In his first run for public office, in 1983, Ozzie was never certain how the family voted. However, four years later and with Stuart wearing a uniform and driving a shiny patrol car, Ozzie got every vote in the family. They proudly displayed his yard signs and even wrote small checks for his campaign.

Now, on this awful Sunday morning, they were all waiting for their sheriff to pay his respects and answer their questions. For a show of support, Ozzie had Tatum at the wheel, followed by a car with Looney and McCarver, two other white deputies. It was, after all, Mississippi, and Ozzie had learned where to use his white deputies and where to use his black ones.

As expected, the long front drive was lined with cars and trucks. On the porch, one group of men smoked and waited. Not far away under a sourwood tree another group did the same. Tatum parked and they got out and began walking across the front lawn as relatives stepped forward with their somber greetings. Ozzie and Tatum, and Looney and McCarver, worked their way toward the house, shaking hands, offering condolences, grieving with the family. Near the front, Earl stood and stepped down and thanked Ozzie for coming. His eyes were red and wounded and he began sobbing again as Ozzie shook his hands with both of his and just listened. A crowd of men gathered around the sheriff and expected to hear something.

Ozzie met their sad and troubled eyes, nodded, tried to appear just as hurt. He said, “Really not much to add to what you already know. The call came across at two-forty this morning, call from the son of Josie Gamble, said his mother had been beaten and he thought she was dead. When we got there we found the mother unconscious in the kitchen being tended to by her daughter, age fourteen. The daughter said her brother had shot Stuart. Then we found Stuart in the bedroom, on his bed, a single gunshot to the head, by his service pistol, which was on the bed. The boy, Drew, wouldn’t talk so we took him in. He’s in jail now.”

“No doubt it’s the boy?” someone asked.

Ozzie shook his head. No. “Look, I can’t say much right now. Truth is we don’t know much more than what I just told you. I’m not sure there’s that much more to it, really. Maybe we’ll know something tomorrow.”

“He ain’t gettin’ outta jail, right?” asked another.

“No, no way. I expect the court will appoint him a lawyer real soon, and at that point the system takes over.”

“Will there be a trial?”

“I have no idea.”

“How old is this boy?”

“Sixteen.”

“Can they treat him like an adult, put his ass on death row?”

“That’s up to the court.”

There was a pause as some of the men studied their feet while others wiped their eyes. Softly, Earl asked, “Where is Stuart now?”

“They’re takin’ him to Jackson, state crime lab, for an autopsy. Then they’ll release him to you and Mrs. Kofer. I’d like to see Janet, if that’s okay.”

Earl said, “I don’t know, Sheriff, she’s in bed and surrounded by her sisters. I’m not sure she wants to see anybody. Give her some time.”

“Of course. Please pass along my condolences.”

Two other cars were arriving, and out on the highway another had slowed. Ozzie killed a few awkward minutes and then excused himself. Earl and the others thanked him for coming. He promised to call tomorrow and keep them informed.

4

Six days a week, every day but Sunday, Jake Brigance allowed himself to be dragged out of bed at the unholy hour of 5:30 a.m. by a noisy alarm clock. Six days a week he went straight to the coffeepot, punched a button, then hurried to his own private little bathroom in the basement, far away from his sleeping wife and daughter, where he showered in five minutes and spent another five with the rest of his ritual before dressing in the clothes he’d laid out the night before. He then hurried upstairs, poured a cup of black coffee, eased back into his bedroom, kissed his wife goodbye, grabbed his coffee, and, at precisely 5:45 closed the kitchen door and stepped onto the rear patio. Six days a week he drove the dark streets of Clanton to the picturesque square with the stately courthouse anchoring life as he knew it, parked in front of his office on Washington Street, and, at 6:00 a.m., six days a week, walked into the Coffee Shop to either hear or create the gossip, and to dine on wheat toast and grits.

But on the seventh day, he rested. There was never an alarm clock on the Sabbath, and Jake and Carla reveled in a long morning’s rest. He would eventually stumble forth around 7:30 and order her back to sleep. In the kitchen he poached eggs and toasted bread and served her breakfast in bed with coffee and juice. On a normal Sunday.

But nothing about this day would be normal. At 7:05 the phone rang, and since Carla insisted that the phone be located on his night table, he had no choice but to answer it.

“If I were you I’d leave town for a couple of days.” It was the low raspy voice of Harry Rex Vonner, perhaps his best friend and sometimes his only one.

“Well good morning, Harry Rex. This better be good.”

Harry Rex, a gifted and devious divorce lawyer, ran in the dark shadows of Ford County and took enormous pride in knowing the news, the dirt, and the gossip before almost anyone not wearing a badge.

“Stuart Kofer got shot in the head last night. Dead. Ozzie picked up his girlfriend’s boy, sixteen-year-old kid without a trace of peach fuzz, and he’s at the jail just waitin’ on a lawyer. I’m sure Judge Noose knows about it and is already thinkin’ about the appointment.”

Jake sat up and propped up his pillows. “Stuart Kofer is dead?”

“Deader’n hell. Kid blew his brains out while he was sleepin’. Capital, dude, death penalty and all. Killing a cop will get you the gas nine times outta ten in this state.”

“Didn’t you handle a divorce for him?”

“His first one, not his second. He got pissed off about my fee and became a disgruntled client. When he called about the second, I told him to get lost. Married a couple of crazies, but then he had a fondness for bad women, especially in tight jeans.”

“Any kids?”

“None that I know of. None that he knew of either.”

Carla scurried out of bed and stood beside it. She frowned at Jake as if someone was lying. Three weeks earlier, Officer Stuart Kofer had visited her class of sixth graders and given a wonderful presentation on the dangers of illegal drugs.

“But he’s only sixteen,” Jake said, scratching his eyes.

“Spoken like a true liberal defense lawyer. Noose will be callin’ you before you know it, Jake. Think about it. Who tried the last capital murder case in Ford County? You. Carl Lee Hailey.”