JOHN GRISHAM

John Grisham is the author of twenty-eight novels, one work of nonfiction, a collection of stories, and six novels for young readers.

www.jgrisham.com

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ALSO BY JOHN GRISHAM

A Time to Kill

The Firm

The Pelican Brief

The Client

The Chamber

The Rainmaker

The Runaway Jury

The Partner

The Street Lawyer

The Testament

The Brethren

A Painted House

Skipping Christmas

The Summons

The King of Torts

Bleachers

The Last Juror

The Broker

The Innocent Man

Playing for Pizza

The Appeal

The Associate

Ford County

The Confession

The Litigators

Calico Joe

The Racketeer

Sycamore Row

Gray Mountain

Rogue Lawyer

The Theodore Boone Books

Theodore Boone: Kid Lawyer

Theodore Boone: The Abduction

Theodore Boone: The Accused

Theodore Boone: The Activist

Theodore Boone: The Fugitive

Theodore Boone: The Scandal

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Belfry Holdings, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

www.doubleday.com

DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

Ebook ISBN 9780385542579

Cover design by John Fontana

Cover photograph © Robert D. Strovers

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Contents

Cover

John Grisham

Also by John Grisham

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

1

The first witness called by the State of Florida was Clive Pickett, the rather rustic sheriff of Brunswick County, a sparsely populated corner of the Panhandle. Sheriff Pickett took the stand in full uniform and swore to tell the truth. It was his job to describe the crime scene and tell the jury what they had found.

What they had found were two dead bodies, a man and a woman, both naked and both with two shots to the head. They were in her bedroom and apparently had been caught in the act. She was married to someone else, as was he. At some time between 2:00 and 3:00 p.m. on January 17, 1995, the defendant, sitting right over there at the defense table, had allegedly barged in and found them. He was married to the woman and knew the man well.

The first large color photo, State’s Exhibit No. 1, was an exterior shot of the house, an old wood-framed dwelling located on Tinley Road, about two miles from the Tappacola reservation and thus not on tribal land but in the county and under Pickett’s jurisdiction. The sheriff explained that there were no signs of forced entry into the house. The 1984 model Ford truck sitting in the driveway belonged to the deceased gentleman, one Son Razko.

The second photo, No. 2, showed the woman lying across the bed, on her back, her head and shoulders surrounded by blood that had drenched the white sheets. As always, the defense lawyer had objected to the photo on the usual grounds of its being inflammatory, prejudicial, and so on, but his objections had been overruled. The crime-scene photos, regardless of how grisly, were always admitted. The jurors eagerly passed the second one around even as they gaped at it in horror, some looking away, unable to focus on what they were holding. Same for the third photo, Exhibit No. 3, one of the man sprawled on the floor in his own blood. The next two photos, Exhibits 4 and 5, were of the bedroom and the bodies but from different angles. By the time the photos made the rounds in the jury box, the jurors were glaring at the defendant as if they couldn’t wait to dispense the justice he deserved.

A large diagram was placed on a tripod near the jury box, and the prosecutor walked the sheriff through the layout of the house, the two acres around it, Tinley Road, and the tribal land nearby. He stressed the remoteness of the crime scene. The nearest house was three hundred yards away and not visible from the driveway.

With the stage carefully set, the prosecutor yielded the witness. Cross-examination produced nothing new and lasted only a few minutes. Sheriff Pickett was excused and, since he would not be called again, allowed to remain in the courtroom.

—

The Defendant. His name was Junior Mace, a full-blooded Tappacola Indian, age thirty-seven, father of three, and husband of Eileen, the woman he was accused of killing. Until he was arrested, he had driven a truck and delivered propane for a company out of Moreville. The job paid barely enough to keep his family afloat. He and Eileen had a small mortgage on an old house, one they had bought from her parents before they died. Because he had no money, he was forced to settle for a court-appointed lawyer.

Junior was a big man, over six feet, and lean, with long dark hair that fell to his collar. The fifteen months he’d spent in jail awaiting this trial had not lightened his dark skin. For his trial he wore the same outfit every day—faded jeans and boots and a brown leather shirt with beads around both wrists. He sat straight and proud, absorbing every word without flinching, though he wanted to scream his innocence.

2

The second witness was a hick cop named Willard who, in spite of being called a homicide detective, was nothing more than the senior deputy on Pickett’s slim force. In his eleven years with the sheriff, he said, he had investigated only four other murders, though this was not mentioned by the defense lawyer. For the occasion Willard wore his only sports coat, one he’d acquired years ago before packing on the last eighty pounds.

Willard told the jury that the police had immediately begun looking for Eileen’s husband, the defendant, Junior Mace, not as a suspect but as a family member. Oddly enough, a bartender fifteen miles from the crime scene had called the sheriff’s office around 7:00 p.m. and said Junior was sitting in his pickup truck, slumped over the steering wheel, too drunk to drive, and in need of help. The bartender knew Junior and said he was just trying to warn the cops and keep the roads safe. Willard and two other deputies raced to the bar and found Junior in his truck, unconscious and barely breathing. They called an ambulance and he was taken to the hospital in Walton County. After he was hauled away, Willard, without a warrant, searched his truck and found a Smith & Wesson revolver with two bullets left in the chamber. Under the front seat he also found a wallet belonging to Son Razko.

State’s Exhibit No. 6 was the Smith & Wesson, an unlicensed firearm with the registration number filed off. No. 7 was the wallet, complete with Mr. Razko’s Florida driver’s license, one credit card from a bank, one from an oil company, and $17 in cash. These were passed around the jury box.

Months earlier the defense had attacked the warrantless search on the grounds that there was no probable cause, no solid legal reason to poke around the truck. The judge, though, ruled that the search was valid; thus the gun and wallet were admissible into evidence.

—

The Judge. Her name was Claudia McDover and she was forty years old. The previous year she had defeated an eighteen-year incumbent by a thousand votes. This was her first capital murder case; indeed, it was her first murder case of any variety. Before becoming a judge, she had been a small-town general practitioner with a decent reputation and modest success. Her campaign had been well financed, and she knocked on doors for months, promising, as always, a tough law-and-order courtroom. She strongly supported the death penalty and seemed determined, at least to those lawyers watching the case, to ensure a death verdict in the matter of Junior Mace.

She felt as though she owed it to her voters, all residents of rural northwest Florida.

3

The third witness was the bartender himself. He went by Spike and it was obvious Spike had spent most of his life on one side of the bar or the other. His long gray hair was pulled tight into a ponytail. His ears were adorned with metal. A white, perfectly pointed goatee dripped from his chin. Spike seemed just as relaxed on the witness stand as he would have been pulling pints. He explained to the jurors that Junior stopped by at least once a week for a few beers after work and was generally talkative and in a pleasant mood. But on his last visit he was obviously disturbed by something. He quickly drank two beers—always from bottles, never draft or from cans—and said nothing. He sat at the end of the bar and stared straight ahead, lost in another world. A crowd came in and the bartender got busy elsewhere. He noticed Junior had moved away from the bar and was tossing darts with a man the bartender had never seen before.

Junior always paid with cash so there was no record of how many beers he had ordered. Plus, the stranger was buying a few rounds. Spike did not see Junior leave the bar, but around 6:30 a regular had whispered to him that a drunk had passed out in the parking lot. Spike went outside, found Junior sitting against a wall, and managed to get him into his truck. When Spike asked for his keys, Junior refused and for a second seemed belligerent. Spike then called Clive Pickett’s office and said they might have a problem. Within twenty minutes Officer Willard and two other policemen were there.

Spike said he was stunned to hear about the murders, but looking back it made sense. Something was definitely wrong with Junior that last visit.

—

The Bar Owner. He owned several bars along the Florida Panhandle, along with a few lounges, liquor stores, and a strip club. Three months before the murders he had bought the bar where Junior stopped. He’d paid too much for it, but by then he knew Junior’s movements and had decided it was the perfect place.

He was in court to observe the testimony from Spike, his employee, and to make sure that Spike stuck to the story of Junior arriving that day in a funk and acting weird. Though Junior usually limited himself to two or three beers, and had probably done so on that day, it was important to convey to the jury the image of a troubled man drinking heavily, a man so drunk he had collapsed outside the building. Junior’s blackout had little to do with alcohol, but that secret would be kept forever. The bar owner had arranged it all.

Disguised and sitting in the back row, he observed Spike on the stand with a trace of smugness as the pieces of his neat little plot fell into place. He lived in the shadows of his own dark world, a place where hard cash was king and from where people had to be eliminated from time to time.

4

The fourth witness was a ballistics expert, name of Montgomery, from the state crime lab. He took the stand in a nice suit and dark tie and impressed everyone with his credentials. Four bullets were removed from the crime scene: two from the head of Son Razko, one from the head of Eileen Mace, and one from the mattress. That fourth one had entered her skull an inch above her right eyebrow, passed all the way through her brain, and made a ghastly exit wound that was about three inches in diameter. State’s Exhibits 8, 9, 10, and 11 were enlarged photos of the bullets. In technical terms Montgomery explained that the recovery of the bullets immediately revealed the make and model of the weapon; in this case, a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver. With a large diagram, and acting much like the learned professor, he explained that as each bullet is fired it twists as it goes through the barrel, known in the business as “rifling.” This leaves microscopic marks and grooves on the bullet and allows an expert such as himself to determine which gun fired which bullet. He had no doubt that the weapon recovered from Junior’s truck fired the four bullets. State’s Exhibits 12, 13, 14, and 15 were the actual bullets themselves.

The prosecutor handed Montgomery four spent cartridges. The expert told the jury that the four were recovered from the bedroom. Whoever fired them was in too big a hurry to collect them. Using a comparison microscope, he was able to determine that the four cartridges were fired from the same Smith & Wesson.

Much of his testimony was technical, and while at first interesting, it soon became tiresome. He was the expert. If he said the bullets came from the gun in Junior’s truck, who could dispute him?

State’s Exhibits 16, 17, 18, and 19 were the spent cartridges.

The defense lawyer’s cross-examination of Montgomery was on the soft side. What could he really do? It was obvious what had happened in the bedroom.

—

The Defense Lawyer. His name was Larry Swoboda, age thirty-one, an aspiring criminal defense lawyer from Panama City.

Brunswick County had a public defender, a rather useless stiff who’d begged off, claiming some vague conflict of interest. The truth was he’d never touched a capital case and wanted to quit the job anyway. Judge McDover knew he was too inexperienced and appointed Swoboda, who initially had wanted the case. However, not long after he got it, he realized he was in way over his head.

Like all criminal defense lawyers, Swoboda had already learned that almost all of his clients claimed to be innocent. Junior was no exception. Since their first meeting in jail, Junior had vehemently protested the charges. He was being framed in a perfect setup. He loved his wife, had never been unfaithful, and Son Razko was his friend. He had been making deliveries at the time they were murdered. He did not own a gun and had not fired one in over twenty years. After fifteen months of listening to Junior, Swoboda finally believed him.

5

The fifth witness was also from the state crime lab. Dr. Unger was a pathologist whose task was to describe, in horrifically gory detail, the damage inflicted by the four bullets. He had a stack of color photographs, State’s Exhibits 20 through 29, of Son Razko and Eileen Mace on the slab as he picked and probed through their brains, tracing the paths of the projectiles and describing the damage.

Swoboda objected again and again, claiming the testimony and exhibits were overkill and grossly prejudicial. Her Honor felt otherwise, and for three hours the jurors squirmed as Dr. Unger went about his business. He produced large diagrams, Exhibits 30 through 33, of the precise routes the bullets had taken. And he wrapped up his testimony nicely with the opinion that all four were fired from a handgun at close range.

On cross-examination, Swoboda scored no points. It was, after all, rather obvious how the two victims had died. What real difference did it make if the killer was firing from five feet away or from six inches?

Frustrated, Swoboda tossed his legal pad on the defense table and fell into his chair. He then made the mistake of looking at the jurors, almost all of whom were glaring at either him or his client. After three days of trial, it was obvious to him, and to every other person in the courtroom, that things were not going well for the defense.

—

The Jury. Nine whites, three blacks, no Native Americans. Equal split on gender. All registered voters of Bay County, next door to Brunswick. Three with college degrees, two without jobs, average age of fifty-two, so a fair amount of gray hair. Conservative, middle class, Protestant for the most part, and weary of crime and the senseless violence wrecking the stability of our society. During the selection process, all twelve claimed to have no problem with the death penalty.

They had been warned by the judge against discussing the case until their final deliberations, but such precautions were usually ignored. During lunch breaks and long gaps in the trial when the lawyers were back in chambers haggling over fine points in the law, the jurors were whispering. Some of the men in particular were intrigued by what Junior would say, if in fact he testified. Catch your wife in bed with another man, and a friend at that, and a violent reaction might be understandable. A good butt-kicking, maybe some broken bones. Junior certainly looked like the type who could draw blood with his hands, especially in a rage. But two bullets to each head? It seemed so cold-blooded.

The women had heard enough. They might forgive a shot or two to wound the man, but the killing of Eileen was simply too much.

6

The sixth witness was Louise Razko, wife of the murder victim.

With the State’s case clicking right along and finding little resistance from the defense, the prosecutor made the mistake of attempting to arouse some emotion. This is common in murder cases—bring in someone close to the victim, someone who’ll weep in front of the jurors and give them even more reason to convict. Such testimony has no probative value, but judges always allow it.

Judge McDover certainly allowed it. Anything the State wanted.

The problem was obvious and somehow the prosecutor missed the obvious. Could he really expect Louise to cry and carry on when her husband had been caught with another woman, and one she knew well? Was Louise saddened by his death, or was she secretly pleased that his treachery had been discovered?

Fortunately, at least for the State, Louise was the emotional type and began crying shortly after taking the oath. Between sobs, she managed to complete a few sentences and went on about what a good man Son had been, a great father, and, yes, a good husband. She missed him so, as did her kids.

Swoboda objected by asking why any of this was relevant. McDover overruled him.

He had no questions for her on cross. She was led away in tears. Most of the jurors, though, seemed skeptical. Were some of those tears actually tears of joy because her two-timing husband had been caught? It was hard to tell. Most observers questioned the move by the prosecutor, but there was no real damage to the State’s case.

—

The Prosecutor. His first name was Wagner, an extremely odd choice by his mother, but then it was her maiden name and she thought it fit him nicely, at least in the hospital. By the age of ten, though, he hated it for many reasons and chopped it in half. He’d gone by Wag for the past thirty years. Wag Dunlap. The voters seemed to like the oddness of his name.

Wag was thrilled to be on the hunt for his first death verdict. At the time Florida had three hundred men on death row and not a single one had been sent there by Wag. At the annual prosecutors’ conference down in Miami he often felt, well, inadequate. The heavy hitters were chosen to speak at seminars and share trial tactics, but not Wag. He had no medals on his chest, nothing to brag about over drinks. Sure, he had his share of convictions and had successfully prosecuted two other murderers, but only for run-of-the-mill killings. Nothing even close to a capital case. Junior Mace would put him on the map.

And what a beautiful set of facts he’d been handed! A tawdry affair. Junior, a good man, deceived by his friend Son, who’d been sneaking in the back door for how long? Caught in the act, a fit of rage, two cold-blooded killings, and a defendant who refused to avail himself of the defense of “irresistible impulse.” Florida law had long since recognized such a defense, and Junior could certainly avoid the death penalty and perhaps a long sentence if he would just admit that he’d acted out of temporary insanity and done what a lot of faithful husbands would have done. Junior, though, was steadfast in his denials.

So, why take the wallet? Why turn a horrible crime into something even worse? Murder alone does not trigger a capital case. Murder plus something else is needed—robbery, rape, kidnapping, killing a cop or a child—the list was long. Why turn into a thief after just becoming a murderer? There would never be an explanation, because Junior denied everything.

He caught them, killed them, took the wallet, and drove to a bar where he got drunk and passed out. They found the murder weapon, minus four bullets out of six, and the wallet in his truck. The facts lined up beautifully. The case was open and shut.

Wag, though, like most prosecutors, couldn’t resist the temptation to pile on. Why settle for less when there’s more to offer?

7

The seventh witness was Todd Short, the first of two jailhouse snitches. At the young age of twenty-four, he had already put together an impressive rap sheet, mostly for drug offenses. Following Wag’s firm instructions, he wore a shirt with long sleeves and a high collar to cover up as many tattoos as possible. He also had a fresh haircut and wore glasses he didn’t need because, in Wag’s opinion, they made him appear slightly more intelligent. With Short, intelligence was a relative matter.

As if on a mission to find the truth, he and Wag plunged head-on into Short’s criminal past and the boy freely admitted to three earlier arrests and two felony convictions. He had served five years in jail before straightening out his life. Now sober and God-fearing, he wanted to do what was right.

His story was that he had been in the Brunswick County jail awaiting trial when Junior arrived. They were cellmates for only a few days before being separated. He had liked Junior and, having nothing else to do, they’d talked a lot. Junior was devastated by his wife’s betrayal and that of his close friend, but he had no remorse for what he did. Didn’t he do what any man would have done? Junior said he had been suspicious and stopped by the house mid-afternoon as he was making deliveries. When he saw Son’s truck in his driveway, he knew it was trouble. Junior eased through the back door and walked into the den and heard noises from the bedroom. They had the place to themselves and were making no effort to be quiet. He grabbed a pistol from a drawer and kicked open the bedroom door. The sight of them all wrapped together made him crazy. Son yelled something stupid like “Wait, you don’t understand,” and was scrambling off the bed when Junior shot him twice. Eileen was screaming like an idiot and wouldn’t shut up, so he shot her too. He stood there for a long time, staring at their naked bodies as they bled and died and he didn’t care. He finally left and just drove around, trying to settle his nerves and not knowing what to do. The kids would be coming home from school. He should probably call the sheriff and get an ambulance out there. Somebody else would clean up the mess. He stopped at a bar for a couple of drinks to clear his head, and he just kept drinking.

Junior listened stoically, shaking his head slightly at Short and his lies. At one point he leaned over to Swoboda and whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”

Short stayed on script and was convincing. He had spent hours rehearsing his testimony with Wag and his assistants, had even sat in this very chair over the weekend with the courtroom doors locked and lawyers yelling questions at him. When Wag finally sat down and Swoboda rose for his cross-examination, Short took a deep breath and reminded himself to stay cool. He knew every question that was coming.

Swoboda hammered away at his criminal record, his time behind bars, his addictions. The pending charges against him had dragged on for almost fifteen months now. Was that because the prosecutor was waiting to see how he performed at trial?

No, of course not. Short wasn’t sure what was causing the delay. Sometimes the system just gets clogged up. Plus, Short was in the process of drying out and that took time. A successful recovery might positively impact his sentence.

Had Short been promised anything in return for his testimony? Leniency? Money?

Of course not. Short was telling the truth, so help him God. He was eager to serve his time and get on with his life, a changed man.

Had Short testified before and ratted on a cellmate?

No, never.

Actually, it was Short’s third trip to the witness stand, but his career as a serial snitch had not been discovered by Swoboda. The case had consumed the lawyer’s life for the past fifteen months and he was tired of it. The paltry fees paid by the State would cover only a fraction of his time.

—

The Brother. Wilton Mace sat in the front row, as close to his brother as possible. Behind him were a few members of their tribe, almost all related to the Mace family. Across the aisle, and across the deep divide that had splintered the Tappacola, sat the friends and relatives of Son Razko. There were other divisions and factions and most of the tribe stayed away.

Their tensions were of little concern to Wilton. As the brother of an innocent man, his role was simply one of support. There was nothing else he could do, nothing but sit there day after day bewildered at the travesty and the lies. He knew the truth: that his brother and Eileen were as happily married as any couple could be under their circumstances; that she was not one to fool around; that Son Razko was a good man who was devoted to Louise and their children; that Junior would go to his grave grieving the loss of his wife and friend; that the murders were carefully staged by criminals hell-bent on building a casino on Tappacola land. Standing in their way, though, were Son Razko and Junior Mace.

But Son and Eileen had not been murdered by one of their own. The Tappacola were perfectly willing to hold grudges, but they did not kill each other. No, the killers were from the outside, and they had pulled off what was becoming, day by day, the perfect crime.

The white man’s notions of justice were baffling. How can they allow a self-confessed and self-serving criminal like Todd Short to put his hand on their Bible, swear to God to tell the truth, and then spin such fantastic lies? What system of justice allows a seasoned convict to repeat statements he swears he heard in a jail cell the year before?

Wilton watched the faces of the jurors. Not only did they believe Short, they wanted to believe.

8

The eighth witness called by the State was Digger Robles, another jailhouse snitch. His criminal record was not quite as impressive as Todd Short’s, nor was his body art. He, too, wore a white shirt with a high collar and long sleeves; indeed, it was identical to the one worn by Short. Swoboda gave a passing thought to asking Digger if Wag Dunlap had found the shirts on sale. Almost all his tattoos were hidden, though one managed to crawl up his neck and evade the collar. Nonetheless, Digger cleaned up nicely and managed to seem relaxed as he prepared to unload an hour’s worth of fiction to the jury.

The only truth he told was his recollection of his two criminal convictions, three years in prison, and struggles with meth. Wag breezed him through these trifling preliminaries as if they were of absolutely no consequence. Then on to the story—and the truth! In testimony that was remarkably, and at times astonishingly, similar to Short’s, he told in great detail of his brief incarceration with Junior. The man was proud of what he had done. He had caught them in his own bed, popped them twice, stood his ground, and what the hell was the State of Florida doing dragging him to jail and to trial? If it had happened on Indian land, Junior would be hailed as a hero. He had shown not the slightest hint of remorse.

Swoboda leaned over to his client and asked, “Remember him?”

Junior whispered, “Maybe.”

On cross-examination, Swoboda managed to land a few punches when he haggled with Digger over his motives. If he had not been promised something, why was he testifying? Digger said he really didn’t want to testify, didn’t want to get involved, but he was an important witness because he had heard damaging comments. Swoboda reminded him that he’d spent considerable time behind bars and asked if he had ever heard anyone else admit to wrongdoing. When Digger said no, several of the jurors shook their heads in disbelief.

But, on the whole, it was a fine performance. When Digger left the witness stand, Wag Dunlap announced, “The State rests.”

—

The Spectator. He came and went throughout the trial, always choosing a different seat and always with a different look. He changed caps, eyeglasses, clothing, even shaved a full beard after the first two days of testimony. He skipped a few hours here and there, then half a day, then showed up dressed in leather. Not a single person in the courtroom knew his name and no one noticed him.

His name was Delgado, and he worked for a tight and well-organized gang of career criminals determined to build a casino on the Tappacola reservation. His duties varied, but his value to the gang centered on his talents with firearms and his ability to eliminate people without leaving a trace of evidence.

As the trial unfolded, Delgado marveled at the State’s case and its incompetence. Unger’s autopsy had been hurried and sloppy. And why not? The causes of death were so obvious, why dig deeper? An analysis of Son’s blood would have revealed the presence of phenobarbital, a strong barbiturate Delgado had injected. Had it been discovered, Delgado had no doubt that the State’s theory would have been slightly altered to include the fact that Son was popping pills before his rendezvous with Eileen. A thorough analysis would have revealed that Son had been unconscious at the time of his death.

In their excitement, the cops had not bothered to dust Junior’s hands for residue. Such a simple and routine test would have told them that he had not fired the .38. His prints were not on the gun, but then Montgomery, the ballistics expert, had speculated that Junior had simply wiped the gun clean.

Nor had the State tested Junior’s blood while he was hospitalized. A test would have revealed some alcohol, as expected, but also chloral hydrate. In the bar Delgado had enticed Junior into a game of darts and had managed to swap bottles of beer.

And the snitches! Delgado listened to their fabrications and worked hard to conceal a smile. Junior’s alleged confessions were a joke. They got it all wrong. Eileen went first. Delgado talked his way into the house, pulled the gun, made her undress in the bedroom, then shot her twice. He carried Son into the bedroom, undressed him, shot him.

The problem with snitches was that they often recanted and changed their stories. Delgado knew this well, as did the men he worked for. As he watched Todd Short and Digger Robles on the stand, and almost chuckled at their fiction, he knew that he would soon get the orders to take them out. Wait for the trial to end, for Junior to be led away, for the endless appeals to begin, and start the process of planning, stalking, waiting. Their testimony was now permanently recorded and could be read into the record in the event of a retrial, though such a scenario did not bother his bosses. Son was dead. Junior would be sidelined long enough. The opposition was crippled. The casino would be built.

9

The first witness called by the defense was a teenager named Heath. His family owned a country store near the small town of Larkin, about thirty miles from the crime scene. The store sold propane for heating and cooking and had a contract with Junior’s employer to collect the empty cylinders and resupply the inventory once a week. Around 2:00 p.m. on that January 17, Junior delivered ten twenty-pound cylinders and picked up ten empty ones. Heath signed the delivery ticket but no specific time was noted.

He testified that it was “around 2:00 p.m., give or take,” but could not be more specific. He said he saw Junior almost every week and that they usually “shot the bull” for a few minutes during each delivery. He estimated that Junior was at his store for less than fifteen minutes.

Swoboda produced a large map of three counties—Walton, Brunswick, and Okaloosa—and marked the locations of Heath’s family’s store and the Mace home.

The second witness called by the defense was Len McGuire, owner of a nursery and garden shop in the town of DeFuniak Springs. Mr. McGuire sold a lot of propane and had done business with Junior’s company for years. On the day of the murders, he remembered Junior arriving on his weekly round at “approximately 3:00 p.m.” He dropped off a dozen cylinders of propane and picked up the empties. He produced a delivery ticket detailing the transaction but it did not note a specific time. It never did, he told the jury.

Since the time of the two deaths was estimated to be between 2:00 and 3:00 p.m., Mr. McGuire would have seen Junior after he had just killed his wife and Son Razko. Swoboda asked him a lot of questions about Junior’s demeanor. Nothing seemed out of order. Same old Junior.

The third witness called by the defense was a retired state trooper named Taggart. With the tiny budget Judge McDover had reluctantly authorized Swoboda to spend on experts, he had hired Taggart for $1,000. Standing in front of the jury box and holding a pointer, Taggart indicated locations on the enlarged map. Number one was the country store where Heath worked. Number two was Mr. McGuire’s garden shop. Number three was the Mace home. Number four was Junior’s employer’s warehouse over in Moreville. Assuming Junior made his delivery at 2:00 p.m. and it consumed about fifteen minutes, as per Heath, then Junior left around 2:15 and drove to Mr. McGuire’s for his next delivery. Taggart had made that drive on three occasions and it took, on average, twenty-three minutes. So, around 2:35, Junior arrived at Mr. McGuire’s, spent fifteen minutes doing what he was supposed to do, and left around 2:50. At that point, he was twenty minutes from his home. If he had hurried there, he could have arrived around 3:10.

According to the pathologist, the deaths occurred between 2:00 and 3:00. However, the pathologist had been quick to explain that this time frame was not exact and could vary half an hour either way.

Even on direct examination, the defense theory was not convincing. A few minutes here and a few minutes there and nothing seemed concrete. Precise times were not logged in. Memories were not that clear. Did Junior make his delivery at 2:00 p.m., or was it more like 1:45? Were they shot at 3:00 p.m., or was it more like 3:30?

On cross-examination, the theory was destroyed. Wag Dunlap walked Taggart along the roads and highways until it was abundantly clear that, in fact, Junior Mace could have completed the delivery to Heath’s family’s store at 2:00 p.m., then raced home because he suspected something, found his wife in bed with his friend, taken care of that business, and hurried away to Mr. McGuire’s place and arrived there shortly after 3:00 p.m., acting as though all was well.

Did Junior have time to race to his employer’s warehouse, jump into his own pickup truck, then hustle home for the killings? Perhaps, Wag implied, though it wasn’t clear.

For two hours Wag harangued Taggart over the times and distances. Swoboda objected. McDover overruled. The lawyers bickered as tempers rose. Taggart eventually lashed out. Swoboda moved for a mistrial again. The judge asked him to sit down. The jurors were frustrated. The spectators were at first amused, then bored.

Through it all, Junior Mace sat stoically amid the chaos, occasionally shaking his head at the fiction.

10

With the alibis out the window, the defense had nothing left but the defendant himself. Swoboda followed the conventional wisdom of advising Junior against taking the stand, but Junior would have none of it. If he was to be given the chance to tell the truth, then he would not be denied.

In a deep, slow voice he measured his words and looked unflinchingly at the jurors. Swoboda lobbed up the easy ones as they covered Junior’s background: education, employment, family, lack of criminal record, no divorces, three children. He loved Eileen, and Son was his closest friend. No, they were not having an affair, and, no, he did not catch them in bed.

He denied owning a handgun and testified that he did not know a single Tappacola who owned one. It was not part of their culture. A few of the men hunted deer for food, but no one in his family did so. He enjoyed a few beers occasionally but did not consider himself a heavy drinker. He and Eileen had never kept alcohol in their home.

He told the story of his people and their deep division over the proposal to build a casino on their land. He and Son had led the opposition to it, and they had won the first election by a narrow margin. The vote split their tribe into bitter camps.

Whoever killed Son and Eileen was now doing a fine job of framing him. Remove Son and remove Junior and the casino would be built.

Wag stood and pleaded, “Objection. Please, Your Honor. Do we have any proof of this? This is a pretty wild theory with nothing to back it up.”

“Agreed. Sustained. Mr. Swoboda, please limit the testimony to something that resembles the facts.”

January 17 had been a typical day for Junior. He made his rounds that morning and had lunch in a country store where he also made a delivery. Around 2:00 p.m., he stopped by Heath’s family’s store, dropped off and picked up ten cylinders of propane, and drove “about a half an hour” to Mr. McGuire’s. He was in no hurry, as always, and drove under the speed limit. He did not detour, did not go home, because there was no reason to do so, and finished his business at Mr. McGuire’s around 3:00 p.m. Afterward, he stopped at two more stores before punching the clock at 4:41. On the drive home, he stopped at one of his favorite bars, said hello to Spike, had a couple of beers, and all was well. After that, he remembered little. He passed out, not from two beers, but from something else, and remembered nothing until he awoke in the hospital.

His voice cracked slightly when he tried to explain what it was like hearing that his wife had been murdered and being told, about an hour later, that he was charged with the murder. Handcuffed, dragged away, driven to jail, thrown in a cell, denied the dignity of attending his wife’s funeral and burial, denied the opportunity to grieve with his children. He had been so traumatized he had trouble talking, eating, and sleeping.

It was a nightmare that would never end.

—

The Son. Patrick Mace, age fourteen, the oldest of Junior’s three children. Because of the gruesomeness of much of the testimony, young Patrick had been kept out of the courtroom until today. His younger siblings would see none of the trial.

Patrick had been the first one home from school, the first one in the house, the unlucky soul who stumbled upon the bodies and the unspeakable crime scene. He did not remember making the 911 call; he remembered nothing. The first deputy found him lying on the front porch, curled in the fetal position, shaking and unable to speak or walk. Patrick had spent two nights in a hospital and was still seeing a counselor.

Not surprisingly, Wag Dunlap wanted to call the kid as one of the State’s opening witnesses. Slay the jury right off the bat with the kid weeping and bawling and unable to continue. Swoboda objected but McDover said yes. Fortunately, the Mace family resisted so fiercely that Wag backed off.

As Patrick watched his father fight for his life, he battled his own emotions. Tears flooded his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He wiped them with his sleeves and tried not to look at Uncle Wilton seated next to him. Losing his mother was incomprehensible. Losing his father would be the end of the world.

Wilton had explained the truth. He knew his father was innocent.

11

In his closing argument Wag Dunlap decided to trash the victims. If Son and Eileen were not having a fling, then what the hell were they doing? Can you think of another good reason why Son, who knew Eileen very well, would drop by her house around 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday, with Junior at work and the kids at school? There was no other reason, and the defendant, who has proven to have a rather vivid imagination, has been unable to pull one out of the air.

What should be obvious, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is actually quite obvious. They were having a fling, and Junior either knew about it or was highly suspicious. He timed his movements almost to perfection, giving himself a brief but plausible window to zip by his house and see if Son’s pickup was in the driveway.

And it was! His worst suspicions were true.

He caught them, killed them, did what he had to do, and got on with his propane deliveries. Later, when reality set in, he got drunk, got caught, and showed no remorse for the killings, at least not in jail.

—

The Chief. From the front row in the small balcony, the Chief looked down on the courtroom with sadness. His people were so divided. To his left and behind the defendant were members of the Mace family and a few friends. To his right and behind the prosecution were members of the Razko family and a few friends. Two deputies guarded the aisle, ready to make sure the factions caused no trouble. Scattered around the courtroom were other Tappacola, all more curious than concerned. They favored the casino, could almost see and feel its riches. For or Against. No gray areas, no indecision. Every Tappacola stood firmly in one camp or the other.

His tribe had voted no almost three years earlier, back when Son Razko and Junior Mace had been agitating against the casino on tribal land. They viewed gambling as nothing more than another white man’s curse, and they had narrowly won. Now, with Son dead and Junior on his way to prison, the tribe would vote again and the casino would be built. Prosperity was just around the corner, and this pleased the Chief. Perhaps in a few years the money could heal the divisions. With money they would build nice homes and fine schools, plenty of roads and parks and clinics, and every Tappacola would share in the wealth. The casino would lift them out of poverty and reunite his tribe. That was his dream.

For now, though, the spectacle of Junior being prosecuted was heartbreaking. The Chief knew what all of his people knew. They could argue, fight, and hold grudges for decades, but the Tappacola did not kill one another.

12

Larry Swoboda’s best moment of the trial came during his final summation. He told the jurors they had no choice but to believe Junior’s claims of innocence because he refused to avail himself of the most obvious defense. Swoboda posed a hypothetical: Any husband who walked in on his cheating wife would almost certainly be claiming that what followed was an act of rage, an act of passion, an irresistible impulse that could not be controlled. Such a defense has long been recognized in the criminal laws of our nation, and juries have often shown sympathy in those cases. The fact that Junior refused to claim that he had acted in a fit of temporary insanity meant only one thing: He did not catch and kill his wife and his friend.

Junior was not conniving for his life and gaming the system; rather, he was simply telling the truth.

—

The Jurors. Maybe. The defendant’s problem was that he had no proof. His alibi witnesses were not solid and convincing. He could claim he was drugged and framed and then victimized by planted evidence, but where was his proof?

Indeed, all the evidence was lined up neatly in favor of the State.

13

The jury deliberated for only four hours before returning with a unanimous verdict of guilty on both counts. There were no gasps or shrieks or groans from the spectators, no outbursts at the injustice, no smiles, only a few quiet tears from the Razko family and a few slumped shoulders from the Mace crowd. Junior absorbed the decision without flinching. Swoboda seemed to know it was coming. Wag and his gang hid smug little grins. The jurors were poker-faced, certainly not pleased but determined to finish their tasks.

Only young Patrick was overcome, and he collapsed into the arms of his uncle Wilton.

Judge McDover dismissed the jury with instructions to return promptly at nine the following morning, when the trial would resume with the sentencing phase. The issue of guilt had been settled. Next, the jury would determine either death or life without parole.

—

The Spectator. He delayed a moment after adjournment, and as the crowd silently drifted out of the courtroom he watched them handcuff Junior and take him away. Delgado felt no sadness at all. No remorse. Just the opposite. Throughout his long career as a killer he had often wondered how thrilling it would be to pull off the perfect job, a job so incredibly well done that they convicted someone else. How cool would it be to watch the trial?

At that moment, he had to admit that it was very cool. And the thrill was impossible to describe.

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Table of Contents

John Grisham

Other Titles

Title Page

Copyright

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13