The Last Juror by John Grisham

it. Without touching the cigar with his hands, he flicked his tongue somehow and cocked his head, and it slid to the right side of his mouth.
    “You ever eat goat?” he asked.
    “Say what?”
    “Goat?”
    “No. I didn’t know it was edible.”
    “We’re roastin’ one this afternoon. The first Friday of each month I throw a goat party at my cabin in the woods. Some music, cold beer, fun and games, about fifty folks, all carefully selected by me, the cream of society. No doctors, no bankers, no country club assholes. A classy bunch. Why don’t you stop by? I got a firin’ range out behind the pond. I’ll take the pistol and we’ll figure out how to use the damned thing.”
______
    H arry Rex’s ten-minute drive into the country took almost half an hour, and that was on the paved county road. When I crossed the “third creek past Heck’s old Union 76 station,” I left the asphalt and turned onto gravel. For a while it was a nice gravel road with mailboxes indicating some hope of civilization, but after three miles the mail route stopped and so did the gravel. When I saw a “rusted-out Massey Ferguson tractor with no tires,” I turned left onto a dirt road. His crude map referred to it as a pig trail, though I had never seen one of those. After the pig trail disappeared into a dense forest, I gave serious thought to turning back. My Spitfire wasn’t designed for the terrain. By the time I saw the roof of his cabin, I’d been driving for forty-five minutes.
    There was a barbed-wire fence with an open metal gate, and I stopped there because the young man with the shotgun wanted me to. He kept it on his shoulder as he looked scornfully at my car. “What kind is it?” he grunted.
    “Triumph Spitfire. It’s British.” I was smiling, trying not to offend him. Why did a goat party need armed security? He had the rustic look of someone who’d never seen a car made in another country.
    “What’s your name?” he asked.
    “Willie Traynor.”
    I think the “Willie” made him feel better, so he nodded at the gate. “Nice car,” he said as I drove through.
    The pickup trucks outnumbered the cars. Parking was haphazard in a field in front of the cabin. Merle Haggard was wailing from two speakers placed in the windows. One group of guests huddled over a pit where smoke was rising and the goat was roasting. Another group was tossing horseshoes beside the cabin. Three well-dressed ladies were on the porch, sipping something that was certainly not beer. Harry Rex appeared and greetly me warmly.
    “Who’s the boy with the shotgun?” I asked.
    “Oh him. That’s Duffy, my first wife’s nephew.”
    “Why is he out there?” If the goat party included something illegal, I at least wanted some notice.
    “Don’t worry. Duffy ain’t all there, and the gun ain’t loaded. He’s been guardin’ nothin’ for years.”
    I smiled as if this made perfect sense. He guided me to the pit where I saw my first goat, dead or alive. With the exception of head and hide, it appeared to be intact. I was introduced to the many chefs. With each name I got an occupation—a lawyer, a bail bondsman, a car dealer, a farmer. As I watched the goat spin slowly on a spit, I soon learned that there were many competingtheories on how to properly barbecue one. Harry Rex handed me a beer and we moved on to the cabin, speaking to anyone we bumped into. A secretary, a “crooked real estate agent,” the current wife of Harry Rex. Each seemed pleased to meet the new owner of the Times.
    The cabin sat on the edge of a muddy pond, the kind snakes find attractive. A deck protruded over the water, and there we worked the crowd. Harry Rex took great delight in introducing me to his friends. “He’s a good boy, not your typical Ivy League asshole,” he said more than once. I didn’t like to be referred to as a “boy,” but then I was getting used to it.
    I settled into a small group that included two ladies who looked as though they’d