The Last Juror by John Grisham Page A

never seen one. I’ve heard of them, and I think they’re used by judges to shut up the lawyers and the litigants.”
    “So they don’t apply to newspapers?”
    “Never. Wilbanks was grandstanding, that’s all. The guy is a member of the ACLU, only one in Ford County. He understands the First Amendment. There’s no way a court can tell a newspaper not to print something. He was having a bad day, it was apparent his client was staying in jail, so he had to showboat. Typical maneuver by lawyers. They teach it in law school.”
    “So you don’t think we’ll get sued?”
    “Hell no. Look, first of all, there’s no lawsuit. We didn’t libel or defame anyone. Sure we got kinda loose with some of the facts, but it was all small stuff, and it was probably true anyway. Second, if Wilbanks had a lawsuit he would have to file it here, in Ford County. Same courthouse, same courtroom, same Judge. The Honorable Reed Loopus, who, this morning, read our stories and declared them to be just fine. The lawsuit was shot down before Wilbanks typed the first word. Brilliant.”
    I certainly didn’t feel brilliant. I’d been worrying about the million dollars in damages and wondering where I might find such a sum. The bourbon was finally settling in and I relaxed. It was Thursday night in Clanton and few people were out. Every shop and store and office around the square was locked tight.
    Baggy, as usual, had been relaxed for a long time. Margaret had whispered to me that he often had bourbonfor breakfast. He and a one-legged lawyer called Major liked to have a nip with their coffee. They would meet on the balcony outside Major’s office across the square and smoke and drink and argue law and politics while the courthouse came to life. Major lost a leg at Guadalcanal, according to his version of the Second War. His law practice was specialized to the point that he did nothing but type wills for the elderly. He typed them himself—had no need for a secretary. He worked about as hard as Baggy, and the two were often seen in the courtroom, half-soused, watching yet another trial.
    “I guess Mackey Don’s got the boy in the suite,” Baggy said, his words starting to slur.
    “The suite?” I asked.
    “Yeah—have you seen the jail?”
    “No.”
    “It’s not fit for animals. No heat, no air, plumbing works about half the time. Filthy conditions. Rotten food. And that’s for the whites. The blacks are at the other end, all in one long cell. Their only toilet is a hole in the floor.”
    “I think I’ll pass.”
    “It’s an embarrassment to the county, but, sadly, it’s the same in most places around here. Anyway, there’s one little cell with air conditioning and carpet on the floor, one clean bed, color television, good food. It’s called the suite and Mackey Don puts his favorites there.”
    I was mentally taking notes. To Baggy, it was business as usual. To me, a recent college attendee andsometime journalism student, a real muckraking story was in the works. “You think Padgitt’s in the suite?”
    “Probably. He came to court in his own clothes.”
    “As opposed to?”
    “Those orange jail coveralls everybody else wears. You haven’t seen them?”
    Yes, I had seen them. I had been in court one time, a month or so earlier, and I suddenly recalled seeing two or three defendants sitting in the courtroom, waiting for a judge, all wearing different shades of faded orange coveralls. “Ford County Jail” was printed across the front and back of the shirts.
    Baggy took a sip and expounded. “You see, for the preliminary hearings and such, the defendants, if they’re still in jail, always come to court dressed like prisoners. In the old days, Mackey Don would make them wear the coveralls even during their trials. Lucien Wilbanks got a guilty verdict reversed on the grounds that the jury was predisposed to convict since his client certainly looked guilty as hell in his orange jail suit. And he was right. Kinda hard to