Read Online The Last Juror by John Grisham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Grisham
Tags: Fiction, legal thriller
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sills.
“I guess they’re losin’ their touch,” he said, gazing down at the excitement.
“They?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“The Padgitts.” He said this with a certain smugness, then allowed it to hang in the air for my benefit.
“You’re sure it’s the Padgitts?” I asked.
Baggy thought he knew everything, and he was right about half the time. He smirked and grunted, took another sip, then said, “They’ve been burnin’ buildings forever. It’s one of their scams—insurance fraud. They’ve made a bloody fortune off insurance companies.” A quick sip. “Odd, though, that they would use gasoline. Your more talented arsonists stay away from gasoline because it’s easily detected. You know that?”
“No.”
“True. A good fire marshal can smell gasoline within minutes after the blaze is out. Gasoline means arson. Arson means no insurance payoffs.” A sip. “Of course,in this case, they probably wanted you to know it’s arson. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Nothing made sense at that moment. I was too confused to say much.
Baggy was content to do the talking. “Come to think of it, that’s probably the reason it wasn’t detonated. They wanted you to see it. If it went off, then the county wouldn’t have the
Times,
which might upset some folks. Might make some other folks happy.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, that explains it better. It was a subtle act of intimidation.”
“Subtle?”
“Yes, compared to what could’ve been. Believe me, those guys know how to burn buildings. You were lucky.”
I noticed how he had quickly disassociated himself from the paper. It was “I” who was lucky, not “we.”
The bourbon had found its way to the brain and was loosening the tongue. “About three years ago, maybe four, there was a large fire at one of their lumber mills, the one on Highway 401, just off the island. They never burn anything on the island because they don’t want the authorities snoopin’ around. Anyway, the insurance company smelled a rat, refused to pay, so Lucien Wilbanks filed this big lawsuit. It came to trial, in front of the Honorable Reed Loopus. I heard ever’ word of it.” A long, satisfying drink.
“Who won?”
He ignored me completely because the story was notyet properly laid out. “It was a big fire. The boys from Clanton took off with all their trucks. The volunteers from Karaway took off, ever’ yokel with a siren went screamin’ off toward Padgitt Island. Nothin’ like a good fire around here to get the boys worked up. That and a bomb, I guess, but I can’t remember the last bomb.”
“And so …”
“Highway 401 runs through some lowland near Padgitt Island, real swampy. There’s a bridge over Massey’s Creek, and when the fire trucks came flyin’ up to the bridge they found a pickup layin’ on its side, like it had rolled over. The road was completely blocked; couldn’t go around because there was nothin’ but swamps and ditches.” He smacked his lips and poured more from the bottle. It was time for me to say something, but whatever I said would be completely ignored anyway. This was the way Baggy preferred to be prompted.
“Whose pickup was it?” I asked, the words barely out of my mouth before he was shaking his head as if the question was completely off the mark.
“The fire was ragin’ like hell. Fire trucks backed up all along 401 because some clown had flipped his pickup. Never found him. No sign of a driver. No sign of an owner because there was no registration. No tags. The vehicle ID had been sanded off. The truck was never claimed. Wasn’t damaged much either. All this came out at trial. Ever’body knew the Padgitts set the fire, flipped one of their stolen trucks to block the road, but the insurance company couldn’t prove it.”
Down below Sheriff Coley had found his bullhorn. He was asking the people to please stay off the street in front of our office. His shrieking voice added urgency to the situation.
“So
“I guess they’re losin’ their touch,” he said, gazing down at the excitement.
“They?” I was almost afraid to ask.
“The Padgitts.” He said this with a certain smugness, then allowed it to hang in the air for my benefit.
“You’re sure it’s the Padgitts?” I asked.
Baggy thought he knew everything, and he was right about half the time. He smirked and grunted, took another sip, then said, “They’ve been burnin’ buildings forever. It’s one of their scams—insurance fraud. They’ve made a bloody fortune off insurance companies.” A quick sip. “Odd, though, that they would use gasoline. Your more talented arsonists stay away from gasoline because it’s easily detected. You know that?”
“No.”
“True. A good fire marshal can smell gasoline within minutes after the blaze is out. Gasoline means arson. Arson means no insurance payoffs.” A sip. “Of course,in this case, they probably wanted you to know it’s arson. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
Nothing made sense at that moment. I was too confused to say much.
Baggy was content to do the talking. “Come to think of it, that’s probably the reason it wasn’t detonated. They wanted you to see it. If it went off, then the county wouldn’t have the
Times,
which might upset some folks. Might make some other folks happy.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, that explains it better. It was a subtle act of intimidation.”
“Subtle?”
“Yes, compared to what could’ve been. Believe me, those guys know how to burn buildings. You were lucky.”
I noticed how he had quickly disassociated himself from the paper. It was “I” who was lucky, not “we.”
The bourbon had found its way to the brain and was loosening the tongue. “About three years ago, maybe four, there was a large fire at one of their lumber mills, the one on Highway 401, just off the island. They never burn anything on the island because they don’t want the authorities snoopin’ around. Anyway, the insurance company smelled a rat, refused to pay, so Lucien Wilbanks filed this big lawsuit. It came to trial, in front of the Honorable Reed Loopus. I heard ever’ word of it.” A long, satisfying drink.
“Who won?”
He ignored me completely because the story was notyet properly laid out. “It was a big fire. The boys from Clanton took off with all their trucks. The volunteers from Karaway took off, ever’ yokel with a siren went screamin’ off toward Padgitt Island. Nothin’ like a good fire around here to get the boys worked up. That and a bomb, I guess, but I can’t remember the last bomb.”
“And so …”
“Highway 401 runs through some lowland near Padgitt Island, real swampy. There’s a bridge over Massey’s Creek, and when the fire trucks came flyin’ up to the bridge they found a pickup layin’ on its side, like it had rolled over. The road was completely blocked; couldn’t go around because there was nothin’ but swamps and ditches.” He smacked his lips and poured more from the bottle. It was time for me to say something, but whatever I said would be completely ignored anyway. This was the way Baggy preferred to be prompted.
“Whose pickup was it?” I asked, the words barely out of my mouth before he was shaking his head as if the question was completely off the mark.
“The fire was ragin’ like hell. Fire trucks backed up all along 401 because some clown had flipped his pickup. Never found him. No sign of a driver. No sign of an owner because there was no registration. No tags. The vehicle ID had been sanded off. The truck was never claimed. Wasn’t damaged much either. All this came out at trial. Ever’body knew the Padgitts set the fire, flipped one of their stolen trucks to block the road, but the insurance company couldn’t prove it.”
Down below Sheriff Coley had found his bullhorn. He was asking the people to please stay off the street in front of our office. His shrieking voice added urgency to the situation.
“So
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