Sycamore Row - John Grisham

he pretends to be insane. At one point, I fled Clanton with our four-year-old daughter to
stay with my parents. My husband carried a gun, still does, and several of his friends
acted as bodyguards. Finally, when he was at the office one night, during the trial, these
people”—and she pointed at Dennis Yawkey—“torched our house with a gasoline bomb.
Dennis Yawkey might not have been there in person, but he was a member of the gang,
he was one of the thugs. Too cowardly to show his face, always hiding in the night. It is
hard to believe that we are here, only twenty-seven months later, watching as this
criminal tries to free himself from prison.”
She took a deep breath and flipped a page. Beautiful women rarely appeared at
parole hearings, which were 90 percent male anyway. Carla had their complete
attention. She stiffened her back and continued: “Our home was built in the 1890s by a
railroad man and his family. He died the first Christmas Eve in the house and his family
owned it until it was finally abandoned twenty years ago. It was considered a historic
home, though when we bought it there were holes in the floor and cracks in the roof. For
three years, with every dime we could borrow, Jake and I poured our lives into that
house. We would work all day and then paint until midnight. Our vacations were spent
hanging wallpaper and staining floors. Jake bartered legal fees for plumbing work and
landscaping and building supplies. His father added a guest room in the attic, and my
father laid the brick on the rear patio. I could go on for hours, but time is scarce. Seven
years ago, Jake and I brought our daughter home and put her in the nursery.” Her voice
cracked slightly, but she swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “Luckily, she was not in the
nursery when our home was destroyed. I’ve often wondered if these men would have
cared. I doubt it. They were determined to do as much damage to us as possible.”
Another pause and Jake put a hand on her shoulder. She continued, “Three years after
the fire, we still think of all the things we lost, including our dog. We’re still trying to
replace things that can never be replaced, still trying to explain to our daughter what
happened, and why. She’s too young to understand. Often, I think we’re still in a state
of disbelief. And I find it hard to believe that we’re here today, forced to relive this
nightmare, like all victims, I guess, but here to stare at the criminal who tried to destroy
our lives, and to ask you to enforce his punishment. A five-year sentence for Dennis
Yawkey was much too light, too easy. Please, make him serve all of it.”
She stepped to her right as Jake assumed the lectern. He glanced over at the Yawkey
family and noticed that Ozzie and Prather were now standing near them, as if to say,
“You want trouble, here it is.” Jake cleared his throat and said, “Carla and I thank the
Parole Board for this opportunity to speak. I’ll be brief. Dennis Yawkey and his pathetic
little band of thugs were successful in burning our home and seriously disrupting our
lives, but they were not successful in harming us, as they had planned. Nor were they
successful in achieving their bigger goal, which was to destroy the pursuit of justice.
Because I represented Carl Lee Hailey, a black man who shot and killed the two white
men who raped and tried to kill his daughter, they—Dennis Yawkey and his ilk and
various known and unknown members of the Klan—tried repeatedly to intimidate and
harm me, my family, my friends, even my employees. They failed miserably. Justice was
served, fairly and wonderfully, when an all-white jury ruled in favor of my client. That