Sycamore Row - John Grisham

the sofa, and took off in the Saab. At Oxford, they zipped through a fast-food drive-in
and got coffee and biscuits. An hour west of Oxford, the hills flattened into the Delta.
They raced along highways that cut through fields white with late cotton. Giant, insectlike
cotton pickers crept through the fields, devouring four rows at a time while trailers
waited to collect their harvest. An old sign announced, “Parchman 5 Miles Ahead,” and
before long the fencing of the prison came into view.
Jake had been there before. During his last semester as a law student, a professor of
criminal procedure organized his annual field trip to the state’s infamous penitentiary.
Jake and his classmates spent a few hours listening to administrators and gawking at
death row inmates in the distance. The highlight had been a group interview with Jerry
Ray Mason, a condemned killer whose case they’d studied and who was scheduled to
make a final walk to the gas chamber in less than three months. Mason had stubbornly
maintained his innocence, though there was no proof of this. He had arrogantly
predicted the State would fail in its efforts, but he’d been proven wrong. On two
occasions since law school, Jake made the drive to visit clients. At the moment, he had
four at Parchman and three locked away in the federal system.
He and Carla parked near an administration building and went inside. They followed
signs and found a hallway filled with people who looked as though they’d rather be
elsewhere. Jake signed in and was given a document titled “Parole Hearings—Docket.”
His man was number three on the list. Dennis Yawkey—10:00 a.m. Hoping to avoid the
Yawkey family, Jake and Carla climbed the stairs to the second floor and eventually
found the office of Floyd Green, a law school classmate now working for the state prison
system. Jake had called ahead and was asking a favor. Floyd was trying to help. Jake
produced a letter from Nick Norton, the Clanton lawyer who represented Marvis Lang,
currently residing in Camp No. 29, maximum security. Floyd took the letter and said he
would try to arrange a meeting.
The hearings began at 9:00 a.m. in a large, bare room with folding tables arranged in
a square, and behind them dozens of folding chairs in haphazard rows. Along the front
table, the chairman of the Parole Board and its four other members sat together. Five
white men, all appointed by the Governor.
Jake and Carla entered with a stream of spectators and looked for seats. To his left,
Jake caught a glimpse of Jim Yawkey, father of the inmate, but they did not make eye
contact. He took Carla by the arm and they moved to the right, found seats, and waited.
First on the docket was a man who’d served thirty-six years for a murder committed
during a bank robbery. He was brought in and his handcuffs were removed. He quickly
scanned the audience looking for family members. White, age about sixty, long neat
hair, a nice-looking guy, and, as always, Jake marveled at how anyone could survive for
so long in a brutal place like Parchman. His parole investigator went through a report
that made him sound like a model prisoner. There were some questions from the Parole
Board. The next speaker was the daughter of the bank teller who’d been murdered, and
she began by saying this was the third time she had appeared before the Parole Board.
The third time she’d been forced to relive the nightmare. Choking back her emotions, she
poignantly described what it was like being a ten-year-old girl and learning that her