Sycamore Row - John Grisham

jury also ruled against nasty little thugs like Dennis Yawkey and his notions of violent
racism. That jury has spoken, loud and clear and forever. It would be a shame if this
Parole Board gave Yawkey a slap on the wrist and sent him home. Frankly, he needs all
the time here at Parchman you folks can possibly give him. Thank you.”
Yawkey was staring at him with a smirk, still victorious over the firebombing and
wanting more. His cockiness was not missed by several members of the Parole Board.
Jake returned the stare, then backed away and escorted Carla back to their seats.
“Sheriff Walls?” the chairman said, and Ozzie strutted to the lectern, his badge
glistening over his coat pocket.
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I’m Ozzie Walls, sheriff of Ford County, and I don’t want
this boy back home causin’ trouble. Frankly, he should be in a federal pen servin’ a
much longer sentence, but we don’t have time to get into that. I have an ongoin’
investigation into what happened three years ago, as does the FBI over in Oxford. We
ain’t through, okay? And it would be a mistake to release him. In my opinion, he’ll just
pick up where he left off. Thank you.”
Ozzie walked away, and walked as close to the Yawkey family as possible. He and
Prather stood against the wall behind them, and when the next case was called, they
eased out with a few other spectators. Jake and Carla met them outside the room and
thanked them for making the trip. They had not expected the sheriff to appear. They
chatted a few minutes before Ozzie and Deputy Prather left to check on an inmate who
was headed back to Clanton.
Floyd Green found Jake and Carla and seemed somewhat agitated. “I think it’ll
work,” he said. “Follow me, and you owe me one.” They left one building and entered
another. Beside the office of an assistant warden, two armed guards stood by a door. A
man with a short-sleeve shirt and clip-on tie said gruffly, “You got ten minutes.”
And a pleasure to meet you, Jake thought. One of the guards opened the door. “Wait
here,” Jake said to Carla.
“I’ll stay with her,” Floyd Green said.
The room was tiny, windowless, more of a closet than an office. Handcuffed to a
metal chair was Marvis Lang, age twenty-eight, wearing the standard prison whites
with a faded blue stripe down each leg. He seemed quite relaxed, low in the chair, one
leg crossed over the other. He had a bushy Afro and a goatee.
“Marvis, I’m Jake Brigance, a lawyer from Clanton,” Jake said as he slid the other
chair close and sat down.
Marvis smiled politely and awkwardly offered his right hand, which was secured to
the chair arm just like his left. They managed a firm handshake in spite of the restraints.
Jake asked, “You remember your lawyer, Nick Norton?”
“Sort of. Been a while. I ain’t had much reason to talk to him.”
“I have a letter in my pocket signed by Nick giving me the authority to talk to you, if
you want to see it.”
“I’ll talk. Let’s talk. What you wanna talk about?”
“Your mother, Lettie. Has she been to see you recently?”
“She was here last Sunday.”