the law firm, in 1965 when his father died suddenly.

He was waiting, rocking, always reading a thick book of nonfiction, always with a glass on the table next to him. Jake fell into a dusty wicker rocker on the other side of the table and asked, “How can you start the day with Jack Daniel’s?”

“It’s all about pacing, Jake. I talked to Harry Rex.”

“Is he okay?”

“No. He’s worried about you, thought maybe they’d find you in the woods with the motor running and a garden hose stuck in the tailpipe.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“You want a drink?”

“No, I do not. But thanks.”

“Sallie’s grilling pork chops and we have fresh corn from the garden.”

“I didn’t want her to cook.”

“That’s her job and I eat lunch every day. What in hell were you thinking?”

“Maybe I wasn’t.”

Sallie appeared from around a corner and ambled toward them in her usual confident way, as if time meant nothing and she ruled the house because she’d been sleeping with the boss for over a decade. She wore one of her short white dresses that made the most of her long brown legs. She was always barefoot. Lucien had hired her as a housekeeper when she was eighteen years old, and she had soon been promoted.

“Hello, Jake,” she said with a smile. No one considered her a mere house servant and she had not said the words “Mister” or “Missus” in years. “Something to drink?”

“Thanks, Sallie. Just some ice tea, no sugar.”

She disappeared. “I’m listening,” Lucien said.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, maybe