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Read the first chapter of John Grisham's Sparring Partners | Square Books
(1) It was one of those raw, windy, dreary Monday afternoons in February when gloom settled over the land and seasonal depression was rampant. Court was not in session. The phone wasn’t ringing. Petty criminals and other potential clients were busy elsewhere with no thoughts whatsoever of hiring lawyers. The occasional caller was more likely to be a man or woman still reeling from holiday overspending and seeking advice about unpaid credit card accounts. Those were quickly sent next door, or across the square, or anywhere. Jake was at his desk upstairs, making little progress with the stack of paperwork he’d been neglecting for weeks, even months. With no court or hearings scheduled for days, it should have been a good time to catch up with the old stuff—the fish files that every lawyer had for some reason said yes to a year ago and now just wanted to go away. The upside of a small-town law practice, especially in your hometown, was that everyone knew your name, and that was what you wanted. It was important to be well thought of and well liked, with a good reputation. When your neighbors got in trouble, you wanted to be the man they called. The downside was that their cases were always mundane and rarely profitable. But, you couldn’t say no. The gossip was fierce and unrelenting, and a lawyer who turned his back on his friends would not last long. His funk was interrupted when Alicia, his current part-time secretary, chimed in through his desk phone. “Jake, there’s a couple here to see you.” A couple. Married but wanting to get unmarried. Another cheap divorce. He glanced at his daily planner though he knew there was nothing. “Do they have an appointment?” he asked, but only to remind Alicia that she shouldn’t be bothering him with the foot traffic. “No. But they’re very nice and they say it’s really urgent. They’re not going away, said it wouldn’t take but a few minutes.” Jake loathed being bullied in his own office. On a busier day he would take a stand and get rid of them. “Do they appear to have any money?” The answer was always no. “Well, they do seem rather affluent.” Affluent? In Ford County. Somewhat intriguing. Alicia continued, “They’re from Memphis and just passing through, but, again, they say it’s very important.” “Any idea what it is?” “No.” Well, it wouldn’t be a divorce if they lived in Memphis. He ran through a list of possibilities—Grandma’s will, some old family land, maybe a kid busted for drugs over at Ole Miss. Since he was bored and mildly curious and needed an excuse to avoid the paperwork, he asked, “Did you tell them that I’m tied up in a settlement conference call with a dozen lawyers?” “No.” “Did you tell them I’m due in federal court over in Oxford and can only spare a moment or two?” “No.” “Did you tell them that I’m slammed with other appointments?” “No. It’s pretty obvious the place is empty and the phone isn’t ringing.” “Where are you?” “I’m in the kitchen, so I can talk.” “Okay, okay. Make some fresh coffee and put ’em in the conference room. I’ll be down in ten minutes.” (2) The first thing Jake noticed was their tans. They had obviously been somewhere in the sun. No one else in Clanton had a tan in February. The second thing he noticed was the woman’s smart short haircut, with a touch of gray, stylish and obviously expensive. He noticed the handsome sports coat on the gentleman. Both were well dressed and nicely groomed, a departure from the usual walk-ins. He shook their hands as he got their names. Gene and Kathy Roupp, from Memphis. Late fifties, quite pleasant, with confident smiles showing rows of well-maintained teeth. Jake could easily picture them on a Florida golf course living the good life behind gates and guards. “What can I do for you folks?” Jake asked. Gene flashed a smile and went first. “Well, sad to say, but we’re not here as potential clients.” Jake kept it loose with a fake smile and an aw-shucks shrug, as if to say, What the hell? What lawyer needs to get paid for his time? He’d give them about ten more minutes and one cup before showing them the door. “We just got back from a month in Costa Rica, one of our favorites. Ever been to Costa Rica?” “No. I hear it’s great.” He’d heard nothing of the sort but what else could he say? He would never admit that he had left the United States exactly once in his thirty-eight years. Foreign travel was only a dream. “We love it down there, a real paradise. Beautiful beaches, mountains, rain forests, great food. We have some friends who own houses—real estate is pretty cheap. The people are delightful, educated, almost all speak English.” Jake loathed the game of travel trivia because he’d never been anywhere. The local doctors were the worst—always bragging about the hottest new resorts. Kathy was itching to move along the narrative and chimed in with “The golf is incredible, so many fabulous courses.” Jake didn’t play golf because he was not a member of the Clanton Country Club. Its membership included too many doctors and climbers and families with old money. He smiled and nodded at her and waited for one of them to continue. From a bag he couldn’t see she whipped out a pound of coffee in a shiny can and said, “Here’s a little gift, San Pedro Select, our favorite. Incredible. We haul it back by the case.” Jake took it to be polite. In lieu of cash fees, he had been paid with watermelons, fresh venison, firewood, repairs to his cars, and more bartered goods and services than he cared to remember. His best lawyer buddy, Harry Rex Vonner, had once taken a John Deere mower as a fee, though it soon broke down. Another lawyer, one who was no longer practicing, had taken sexual favors from a divorce client. When he lost the case, she filed an ethics complaint alleging “substandard performance.” Anyway, Jake admired the can and tried to read the Spanish. He noticed they had not touched their coffee, and he was suddenly worried that perhaps they were connoisseurs and his office brew wasn’t quite up to their standards. Gene resumed with “So, two weeks ago we were at one of our favorite eco-lodges, high in the mountains, deep in the rain forest, a small place with only thirty rooms, incredible views.” How many times might they use the word “incredible”? “And we were having breakfast outdoors, watching the spider monkeys and parakeets, when a waiter stopped by our table to pour some more coffee. He was very friendly—” “People are so friendly down there and they love Americans,” Kathy interjected. How could they not? Gene nodded at the interruption and continued, “We chatted him up for a spell, said his name was Jason and that he was from Florida, been living down there for twenty years. We saw him again at lunch and talked to him some more. We saw him around after that and always enjoyed a friendly chat. The day before we were to check out, he asked us to join him for a glass of champagne in a little tree-house bar. He was off-duty and said the drinks were on him. The sunsets over the mountains are incredible, and we were having a good time, when all of a sudden he got serious.” Gene paused and looked at Kathy, who was ready to pounce with “He said he had something to tell us, something very confidential. Said his name was not really Jason and he wasn’t from Florida. He apologized for not being truthful. Said his name was really Mack Stafford, and that he was from Clanton, Mississippi.” Jake tried to remain nonchalant but it was impossible. His mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. The Roupps were watching closely for his reaction. Gene said, “I take it you know Mack Stafford.” Jake exhaled and wasn’t sure what to say. “Well, I’ll be damned.” “He said you guys were old friends,” Gene added. Stunned, Jake was still grasping for words. “I’m just glad he’s alive.” “So you know him well?” “Oh yes, quite well.”
Read the first chapter of John Grisham's Boys From Biloxi (out 10/18) | Square Books
Chapter 1 A hundred years ago, Biloxi was a bustling resort and fishing community on the Gulf Coast. Some of its 12,000 people worked in shipbuilding, some in the hotels and restaurants, but for the majority their livelihoods came from the ocean and its bountiful supply of seafood. The workers were immigrants from Eastern Europe, most from Croatia where their ancestors had fished for centuries in the Adriatic Sea. The men worked the schooners and trawlers harvesting seafood in the Gulf while the women and children shucked oysters and packed shrimp for ten cents an hour. There were forty canneries side by side in an area known as the Back Bay. In 1925, Biloxi shipped twenty million tons of seafood to the rest of the country. Demand was so great, and the supply so plentiful, that by then the city could boast of being the “Seafood Capital of the World.” The immigrants lived in either barracks or shotgun houses on Point Cadet, a peninsula on the eastern edge of Biloxi, around the corner from the beaches of the Gulf. Their parents and grandparents were Poles, Hungarians, Czechs, as well as Croatians, and they had been quick to assimilate into the ways of their new country. The children learned English, taught it to their parents, and rarely spoke the mother tongues at home. Most of their surnames had been unpronounceable to customs officials and had been modified and Americanized at the Port of New Orleans and Ellis Island. In Biloxi cemeteries, there were tombstones with names like Jurkovich, Horvat, Conovich, Kasich, Rodak, Babbich, and Peranich. They were scattered about and mixed with those of Smith, Brown, O’Keefe, Mattina, and Bellande. The immigrants were naturally clannish and self-protective, but by the second generation they were intermarrying with the early French families and all manner of Anglos. Prohibition was still the law, and throughout the Deep South most Baptists and Methodists righteously pursued the dry life. Along the Coast, though, those of European descent and Catholic persuasion took a dimmer view of abstinence. In fact, Biloxi was never dry, regardless of the Eighteenth Amendment. When Prohibition swept the country in 1920 Biloxi hardly noticed. Its bars, dives, honky-tonks, neighborhood pubs, and upscale clubs not only remained open but thrived. Speakeasies were not necessary because booze was so prevalent and no one, especially the police, cared. Biloxi became a popular destination for parched Southerners. Add the allure of the beaches, delicious seafood, a temperate climate, and nice hotels, and tourism flourished. A hundred years ago the Gulf Coast became known as “the poor man’s Riviera.” As always, unchecked vice proved contagious. Gambling joined drinking as the more popular illegal activities. Makeshift casinos sprang up in bars and clubs. Poker, blackjack, and dice games were in plain view and could be found everywhere. In the lobbies of the fashionable hotels there were rows of slot machines operating in blatant disregard for the law. Brothels had been around forever but kept undercover. Not so in Biloxi. They were plentiful and serviced not only their faithful johns but police and politicians as well. Many were in the same buildings as bars and gambling tables so that a young man looking for pleasure need only one stop. Though not flaunted as widely as sex and booze, drugs like marijuana and heroin were easy to find, especially in the music halls and lounges. Journalists often found it difficult to believe that such illegal activity was so openly accepted in a state so religiously conservative. They wrote articles about the wild and freewheeling ways in Biloxi, but nothing changed. No one with authority seemed to care. The prevailing mood was simply: “That’s just the Biloxi.” Crusading politicians railed against the crime and preachers thundered from the pulpits, but there was never a serious effort to “clean up the Coast.” The biggest obstacle facing any attempts at reform was the longtime corruption of the police and elected officials. The cops and deputies worked for meager salaries and were more than willing to take the cash and look the other way. The local politicians were easily bought off and prospered nicely. Everyone was making money, everyone was having fun, why ruin a good thing? No one forced the drinkers and gamblers to venture into Biloxi. If they didn’t like the vice there, they could stay home or go to New Orleans. But if they chose to spend their money in Biloxi, they knew they would not be bothered by the police. Criminal activity got a major boost in 1941 when the military built a large training base on land that was once the Biloxi Country Club. It was named Keesler Army Airfield, after a World War I hero from Mississippi, and the name soon became synonymous with bad behavior from tens of thousands of soldiers getting ready for war. The number of bars, casinos, brothels, and striptease joints increased dramatically. As did crime. The police were flooded with complaints from soldiers: rigged slots, floating roulette, cheating dealers, spiked drinks, and sticky-fingered prostitutes. Since the owners were making money they complained little, but there were plenty of fights, assaults on their girls, and broken windows and whiskey bottles. As always, the police protected the ones who paid them, and the jailhouse doors revolved with GIs. Over half a million of them passed through Keesler on their way to Europe and Japan, and later Korea and Vietnam. Biloxi vice was so profitable that it naturally attracted the usual assortment of characters from the underworld: career criminals, outlaws, bootleggers, smugglers, rumrunners, con men, hit men, pimps, leg-breakers, and a more ambitious class of crime lords. In the late 1950s, a branch of a loose-knit gang of violent thugs nicknamed the Dixie Mafia settled in Biloxi with plans to establish their turf and take over a share of the vice. Before the Dixie Mafia, there had always been jealousy among the club owners, but they were making money and life was good. There was a killing every now and then and the usual intimidation, but no serious efforts by one group to take over. Other than ambition and violence, the Dixie Mafia had little in common with the real Cosa Nostra. It was not a family, thus there was little loyalty. Its members—and the FBI was never certain who was a member, who was not, and how many claimed to be—were a loose assortment of bad boys and misfits who preferred crime over honest work. There was no established organization or hierarchy. No don at the top and leg-breakers at the bottom, with mid-level thugs in between. With time, one club owner managed to consolidate his holdings and assume more influence. He became “the Boss.” What the Dixie Mafia had was a propensity for violence that often stunned the FBI. Through its history, as it evolved and made its way south to the Coast, it left behind an astonishing number of dead bodies, and virtually none of the murders were ever solved. It operated with only one rule, one hard-and-fast, cast-in-stone blood oath: “Thou shalt not snitch to the cops.” Those who did were either found in ditches or not found at all. Certain shrimp boats were rumored to unload weighted corpses twenty miles from shore, into the deep, warm waters of the Mississippi Sound. In spite of its reputation for lawlessness, crime in Biloxi was kept under control by the owners and watched closely by the police. With time, the vice became roughly concentrated into one principal section of town, a one-mile stretch of Highway 90, along the beach. “The Strip” was lined with casinos, bars, and brothels, and was easily ignored by the law-abiding citizens. Life away from it was normal and safe. If one wanted trouble, it was easy to find. Otherwise, it was easy to avoid. Biloxi prospered because of seafood, shipbuilding, tourism, construction, and a formidable work ethic fueled by immigrants and their dreams of a better life. The city built schools, hospitals, churches, highways, bridges, seawalls, parks, recreational facilities, and anything else it needed to improve the lives of its people.
Ann Abadie, 1939 - 2024 | Square Books
Ann Abadie, 1939 -2024 Image As many of you know, Ann Abadie passed away on July 30 following a brief illness. As Ann was such a thoughtful and generous soul, she touched the lives of many people in various ways, including a great number in Oxford and those of us at Square Books, where she was a customer, of course, but a partner in many cultural endeavors and activities on campus and in town, and thus a dear friend to this bookstore. Ann was a South Carolina native and graduate of Wake Forest University who came to Oxford in pursuit of a PhD in literature. She taught in the English Department -- her husband, Dale, was a history professor -- and Ann was instrumental in forming, fifty years ago, the first Faulkner Conference, and the Eudora Welty Symposium at UM in 1977. She also would be a guiding force in the Blues Symposium and the formation of the Southern Foodways Alliance. Most significantly, she was on a committee that determined the formation of the Center for the Study of Southern Culture, then began working there as assistant director to Bill Ferris -- then with Charles Wilson, Ted Ownby, and Katie McKee. Ann edited more thanx fifty books, including many in the series that emerged from the annual Faulkner Conferences, such as Faulkner and the Natural World and The South and Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha, as well as Eudora Welty: A Form of Thanks; the significant publication of the Encyclopedia of Southern Culture; The Beautiful Mysterious: The Extraordinary Gaze of William Eggleston; The Mississippi Encyclopedia; and, in 2023, American Landscapes: Meditations on Art and Literature in a Changing World. Having witnessed how the Faulkner Conference had been a great success, I contacted Ann -- a longtime Howorth family friend -- and wondered aloud to Ann whether it might be possible to stage a literary conference which might acknowledge writers other than "merely" Faulkner. She replied, "Let me think about this." A few weeks later she returned my call and said, basically, "I think we can do this, but give me a few years." She needed time to clear the decks of the many other things she had going then. Surely enough, that first book conference was in 1994, and Ann was the person who enlisted numerous partners, including Square Books, in this annual event that within its first few years would draw William Styron, Willie Morris, Beverly Lowry, poet Charles Simic, editor Nan Talese, Ann Patchett, Pat Conroy, and longtime owner of The Tattered Cover in Denver, the late Joyce Meskis. Ann, with her husband, history professor Dale Abadie, raised three lovely children -- Elaine, Leslie and John -- also was well known for her talent in the kitchen, as she baked (and delivered) cakes (including her famous poundcake) -- and various goodies to those who might need gladdening, or perhaps were having out-of-town guests. She was always thinking of others, trying to help others, and shunned any praise directed her way. Lyn Roberts reminded me today that Ann was "a person you absolutely could not say no to." This was not simply because Ann was very persuasive (and she was certainly that), but because you -- for all of us who knew her -- were forever in her debt because she had already done more for you than you could ever do to repay her. – Richard Howorth Image caption: Ann Abadie with Richard Howorth at Square Books -- signing for Etheridge Knight, December, 1979. Photo courtesy Bill Ferris.