The Last Juror Read Online Free PDF Page B

of mature weeds, and enoughanimals to stock a game preserve. Rabbits, squirrels, skunks, possums, raccoons, a million birds, a frightening assortment of green and black snakes—all non-poisonous I was reassured—and dozens of cats. But no dogs. The Hocutts hated dogs. Each cat had a name, and a major clause in my verbal lease was that I would respect the cats.
    Respect them I did. The four-room loft apartment was spacious and clean and cost me the ridiculous sum of $50 a month. If they wanted their cats respected at that price, fine with me.
    Their father, Miles Hocutt, had been an eccentric doctor in Clanton for decades. Their mother died during childbirth, and, according to local legend, Dr. Hocutt became very possessive of the children after her death. To protect them from the world, he concocted one of the biggest lies ever told in Ford County. He explained to his children that insanity ran deeply in the family, and thus they should never marry lest they produce some hideous strain of idiot offspring. His children worshiped him, believed him, and were probably already exposed to some measure of unbalance. They never married. The son, Max Hocutt, was eighty-one when he leased me the apartment. The twins, Wilma and Gilma, were seventy-seven, and Melberta, the baby, was seventy-three and completely out of her mind.
    It was Gilma, I think, who was peeking from the kitchen window as I descended the wooden stairway at midnight. A cat was asleep on the bottom step, directlyin my path, but I respectfully stepped over it. I wanted to kick it into the street.
    Two cars were parked in the garage. One was my Spitfire, top up to keep the cats out, and the other was a long, shiny black Mercedes with red-and-white butcher knives painted on the doors. Under the knives were phone numbers in green paint. Someone had once told Mr. Max Hocutt that he could completely write off the cost of a new car, any car, if he used it for business and some sort of logo was painted on the doors. He bought a new Mercedes and became a knife sharpener. He said his tools were in the trunk.
    The car was ten years old and had been driven less than eight thousand miles. Their father had also preached to them the sinfulness of women driving, so Mr. Max was the chauffeur.
    I eased the Spitfire down the gravel drive and waved at Gilma peeking from behind the curtain. She jerked her head away and disappeared. The jail was six blocks away. I had slept for about thirty minutes.
    Danny Padgitt was being fingerprinted when I arrived. The Sheriff’s office was in the front section of the jail, and it was packed with deputies and reserves and volunteer firemen and everybody with access to a uniform and a police scanner. Wiley Meek met me on the front sidewalk.
    “It’s Danny Padgitt!” he said with great excitement.
    I stopped for a second and tried to think. “Who?”
    “Danny Padgitt, from the island.”
    I’d been in Ford County less than three months andhad yet to meet a single Padgitt. They, as always, kept to themselves. But I’d heard various installments of their legend, with much more to follow. Telling Padgitt stories was a common form of entertainment in Ford County.
    Wiley gushed on, “I got some great shots just as they got him out of the car. Had blood all over him. Great pictures! The girl’s dead!”
    “What girl?”
    “The one he killed. Raped her too, at least that’s the rumor.”
    Danny Padgitt, I mumbled to myself as the sensational story began to sink in. I had my first glimpse of the headline, no doubt the boldest one the Times had run in many years. Poor old Spot had shied away from the jolting stories. Poor old Spot had gone bankrupt. I had other plans.
    We pushed our way inside and looked around for Sheriff Coley. I’d met him twice during my brief stint with the Times and I had been impressed with his polite and warm nature. He called me mister and said sir and ma’am to everyone, always with a smile. He’d been the Sheriff