The Last Juror by John Grisham Page A

who looked as though they’d spent years in the local honky-tonks. Heavy eye makeup, teased hair, tight clothing, and they immediately took an interest in me. The conversation began with the bomb and the assault on Wiley Meek and the prevailing cloud of fear the Padgitts had spread over the county. I acted as if it was just another routine episode in my long and colorful career in journalism. They drilled me with questions and I did more talking than I wanted to.
    Harry Rex rejoined us and handed me a suspicious-looking jar of clear liquid. “Sip it slowly,” he said, much like a father.
    “What is it?” I asked. I noticed that others were watching.
    “Peach brandy.”
    “Why is it in a fruit jar?” I asked.
    “That’s the way they make it,” he said.
    “It’s moonshine,” one of the painted ladies said. The voice of experience.
    Not often would these rural folks see an “Ivy Leaguer” take his first drink of moonshine, so the crowd drew closer. I was certain I had consumed more alcohol in the prior five years at Syracuse than anyone else present, so I threw caution to the wind. I lifted the jar, said, “Cheers,” and took a very small sip. I smacked my lips, said, “Not bad.” And tried to smile like a freshman at a fraternity party.
    The burning began at the lips, the point of initial contact, and spread rapidly across the tongue and gums and by the time it hit the back of my throat I thought I was on fire. Everyone was watching. Harry Rex took a sip from his jar.
    “Where does it come from?” I asked, as nonchalantly as possible, flames escaping through my teeth.
    “Not far from here,” someone said.
    Scorched and numb, I took another sip, quite anxious for the crowd to ignore me for a while. Oddly enough, the third sip revealed a hint of peach flavoring, as if the taste buds had to be shocked before they could work. When it was apparent that I was not going to breathe fire, vomit, or scream, the conversation resumed. Harry Rex, ever anxious to speed along my education, thrust forward a plate of fried something. “Have one of these,” he said.
    “What is it?” I asked, suspicious.
    Both of my painted ladies curled up their noses andturned away, as if the smell might make them ill. “Chitlins,” one of them said.
    “What’s that?”
    Harry Rex popped one in his mouth to prove they weren’t poison, then shoved the plate closer to me. “Go ahead,” he said, chomping away at this delicacy.
    Folks were watching again, so I picked out the smallest piece and put it in my mouth. The texture was rubbery, the taste was acrid and foul. The smell had a barnyard essence. I chewed as hard as possible, choked it down, then followed with a gulp of moonshine. And for a few seconds I thought I might faint.
    “Hog guts, boy,” Harry Rex said, slapping me on the back. He threw another one in his large mouth and offered me the plate. “Where’s the goat?” I managed to ask. Anything would be an improvement.
    Whatever happened to beer and pizza? Why would these people eat and drink such disagreeable things?
    Harry Rex walked away, the putrid smell of the chitlins following him like smoke. I placed the fruit jar on the railing, hoping it would tumble and disappear. I watched others pass around their moonshine, one jar usually good for an entire group. There was absolutely no concern over germs and such. No bacteria could’ve survived within three feet of the vile brew.
    I excused myself from the deck, said I needed to find a restroom. Harry Rex emerged from the back door of the cabin holding two pistols and a box of ammo. “We’d better take a few shots before it gets dark,” he said. “Follow me.”
    We stopped at the goat spit where a cowboy named Rafe joined us. “Rafe’s my runner,” Harry Rex said as the three of us headed for the woods.
    “What’s a runner?” I asked.
    “Runs cases.”
    “I’m the ambulance chaser,” Rafe said helpfully. “Although usually the ambulance is behind