The Last Juror by John Grisham

“thine” and “whither” and “goest.” But she knew precisely what she was doing. In the clutches of this very holy woman, I had never felt closer to God.
    I couldn’t imagine such a lengthy devotional over a table crowded with eight children. Something told me, though, that when Calia Ruffin prayed everybody got still.
    Finally, she ended with a flourish, a long burst in which she managed to appeal for the forgiveness of hersins, which I presumed were few and far between, and for my own, which, well, if she only knew.
    She released me and began removing lids from bowls. The first contained a pile of pork chops smothered in a sauce that included, among many ingredients, onions and peppers. More steam hit my face and I wanted to eat with my fingers. In the second there was a mound of yellow corn, sprinkled with green peppers, still hot from the stove. There was boiled okra, which, she explained as she prepared to serve, she preferred over the fried variety because she worried about too much grease in her diet. She was taught to batter and fry everything, from tomatoes to pickles, and she had come to realize that this was not altogether healthy. There were butter beans, likewise unbattered and unfried, but rather cooked with ham hocks and bacon. There was a platter of small red tomatoes covered with pepper and olive oil. She was one of the very few cooks in town who used olive oil, she said as she continued her narrative. I was hanging on every word as my large plate was being tended to.
    A son in Milwaukee shipped her good olive oil because such was unheard of in Clanton.
    She apologized because the tomatoes were store bought; hers were still on the vine and wouldn’t be ready until summertime. The corn, okra, and butter beans had been canned from her garden last August. In fact, the only real “fresh” vegetables were the collard greens, or “spring greens” as she called them.
    A large black skillet was hidden in the center of thetable, and when she pulled the napkin off it there were at least four pounds of hot corn bread. She removed a huge wedge, placed it in the center of my plate, and said, “There. That will get you started.” I had never had so much food placed in front of me. The feast began.
    I tried to eat slowly, but it was impossible. I had arrived with an empty stomach, and somewhere in the midst of the competing aromas and the beauty of the table and the rather long-winded blessing and the careful description of each dish, I had become thoroughly famished. I packed it in, and she seemed content to do the talking.
    Her garden had produced most of the meal. She and Esau grew four types of tomatoes, butter beans, string beans, black-eyed peas, crowder peas, cucumbers, eggplant, squash, collards, mustard greens, turnips, vidalia onions, yellow onions, green onions, cabbage, okra, new red potatoes, russet potatoes, carrots, beets, corn, green peppers, cantaloupes, two varieties of watermelon, and a few other things she couldn’t recall at the moment. The pork chops were provided by her brother, who still lived on the old family place out in the country. He killed two hogs for them every winter and they stuffed their freezer. In return, they kept him in fresh vegetables.
    “We don’t use chemicals,” she said, watching me gorge myself. “Everything is natural.”
    It certainly tasted like it.
    “But it’s all put-up, you know, from the winter. It’ll taste better in the summertime when we pick and eat itjust a few hours later. Will you come back then, Mr. Traynor?”
    I grunted and nodded and somehow managed to convey the message that I would return any time she wanted.
    “Would you like to see my garden?” she asked.
    I nodded again, both jaws filled to capacity.
    “Good. It’s out back. I’ll pick you some lettuce and greens. They’re coming in nicely.”
    “Wonderful,” I managed to utter.
    “I figure a single man like you needs all the help he can get.”
    “How’d you know I was