Free The Last Juror by John Grisham Page A

assaulted him. The larger man knocked him down and kicked him in the face, while the other one rummaged through his backseat and pulled out two cameras. Wiley was fifty-eight years old and an ex-Marine, and at some point in the melee he managed to land a kick that sent the larger assailant to the ground. There they exchanged blows and as Wiley was gaining the upper hand the other thug banged him over the head with one of his cameras. Wiley said he didn’t remember much after that.
    His wife eventually heard the ruckus. She found Wiley on the ground, semiconscious, with both cameras shattered. In the house, she put ice packs on his face and determined that there were no broken bones. The ex-Marine did not want to go to the hospital.
    A deputy arrived and made a report. Wiley had caught only a glimpse of his attackers and he’d certainly never seen them before. “They’re back on the island by now,” he said. “You won’t find them.”
    His wife prevailed, and an hour later they called me from the hospital. I saw him between X rays. His face was a mess, but he managed to smile. He grabbed my hand and pulled me close. “Next week, front page,” he said through cut lips and swollen jaws.
    A few hours later I left the hospital and went for a long drive through the countryside. I kept glancing at my mirror, half-expecting another load of Padgitts to come roaring up, guns blazing.
    It was not a lawless county, where organized criminalsran roughshod over the law-abiding people. It was just the opposite—crime was rare. Corruption was generally frowned upon. I was right and they were wrong, and I decided I’d be damned before I knuckled under. I’d buy myself a gun; hell, everybody else in the county carried two or three. And if necessary I’d hire a guard of some sort. My paper would grow even bolder as the murder trial approached.

CHAPTER 8
    P rior to the bankruptcy, and my unlikely rise in prominence in Ford County, I had heard a fascinating story about a local family. Spot never pursued it because it would’ve required some light research and a trip across the railroad tracks.
    Now that the paper was mine, I decided it was too good to pass up.
    Over in Lowtown, the colored section, there lived an extraordinary couple—Calia and Esau Ruffin. They had been married for over forty years and had raised eight children, seven of whom had earned PhD’s and were now college professors. Details on the remaining one were sketchy, though, according to Margaret, his name was Sam and he was hiding from the law.
    I called the house and Mrs. Ruffin answered the phone. I explained who I was and what I wanted, and she seemed to know everything about me. She saidshe’d been reading the Times for fifty years, front to back, everything including the obits and the want ads, and after a moment or two offered the opinion that the paper was in much better hands now. Longer stories. Fewer mistakes. More news. She spoke slowly, clearly, with precise diction I had not heard since I left Syracuse.
    When I finally had an opening, I thanked her and said I’d like to meet and talk about her remarkable family. She was flattered and insisted that I come over for lunch.
    Thus began an unusual friendship that opened my eyes to many things, not the least of which was Southern cuisine.
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    M y mother died when I was thirteen. She was anorexic; there were only four pallbearers. She weighed less than a hundred pounds and looked like a ghost. Anorexia was only one of her many problems.
    Because she did not eat, she did not cook. I cannot remember a single hot meal she prepared for me. Breakfast was a bowl of Cheerios, lunch a cold sandwich, dinner some frozen mess I usually ate in front of the television, alone. I was an only child and my father was never at home, which was a relief because his presence caused friction between them. He preferred to eat, she did not. They feuded over everything.
    I never went hungry; the pantry was always full of