The Last Juror by John Grisham Page B

though I was making some real progress. Chitlins and moonshine in one day were no small feat. We walked a hundred yards or so down an old field road, through some woods, then came to a clearing. Between two magnificent oaks Harry Rex had constructed a semicircle wall of hay bales twenty feet high. In the center was a white bedsheet, and in the middle of it was the crude outline of a man. An attacker. The enemy. The target.
    Not surprisingly, Rafe whipped out his own handgun. Harry Rex was handling mine. “Here’s the deal,” he said, beginning the lesson. “This is a double action revolver with six cartridges. Press here and the cylinder pops out.” Rafe reached over and deftly loaded six bullets, something he had obviously done many, many times. “Snap it back like this, and you’re ready to fire.”
    We were about fifty feet from the target. I could still hear the music from the cabin. What would the other guests think when they heard gunfire? Nothing. It happened all the time.
    Rafe took my handgun and faced the target. “For starters, spread your legs to shoulders’ width, bend the knees slightly, use both hands like this, and squeeze thetrigger with your right index finger.” He demonstrated as he spoke, and, of course, everything looked easy. I was standing less than five feet away when the gun fired, and the sharp crack jolted my nerves. Why did it have to be so loud?
    I had never heard live gunfire.
    The second shot hit the target square in the chest, and the next four landed around the midsection. He turned to me, opened the cylinder, spun out the empty cartridges, and said, “Now you do it.”
    My hands were shaking as I took the gun. It was warm and the smell of gunpowder hung heavy around us. I managed to shove in the six cartridges and snap the cylinder shut without hurting anyone. I faced the target, lifted the gun with both hands, crouched like someone in a bad movie, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger. It felt and sounded like a small bomb of some sort.
    “You gotta keep your eyes open, dammit,” Harry Rex growled.
    “What did I hit?”
    “That hill beyond the oak trees.”
    “Try it again,” Rafe said.
    I tried to look down the gunsight but it was shaking too badly to be of any use. I squeezed the trigger again, this time with my eyes open, waiting to see where my bullet hit. I noticed no entry wound anywhere near the target.
    “He missed the sheet,” Rafe mumbled behind me.
    “Fire again,” Harry Rex said.
    I did, and again couldn’t see where the bullet landed. Rafe gently took my left arm and eased me forward another ten feet. “You’re doin’ fine,” he said. “We got plenty of ammo.”
    I missed the hay on the fourth shot, and Harry Rex said, “I guess the Padgitts are safe after all.”
    “It’s the moonshine,” I said.
    “It just takes practice,” Rafe said, moving me forward yet again. My hands were sweating, my heart was galloping away, my ears were ringing.
    On number five I hit the sheet, barely, in the top right-hand corner, at least six feet from the target. On number six I missed everything again and heard the bullet hit a branch up in one of the oaks.
    “Nice shot,” Harry Rex said. “You almost hit a squirrel.”
    “Shut up,” I said.
    “Relax,” Rafe said. “You’re too tense.” He helped me reload, and this time he squeezed my hands around the gun. “Breathe deeply,” he said over my shoulder. “Exhale right before you pull the trigger.” He steadied the gun as I looked down the sight, and when it fired the target took a hit in the groin.
    “Now we’re in business,” Harry Rex said.
    Rafe released me, and, like a gunslinger at high noon, I unloaded the next five shots. All hit the sheet, one would’ve taken off the target’s ear. Rafe approved and we loaded up again.
    Harry Rex had a 9-millimeter Glock automatic from his vast collection, and as the sun slowly disappeared wetook turns blasting away. He was good and had no trouble drilling