July 21, 2011

A Time To Kill - John Grisham(page 2)


She wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry for crying, and I'm sorry for being so irritable lately."
You've been irritable for forty years, Jake thought. "That's okay."
"What about these?" she asked, pointing to the invoices.
"I'll get the money. Don't worry about it."
Willie Hastings finished the second shift at 10:00 P.M. and punched the clock next to
Ozzie's office. He drove straight to the Hailey house. It was his night to sleep on the couch. Someone slept on Owen's couch every night; a brother, a cousin, or a friend.
Wednesday was his night.
It was impossible to sleep with the lights on. Tonya refused to go near the bed unless every light in the house was on. Those men could be in the dark, waiting for her. She had seen them many times crawling along the floor toward her bed, and lurking in the closets.
She had heard their voices outside her window, and she had seen their bloodshot eyes peering in, watching her as she got ready for bed. She heard noises in the attic, like the footsteps of the bulky cowboy boots they had kicked her with. She knew they were up there, waiting for everyone to go to sleep so they could come down and take her back to the woods.
Once a week her mother and oldest brother climbed the folding stairs and inspected the attic with a flashlight and a pistol.

Not a single room in the house could be dark when she went to bed. One night, as she lay wide awake next to her mother, a light in the hall burned out. She screamed violently until Gwen's brother drove to Clanton to an all-night quick shop for more bulbs.
She slept with her mother, who held her firmly for hours until the demons faded into the night and she drifted away. At first, Gwen had trouble with the lights, but after five weeks she napped periodically through the night. The small body next to her wiggled and jerked even while it slept. Willie said good night to the boys and kissed Tonya. He showed her his gun and promised to stay awake on the couch. He walked through the house and checked the closets. When Tonya was satisfied, she lay next to her mother and stared at the ceiling. She cried softly.
Around midnight, Willie took off his boots and relaxed on the couch. He removed his holster and placed the gun on the floor. He was almost asleep when he heard the scream.
It was the horrible, high-pitched cry of a child being tortured. He grabbed his gun and ran to the bedroom. Tonya was sitting on the bed, facing the wall, screaming and shaking.
She had seen them in the window, waiting for her. Gwen hugged her. The three boys ran to the foot of the bed and watched helplessly. Carl Lee, Jr., went to the window and saw nothing. They had been through it many times in five weeks, and knew there was little they could do.
Gwen soothed her and laid her head gently on the pillow. "It's okay, baby, Momma's here and Uncle Willie's here. Nobody's gonna get you. It's okay, baby."
She wanted Uncle Willie to sit under the window with his gun and the boys to sleep on the floor around the bed. They took their positions. She moaned pitifully for a few moments, then grew quiet and still.
Willie sat on the floor by the window until they were all asleep. He carried the boys one at a time to their beds and tucked them in. He sat under her window and waited for the morning sun. Jake and Atcavage met for lunch at Claude's on Friday. They ordered ribs and slaw. The place was packed as usual, and for the first time in four weeks there were no strange faces. The regulars talked and gossiped like old times. Claude was in fine form-ranting and scolding and cursing his loyal customers. Claude was one of those rare people who could curse a man and make him enjoy it.
Atcavage had watched the venue hearing, and would have testified had he been needed.
The bank had discouraged his testifying, and Jake did not want to cause trouble. Bankers have an innate fear of courtrooms, and Jake admired his friend for overcoming this paranoia and attending the hearing. In doing so, he became the first banker in the history of Ford County to voluntarily appear in a courtroom without a subpoena while court was in session. Jake was proud of him.
Claude raced by and told them they had ten minutes, so shut up and eat. Jake finished a rib and mopped his face. "Say, Stan, speaking of loans, I need to borrow five thousand for ninety days, unsecured."
"Who said anything about loans?"
"You said something about banks."
"I thought we were condemning Buckley. I was enjoying it."
"You shouldn't criticize, Stan. It's an easy habit to acquire and an impossible one to break. It robs your soul of . character."
"I'm terribly sorry. How can you ever forgive me?"
"About the loan?"
"Okay. Why do you need it?"
"Why is that relevant?"
"What do you mean, 'Why is that relevant?' "
"Look Stan, all you should worry about is whether or not I can repay the money in .ninety days."
"Okay. Can you repay the money in ninety days?"
"Good question. Of course I can."
The banker smiled. "Hailey's got you bogged down, huh?"
The lawyer smiled. "Yeah," he admitted. "It's hard to concentrate on anything else. The trial is three weeks from Monday, and until then I won't concentrate on anything else."
"How much will you make off this case?"
"Nine hundred minus ten thousand."
"Nine hundred dollars!"
"Yeah, he couldn't borrow on his land, remember?"
"Cheap shot."
"Of course, if you'd loan Carl Lee the money on his land, then I wouldn't have to borrow any."
"I prefer to loan it to you."
"Great. When can I get a check?"
"You sound desperate."
"I know how long you guys take, with your loan committees and auditors and vice-presidents here and vice-presidents there, and maybe a vice-president will finally approve my loan in a month or so, if the manual says he can and if the home office is in the right mood. I know how you operate."
Atcavage looked at his watch. "Three o'clock soon enough?"
"I guess."
"Unsecured?"
Jake wiped his mouth and leaned across the table. He spoke quietly. "My house is a landmark with landmark mortgages, and you've got the lien on my car, remember? I'll give you the first mortgage on my daughter, but if you try to foreclose I'll kill you. Now what security do you have in mind?"
"Sorry I asked."
"When can I get the check?"
"Three P.M."
Claude appeared and refilled the tea glasses. "You got five minutes," he said loudly.
"Eight," replied Jake.
"Listen Mr. Big Shot," Claude said with a grin. "This ain't no courtroom, and your picture in the paper ain't worth two cents in here. I said five minutes."
"Just as well. My ribs were tough anyway."
"I notice you didn't leave any."
"Might as well eat them, as much as they cost."
"They cost more if you complain." "We're leaving," Atcavage said as he stood and threw a dollar on the table.
Sunday afternoon the Haileys picnicked under the tree away from the violence under the basketball goal. The first heat wave of the summer had settled in, and the heavy, sticky humidity hung close to the ground and penetrated the shade. Gwen
swatted flies as the children and their daddy ate warm fried chicken and sweated. The children ate hurriedly and ran to a new swing Ozzie had installed for the children of his inmates.
"What'd they do at Whitfield?" Gwen asked.
"Nothin' really. Asked a bunch of questions, made me do some tests. Bunch of crap."
"How'd they treat you?"
"With handcuffs and padded walls."
"No kiddin'. They put you in a room with padded walls?" Gwen was amused and managed a rare giggle.
"Sure did. They watched me like I was some animal. Said I was famous. My guards told me they was proud of me -one was white and one was black. Said that I did the right thing and they hoped I got off. They was nice to me."
"What'd the doctors say?"
"They won't say nothin' till we get to trial, and then they'll say I'm fine."
"How do you know what they'll say?"
"Jake told me. He ain't been wrong yet."
"Has he found you a doctor?"
"Yeah, some crazy drunk he drug up somewhere. Says he's a psychiatrist. We've talked a couple of times in Ozzie's office."
"What'd he say?"
"Not much. Jake said he'll say whatever we want him to say."
"Must be a real good doctor."
"He'd fit in good with those folks in Whitfield."
"Where's he from?"
"Jackson, I think. He wasn't too sure of anything. He acted like I was gonna kill him too.
I swear he was drunk bolh times we talked. He asked some questions that neither one of us understood. Took some notes like a real big shot. Said he thought he could help me. I asked Jake about him. Jake said not to worry, that he would be sober at the trial. But I think Jake's worried too."
"Then why are we usin' him?"
" 'Cause he's free. Owes somebody some favors. A real shrink'd cost over a thousand dollars just to evaluate me, and then another thousand or so to come testify at trial. A cheap shrink. Needless to say, I can't pay it."

Gwen lost her smile and looked away. "We need some money around the house," she said without looking at him.
"How much?"
"Coupla hundred for groceries and bills."
"How much you got?"
"Less than fifty."
"I'll see what I can do."
She looked at him. "What does that mean? What makes you think you can get money while you're in jail?"
Carl Lee raised his eyebrows and pointed at his wife. She was not to question him. He still wore the pants, even though he put them on in jail. He was the boss.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Reverend Agee peered through a crack in one of the huge stained glass windows of his church and watched with satisfaction as the clean Cadillacs and Lincolns arrived just before five Sunday afternoon. He had called a meeting of the council to assess the Hailey situation and plan strategy for the final three weeks before the trial, and to prepare for the arrival of the NAACP lawyers. The weekly collections had gone well-over seven thousand dollars had been gathered throughout the county and almost six thousand had been deposited by the reverend in a special account for the Carl Lee Hailey Legal
Defense Fund. None had been given to the family. Agee was waiting for the NAACP to direct him in spending the money, most of which, 'he thought, should go to the defense fund. The sisters in the church could feed the famil y if they got hungry. The cash was needed elsewhere.
The council talked of ways to raise more money. It was not easy getting money from poor people, but the issue was hot and the time was right, and if they didn't raise it now it would not be raised. They agreed to meet the following day at the Springdale Church in Clanton. The NAACP people were expected in town by morning. No press; it was to be a work session.
Norman Reinfeld was a thirty-year-old genius in criminal law who held the record for finishing Harvard's law school at the age of twenty-one, and after graduation declined a most generous offer to join his father and grandfather's prestigious Wall Street law factory, opting instead to take a job with the NAACP and spend his time fighting furiously to keep Southern blacks off death row. He was very good at what he did although, through no fault of his own, he was not very successful at what he did. Most
Southern blacks along with most Southern whites who faced the gas chamber deserved the gas chamber. But Reinfeld and his team of capital murder defense specialists won more than their share, and even in the ones they lost they usually managed to keep the convicts alive through a myriad of exhausting delays and appeals. Four of his former clients had either been gassed, electrocuted, or lethally injected, and that was four too many for Reinfeld. He had watched them all die, and with each execution he renewed his vow to break any law, violate any ethic, contempt any court, disrespect any judge, ignore any mandate, or do whatever it took to prevent a human from legally killing another human. He didn't worry much about the illegal killings of humans, such as those killings so artfully and cruelly achieved by his clients. It wasn't his business to think about those killings, so he didn't. Instead he vented his righteous and sanctimonious anger and zeal at the legal killings.
He seldom slept more than three hours a night. Sleep was difficult with thirty-one clients on death row. Plus seventeen clients awaiting trial. Plus eight egotistical attorneys to supervise. He was thirty and looked forty-five. He was old, abrasive, and ill-tempered. In the normal course of his business, he would have been much too busy to attend a gathering of local black ministers in Clanton, Mississippi. But this was not the normal case. This was Hailey. The vigilante. The father driven to revenge. The most famous criminal case in the country at the moment. This was Mississippi, where for years whites shot blacks for any reason or no reason and no one cared; where whites raped blacks and it was considered sport; where blacks were hanged for fighting back. And now a black father had killed two white men who raped his daughter, and faced the gas chamber for something that thirty years earlier would have gone unnoticed had he been white. This was the case, his case, and he would handle it personally.
On Monday he was introduced to the council by Reverend Agee, who opened the meeting with a lengthy and detailed review of the activities in Ford County. Reinfeld was brief. He and his team could not represent Mr. Hailey because he had not been hired by
Mr. Hailey, so a meeting was imperative. Today, preferably. Tomorrow morning at the latest, because he had a flight out of Memphis at noon. He was needed in a murder trial somewhere in Georgia. Reverend Agee promised to arrange a meeting with the defendant as soon as possible. He was friends with the sheriff. Fine, said Reinfeld, just get it done.
"How much money have you raised?" Reinfeld asked.
"Fifteen thousand from you folks," Agee answered.
"I know that. How much locally?"
"Six thousand," Agee said proudly.
"Six thousand!" repeated Reinfeld. "Is that all? I thought you people were organized.
Where's all this great local support you were talking about? Six thousand! How much more can you raise? We've only got three weeks."
The council members were silent. This Jew had a lot of nerve. The only white man in the group and he was on the attack.
"How much do we need?" asked Agee.
"That depends, Reverend, on how good a defense you want for Mr. Hailey. I've only got eight other attorneys on my staff. Five are in trial at this very moment. We've got thirty-one capital murder convictions at various stages of appeal. We've got seventeen trials scheduled in ten states over the next five months. We get ten requests each week to represent defendants, eight of which we turn down because we simply don't have the staff or the money. For Mr. Hailey, fifteen thousand has been contributed by two local chapters and the home office. Now you tell me that only six thousand has been raised locally. That's twenty-one thousand. Fpr that amount you'll get the best defense we can afford. Two attorneys, at least one psychiatrist, but nothing fancy. Twenty-one thousand gets a good defense, but not what I had in mind."
"What exactly did you have in mind?"
"A first-class defense. Three or four attorneys. A battery of psychiatrists. Half dozen investigators. A jury psychologist, just to name a few. This is not your run-of-the-mill murder case. I want to win. I was led to believe that you folks wanted to win."
"How much?" asked Agee.
"Fifty thousand, minimum. A hundred thousand would be nice."
"Look, Mr. Reinfeld, you're in Mississippi. Our people are poor. They've given generously so far, but there's no way we can raise another thirty thousand here."
Reinfeld adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and scratched his graying beard. "How much more can you raise?"
"Another five thousand, maybe."
"That's not much money."
"Not to you, but it is to the black folk of Ford County."
Reinfeld studied the floor and continued stroking his beard. "How much has the Memphis chapter given?"
"Five thousand," answered someone from Memphis.
"Atlanta?"
"Five thousand."
"How about the state chapter?"
"Which state?"
"Mississippi."
"None."
"None?"
"None."
"Why not?"
"Ask him," Agee said, pointing at Reverend Henry Hillman, the state director.
"Uh, we tryin' to raise some money now," Hillman said weakly. "But-"
"How much have you raised so far?" asked Agee.
"Well, uh, we got-"
"Nothin', right? You ain't raised nothin', have you, Hillman?" Agee said loudly.
"Come on, Hillman, tell us how much you raised," chimed in Reverend Roosevelt, vice-chairman of the council.
Hillman was dumbfounded and speechless. He had been sitting quietly on the front pew minding his own business, half asleep. Suddenly he was under attack.
"The state chapter will contribute."
"Sure you will, Hillman. You folks at state are constantly badgerin' us locals to contribute here and donate there for this cause and that cause, and we never see any of the money.
You always cryin' about bein' so broke, and we're always sendin' money to state. But when we need help, state don't do a thing but show up here and talk."
"That's not true."
"Don't start lyin', Hillman."
Reinfeld was embarrassed and immediately aware that a nerve had been touched.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, let's move on," he said diplomatically.
"Good idea," Hillman said.
"When can we meet with Mr. Hailey?" Reinfeld asked.
"I'll arrange a meetin' for in the mornin'," Agee said.
"Where can we meet?"
"I suggest we meet in Sheriff Walls' office in the jail. He's black, you know, the only black sheriff in Mississippi."
"Yes, I've heard."
"I think he'll let us meet in his office."
"Good. Who is Mr. Hailey's attorney?"
"Local boy. Jake Brigance."
"Make sure he's invited. We'll ask him to help us on the case. It'll ease the pain." Ethel's obnoxious, high-pitched, bitchy voice broke the tran-quility of the late afternoon and startled her boss. "Mr. Brigance, Sheriff Walls is on line two," she said through the intercom.
"Okay."
"Do you need me for anything else, sir?"
"No. See you in the morning."
Jake punched line two. "Hello, Ozzie. What's up?"
"Listen Jake, we've got a bunch of NAACP big shots in town."
"What else is new?"
"No, this is different. They wanna meet with Carl Lee in the mornin'."
"Why?"
"Some guy named Reinfeld."
"I've heard of him. He heads up their capital murder team. Norman Reinfeld."
"Yeah, that's him."
"I've been waiting for this."
"Well, he's here, and he wants to talk to Carl Lee."
"Why are you involved?"
"Reverend Agee called me. He wants a favor, of course. He asked me to call you."
"The answer is no. Emphatically no."
Ozzie paused a few seconds. "Jake, they want you 10 oe present."
"You mean I'm invited?"
"Yes. Agee said Reinfeld insisted on it. He wants you to be here."
"Where?"
"In my office. Nine A.M."
Jake breathed deeply and replied slowly. "Okay, I'll be there. Where's Carl Lee?"
"In his cell."
"Get him in your office. I'll be there in five minutes."
"What for?"
"We need to have a prayer meeting."
Reinfeld and Reverends Agee, Roosevelt, and Hillman sat in a perfect row of folding chairs and faced the sheriff, the defendant, and Jake, who puffed a cheap cigar in a determined effort to pollute the small office. He puffed mightily and stared nonchalantly at the floor, trying his best to show nothing but absolute contempt for Reinfeld and the reverends. Reinfeld was no pushover when it came to arrogance, and his disdain for this simple, small-time lawyer was not well hidden because he made no attempt to hide it. He was arrogant and insolent by nature. Jake had to work at it.
"Who called this meeting?" Jake asked impatiently, after a long, uncomfortable silence.
"Uh, well, I guess we did," answered Agee as he searched Reinfeld for guidance.
"Well, get on wi th it. What do you want?"
"Take it easy now, Jake," Ozzie said. "Reverend Agee asked me to arrange the meeting so Carl Lee could meet Mr. Reinfeld here."
"Fine. They've met. Now what, Mr. Reinfeld?"
"I'm here to offer my services, and the services of my staff and the entire NAACP to Mr.
Hailey," said Reinfeld.
"What type of services?" asked Jake.
"Legal, of course."
"Carl Lee, did you ask Mr. Reinfeld to come here?" asked Jake.
"Nope."
"Sounds like solicitation to me, Mr. Reinfeld."
"Skip the lecture, Mr. Brigance. You know what I do, and you know why I'm here."
"So you chase all your cases?"
"We don't chase anything. We're called in by local NAACP members and other civil rights activists. We handle only capital murder cases, and we're very good at what we do."
"I suppose you're the only attorney competent to handle a case of this magnitude?"
"I've handled my share."
"And lost your share."
"Most of my cases are supposed to be lost."
"I see. Is that your position on this case? Do you expect to lose it?"
Reinfeld picked at his beard and glared at Jake. "I didn't come here to argue with you,
Mr. Brigance."
"I know. You came here to offer your formidable legal skills to a defendant who's never heard of you and happens to be satisfied with his attorney. You came here to take my client. I know exactly why you're here."
"I'm here because the NAACP invited me. Nothing more or less."
"I see. Do you get all your cases from the NAACP?"
"I work for the NAACP, Mr. Brigance. I'm in charge of its capital murder defense team. I go where the NAACP sends me."
"How many clients do you have?"
"Several dozen. Why is that important?"
"Did they all have attorneys before you pushed yourself into their cases?"
"Some did, some didn't. We always try to work with the local attorney."
Jake smiled. "That's marvelous. You're offering me a chance to carry your briefcase and chauffeur you around Clanton. I might even get to fetch you a sandwich during the noon recess. What a thrill."
Carl Lee sat frozen with arms crossed and his eyes fixed on a spot in the rug. The reverends watched him closely, waiting for him to say something to his lawyer, to tell him to shut up, that he was fired and the NAACP lawyers would handle the case. They watched and waited, DUI sat calmly and listened.
"We have a lot to offer, Mr. Hailey," Reinfeld said. It was best to stay calm until the defendant decided who would represent him. A tantrum might ruin things.
"Such as?" Jake asked.
"Staff, resources, expertise, experienced trial lawyers who do nothing but capital defense.
Plus we have a number of highly competent doctors we use in these cases. You name it, we have it."
"How much money do you have to spend?"
"That's none of your business."
"Is that so? Is it Mr. Hailey's business? After all, it's his case. Perhaps Mr. Hailey would like to know how much you have to spend in his defense. Would you, Mr. Hailey?"
"Yep."
"All right, Mr. Reinfeld, how much do you have to spend?"
Reinfeld squirmed and looked hard at the reverends, who looked hard at Carl Lee.
"Approximately twenty thousand, so far," Reinfeld admitted sheepishly.
Jake laughed and shook his head in disbelief. "Twenty thousand! Y'all are really serious about this, aren't you? Twenty thousand! I thought you guys played in the big leagues.
You raised a hundred and fifty thousand for the cop killer in Birmingham last year. And he was convicted, by the way. You spent a hundred thousand for the whore in Shreve-port who killed her customer. And she, too, was convicted, I might add. And you think this case is worth only twenty thousand."
"How much do you have to spend?" asked Reinfeld.
"If you can explain to me how that's any of your business, I'll be glad to discuss it with you."
Reinfeld started to speak, then leaned forward and rubbed his temples. "Why don't you talk to him, Reverend Agee."
The reverends stared at Carl Lee. They wished they were alone with him, with no white folks around. They could talk to him like he was a nigger. They could explain things to. him; tell him to fire this young white boy and get him some real lawyers. NAACP lawyers. Lawyers who knew how to fight for blacks. But they were not alone with him, and they couldn't curse him. They had to show respect for the white folks present. Agee spoke first.
"Look here, Carl Lee, we tryin' to help you. We brought in Mr. Reinfeld here, and he's got all his lawyers and ever-body at your disposal, to help you now. We ain't got nothin' against Jake here; he's a fine young lawyer. But he can work with Mr. Reinfeld. We don't want you to fire Jake; we just want you to hire Mr. Reinfeld too. They can all work together."
"Forget that," said Jake.
Agee paused and looked helplessly at Jake.
"Come on, Jake. We ain't got nothin' against you. It's a big chance for you. You can work with some real big lawyers. Get some real good experience. We-"
"Let me make it real clear, Reverend. If Carl Lee wants your lawyers, fine. But I'm not playing gofer for anyone. I'm either in or out. Nothing in between. My case or your case.
The courtroom is not big enough for me, Reinfeld, and Ru-fus Buckley."
Reinfeld rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling, shaking his head slowly and grinning with an arrogant little smirk.
"You sayin' it's up to Carl Lee?" asked Reverend Agee.
"Of course it's up to him. He's hired me. He can fire me. He's already done it once. I'm not the one facing the gas chamber."
"How 'bout it, Carl Lee?" asked Agee.
Carl Lee uncrossed his arms and stared at Agee. "This twenty thousand, what's it for?"
"Really, it's more like thirty thousand," answered Reinfeld. "The local folks have pledged another ten thousand. The money will be used for your defense. None of it's attorney fees. We'll need two or three investigators. Two, maybe three,
psychiatric experts. We often use a jury psychologist to assist us in selecting the jury. Our defenses are very expensive."
"Uh huh. How much money has been raised by local people?" asked Carl Lee.
"About six thousand," answered Reinfeld.
"Who collected mis money:
Reinfeld looked at Agee. "The churches," answered the reverend.
"Who collected the money from the churches?" asked Carl Lee.
"We did," answered Agee.
"You mean, you did," said Carl Lee.
"Well, uh, right. I mean, each church gave the money to me, and I deposited it in a special bank account."
"Yeah, and you deposited every nickel you received?"
"Of course I did." .
"Of course. Let me ask you this. How much of the money have you offered to my wife and kids?"
Agee looked a bit pale, or as pale as possible, and quickly searched the faces of the other reverends, who, at the moment, were preoccupied with a stink bug on the carpet. They offered no help. Each knew Agee had been taking his cut, and each knew the family had received nothing. Agee had profited more .than the family. They knew it, and Carl Lee knew it.
"How much, Reverend?" repeated Carl Lee.
"Well, we thought the money-"
"How much, Reverend?"
"The money is gonna be spent on lawyer fees and stuff like that."
"That ain't what you told your church, is it? You said it was for the support of the family.
You almost cried when you talked about how my family might starve to death if the folks didn't donate all they could. Didn't you, Reverend?"
"The money's for you, Carl Lee. You and your family. Right now we think it could be better spent on your defense."
"And what if I don't want your lawyers? What happens to the twenty thousand?"
Jake chuckled. "Good question. What happens to the money if Mr. Hailey doesn't hire you, Mr. Reinfeld?"
"It's not my money," answered Reinfeld.
"Reverend Agee?" asked Jake.
The reverend had had enough. He grew defiant and belligerent. He pointed at Carl Lee.
"Listen here, Carl Lee. We busted our butts to raise this money. Six thousand bucks from the poor people of this county, people who didn't have it to give. We worked hard for this money, and it was given by poor people, your people, people on food stamps and welfare and Medicaid, people who couldn't afford to donate a dime. But they gave for one reason, and only one reason: they believe in you and what you did, and they want you to walk outta that courtroom a free man. Don't say you don't want the money."
"Don't preach to me," Carl Lee replied softly. "You say the poor folks of this county gave six thousand?"
"Right?"
"Where'd the rest of the money come from?"
"NAACP. Five thousand from Atlanta, five from Memphis, and five from national. And it's strictly for your defense fees."
"If I use Mr. Reinfeld here?"
"Right."
"And if I don't use him, the fifteen thousand disappears?"
"Right."
"What about the other six thousand?"
"Good question. We ain't discussed that yet. We thought you'd appreciate us for raisin' money and tryin' to help. We're offerin' the best lawyers and obviously you don't care."
The room was silent for an eternity as the preachers, the lawyers, and the sheriff waited for some message from the defendant. Carl Lee chewed on his lower lip and stared at the floor. Jake lit another cigar. He had been fired before, and he could handle it again.
"You gotta know right now?" Carl Lee asked finally.
"No," said Agee.
"Yes," said Reinfeld. "The trial is less than three weeks away, and we're two months behind already. My time is too valuable to wait on you, Mr. Hailey. Either you hire me now or forget it. I've got a plane to catch."
"Well, I'll tell you what you do, Mr. Reinfeld. You go and catch your plane and don't ever worry 'bout comin' back to Clanton on my behalf. I'l l take my chances with my friend Jake."
The Ford County Klavern was founded at midnight, Thursday, July 11, in a small pasture next to a dirt road deep in a forest somewhere in the northern part of the county. The six inductees stood nervously before the huge burning cross and repeated strange words offered by a wizard. A dragon and two dozen white-robed Klansmen watched and chanted when appropriate. A guard with a gun stood quietly down the road, occasionally watching the ceremony but primarily watching for uninvited guests. There were none.
Precisely at midnight the six fell to their knees and closed their eyes as the white hoods were ceremoniously placed onto their heads. They were Klansmen now, these six.
Freddie Cobb, brother of the deceased, Jerry Maples, Clifton Cobb, Ed Wilburn, Morris
Lancaster, and Terrell Grist. The grand dragon hovered above each one and chanted the sacred vows of klanhood. The flames from the cross scorched the faces of the new members as they knelt and quietly suffocated under the heavy robes and hoods. Sweat dripped from their red faces as they prayed fervently for the dragon to shut up with his nonsense and finish the ceremony. When the chanting stopped, the new members rose and quickly retreated from the cross. They were embraced by their new brothers, who grabbed their shoulders firmly and pounded primal incantations onto their sweaty collarbones.
The heavy hoods were removed, and the Klansmen, both new members and old, walked proudly from the pasture and into the rustic cabin across the dirt road. The same guard sat on the front steps as the whiskey was poured around the table and plans were made for the trial of Carl Lee Hailey.
Deputy Pirtle pulled the graveyard shift, ten to six, and had stopped for coffee and pie at
Gurdy's all-night diner on the highway north of town when his radio blared out the news that he was wanted at the jail. It was three minutes after midnight, Friday morning.
Pirtle left his pie and drove a mile south to the jail. "What's up?" he asked the dispatcher.
"We got a call a few minutes ago, anonymous, from someone lookin' for the sheriff. I explained that he was not on duty, so they asked for whoever was on duty. That's you.
They said it was very important, and they'd call back in fifteen minutes."
Pirtle poured some coffee and relaxed in Ozzie's big chair. The phone rang. "It's for you," yelled the dispatcher.
"Hello," answered Pirtle.
"Who's this?" asked the voice.
"Deputy Joe Pirtle. Who's this?"
"Where's the sheriff?"
"Asleep, I reckon."
"Okay listen, and listen real good because this is important and I ain't callin' again. You know that Hailey nigger?"
"Yeah."
"You know his lawyer, Brigance?"
"Yeah."
"Then listen. Sometime between now and three A.M., they're gonna blow up his house."
"Who?"
"Brigance."
"No, I mean who's gonna blow up his house?"
"Don't worry about that, Deputy, just listen to me. This ain't no joke, and if you think it's a joke, just sit there and wait for his house to go up. It may happen any minute."
The voice became silent but did not disappear. Pirtle listened. "You still there?"
"Good night, Deputy." The receiver clicked.
Pirtle jumped to his feet and ran to the dispatcher. "Did you listen?"
"Of course I did."
"Call Ozzie and tell him to get down here. I'll be at the Brigance house."
Pirtle hid his patrol car in a driveway on Monroe Street and walked across the front lawns to Jake's house. He saw noth- ing. It was 12:55 A.M. He walked arouno me nuusc wim
"." flashlight and noticed nothing unusual.
Every house on the street was dark and asleep. He unscrewed the light bulb on the front porch and took a seat in a wicker chair. He waited. The odd-looking foreign car was parked next to the Oldsmobile under the veranda. He would wait and ask Ozzie about notifying Jake.
Headlights appeared at the end of the street. Pirtle slumped lower in the chair, certain he could not be seen. A red pickup moved suspiciously toward the Brigance house but did not stop. He sat up and watched it disappear down the street.
Moments later he noticed two figures jogging from the direction of the square. He unbuttoned his holster and removed his service revolver. The first figure was much larger than the second, and seemed to run with more ease and grace. It was Ozzie. The other was Nesbit. Pirtle met the two in the driveway and they retreated into the darkness of the front porch. They whispered and watched the street.
"What exactly did he say?" asked Ozzie.
"Said someone's gonna blow up Jake's house between now and three A.M. Said it was no joke."
"Is that all?"
"Yep. He wasn't real friendly."
"How long you been here?"
"Twenty minutes."
Ozzie turned to Nesbit. "Give me your radio and go hide in the backyard. Stay quiet and keep your eyes open."
Nesbit scurried to the rear of the house and found a small opening between the shrubs along the back fence. Crawling on all fours, he disappeared into the shrubs. From his nest he could see the entire rear of the house.
"You gonna tell Jake?" asked Pirtle.
"Not yet. We might in a minute. If we knock on the door, they'll be turnin' on lights and we don't need that right now."
"Yeah, but what if Jake hears us and comes through the door firin' away. He might think we're just a couple of niggers tryin' to break in."
Ozzie watched the street and said nothing.
"Look, Ozzie, put yourself in his place. The cops have your house surrounded at one o'clock in the mornin' waitin' for somebody to throw a bomb. Now, would you wanna stay in bed asleep or would you wanna know about it?"
Ozzie studied the houses in the distance.
"Listen, Sheriff, we better wake them up. What if we don't stop whoever's plannin' this, and somebody inside the house gets hurt? We get blamed, right?"
Ozzie stood and punched the doorbell. "Unscrew that light bulb," he ordered, pointing at the porch ceiling.
"I already did."
Ozzie punched the doorbell again. The wooden door swung open, and Jake walked to the storm door and stared at the sheriff. He was wearing a wrinkled nightshirt that fell just below his knees, and he held a loaded .38 in his right hand. He slowly opened the storm door.
"What is it, Ozzie?" he asked.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah. What's going on?"
"Stay here on the porch," Ozzie told Pirtle. "I'll be just a minute."
Ozzie closed the front door behind them and turned off the light in the foyer. They sat in the dark living room overlooking the porch and the front yard.
"Start talking," Jake said.
" 'Bout a half hour ago we took an anonymous call from someone who said that someone planned to blow up your house between now and three A.M. We're takin' it serious."
"Thanks."
"I've got Pirtle on the front porch and Nesbit in the backyard. 'Bout ten minutes ago Pirtle saw a pickup drive by real interested like, but that's all we've seen."
"Have you searched around the house?"
"Yeah, nothin'. They ain't been here yet. But somethin' tells me this is the real thing."
"Why?"
"Just a hunch."
Jake laid the .38 beside him on the couch and rubbed his temples. "What's your suggestion?"
"Sit and wait. That's all we can do. You got a rifle?"
"I've got enough guns to invade Cuba."
"Why don't you get it and get dressed. Take a position in one of those cute little windows upstairs. We'll hide outside and wait,"
"Have you got enough men?"
"Yeah, I figure there'll only be one or two of them."
"Who's them?"
"Don't know. Could be the Klan, could be some freelancers. Who knows?"
Both men sat in deep thought and stared at the dark street. They could see the top of
Pirtle's head as he slumped in the wicker chair just outside the window.
"Jake, you remember those three civil rights workers killed by the Klan back in '64?
Found them buried in a levee down around Philadelphia."
"Sure. I was a kid, but I remember."
"Those boys would've never been found if someone hadn't told where they was. That someone was in the Klan. An informant. Seems like that always happened to the Klan.
Somebody on the inside was always squealin'."
"You think it's the Klan?"
"Sure looks like it. If it was just one or two freelancers, then who else would know about it? The bigger the group, the better the chance of someone tippin' us off."
"That makes sense, but for some reason I'm not comforted by it."
"Of course, it could be a joke."
"Nobody's laughing."
"You gonna tell your wife?"
"Yeah. I'd better go do that."
"I would too. But don't be turnin' on lights. You might scare them off."
"But I would like to scare them off."
"And I'd like to catch them. If we don't catch them now, they'll try again, and next time they might forget to call us ahead of time."
Carla dressed hurriedly in the dark. She was terrified. Jake laid Hanna on the couch in the den, where she mumbled something and went back to sleep. Carla held her head and watched Jake load a rifle.
"I'll be upstairs in the guest room. Don't turn on any lights. The cops have the place surrounded, so don't worry."
"Don't worry! Are you crazy?"
"Try to go back to sleep."
"Sleep! Jake, you've lost your mind."
They didn't wait long. From his vantage point somewhere deep in the shrubs in front of the house, Ozzie saw him first: a lone figure walking casually down the street from the direction opposite the square. He had in his hand a small box or case of some sort. When he was two houses away, he left the street and cut through the front lawns of the neighbors. Ozzie pulled his revolver and nightstick and watched the man walk directly toward him. Jake had him in the scope of his deer rifle. Pirtl e crawled like a snake across the porch and into the shrubs, ready to strike.
Suddenly, the figure darted across the front lawn next door and to the side of Jake's house. He carefully laid the small suitcase under Jake's bedroom window. As he turned to run, a huge black nightstick crashed across the side of his head, ripping his right ear in two places, each barely hanging to his head. He screamed and fell to the ground.
"I got him!" Ozzie yelled. Pirtle and Nesbit sprinted to the side of the house. Jake calmly walked down the stairs.
"I'll be back in a minute," he told Carla.
Ozzie grabbed the suspect by the neck and sat him next to the house. He was conscious but dazed.
The suitcase was inches away.
"What's your name?" Ozzie demanded.
He moaned and clutched his head and said nothing.
"I asked you a question," Ozzie said as he hovered over his suspect. Pirtle and Nesbit stood nearby, guns drawn, too frightened to speak or move. Jake stared at the suitcase.
"I ain't sayin'," came the reply.
Ozzie raised the nightstick high over his head and drove it solidly against the man's right ankle. The crack of the bone was sickening.
He howled and grabbed his leg. Ozzie kicked him in the face. He fell backward and his head smashed into the side of the house. He rolled to his side and groaned in pain.
Jake knelt above the suitcase and put his ear next to it. He jumped and retreated. "It's ticking," he said weakly.
Ozzie bent over the suspect and laid the nightstick softly against his nose. "I've got one more question before I break ever bone in your body. What's in the box?"
No answer.
Ozzie recoiled the nightstick and broke the other ankle. "What's in the box!" he shouted.
"Dynamite!" came the anguished reply.
Pirtle dropped his gun. Nesbit's blood pressure shot through his cap and he leaned on the house.
Jake turned white and his knees vibrated. He ran through the front door yelling at Carla.
"Get the car keys! Get the car keys!"
"What for?" she asked nervously.
"Just do as I say. Get the car keys and get in the car."
He lifted Hanna and carried her through the kitchen, into the carport, and laid her in the back seat of Carla's Cutlass. He took Carla by the arm and helped her into the car.
"Leave, and don't come back for thirty minutes."
"Jake, what's going on?" she demanded.
"I'll tell you later. There's no time now. Just leave. Go drive around for thirty minutes.
Stay away from this street."
"But why, Jake? What have you found?"
"Dynamite."
She backed out of the driveway and disappeared.
When Jake returned to the side of the house, the suspect's left hand had been handcuffed to the gas meter next to the window. He was moaning, mumbling, cursing. Ozzie carefully lifted the suitcase by the handle and sat it neatly between the suspect's broken legs. Ozzie kicked both legs to spread them. He groaned louder. Ozzie, the deputies, and
Jake backed away slowly and watched him. He began to cry.
"I don't know how to defuse it," he said through clenched teeth.
"You'd better learn fast," Jake said, his voice somewhat stronger.
The suspect closed his eyes and lowered his head. He bit his lip and breathed loudly and rapidly.
Sweat dripped from his chin and eyebrows. His ear was shredded and hung like a falling leaf. "Give me a flashlight."
Pirtle handed him a flashlight.
"I need both hands," he said.
"Try it with one," Ozzie said.
He placed his fingers gently on the latch and closed his eyes.
"Let's get outta here," Ozzie said. They ran around the corner of the house and into the carport, as far away as possible.
"Where's your family?" Ozzie asked.
"Gone. Recognize him?"
"Nope," said Ozzie.
"I never seen him," said Nesbit.
Pirtle shook his head.
Ozzie called the dispatcher, who called Deputy Riley, the self-trained explosives man for the county.
"What if he passes out and the bomb goes off?" Jake asked.
"You got insurance, don't you, Jake?" asked Nesbit.
"That's not funny."
"We'll give him a few minutes, then Pirtle can go check on him," said Ozzie.
"Why me?"
"Okay, Nesbit can go."
"I think Jake should go," said Nesbit. "It's his house."
"Very funny," said Jake.
They waited and chatted nervously. Nesbit made another stupid remark about insurance.
"Quiet!" Jake said. "I heard something."
They froze. Seconds later the suspect yelled again. They ran back across the front yard, then slowly turned the corner. The empty suitcase had been tossed a few feet away. Next to the man was a neat pile of a dozen sticks of dynamite. Between his
legs was a large, round-faced clock with wires bound together with silver electrical tape.
"Is it defused?" Ozzie asked anxiously.
"Yeah," he replied between heavy, rapid breaths.
Ozzie knelt before him and removed the clock and the wires. He did not touch the dynamite.
"Where are your buddies?"
No response.
He removed his nightstick and moved closer to the man. "I'm gonna start breakin' ribs one at a time. You better start talkin'. Now where are your buddies?"
"Kiss my ass."
Ozzie stood and quickly looked around, not at Jake and the deputies, but at the house next door.
Seeing nothing, he raised the nightstick. The suspect's left arm hung from the gas meter, and Ozzie planted the stick just below the left armpit. He squealed and jerked to the left.
Jake almost felt sorry for him.
"Where are they?" Ozzie demanded.
No response.
Jake turned his head as the sheriff landed another blow to the ribs.
"Where are they?"
No response.
Ozzie raised the nightstick.
"Stop . . . please stop," the suspect begged.
"Where are they?"
"Down that way. A couple of blocks."
"How many?"
"One."
"What vehicle?"
"Pickup. Red GMC."
"Get the patrol cars," Ozzie ordered.
Jake waited impatiently under the carport for his wife to return. At two-fifteen she drove slowly into the driveway and parked.
"Is Hanna asleep?" Jake asked as he opened the door.
"Yes."
"Good. Leave her there. We'll be leaving in a few minutes."
"Where are we going?"
"We'll discuss it inside."
Jake poured the coffee and tried to act calm. Carla was scared and shaking and angry and making it difficult to act calm. He described the bomb and suspect and explained that
Ozzie was searching for the accomplice.
"I want you and Hanna to go to Wilmington and stay with your parents until after the trial," he said.
She stared at the coffee and said nothing.
"I've already called your dad and explained everything. They're scared too, and they insist you stay with them until this thing is over."
"And what if I don't want to go?"
"Please, Carla. How can you argue at a time like this?"
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine. Ozzie will give me a bodyguard and they'll watch the house around the clock. I'll sleep at the office some. I'll be safe, I promise."
She was not convinced.
"Look, Carla, I've got a thousand things on my mind right now. I've got a client facing the gas chamber and his trial is ten days away. I can't lose it. I'll work night and day from now until the twenty-second, and once the trial starts you won't see me anyway. The last thing I need is to be worried about you and Hanna. Please go."
"They were going to kill us, Jake. They tried to kill us."
He couldn't deny it.
"You promised to withdraw if the danger became real."
"It's out of the question. Noose would never allow me to withdraw at this late date."
"I feel as though you've lied to me."
"That's not fair. I think I underestimated this thing, and now it's too late."
She walked to the bedroom and began packing.
"The plane leaves Memphis at six-thirty. Your father will meet you at the Raleigh airport at nine- thirty."
"Yes, sir."
Fifteen minutes later they left Clanton. Jake drove and Carla ignored him. At five, they ate breakfast in the Memphis airport. Hanna was sleepy but excited about seeing her grandparents.
Carla said little. She had much to say, but as a rule, they didn't argue in front of Hanna.
She ate quietly and sipped her coffee and watched her husband casually read the paper as if nothing had happened.
Jake kissed them goodbye and promised to call every day. The plane left on time. At seven-thirty he was in Ozzie's office.
"Who is he?" Jake asked the sheriff.
"We have no idea. No wallet, no identification, nothin'. And he ain't talkin'."
"Does anybody recognize him?"
Ozzie thought for a second. "Well, Jake, he's kinda hard to recognize right now. Got a lot of bandages on his face."
Jake smiled. "You play rough, don't you, big guy?"
"Only when I have to. I didn't hear you object."
"No, I wanted to help. What about his friend?"
"We found him sleepin' in a red GMC 'bout a half a mile from your house. Terrell Grist.
Local redneck. Lives out from Lake Village. I think he's a friend of the Cobb family."
Jake repeated the name a few times. "Never heard of him. Where is he?"
"Hospital. Same room with the other."
"My God, Ozzie, did you break his legs too?"
"Jake, my friend, he resisted arrest. We had to subdue him. Then we had to interrogate him. He didn't want to cooperate."
"What did he say?"
"Not much. Don't know nothin'. I'm convinced he doesn't know the guy with the dynamite."
"You mean they brought in a professional?"
"Could be. Riley looked at the firecrackers and timin' device and said it was pretty good work. We'd have never found you, your wife, your daughter, probably never found your house. It was set for two A.M. Without the tip, you'd be dead, Jake. So would your family."
Jake felt dizzy and sat on the couch. Reaction set in like a hard kick to the gro in. A case of diarrhea almost manifested itself, and he was nauseated.
"You get your family off?"
"Yeah," he said weakly.
"I'm gonna assign a deputy to you full-time. Got a preference?"
"Not really."
"How 'bout Nesbit?"
"Fine. Thanks."
"One other thing. I guess you want this kept quiet?"
"If possible. Who knows about it?"
"Just me and the deputies. I think we can keep it under wraps until after the trial, but I can't guarantee anything."
"I understand. Try your best."
"I will, Jake."
"I know you will, Ozzie. I appreciate you."
Jake drove to the office, made the coffee and lay on the couch in his office. He wanted a quick nap, but sleep was impossible. His eyes burned, but he could not close them. He stared at the ceiling fan.
"Mr. Brigance," Ethel called over the intercom.
No response.
"Mr. Brigance!"
Somewhere in the deep recesses of his subconscious, Jake heard himself being paged/.He bolted upright. "Yes!" he yelled.
"Judge Noose is on the phone."
"Okay, okay," he mumbled as he staggered to his desk. He checked his watch. Nine A.M.
He had slept for an hour.
"Good morning, Judge," he said cheerfully, trying to sound alert and awake.
"Good morning, Jake. How are you?"
"Just fine, Judge. Busy getting ready for the big trial."
"I thought so. Jake, what is your schedule today?"
What's today, he thought. He grabbed his appointment book. "Nothing but office work."
"Good. I would like to have lunch with you at my home. Say around eleven-thirty."
"I would be delighted, Judge. What's the occasion?"
"I want to discuss the Hailey case."
"Fine, Judge. I'll see you at eleven-thirty."
The Nooses lived in a stately antebellum home off the town square in Chester. The home had been in the wife's family for over a century, and although it could stand some maintenance and repair, it was in decent condition. Jake had never been a guest in the house, and had never met Mrs. Noose, although he had heard she was a snobby blue blood whose family at one time had money but lost it.
She was as unattractive as Ichabod, and Jake wondered what the children looked like. She was properly polite when she met Jake at the door and attempted small talk as she led him to the patio, where His Honor was drinking iced tea and reviewing correspondence.
A maid was preparing a small table nearby.
"Good to see you, Jake," Ichabod said warmly. "Thanks for coming over."
"My pleasure, Judge. Beautiful place you have here."
They discussed the Hailey trial over soup and chicken salad sandwiches. Ichabod was dreading the ordeal, although he didn't admit it. He seemed tired, as if the case was already a burden. He surprised Jake with an admission that he detested Buckley. Jake said he felt the same way.
"Jake, I'm perplexed over this venue ruling," he said. "I've studied your brief and
Buckley's brief, and I've researched the law myself. It's a tough question. Last weekend I attended a judges' conference on the Gulf Coast, and I had a few drinks with Judge
Denton on the Supreme Court. He and I were in law school together, and we were colleagues in the state senate. We're very close. He's from Dupree County in south
Mississippi, and he says that everybody down there talks about the case. People on the street ask him how he's gonna rule if the case winds up on appeal.
Everybody's got an opinion, and that's almost four hundred miles away. Now, if I agree to change venue, where do we go? We can't leave the state, and I'm convinced that everyone has not only heard about your client, but already prejudged him. Would you agree?"
"Well, there's been a lot of publicity," Jake said carefully.
"Talk to me, Jake. We're not in court. That's why I invited you here. I want to pick your brain. I know there's been a lot of publicity. If we move it, where do we go?"
"How about the delta?"
Noose smiled. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Of course. We could pick us a good jury over there. One that would truly understand the issues."
"Yeah, and one that would be half black."
"I hadn't thought about that."
"Do you really believe those folks haven't already prejudged this defendant?"
"I suppose so."
"So where do we go?"
"Did Judge Denton have a suggestion?"
"Not really. We discussed the court's traditional refusal to allow changes of venue except in the most heinous of cases. It's a difficult issue with a notorious crime that arouses passion both for and against the defendant. With television and all the press nowadays, these crimes are instant news, and everyone knows the details long before the trial. And this case tops them all. Even Denton admitted he'd never seen a case with this much publicity, and he admitted it would be impossible to find a fair and impartial jury anywhere in Mississippi. Suppose I leave it in Ford County and your man is convicted.
Then you appeal claiming venue should have been changed. Denton indicated he would be sympathetic with my decision not to move it. He thinks a majority of the court would uphold my denial of the venue change. Of course, that's no guarantee, and we discussed it over several long drinks. Would you like a drink?"
"No thanks."
"I just don't see any reason to move the trial from Clanton. If we did, we'd be fooling ourselves if we thought we could find twelve people who are undecided about Mr.
Hailey's guilt."
"Sounds like you've already made up your mind, Judge."
"I have. We're not changing venue. The trial will be held in Clanton. I'm not comfortable with it, but I see no reason to move the trial. Besides, I like Clanton. It's close to home and the air conditioning works in the courthouse."
Noose reached for a file and found an envelope. "Jake, this is an order, dated today, overruling the request to change venue. I've sent a copy to Buckley, and there's a copy for you. The original is in here, and I would appreciate you filing this with the clerk in Clanton."
"I'll be glad to."
"I just hope I'm doing the right thing. I've really struggled with this."
"It's a tough job," Jake offered, attempting sympathy.
Noose called the maid and ordered a gin and tonic. He insisted that Jake view his rose garden, and they spent an hour in the sprawling rear lawn admiring His Honor's flow- ers.
Jake thought of Carla, and Hanna, and his home, and the dynamite, but gallantly remained interested in Ichabod's handiwork.
Friday afternoons often reminded Jake of law school, when, depending on the weather, he and his friends would either group in their favorite bar in Oxford and guzzle happy-hour beer and debate their new-found theories of law or curse the insolent, arrogant, terroristic law professors, or, if the weather was warm and sunny, pile the beer in Jake's well-used convertible Beetle and head for the beach at Sardis Lake, where the women from sorority row plastered their beautiful, bronze
bodies with oil and sweated in the sun and coolly ignored the catcalls from the drunken law students and fraternity rats. He missed those innocent days. He hated law school-every law student with any sense hated law school-but he missed the friends and good times, especially the Fridays. He missed the pressureless lifestyle, although at times the pressure had seemed unbearable, especially during the first year when the professors were more abusive than normal. He missed being broke, because when he had nothing he owed nothing and most of his classmates were in the same boat. Now that he had an income he worried constantly about mortgages, the overhead, credit cards, and realizing the American dream of becoming affluent. Not wealthy, just affluent. He missed his Volkswagen because it had been his first new car, a gift at high school graduation, and it was paid for, unlike the Saab. He missed being single, occasionally, although he was happily married. And he missed beer, either from a pitcher, can, or bottle. It didn't matter. He had been a social drinker, only with friends, and he spent as much time as possible with his friends, He didn't drink every day in law school, and he seldom got drunk. But there had been several painful, memorable hangovers.
Then came Carla. He met her at the beginning of his last semester, and six months later they married. She was beautiful, and that's what got his attention. She was quiet, and a little snobby at first, like most of the wealthy sorority girls at Ole Miss. But he found her to be warm and personable and lacking in self-confidence. He had never under- stood how someone as beautiful as Carla could be insecure. She was a Dean's List scholar in liberal arts with no intention of ever doing more than teaching school for a few years. Her family had money, and her mother had never worked. This appealed to Jake-the family money and the absence of a career ambition. He wanted a wife who would stay home and stay beautiful and have babies and not try to wear the pants. It was love at first sight.
But she frowned on drinking, any type of drinking. Her father drank heavily when she was a child, and there were painful memories. So Jake dried out his last semester in law school and lost fifteen pounds. He looked great, felt great, and he was madly in love. But he missed beer.
There was a country grocery a few miles out of Chester with a Coors sign in the window.
Coors had been his favorite in law school, although at that time it was not for sale east of the river. It was a delicacy at Ole Miss, and the bootlegging of Coors had
been profitable around the campus. Now that it was available everywhere most folks had returned to Budweiser.
It was Friday, and hot. Carla was nine hundred miles away. He had no desire to go to the office, and anything there could wait until tomorrow. Some nut just tried to kill his family and remove his landmark from the National Register of Historic Places. The biggest trial of his career was ten days away. He was not ready.and the pressure was mounting. He had just lost his most critical pretrial motion. And he was thirsty. Jake stopped and bought a six-pack of Coors.
It took almost two hours to travel the sixty miles from Chester to Clanton. He enjoyed the diversion, the scenery, the beer. He stopped twice to relieve himself and once to get another sixpack. He felt great.
There was only one place to go in his condition. Not home, not the office, certainly not the courthouse to file Ichabod's villainous order. He parked the Saab behind the nasty little Porsche and glided up the sidewalk with cold beer in hand. As usual, Lucien was rocking slowly on the front porch, drinking and reading a treatise on the insanity defense.
He closed the book and, noticing the beer, smiled at his former associate. Jake just grinned at him.
"What's the occasion, Jake?"
"Nothing, really. Just got thirsty."
"I see. What about your wife?"
"She doesn't tell me what to do. I'm my own man. I'm the boss. If I want beer, I'll drink some beer, and she'll say nothing." Jake took a long sip.
"She must be outta town."
"North Carolina."
"When did she leave?"
"Six this morning. Flew from Memphis with Hanna. She'll stay with her parents in
Wilmington until the trial's over. They've got a fancy little beach house where they spend their summers."
"She left this morning, and you're drunk by mid-afternoon."
"I'm not drunk," Jake answered. "Yet."
"How long you been drinkin'?"
"Coupla hours. I bought a six-pack when I left Noose's house around one-thirty. How long have you been drinking?"
"I normally drink my breakfast. Why were you at his house?"
"We discussed the trial over lunch. He refused to change venue."
"He what?"
"You heard me. The trial will be in Clanton."
Lucien took a drink and rattled his ice. "Sallie!" he screamed. "Did he give any reason?"
"Yeah. Said it would be impossible to find jurors anywhere who hadn't heard of the case."
"I told you so. That's a good common sense reason not to move it, but it's a poor legal reason. Noose is wrong."
Sallie returned with a fresh drink and took Jake's beer to the refrigerator. Lucien took a slug and smacked his lips. He wiped his mouth with his arm, and took another long drink.
"You know what that means, don't you?" he asked.
"Sure. An all-white jury."
"That, plus a reversal on appeal if he's convicted."
"Don't bet on it. Noose has already consulted with the Supreme Court. He thinks the
Court will affirm him if challenged. He thinks he's on solid ground."
"He's an idiot. I can show him twenty cases that say the trial should be moved. I think he's afraid to move it."
"Why would Noose be afraid?"
"He's taking some heat."
"From who?"
Lucien admired the golden liquid in his large glass and slowly stirred the ice cubes with a finger. He grinned and looked as though he knew something but wouldn't tell unless he was begged.
"From who?" Jake demanded, glaring at his friend with shiny, pink eyes.
"Buckley," Lucien said smugly.
"Buckley," Jake repeated. "I don't understand."
"I knew you wouldn't."
"Do you mind explaining?"
"I guess I could. But you can't repeat it. It's very confidential. Came from good sources."
"Who?"
"Can't tell."
"Who are your sources?" Jake insisted.
"I said I can't tell. Won't tell. Okay?"
"How can Buckley put pressure on Noose?"
"If you'll listen, I'll tell you."
"Buckley has no influence over Noose. Noose despises him. Told me so himself. Today. Over lunch."
"I realize that."
"Then how can you say Noose is feeling some heat from Buckley?"
"If you'll shut up, I'll tell you."
Jake finished a beer and called for Sallie.
"You know what a cutthroat and political whore Buckley is."
Jake nodded.
"You know how bad he wants to win this trial. If he wins, he thinks it will launch his campaign for attorney general."
"Governor," said Jake.
"Whatever. He's ambitious, okay?"
"Okay."
"Well, he's been getting political chums throughout the district to call Noose and suggest that the trial be held in Ford County. Some have been real blunt with Noose. Like, move the trial, and we'll get you in the next election. Leave it in Clanton, and we'll help you get reelected."
"I don't believe that."
"Fine. But it's true."
"How do you know?"
"Sources."
"Who's called him?"
"One example. Remember that thug that used to be sheriff in Van Buren County? Motley? FBI got him, but he's out now. Still a very popular man in that county."
"Yeah, I remember."
"I know for a fact he went to Noose's house with a couple of sidekicks and suggested very strongly that Noose leave the trial here. Buckley put them up to it."
"What did Noose say?"
"They all cussed each other real good. Motley told Noose he wouldn't get fifty votes in
Van Buren County next election. They promised to stuff ballot boxes, harass the blacks, rig the absentee ballots, the usual election practices in Van Buren County. And Noose knows they'll do it."
"Why should he worry about it?"
"Don't be stupid, Jake. He's an old man who can do nothing but be a judge. Can you imagine him trying to start a law practice. He makes sixty thousand a year and would starve if he got beat. Most judges are like that. He's got to keep that job. Buckley knows it, so he's talking to the local bigots and pumping them up and telling how this no-good nigger might be acquitted if the trial is moved and that they should put a little heat on the judge. That's why Noose is feeling some pressure."
They drank for a few minutes in silence, both rocking quietly in the tall wooden rockers.
The beer felt great.
"There's more," Lucien said.
"To what?"
"To Noose."
"What is it?"
"He's had some threats. Not political threats, but death threats. I hear he's scared to death.
Got the police over there guarding his house. Carries a gun now."
"I know the feeling," Jake mumbled.
"Yeah, I heard."
"Heard what?"
"About the dynamite. Who was he?"
Jake was flabbergasted. He stared blankly at Lucien, unable to speak.
"Don't ask. I got connections. Who was he?"
"No one knows."
"Sounds like a pro."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome to stay here. I've got five bedrooms."
The sun was gone by eight-fifteen when Ozzie parked his patrol car behind the Saab, which was still parked behind the Porsche. He walked to the foot of the steps leading up to the porch. Lucien saw him first.
"Hello, Sheriff," he attempted to say, his tongue thick and ponderous.
"Evenin', Lucien. Where's Jake?"
Lucien nodded toward the end of the porch, where Jake lay sprawled on the swing.
"He's taking a nap," Lucien explained helpfully.
Ozzie walked across the squeaking boards and stood above the comatose figure snoring peacefully. He punched him gently in the ribs. Jake opened his eyes, and struggled desperately to sit up.
"Carla called my office lookin' for you. She's worried sick. She's been callin' all afternoon and couldn't find you. Nobody's seen you. She thinks you're dead."
Jake rubbed his eyes as the swing rocked gently. "Tell her I'm not dead. Tell her you've seen me and talked to me and you are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not dead. Tell her I'll call her tomorrow. Tell her, Ozzie, please tell her."
"No way, buddy. You're a big boy, you call her and tell her." Ozzie walked off the porch.
He was not amused.
Jake struggled to his feet and staggered into the house. "Where's the phone?" he yelled at
Sallie. As he dialed, he could hear Lucien on the porch laughing uncontrollably.
The last hangover had been in law school, six or seven years earlier; he couldn't remember. The date, that is. He couldn't remember the date, but the pounding head, dry mouth, short breath, and burning eyes brought back painful, vivid memories of long and unforgettable bouts with the tasty brown stuff.
He knew he was in trouble immediately, when his left eye opened. The eyelids on the right one were matted firmly together, and they would not open, unless manually opened with fingers, and he did not dare move. He lay there in the dark room on a couch, fully dressed, including shoes, listening to his head pound and watching the ceiling fan rotate slowly. He felt nauseated. His neck ached because there was no pillow. His feet throbbed because of the shoes. His stomach rolled and flipped and promised to erupt. Death would have been welcome.
Jake had problems with hangovers because he could not sleep them off. Once his eyes opened and his brain awoke and began spinning again, and the throbbing between his temples set in, he could not sleep. He had never understood this. His
friends in law school could sleep for days with a hangover, but not Jake. He never managed more than a few hours after the last can or bottle was empty.
Why? That was always the question the next morning. Why did he do it? A cold beer was refreshing. Maybe two or three. But ten, fifteen, even twenty? He had lost count. After six, beer lost its taste, and from then on the drinking was just for the sake of drinking and getting drunk. Lucien had been very helpful. Before dark he had sent Sallie to the store for a whole case of Coors, which he gladly paid for, then encouraged Jake to drink. There were a few cans left. It was Lucien's fault.
Slowly he lifted his legs, one at a time, and placed his feet on the floor. He gently rubbed his temples, to no avail. He breathed deeply, but his heart pounded rapidly, pumping more blood to his br ain and fueling the small jackhammers at work on the inside of his head. He had to have water.
His ..v^.guv, rraa uciiyuiaieu ana putted to the point where it was easier to leave his mouth open like a dog in heat. Why, oh why?
He stood, carefully, slowly, retardedly, and crept into the kitchen. The light above the stove was shielded and dim, but it penetrated the darkness and pierced his eyes. He rubbed his eyes and tried to clean them with his smelly fingers. He drank the warm-water slowly and allowed it to run from his mouth and drip on the floor. He didn't care. Sallie would clean it. The clock on the counter said it was two-thirty.
Gaining momentum, he walked awkwardly yet quietly through the living room, past the couch with no pillow, and out the door. The porch was littered with empty cans and bottles. Why?
He sat in the hot shower in his office for an hour, unable to move. It relieved some of the aches and soreness, but not the violence swirling around his brain. Once in law school, he had managed to crawl from his bed to the refrigerator for a beer. He drank it, and it helped; then he drank another, and felt much better. He remembered this now while sitting in the shower, and the thought of another beer made him vomit.
He lay on the conference table in his underwear and tried his best to die. He had plenty of life insurance. They would leave his house alone. The new lawyer could get a continuance.
Nine days to trial. Time was scarce, precious,, and he had just wasted one day with a massive hangover. Then he thought of Carla, and his head pounded harder. He had tried to sound sober.
Told her he and Lucien had spent the afternoon reviewing insanity cases, and he would have called earlier but the phones weren't working, at least Lucien's weren't. But his tongue was heavy and his speech slow, and she knew he was drunk. She was furious-a controlled fury. Yes, her house was still standing. That was all she believed.
At six-thirty he called her again. She might be impressed if she knew he was at the office by dawn working diligently. She wasn't. With great pain and fortitude, he sounded cheerful, even hyper. She was not impressed.
"How do you feel?" she insisted.
"Great!" he answered with closed eyes.
"What time did you go to bed?"
What bed, thought Jake. "Right after I called you."
She said nothing.
"I got to the office at three o'clock this morning," he said proudly.
"Three o'clock!"
"Yeah, I couldn't sleep."
"But you didn't sleep any Thursday night." A touch of concern edged through her icy words, and he felt better.
"I'll be okay. I may stay with Lucien some this week and next. It might be safer over there."
"What about the bodyguard?"
"Yeah, Deputy Nesbit. He's parked outside asleep in his car."
She hesitated and Jake could feel the phone lines thawing. "I'm worried about you," she said warmly.
"I'll be fine, dear. I'll call tomorrow. I've got work to do."
He replaced the receiver, ran to the restroom and vomited again.
The knocking persisted at the front door. Jake ignored it for fifteen minutes, but whoever it was knew he was there and kept knocking.
He walked to the balcony. "Who is it?" he yelled at the street.
The woman walked from the sidewalk under the balcony and leaned on a black BMW parked next to the Saab. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of faded, starched, well-fitting jeans. The noon sun burned brightly and blinded her as she looked up in his direction. It also illuminated her light, goldish red hair.
"Are you Jake Brigance?" she asked, shielding her eyes with a forearm.
"Yeah. Whatta you want?"
"I need to talk to you."
"I'm very busy."
"It's very important."
"You're not a client, are you?" he asked, focusing his anu Knowing sne was indeed not a client.
"No. I just need five minutes of your time."
Jake unlocked the door. She walked in casually as if she owned the place. She shook his hand firmly.
"I'm Ellen Roark."
He pointed to a seat by the door. "Nice to meet you. Sit down."
Jake sat on the edge of Ethel's desk. "One syllable or two?"
"I beg your pardon."
She had a quick, cocky Northeast accent, but tempered with some time in the South.
"Is it Rork or Row Ark?"
"R-o-a-r-k. That's Rork in Boston, and Row Ark in Mississippi."
"Mind if I call you Ellen?"
"Please do, with two syllables. Can I call you Jake?"
"Yes, please."
"Good, I hadn't planned to call you Mister."
"Boston, huh?"
"Yeah, I was born there. Went to Boston College. My dad is Sheldon Roark, a notorious criminal lawyer in Boston."
"I guess I've missed him. What brings you to Mississippi?"
"I'm in law school at Ole Miss."
"Ole Miss! How'd you wind up down here?"
"My mother's from Natchez. She was a sweet little sorority girl at Ole Miss, then moved to New York!, where she met my father."
"I married a sweet little sorority girl from Ole Miss."
"They have a great selection."
"Would you like coffee?"
"No thanks."
"Well, now that we know each other, what brings you to Clanton?"
"Carl Lee Hailey."
"I'm not surprised."
"I'll finish law school in December, and I'm killing time in Oxford this summer. I'm taking criminal procedure under Guthrie, and I'm bored."
"Crazy George Guthrie."
"Yeah, he's still crazy.
"He flunked me in constitutional law my first year."
"Anyway, I'd like to help you with the trial."
Jake smiled and took a seat in Ethel's heavy-duty, rotating secretarial chair. He studied her carefully. Her black cotton polo shirt was fashionably weathered and neatly pressed.
The outlines and subtle shadows revealed a healthy bustline, no bra. The thick, wavy hair fell perfectly on her shoulders.
"What makes you think I need help?"
"I know you practice alone, and I know you don't have a law clerk."
"How do you know all this?"
"Newsweek."
"Ah, yes. A wonderful publication. It was a good picture, wasn't it?"
"You looked a bit stuffy, but it was okay. You look better in person."
"What credentials do you bring with you?"
"Genius runs in my family. I finished summa cum laude at BC, and I'm second in my law class. Last summer I spent three months with the Southern Prisoners Defense League in
Birmingham and played gofer in seven capital trials. I watched Elmer Wayne Doss die in the Florida electric chair and I watched Willie Ray Ash get lethally injected in Texas. In my spare time at Ole Miss I write briefs for the ACLU and I'm working on two death penalty appeals for a law firm in Spartanburg, South Carolina. I was raised in my father's law office, and I was proficient in legal research before I could drive. I've watched him defend murderers, rapists, embezzlers, extortionists, terrorists, assassins, child abusers, child fondlers, child killers, and children who killed their parents. I worked forty hours a week in his office when I was in high school and fifty when I was in college. He has eighteen lawyers in his firm, all very bright, very talented. It's a great training ground for criminal lawyers, and I've been there for fourteen years. I'm twenty-five years old, and when I grow up I want to be a radical criminal lawyer like my dad . 0.--"" ~c.i^i stamping out me death penalty."
"Is that all?"
"My dad's filthy rich, and even though we're Irish Catholic I'm an only child. I've got more money than you do so I'll work for free. No charge. A free law clerk for three weeks. I'll do all the research, typing, answering the phone. I'll even carry your briefcase and make the coffee."
"I was afraid you'd want to be a law partner."
"No. I'm a woman, and I'm in the South. I know my place."
"Why are you so interested in this case?"
"I want to be in the courtroom. I love criminal trials, big trials where there's a life on the line and pressure so thick you can see it in the air. Where the courtroom's packed and security is tight. Where half the people hate the defendant and his lawyers and the other half pray he gets off. I love it. And this is the trial of all trials. I'm not a Southerner and I find this place bewildering most of the time, but I have developed a perverse love for it.
It'll never make sense to me, but it is fascinating. The racial implications are enormous.
The trial of a black father for killing two white men who raped his daughter-my father said he would take the case for free."
"Tell him to stay in Boston."
"It's a trial lawyer's dream. I just want to be there. I'll stay out of the way, I promise. Just let me work in the background and watch the trial."
"Judge Noose hates women lawyers."
"So does every male lawyer in the South. Besides, I'm not a lawyer, I'm a law student."
"I'll let you explain that to him."
"So I've got the job."
Jake stopped staring at her and breathed deeply. A minor wave of nausea vibrated through his stomach and lungs and took his breath. The jackhammers had returned with a fury and he needed to be near the restroom.
"Yes, you've got the job. I could use some free research. These cases are complicated, as
I'm sure you are aware."
She flashed a comely, confident smile. "When do I start?"
"Now."
Jake led her through a quick tour of the office, and assigned her to the war room upstairs.
They laid the Hailey file on the conference table and she spent an hour copying it.
At two-thirty Jake awoke from a nap on his couch. He walked downstairs to the conference room.
She had removed half the books from the shelves and had them scattered the length of the table with page markers sticking up every fifty or so pages. She was busy taking notes.
"Not a bad library," she said.
"Some of these books haven't been used in twenty years."
"I noticed the dust."
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes. I'm starving."
"There's a little cafe around the corner where the specialty is grease and fried corn meal.
My system needs a shot of grease."
"Sounds delicious."
They walked around the square to Claude's, where the crowd was thin for a Saturday afternoon.
There were no other whites in the place. Claude was absent and the silence was deafening. Jake ordered a cheeseburger, onion rings, and three headache powders.
"Got a headache?" Ellen asked.
"Massive."
"Stress?"
"Hangover."
"Hangover? I thought you were a teetotaler."
"And where'd you hear that?"
"Newsweek. The article said you were a clean-cut family man, workaholic, devout
Presbyterian who drank nothing and smoked cheap cigars. Remember? How could you forget, right?"
"You believe everything you read?"
"No."
"Good, because last night I got plastered, and I've puked all morning."
The law clerk was amused. "What do you drink?"
"I don't-remember. At least I didn't until last night. _ i, ano i nope it's my last. I'd forgotten how terrible these things are."
"Why do lawyers drink so much?"
"They learn how in law school. Does your dad drink?"
"Are you kidding? We're Catholic. He's careful, though."
"Do you drink?"
"Sure, all the time," she said proudly.
"Then you'll make a great lawyer."
Jake carefully mixed the three powders in a glass of ice water and slugged it down. He grimaced and wiped his mouth. She watched intently with an amused smile.
"What'd your wife say?"
"About what?"
"The hangover, from such a devout and religious family man."
"She doesn't know about it. She left me early yesterday morning."
"I'm sorry."
"She went to stay with her parents until the trial is over. We've had anonymous phone calls and death threats for two months now, and early yesterday morning they planted dynamite outside our bedroom window. The cops found it in time and
they caught the men, probably the Klan. Enough dynamite to level the house and kill all of us. That was a good excuse to get drunk."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"The job you've just taken could be very dangerous. You should know that at this point."
"I've been threatened before. Last summer in Dothan, Alabama, we defended two black teenagers who had sodomized and strangled an eighty-year-old woman. No lawyer in the state would take the case so they called the Defense League. We rode into town on black horses and the mere sight of us would cause lynch mobs to form instantly on street corners. I've never felt so hated in my life. We hid in a motel in another town and felt safe, until one night two men cornered me in the motel lounge and tried to abduct me."
"What happened?"
"I carry a snub-nosed .38 in my purse and I convinced them I knew how to use it."
"A snub-nosed .38?"
"My father gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday. I have a license."
"He must be a hell of a guy."
"He's been shot at several times. He takes very controversial cases, the kind you read about in the papers where the public is outraged and demanding that the
defendant be hanged without a trial or a lawyer. Those are the cases he likes best. He has a full-time bodyguard."
"Big deal. So do I. His name is Deputy Nesbit, and he couldn't hit the side of a barn with a shotgun. He was assigned to me yesterday."
The food arrived. She removed the onions and tomatoes from her Claudeburger, and offered him the french fries. She cut it in half and nibbled around the edges like a bird.
Hot grease dripped to her plate. With each small bite, she carefully wiped her mouth.
Her face was gentle and pleasant with an easy smile that belied the ACLU, ERA, burn-the-bra, I- can-outcuss-you bitchiness Jake knew was lurking somewhere near the surface. There was not a trace of makeup anywhere on the face. None was needed. She was not beautiful, not cute, and evidently determined not to be so. She had the pale skin of a redhead, but it was healthy skin with seven or eight freckles splattered about the small, pointed nose. With each frequent smile, her lips spread wonderfully and folded her cheeks into neat, transient, hollow dimples. The smiles were confident, challenging, and mysterious. The metallic green eyes radiated a soft fury and were fixed and unblinking when she talked.
It was an intelligent face, attractive as hell.
Jake chewed on his burger and tried to nonchalantly ignore her eyes. The heavy food settled his stomach, and for the first time in ten hours he began to think he might live.
"Seriously, why'd you choose Ole Miss?" he asked.
"It's a good law school."
"It's my school. But we don't normally attract the brightest students from the Northeast.
That's Ivy League country. We send our smartest kids up there."
"My father hates every lawyer with an Ivy League degree. He was dirt poor and scratched his way through law _--. -. .,.6,*i. ,*v o cuuuicu me snuos from rich, well-educated, and incompetent lawyers all his life. Now he laughs at them. He told me I could go to law school anywhere in the country, but if I chose an Ivy League school he would not pay for it. Then there's my mother. I was raised on these enchanting stories of life in the Deep
South, and I had to see for myself. Plus, the Southern states seemed determined to practice the death penalty, so I think I'll end up here."
"Why are you so opposed to the death penalty?"
"And you're not?"
"No, I'm very much in favor of it."
"That's incredible! Coming from a criminal defense lawyer."
"I'd like to go back to public hangings on the courthouse lawn."
"You're kidding, aren't you? I hope. Tell me you are."
"I am not."
She stopped chewing and smiling. The eyes glowed fiercely and watched him for a signal of weakness. "You are serious."
"I am very serious. The problem with the death penalty is that we don't use it enough."
"Have you explained that to Mr. Hailey?"
"Mr. Hailey does not deserve the death penalty. But the two men who raped his daughter certainly did."
"I see. How do you determine who gets it and who doesn't?"
"That's very simple. You look at the crime and you look at the criminal. If it's a dope dealer who guns down an undercover narcotics officer, then he gets the gas. If it's a drifter who rapes a three- year-old girl, drowns her by holding her little head in a mudhole, then throws her body off a bridge, then you take his life and thank God he's gone. If it's an escaped convict who breaks into a farmhouse late at night and beats and tortures an elderly couple before burning them with their house, then you strap him in a chair, hook up a few wires, pray for his soul, and pull the switch. And if it's two dopeheads who gang-rape a ten-year-old girl and kick her with pointed-toe cowboy boots until her jaws break, then you happily, merrily, thankfully, gleefully lock them in a gas chamber and listen to them squeal. It's very simple."
"It's barbaric."
"Their crimes were barbaric. Death is too good for them, much too good."
"And if Mr. Hailey is convicted and sentenced to die?"
"If that happens, I'm sure I'll spend the next ten years cranking out appeals and fighting furiously to save his life. And if they ever strap him in the chair, I'm sure I'll be outside the prison with you and the Jesuits and a hundred other kindly souls marching and holding candles and singing hymns. And then I'll stand beside his grave behind his church with his widow and children and wish I'd never met him."
"Have you ever witnessed an execution?"
"Not that I recall."
"I've watched two. You'd change your mind if you saw one."
"Good. I won't see one."
"It's a horrible thing to watch."
"Were the victims' families there?"
"Yes, in both instances."
"Were they horrified? Were their minds changed? Of course not. Their nightmares were over."
"I'm surprised at you."
"And I'm bewildered by people like you. How can you be so zealous and dedicated in trying to save people who have begged for the death penalty and according to the law should get it?"
"Whose law? It's not the law in Massachusetts."
"You don't say. What do you expect from the only state McGovern carried in 1972? You folks have always been tuned in with the rest of the country."
The Claudeburgers were being ignored and their voices had grown too loud. Jake glanced around and caught a few stares. Ellen smiled again, and took one of his onion rings.
"What do you think of the ACLU?" she asked, crunching.
"I suppose you've got a membership card in your purse."
"I do."
"Then you're fired."
"I joined when I was sixteen."
"Why so late? You must have been the last one in your Girl Scout troop to join."
"Do you have any respect for the Bill of Rights?"
"I adore the Bill of Rights. I despise the judges who interpret them. Eat."
They finished the burgers in silence, watching each other carefully. Jake ordered coffee and two more headache powders.
"So how do we plan to win this case?" she asked.
"We?"
"I still have the job, don't I?"
"Yes. Just remember that I'm the boss and you're the clerk."
"Sure, boss. What's your strategy?"
"How would you handle it?"
"Well, from what I gather, our client carefully planned the killings and shot them in cold blood, six days after the rape. It sounds exactly like he knew what he was doing."
"He did."
"So we have no defense and I think you should plead him guilty for a life sentence and avoid the gas chamber."
"You're a real fighter."
"Just kidding. Insanity is our only defense. And it sounds impossible to prove."
"You're familiar with the M'Naghten Rule?" Jake asked.
"Yes. Do we have a psychiatrist?"
"Sort of. He'll say anything we want him to say; that is, if he's sober at trial. One of your more difficult tasks as my new law clerk will be to make sure he is sober at trial. It won't be easy, believe me."
"I live for new challenges in the courtroom."
"All right Row Ark, take a pen. Here's a napkin. Your boss is about to give you instructions." She began making notes on a paper napkin.
"I want a brief on the M'Naghten decisions rendered by the Mississippi Supreme Court in the^past fifty years. There's probably a hundred. There's a big case from 1976, State vs.
Hill, where the court was bitterly divided five to four, with the dissenters opting for a more liberal definition of insanity. Keep the brief short, less than twenty pages. Can you type?"
"Ninety words a minute."
"I should've known. I'd like it by Wednesday."
"You'll have it."
"There are some evidentiary points I need researched. You saw those gruesome pictures of the two bodies. Noose normally allows the jury to see the blood and gore, but I'd like to keep them away from the jury. See if there's a way."
"It won't be easy."
"The rape is crucial to his defense. I want the jury to know details. This needs to be researched thoroughly. I've got two or three cases you can start from, and I think we can prove to Noose that the rape is very relevant."
"Okay. What else?"
"I don't know. When my brain is alive again I'll think of more, but that will do it for now."
"Do I report Monday morning?"
"Yes, but no sooner than nine. I like my quiet time."
"What's the dress code?"
"You look fine."
"Jeans and no socks?"
"I have one other employee, a secretary by the name of Ethel. She's sixty-four, top heavy, and thankfully she wears a bra. It wouldn't be a bad idea for you."
"I'll think about it."
"I don't need the distraction."
Monday, July 15. One week until trial. Over the weekend word spread quickly that the trial would be in Clanton, and the small town braced for the spectacle. The phones rang steadily at the three motels as the journalists and their crews confirmed reservations. The cafes buzzed with anticipation. A county maintenance crew swarmed around the courthouse after breakfast and began painting and polishing. Ozzie sent the yardboys from the jail with their mowers and weed-eaters.
The old men under the Vietnam monument whittled cautiously and watched all this activity. The trusty who supervised the yard work asked them to spit their Red Man in the grass, not on the sidewalk. He was told to go to hell. The thick, dark Bermuda was given an extra layer of fertilizer, and a dozen lawn sprinklers were hissing and splashing by 9:00 A.M.
By 10:00 A.M. the temperature was ninety-two. The merchants in the small shops around the square opened their doors to the humidity and ran their ceiling fans. They called
Memphis and Jackson and Chicago for inventory to be sold at special prices next week.
Noose had called Jean Gillespie, the Circuit Court clerk, late Friday and informed her that the trial would be in her courtroom. He instructed her to summon one hundred and fifty prospective jurors.
The defense had requested an enlarged panel from which to select the twelve, and Noose agreed.
Jean and two deputy clerks spent Saturday combing the voter registration books randomly selecting potential jurors. Following Noose's specific instructions, they culled those over sixty-five. One thousand names were chosen, and each name along with its address was written on a small index card and thrown into a cardboard box. The two deputy clerks then took turns drawing cards at random from the box. One clerk was white, one black. Each would pull a card blindly from the box and arrange it neatly on a folding table with the other cards. When the count reached one hundred and fifty, the drawing ceased and a master list was typed. These were the jurors for State vs. Hailey.
Each step of their selection had been carefully dictated by the Honorable Omar Noose, who knew exactly what he was doing. If there was an all-white jury, and a conviction, and a death sentence, every single elementary step of the jury selection procedure would be attacked on appeal. He had been through it before, and had been reversed. But not this time.
From the master list, the name and address of each juror was typed on a separate jury summons.
The stack of summonses was. kept in Jean's office under lock until eight Monday morning when Sheriff Ozzie Walls arrived. He drank coffee with Jean and received his instructions.
"Judge Noose wants these served between four P.M. and midnight tonight," she said.
"Okay."
"The jurors are to report to the courtroom promptly by nine next Monday."
"Okay."
"The summons does not indicate the name or nature of the trial, and the jurors are not to be told anything."
"I reckon they'll know."
"Probably so, but Noose was very specific. Your men are to say nothing about the case when the summonses are served. The names of the jurors are very confidential, at least until Wednesday. Don't ask why-Noose's orders."
Ozzie flipped through the stack. "How many do we have here?"
"One fifty."
"A hundred and fifty! Why so many?"
"It's a big case. Noose's orders."
"It'll take ever man I've got to serve these papers."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh well. If that's what His Honor wants."
Ozzie left, and within seconds Jake was standing at the counter flirting with the secretaries and smiling at Jean Gillespie. He followed her back to her office. He closed the door. She retreated behind her desk and pointed at him. He kept smiling.
"I know why you're here," she said sternly, "and you can't have it."
"Give me the list, Jean."
"Not until Wednesday. Noose's orders."
"Wednesday? Why Wednesday?"
"I don't know. But Omar was very specific."
"Give me the list, Jean."
"Jake, I can't. Do you want me to get in trouble?"
"You won't get in trouble because no one will know it. You know how well I can keep a secret." He was not smiling now. "Jean, give me the damned list."
"Jake, I just can't."
"I need it, and I need it now. I can't wait until Wednesday. I've got work to do."
"It wouldn't be fair to Buckley," she said weakly.
"To hell with Buckley. Do you think he plays fair? He's a snake and you dislike him as much as I do."
"Probably more."
"Give me the list, Jean."
"Look, Jake, we've always been close. I think more of you than any lawyer I know. When my son got in trouble I called you, right? I trust you and I want you to win this case. But I can't defy a judge's orders."
"Who helped you get elected last time, me or Buckley?"
"Come on, Jake."
"Who kept your son out of jail, me or Buckley?"
"Please."
"Who tried to put your son in jail, me or Buckley?"
"That's not fair, Jake."
"Who stood up for your husband when everybody, and I mean everybody, in the church wanted him gone when the books didn't balance?"
"It's not a question.of loyalty, Jake. I love you and Carla and Hanna, but I just can't do it."
Jake slammed the door and stormed out of the office. Jean sat at her desk and wiped tears from her cheeks.
At 10:00 A.M. Harry Rex barged into Jake's office and threw a copy of the jury list on his desk. "Don't ask," he said. Beside each name he had made notes, such as "Don't know" or
"Former client- hates niggers" or "Works at the shoe factory, might be sympathetic."
Jake read each name slowly, trying to place it with a face or a reputation. There was nothing but names. No addresses, ages, occupations. Nothing but names. His fourth-grade schoolteacher from Karaway. One of his mother's friends from the Garden Club. A former client, shoplifting, he thought. A name from church. A regular at the Coffee Shop.
A prominent farmer. Most of the names sounded white. There was a Willie Mae Jones,
Leroy Washington, Roosevelt Tucker, Bessie Lou Bean, and a few other black names.
But the list looked awfully pale. He recognized thirty names at most.
"Whatta you think?" asked Harry Rex.
"Hard to tell. Mostly white, but that's to be expected. Where'd you get this?"
"Don't ask. I made notes by twenty-six names. That's the best I can do. The rest I don't know."
"You're a true friend, Harry Rex."
"I'm a prince. Are you ready for trial?"
"Not yet. But I've found a secret weapon."
"What?"
"You'll meet her later."
"Her?"
"Yeah. You busy Wednesday night?"
"I don't think so. Why?"
"Good. Meet here at eight. Lucien will be here. Maybe one or two others. I want to take a couple of hours and talk about the jury. Who do we want? Let's get a profile of the model juror, and go from there. We'll cover each name and hopefully identify most of these people."
"Sounds like fun. I'll be here. What's your model juror?"
"I'm not sure. I think the vigilante would appeal to rednecks. Guns, violence, protection of women.
The rednecks would eat it up. But my man is black, and a bunch of rednecks would fry him. He killed two of their own."
"I agree. I'd stay away from women. They would have no sympathy for the rapists, but they place a higher value on life. Taking an M-16 and blowing their heads off is something women just don't understand. You and I understand it because we're fathers. It appeals to us. The violence and blood doesn't bother us. We admire him. You've got to pick young fathers on tnat jury. Young fathers with some education."
"That's interesting. Lucien said he would stick with women because they're more sympathetic."
"I don't think so. I know some women who'd cut your throat if you crossed them."
"Some of your clients?"
"Yeah, and one is on that list. Frances Burdeen. Pick her, and I'll tell her how to vote."
"You serious?"
"Yep. She'll do anything I tell her."
"Can you be in court Monday? I want you to watch the jury during the selection process, then help me decide on the twelve."
"I wouldn't miss it."
Jake heard voices downstairs and pressed his finger to his lips. He listened, then smiled and motioned for Harry Rex to follow him. They tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened to the commotion around Ethel's desk.
"You most certainly do not work here," Ethel insisted.
"I most certainly do. I was hired Saturday by Jake Brigance, who I believe is your boss."
"Hired for what?" Ethel demanded.
"As a law clerk."
"Well, he didn't discuss it with me."
"He discussed it with me, and gave me the job."
"How much is he paying you?"
"A hundred bucks an hour."
"Oh my God! I'll have to speak with him first."
"I've already spoken with him, Ethel."
"It's Mrs. Twitty to you." Ethel studied her carefully from head to toe. Acid-washed jeans, penny loafers, no socks, an oversized white cotton button-down with, evidently, nothing on underneath.
"You're not dressed appropriately for this office. You're, you're indecent."
Harry Rex raised his eyebrows and smiled at Jake. They watched the stairs and listened.
"My boss, who happens to be your boss, said I could dress like this."
"But you forgot something, didn't you?"
“Jake said I could forget it. He told me you hadn't worn a bra in twenty years. He said most of the women in Clanton go braless, so I left mine at home."
"He what?" Ethel screamed with arms crossed over her chest.
"Is he upstairs?" Ellen asked coolly.
"Yes, I'll call him."
"Don't bother."
Jake and Harry Rex retreated into the big office and waited for the law clerk. She entered carrying a large briefcase.
"Good morning, Row Ark," Jake said. "I want you to meet a good friend, Harry Rex Vonner."
Harry Rex shook her hand and stared at her shirt. "Nice to meet you. What was your first name?"
"Ellen."
"Just call her Row Ark," Jake said. "She'll clerk here until Hailey's over."
"That's nice," said Harry Rex, still staring.
"Harry Rex is a local lawyer, Row Ark, and one of the many you cannot trust."
"What'd you hire a female law clerk for, Jake?" he asked bluntly.
"Row Ark's a genius in criminal law, like most third-year law students. And she works very cheap."
"You have something against females, sir?" Ellen asked.
"No ma'am. I love females. I've married four of them."
"Harry Rex is the meanest divorce lawyer in Ford County," Jake explained. "In fact, he's the meanest lawyer, period. Come to think of it, he's the meanest man I know."
"Thanks," said Harry Rex. He had stopped staring at her.
She looked at his huge, dirty, scuffed, worn wingtips, his ribbed nylon socks that had drooped into thick wads around his ankles, his soiled and battered khaki pants, his frayed navy blazer, his brilliant pink wool tie that fell eight inches above his belt, and she said,
"I think he's cute."
"I might make you wife number five," Harry Rex said.
"The attraction is purely physical," she said.
"Watch it," Jake said. "There's been no sex in this office since Lucien left."
" -,-.",eu iwxi mm j^ucien," said Harry Rex.
"Who's Lucien?"
Jake and Harry Rex looked at each other. "You'll meet him soon enough," Jake explained.
"Your secretary is very sweet," Ellen said.
"I knew y'all would hit it off. She's really a doll once you get to know her."
"How long does that take?"
"I've known her for twenty years," said Harry Rex, "and I'm still waiting."
"How's the research coming?" Jake asked.
"Slow. There are dozens of M'Naghten cases, and they are all very long. I'm about half through. I planned to work on it all day here; that is, if that pit bull downstairs doesn't attack me."
"I'll take care of her," Jake said.
Harry Rex headed for the door. "Nice meetin' you, Row Ark. I'll see you around."
"Thanks, Harry Rex," said Jake. "See you Wednesday night."
The dirt and gravel parking lot of Tank's Tonk was full when Jake finally found it after dark. There had been no reason to visit Tank's before, and he was not thrilled about seeing the place now. It was well hidden off a dirt road, six miles out of Clanton. He parked far away from the small cinderblock building and toyed with the idea of leaving the engine running in case Tank was not there and a quick escape became necessary. But he quickly dismissed the stupid idea because he liked his car, and theft was not only likely but highly probable. He locked it, then double-checked it, almost certain that all or part of it would be missing when he returned.
The juke box blasted from the open windows, and he thought he heard a bottle crash on the floor, or across a table or someone's head. He hesitated beside his car and decided to leave. No, it was important. He sucked in his stomach, held his breath, and opened the ragged wooden door.
Forty sets of black eyes immediately focused on this poor lost white boy with a coat and tie who was squinting and trying to focus inside the vast blackness of their tonk. He stood there awkwardly, desperately searching for a friend. There were none. Michael Jackson conveniently finished his song on the juke box, and for an eternity the tonk was silent.
Jake stayed close to the door. He nodded and smiled and tried to act like one of the gang.
There were no other smiles.
Suddenly, there was movement at the bar and Jake's knees began vibrating. "Jake! Jake!" someone shouted. It was the sweetest two words he had ever heard. From behind the bar he saw his friend Tank removing his apron and heading for him. They shook hands warmly.
"What brings you here?"
"I need to talk to you for a minute. Can we step outside?"
"Sure. What's up?"
"Just business."
Tank flipped on a light switch by the front door. "Say, everbody, this here is Carl Lee
Hailey's lawyer, Jake Brigance. A good friend of mine. Let's hear it for him."
The small room exploded in applause and bravos. Several of the boys at the bar grabbed
Jake and shook his hand. Tank reached in a drawer under the bar and pulled out a handful of Jake's cards, which he passed out like candy. Jake was breathing again and the color returned to his face.
Outside, they leaned on the hood of Tank's yellow Cadillac. Lionel Richie echoed through the windows and the crowd returned to normal. Jake handed Tank a copy of the list.
"Look at each name. See how many of these folks you know. Ask around and find out what you can."
Tank held the list near his eyes. The light from the Michelob sign in the window glowed over his shoulder. "How many are black?"
"You tell me. That's one reason I want you to look at it. Circle the black ones. If you're not sure, find out. If you know any of the white folks, make a note."
"I'll be glad to, Jake. This ain't illegal, is it?"
"Naw, but don't tell anybody. I need it back by Wednesday morning."
"You're the boss."
_ - _- (tm)*, u..u JUK.C ncaciea tor the office. It was almost ten. Ethel had retyped the list from the initial one provided by Harry Rex, and a dozen copies had been hand-delivered to selected, trusted friends. Lucien, Stan Atcavage, Tank, Dell at the Coffee
Shop, a lawyer in Karaway named Roland Isom, and a few others. Even Ozzie got a list.
Less than three miles from the tonk was a small, neat white-framed country house where
Ethel and Bud Iwitty had lived for almost forty years. It was a pleasant house with pleasant memories of raising children who were now scattered up North. The retarded son, the one who greatly resembled Lucien, lived in Miami for some reason. The house was quieter now. Bud hadn't worked in years, not since his first stroke in '75. Then a heart attack, followed by two more major strokes and several small ones. His days were numbered, and he had long since accepted the fact that he would most likely catch the big one and die on his front porch shelling butterbeans. That's what he hoped for, anyway.
Monday night he sat on the porch shelling butterbeans and listening to the Cardinals on the radio.
Ethel was working in the kitchen. In the bottom of the eighth with the Cards at bat and two on, he heard a noise from the side of the house. He turned the volume down.
Probably just a dog. Then another noise. He stood and walked to the end of the porch.
Suddenly, a huge figure dressed in solid black with red, white, and black war paint smeared wickedly across his face jumped from the bushes, grabbed Bud and yanked him off the porch. Bud's anguished cry was not heard in the kitchen. Another warrior joined in and they dragged the old man to the foot of the steps leading up to the front porch. One maneuvered him into a half-nelson while the other pounded his soft belly and bloodied his face. Within seconds, he was unconscious.
Ethel heard noises and scurried through the front door. She was grabbed by a third member of the gang, who twisted her arm tightly behind her and wrapped a huge arm around her throat. She couldn't scream or talk or move, and was held there on the porch, terrified, watching below as the two thugs took turns with her husband. On the front sidewalk ten feet behind the violence stood three figures, each garbed in a full, flowing, white robe with red garnishment, each with a tall, white, pointed headdress from which fell a red and white mask that loosely covered each face. They emerged from the darkness and watched over the scene as though they were the three wise men attending the manger.
After a long, agonizing minute, the beating grew monotonous. "Enough," said the ruler in the middle. The three terrorists in black ran. Ethel rushed down the steps and slumped over her battered husband. Th e three in white disappeared.
Jake left the hospital after midnight with Bud still alive but everyone pessimistic. Along with the broken bones he had suffered another major heart attack. Ethel had made a scene and blamed it all on Jake.
"You said there was no danger!" she screamed. "Tell that to my husband! It's all your fault!"
He had listened to her rant and rave, and the embarrassment turned to anger. He glanced around the small waiting room at the friends and relatives. All eyes were on him. Yes, they seemed to say, it was all his fault.
Gwen called the office early Tuesday morning and the new secretary, Ellen Roark, answered the phone. She fumbled with the intercom until she broke it, then walked to the stairs and yelled: "Jake, it's Mr. Hailey's wife."
He slammed a book shut and angrily picked up the receiver. "Hello."
"Jake, are you busy?"
"Very. What's on your mind?"
She started crying. "Jake, we need money. We're broke, and the bills are past due. I haven't paid the house note in two months and the mortgage company is callin'. I don't know who else to turn to."
"What about your family?"
"They're poor folks, Jake, you know that. They'll feed us and do what they can, but they can't make our house notes and pay the utilities."
"Have you talked to Carl Lee?"
"Not about money. Not lately. There's not much he can do except worry, and Lord knows he's got enough to worry about."
"What about the churches?"
"Ain't seen a dime."
"How much do you need?"
"At least five hundred, just to catch up. I don't know 'bout next month. I'll guess I'll worry then."
Nine hundred minus five hundred left Jake with four hundred dollars for a capital murder defense.
That had to be a record. Four hundred dollars! He had an idea.
"Can you be at my office at two this afternoon?"
"I'll have to bring the kids."
"That's okay. Just be here."
"I'll be there."
He hung up and quickly searched the phone book for Reverend Ollie Agee. He found him at the church. Jake fed him a line about meeting to discuss the Hailey trial and covering Agee's testimony. Said the reverend would be an important witness. Agee said he would be there at two.
The Hailey clan arrived first, and Jake seated them around the conference table. The kids remembered the room from the press conference and were awed by the long table, thick swivel chairs, and impressive rows of books. When the reverend arrived he hugged Gwen and made a fuss over the kids, especially Tonya.
"I'll be very brief, Reverend," started Jake. "There are some things we need to discuss.
For several weeks now, you and the other black ministers in this county have been raising money for the Haileys. And you've done a real good job. Over six thousand, I believe. I don't know where the money is, and it's none of my business. You offered the money to the NAACP lawyers to represent Carl Lee, but as you and I know, those lawyers won't be involved in this case. I'm the lawyer, the only lawyer, and so far none of the money has been offered to me. I don't expect any of it.
Evidently you don't care about what kind of defense he gets if you can't pick his lawyer.
That's fine. I can live with that. What really bothers me, Reverend, is the fact that none, and I repeat none, of the money has been given to the Haileys. Right, Gwen?"
The empty look on her face had turned to one of amazement, then disbelief, then anger as she glared at the reverend.
"Six thousand dollars," she repeated.
"Over six thousand, at last reported count," said Jake. "And the money is lying in some bank while Carl Lee sits in jail, Gwen's not working, the bills are past due, the only food comes from friends, and foreclosure is a few days away. Now, tell us, Reverend, what're your plans with the money?"
Agee smiled and said with an oily voice, "That's none of your business."
"But it's my business!" Gwen said loudly. "You used my name and my family's name when you raised that money, didn't you, Reverend. I heard it myself. Told all the church folk that the love offerin', as you called it, was for my family. I figured you had done spent the money on lawyers' fee or somethin' like that. And now, today, I find out you've got it stuck in the bank. I guess you plan to keep it."
Agee was unmoved. "Now wait a minute, Gwen. We thought the money could best be spent on Carl Lee. He declined the money when he refused to hire the NAACP lawyers.
So I asked Mr. Reinfeld, the head lawyer, what to do with the money. He told me to save it because Carl Lee will need it for his appeal."
Jake cocked his head sideways and clenched his teeth. He started to rebuke this ignorant fool, but realized Agee did not understand what he was saying. Jake bit his lip.
"I don't understand," said Gwen.
"It's simple," said the reverend with an accommodating smile. "Mr. Reinfeld said that
Carl Lee would be convicted because he didn't hire him. So then we've got to appeal, right? And after Jake here loses the trial, you and Carl Lee will of course be lookin' for another lawyer who can save his life. That's when we'll need Reinfeld and that's when we'll need the money. So you see, it's all for Carl Lee."
Jake shook his head and silently cursed. He cursed Reinfeld more than Agee.
Gwen's eyes flooded and she clenched her fists. "I don't understand all that, and I don't want to understand it. All I know is that I'm tired of beggin' for food, tired of dependin' on others, and tired of worryin' about losin' my house."
Agee looked at her sadly. "I understand, Gwen, but-"
"And if you got six thousand dollars of our money in the bank, you're wrong not to give it to us. We've got enough sense to spend it right."
Carl Lee, Jr., and Jarvis stood next to their mother and comforted her. They stared at Agee.
"But it's for Carl Lee," the reverend said.
"Good," Jake said. "Have you asked Carl Lee how he wants his money spent?"
The dirty little grin left Agee's face and he squirmed in his chair. "Carl Lee understands what we're doin'," he said without much conviction.
"Thank you. That's not what I asked. Listen to me carefully. Have you asked Carl Lee how he wants his money spent?"
"I think it's been discussed with him," Agee lied.
"Let's see," Jake said. He stood and walked to the door leading to the small office next to the conference room. The reverend watched nervously, almost in panic. Jake opened the door and nodded to someone. Carl Lee and Ozzie casually walked in. The kids yelled and ran to their father. Agee looked devastated.
After a few awkward minutes of hugs and kisses, Jake moved in for the kill. "Now,
Reverend, why don't you ask Carl Lee how he wants to spend his six thousand dollars."
"It ain't exactly his," said Agee.
"And it ain't exactly yours," shot Ozzie.
Carl Lee removed Tonya from his knee and walked to the chair where Agee was sitting.
He sat on the edge of the table, above the reverend, poised and ready to strike if necessary. "Let me make it real simple, preacher, so you won't have trouble understandin' it. You raised that money in my name, for the benefit of my family. You took it from the black folk of this county, and you took it with the promise that it'd go to help me and my family. You lied. You raised it so you could impress the NAACP, not to help my family.
You lied in church, you lied in the newspapers, you lied everwhere."
Agee looked around the room and noticed that everyone, including the kids, was staring at him and nodding slowly.
Carl Lee put his foot in Agee's chair and leaned closer. "If you don't give us that money,
I'll tell ever nigger I know that you're a lyin' crook. I'll call ever member of your church, and I'm one too, remember, and tell them we ain't • got a dime from you, and when I get through you won't be able to raise two dollars on Sunday mornin'. You'll lose your fancy
Cadillacs and your fancy suits. You may even lose your church, 'cause I'll ask everbody to leave."
"You finished?" Agee asked. "If you are, I just wanna say that I'm hurt. Hurt real bad that you and Gwen feel this way."
"That's the way we feel, and I don't care how hurt you are."
Ozzie stepped forward. "I agree with them, Reverend Agee, you ain't done right, and you know it."
"That hurts, Ozzie, comin' from you. It really hurts."
"Lemme tell you what's gonna hurt a whole lot worse than that. Next Sunday me and Carl
Lee will be in your church. I'll sneak him outta the jail early Sunday and we'll take a little drive. Just about the time you get ready to preach, we'll walk in the front door, down the aisle and up to the pulpit. If you get in my way, I'll put handcuffs on you. Carl Lee will do the preachin'. He'll tell all your people that the money they've given so generously has so far not left your pocket, that Gwen and the kids are about to lose their house 'cause you're tryin' to big-shot with the NAACP. He'll tell them that you lied to them. He may preach for an hour or so. And when he gets through, I'll say a few words. I'll tell them what a lyin', sleazy nigger you are. I'll tell them about the time you bought that stolen
Lincoln in Memphis for a hundred dollars and almost got indicted. I'll tell them about the kickbacks from the funeral home. I'll tell them about the DUI charge in Jackson I got dismissed for you two years ago. And, Reverend, I'll tell-"
"Don't say it, Ozzie," Agee begged.
"I'll tell them a dirty little secret that only you and me and a certain woman of ill repute know about."
"When do y'all want the money?"
"How soon can you get it?" Carl Lee demanded.
"Awfully damned quick."
Jake and Ozzie left the Haileys to themselves and went upstairs to the big office, where
Ellen was bu ried in law books. Jake introduced Ozzie to his law clerk, and the three sat around the big desk.
"How are my buddies?" Jake asked.
"The dynamite boys? They're recuperatin' nicely. We'll keep them in the hospital until the trial's over. We fixed a lock on the door, and I keep a deputy in the hall. They ain't goin' anywhere."
"Who's the main man?"
"We still don't know. Fingerprint tests haven't come back yet. There may be no prints to match. He ain't talkin'."
"The other is a local boy, isn't he?" asked Ellen.
"Yeah. Terrell Grist. He wants to sue because he got hurt during the arrest. Can you imagine?"
"I can't believe it's been kept quiet so far," Jake said.
"Me neither. Of course, Grist and Mr. X ain't talkin'. My men are quiet. That leaves you and your clerk here."
"And Lucien, but I didn't tell him."
"Figures."
"When will you process them?"
"After the trial we'll move them to the jail and start the paperwork. It's up to us."
"How's Bud?" Jake asked.
"I stopped by this mornin' to check on the other two, and I went downstairs to see Ethel.
He's still critical. No changes."
"Any suspects?"
"Gotta be the Klan. With the white robes and all. It all adds up. First there was the burnin' cross in your yard, then the dynamite, and now Bud. Plus all the death threats. I figure it's them. And we got an informant."
"You what!"
"You heard me. Calls himself Mickey Mouse. He called me at home Sunday and told me that he saved your life. 'That nigger's lawyer' is what he called you. Said the Klan has officially arrived in Ford County. They've set up a klavern, whatever that is."
"Who's in it?"
"He ain't much on details. He promised to call me only if someone is about to get hurt."
"How nice. Can you trust him?"
"He saved your life."
"Good point. Is he a member?"
"Didn't say. They've got a big march planned Thursday."
"The Klan?"
"Yep. NAACP has a rally tomorrow in front of the courthouse. Then they're gonna march for a while. The Klan's supposed to show up for a peaceful march on Thursday."
"How many?"
"The Mouse didn't say. Like I said, he ain't much on details."
"The Klan, marching in Clanton. I can't believe it."
"This is heavy stuff," Ellen said.
"It'll get heavier," Ozzie replied. "I've asked the gover- nor to keep the highway patrol on standby. It could be a rough week."
"Can you believe Noose is willing to try this case in this town?" asked Jake.
"It's too big to move, Jake. It would draw marches, and protests, and Klansmen anywhere you tried it."
"Maybe you're right. How about your jury list?"
"I'll have it tomorrow."
After supper Tuesday Joe Frank Ferryman sat on his front porch with the evening paper and a fresh chew of Red Man, and spat carefully, neatly through a small hand-carved hole in the porch. This was the evening ritual. Lela would finish the dishes and fix them a tall glass of iced tea, and they would sit on the porch until dark and talk about the crops, the grandchildren, the humidity. They lived out from Karaway on eighty acres of neatly trimmed and cultivated farmland that Joe Frank's father had stolen during the Depression.
They were quiet, hardworking Christian folks.
After a few discharges through the hole, a pickup slowed out on the highway and turned into the Perrymans' long gravel driveway. It parked next to the front lawn, and a familiar face emerged. It was Will Tierce, former president of the Ford County Board of
Supervisors. Will had served his district for twenty-four years, six consecutive terms, but had lost the last election in '83 by seven votes. The Perrymans had always supported
Tierce because he took care of them with an occasional load of gravel or a culvert for the driveway.
"Evenin', Will," said Joe Frank as the ex-supervisor walked across the lawn and up the steps.
"Evenin', Joe Frank." They shook hands and relaxed on the porch.
"Gimme a chew," Tierce said.
"Sure. What brings you around here?"
"Just passin' by. Thought about Lela's iced tea and got real thirsty. Hadn't seen you folks in a while."
They sat and talked, chewed and spat, and drank iced tea until it was dark and time for the mosquitoes. The drought required most of their time and Joe Frank talked at length of the dry spell and how it was the worst in ten years. Hadn't had a drop of rain since the third week of June. And if it didn't let up, he could forget the cotton crop. The beans might make it, but he was worried about the cotton.
"Say, Joe Frank, I hear you got one of those jury summons for the trial next week."
"Yeah, afraid so. Who told you?"
"I don't know. I just heard it around." tf
"I didn't know it was public knowledge."
"Well, I guess I must've heard it in Clanton today. I had business at the courthouse. That's where I heard it. It's that nigger's trial, you know."
"That's what I figured."
"How do you feel about that nigger shootin' them boys like he did?"
"I don't blame him," inserted Lela.
"Yeah, but you can't take the law into your own hands," explained Joe Frank to his wife.
"That's what the court system is for."
"I'll tell you what bothers me," said Tierce, "is this insanity crap. They're gonna say the nigger was crazy and try to get him off by insanity. Like that nut who shot Reagan. It's a crooked way to get off. Plus it's a lie. That nigger planned to kill them boys, and just sat there and waited on them. It was cold-blooded murder."
"What if it was your daughter, Will?" asked Lela.
"I'd let the courts handle it. When we catch a rapist around here, especially a nigger, we generally lock him up. Parchman's full of rapists who'll never get out. This ain't New York or California or some crazy place where criminals go free. We've got a good system, and old Judge Noose hands down tough sentences. You gotta let the courts handle it. Our system won't survive if we allow people, especially niggers, to take the law into their own hands. That's what really scares me. Suppose this nigger gets off, walks out of the courthouse a free man. Everbody in the country will know it, and the niggers will go crazy. Evertime somebody crosses a nigger, he'll just kill him, then say he was insane, and try to get off. That's what's dangerous about this trial."
"You gotta keep the niggers under control," agreed Joe Frank.
"You better believe it. And if Hailey gets off, none of us will be safe. Ever nigger in this county'll carry a gun and just look for trouble."
"I hadn't really thought about that," admitted Joe Frank.
"I hope you do the right thing, Joe Frank. I just hope they put you in that jury box. We need some people with some sense."
"Wonder why they picked me?"
"I heard they fixed up a hundred and fifty summonses. They're expectin' about a hundred to show up."
"What're my chances of gettin' picked?"
"One in a hundred," said Lela.
"I feel better then. I really ain't got time to serve, what with my farmin' and all."
"We sure need you on that jury," said Tierce.
The conversation drifted to local politics and the new supervisor and what a sorry job he was doing with the roads. Darkness meant bedtime for the Perrymans. Tierce said good night and drove home.
He sat at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee and reviewed the jury list. His friend
Rufus would be proud. Six names had been circled on Will's list, and he had talked to all six. He put an okay by each name. They would be good jurors, people Rufus could count on to keep law and order in Ford County. A couple had been noncommittal at first, but their good and trusted friend Will Tierce had explained justice to them and they were now ready to convict.
Rufus would be real proud. And he had promised that young Jason Tierce, a nephew, would never be tried on those dope charges.
Jake picked at the greasy pork chops and butterbeans, and watched Ellen across the table do the same thing. Lucien sat at the head of the table, ignored his food, fondled his drink, and flipped through the jury list offering comments on every name he recognized. He was drunker than normal.
Most of the names he didn't recognize, but he commented on them anyway. Ellen was amused and winked repeatedly at her boss.
He dropped the list, and knocked his fork off the table.
"Sallie!" he yelled.
"Do you know how many ACLU members are in Ford County?" he asked Ellen.
"At least eighty percent of the population," she said.
"One. Me. I was the first in history and evidently the last. These people are fools around here, Row Ark. They don't appreciate civil liberties. They're a bunch of right-wing knee-jerk conservative Republican fanatics, like our friend Jake here."
"That's not true. I eat at Claude's at least once a week," Jake said.
"So that makes you progressive?" asked Lucien.
"It makes me a radical."
"I still think you're a Republican."
"Look, Lucien, you can talk about my wife, or my mother, or my ancestors, but don't call me a Republican."
"You look like a Republican," said Ellen.
"Does he look like a Democrat?" Jake asked, pointing at Lucien.
"Of course. I knew he was a Democrat the moment I saw him."
"Then I'm a Republican."
"See! See!" yelled Lucien. He dropped his glass on the floor and it shattered.
"Sallie!"
"Row Ark, guess who was the third white man in Mississippi to join the NAACP?"
"Rufus Buckley," said Jake.
"Me. Lucien Wilbanks. Joined in 1967. White people thought I was crazy."
"Can you imagine," Jake said.
"Of course, black folks, or Negroes as we called them back then, thought I was crazy too.
Hell, everybody thought I was crazy back then."
"Have they ever changed their minds?" Jake asked.
"Shut up, Republican. Row Ark, why don't you move to Clanton and we'll start us a law firm handling nothing but ACLU cases. Hell, bring your old man down from Boston and we'll make him a partner."
"Why don't you just go to Boston?" Jake asked.
"Why don't you just go to hell?"
"What will we call it?" asked Ellen.
"The nut house," said Jake.
"Wilbanks, Row and Ark. Attorneys at law."
"None of whom have licenses," said Jake.
Lucien's eyelids weighed several pounds each. His head nodded forward involuntarily.
He slapped Sallie on the rear as she cleaned up his mess.
"That was a cheap shot, Jake," he said seriously.
"Row Ark," Jake said, imitating Lucien, "guess who was the last lawyer permanently disbarred by the Mississippi Supreme Court?"
Ellen gracefully smiled at both men and said nothing.
"Row Ark," Lucien said loudly, "guess who will be the next lawyer in this county to be evicted from his office?" He roared with laughter, screaming and shaking. Jake winked at her.
When he settled down, he asked, "What's this meeting tomorrow night?"
"I want to cover the jury list with you and a few others."
"Who?"
"Harry Rex, Stan Atcavage, maybe one other."
"Where?"
"Eight o'clock. My office. No alcohol."
"It's my office, and I'll bring a case of whiskey if I want to. My grandfather built the building, remember?"
"How could I forget."
"Row Ark, let's get drunk."
"No thanks, Lucien. I've enjoyed dinner, and the conversation, but I need to get back to Oxford."
They stood and left Lucien at the table. Jake declined the usual invitation to sit on the porch. Ellen left, and he went to his temporary room upstairs. He had promised Carla he would not sleep at home. He called her. She and Hanna were fine. Worried, but fine. He didn't mention Bud Twitty.
A convoy of converted school buses, each with an original paint job of white and red or green and black or a hundred other combinations and the name of a church emblazoned along the sides under the windows, rolled slowly around the Clanton square after lunch
Wednesday. There were thirty- one in all, each packed tightly with elderly black people who waved paper fans and handkerchiefs in a futile effort to overcome the stifling heat.
After three trips around the courthouse, the lead bus stopped by the post office and thirty-one doors flew open. The buses emptied in a frenzy. The people were directed to a gazebo on the courthouse lawn, where Reverend Ollie Agee was shouting orders and handing out blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards.
The side streets leading into the square became congested as cars from all directions inched toward the courthouse and finally parked when they could move no closer.
Hundreds of blacks left their vehicles in the streets and walked solemnly toward the square. They mingled around the gazebo and waited for their placards, then wandered through the oaks and magnolias looking for shade and greeting friends. More church buses arrived and were unable to circle the square because of the traffic. They unloaded next to the Coffee Shop.
For the first time that year the temperature hit a hundred and promised to go higher. The sky produced no clouds for protection, and there were no winds or breezes to weaken the burning rays or to blow away the humidity. A man's shirt
would soak and stick to his back in fifteen minutes under a shade tree; five minutes without shade. Some of the weaker old folks found refuge inside the courthouse.
The crowd continued to grow. It was predominantly elderly, but there were many younger, militant, angry-looking blacks who had missed the great civil rights marches and demonstrations of the sixties and now realized that this might be a rare opportunity to shout and protest and sing "We Shall Overcome," and in general celebrate being black and oppressed in a white world. They meandered about waiting for someone to take charge.
Finally, three students marched to the front steps of the courthouse, lifted their placards, and shouted, "Free Carl Lee. Free Carl Lee."
Instantly, the mob repeated the war cry:
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
They left the shade trees and courthouse and moved closer together near the steps where a makeshift podium and PA system had been set up. They yelled in unison at no one or no place or nothing in particular, just howled the newly established battle cry in a perfect chorus:
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
The windows of the courthouse flew open as the clerks and secretaries gawked at the happening below. The roar could be heard for blocks and the small shops and offices around the square emptied. The owners and customers filled the sidewalks and watched in astonishment. The demonstrators noticed their spectators, and the attention fueled the chanting, which increased in tempo and volume. The vultures had loitered about waiting and watching, and the noise excited them. They descended upon the front lawn of the courthouse with cameras and microphones. Ozzie and his men directed traffic until the highway and the streets were hopelessly gridlocked. They maintained a presence, although there was no hint they would be needed.
Agee and every full-time, part-time, retired, and prospective black preacher in three counties paraded through the dense mass of black screaming faces and made their way to the podium. The sight of the ministers pumped up the celebrants, and their unified chants reverberated around the square, down the side streets into the sleepy residential districts and out into the countryside. Thousands of blacks waved their placards and yelled their lungs out. Agee swayed with the crowd.
He danced across the small podium. He slapped hands with the other ministers. He led the rhythmic noise like a choir director. He was a sight.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
For fifteen minutes, Agee whipped the crowd into a frenzied, coalescent mob. Then, when with his finely trained ear he detected the first hint of fatigue, he walked to the microphones and asked for quiet. The panting, sweating faces yelled on but with less volume. The chants of freedom died quickly. Agee asked for room near the front so the press could congregate and do its job. He asked for stillness so they could go to the Lord in prayer. Reverend Roosevelt offered a marathon to the
Lord, an eloquent, alliterative oratorical fiesta that brought tears to the eyes of many.
When he finally said "Amen," an enormous black woman with a sparkling red wig stepped to the microphones and opened her vast mouth. The opening stanza of "We Shall
Overcome" flowed forth in a deep, rich, mellow river of glorious a cappella. The ministers behind her immediately clasped hands and began to sway. Spontaneity swept the crowd and two thousand voices joined her in surprising harmony. The mournful, promising anthem rose above the small town.
When they finished, someone shouted "Free Carl Lee!" and ignited another round of chanting. Agee quieted them again, and stepped to the microphones. He pulled an index card from his pocket, and began his sermon.
As expected, Lucien arrived late and half loaded. He brought a bottle and offered a drink to Jake, Atcavage, and Harry Rex, and each declined.
"It's a quarter till nine, Lucien," Jake said. "We've been waiting for almost an hour."
"I'm being paid for this, am I?" he asked.
"No, but I asked you to be here at eight sharp."
"And you also told me not to bring a bottle. And I informed you this was my building, built by my grandfather, leased to you as my tenant, for a very reasonable rent I might add, and I will come and go as I please, with or without a bottle."
"Forget it. Did you-"
"What're those blacks doing across the street walking around the courthouse in the dark?"
"It's called a vigil," explained Harry Rex. "They've vowed to walk around the courthouse with candles, keeping a vigil until their man is free."
"That could be an awfully long vigil. I mean, those poor people could be walking until they die. I mean, this could be a twelve-, fifteen-year vigil. They might set a record. They might have candle wax up to their asses. Evenin', Row Ark."
Ellen sat at the rolltop desk under William Faulkner. She looked at a well-marked copy of the jury list. She nodded and smiled at Lucien.
"Row Ark," Lucien said, "I have all the respect in the world for you. I view you as an equal. I believe in your right to equal pay for equal work. I believe in your right to choose whether to have a child or abort. I believe in all that crap. You are a woman and entitled to no special privileges because of your gender. You should be treated just like a man."
Lucien reached in his pocket and pulled out a clip of cash. "And since you are a law clerk, genderless in my eyes, I think you should be the one to go buy a case of cold Coors."
"No, Lucien," Jake said.
"Shut up, Jake."
Ellen stood and stared at Lucien. "Sure, Lucien. But I'll pay for the beer."
She left the office.
Jake shook his head and fumed at Lucien. "This could be a long night."
Harry Rex changed his mind and poured a shot of whiskey into his coffee cup.
"Please don't get drunk," Jake begged. "We've got work to do."
"I work better when I'm drunk," said Lucien.
"Me too," said Harry Rex.
"This could be interesting," said Atcavage.
Jake laid his feet on his desk and puffed on a cigar. "Okay, the first thing I want to do is decide on a model juror."
"Black," said Lucien.
"Black as old Coaly's ass," said Harry Rex.
"I agree," said Jake. "But we won't get a chance. Buckley will save his peremptory challenges for the blacks. We know that. We've got to concentrate on white people."
"Women," said Lucien. "Always pick wo men for crimi- nal trials. They have bigger hearts, bleeding hearts, and they're much more sympathetic. Always go for women."
"Naw," said Harry Rex. "Not in this case. Women don't understand things like taking a gun and blowing people away. You need fathers, young fathers who would want to do the same thing Hailey did. Daddies with little girls."
"Since when did you get to be such an expert on picking juries?" asked Lucien. "I thought you were a sleazy divorce lawyer."
"I am a sleazy divorce lawyer, but I know how to pick juries."
"And listen to them through the wall."
"Cheap shot."
Jake raised his arms. "Fellas, please. How about Victor Onzell? You know him, Stan?"
"Yeah, he banks with us. He's about forty, married, three or four kids. White. From somewhere up North. Runs the truck stop on the highway north of town. He's been here about five years."
"I wouldn't take him," Lucien said. "If he's from up North, he doesn't think like we do.
Probably in favor of gun control and all that crap. Yankees always scare me in criminal cases. I've always thought we should have a law in Mississippi that no certified yankee could sit on a jury down here regardless of how long he's lived here."
"Thank you so much," said Jake.
"I'd take him," said Harry Rex.
"Why?"
"He's got kids, probably a daughter. If he's from the North he's probably not as prejudiced. Sounds good to me."
"John Tate Aston."
"He's dead," said Lucien.
"What?"
"I said he's dead. Been dead for three years."
"Why's he on the list?" asked Atcavage, the non-lawyer.
"They don't purge the voter registration list," explained Harry Rex, between drinks.
"Some die and some move away, and it's impossible to keep the list up to date. They've issued a hundred and fifty summons, and you can expect a hundred to a hundred and twenty to show up. The rest have died or moved away."
"Caroline Baxter. Ozzie says she's black," Jake said flipping through his notes. "Works at the carburetor plant in Karaway."
"Take her," said Lucien.
"I wish," said Jake.
Ellen returned with the beer. She dropped it in Lucien's lap and -tore a sixteen-ounce can out of a six-pack. She popped the top and returned to the rolltop desk. Jake declined, but
Atcavage decided he was thirsty. Jake remained the non-drinker.
"Jpe Kitt Shepherd."
"Sounds like a redneck," said Lucien.
"Why do you say that?" asked Harry Rex.
"The double first name," Lucien explained. "Most rednecks have double first names. Like
Billy Ray, Johnny Ray, Bobby Lee, Harry Lee, Jesse Earl, Billy Wayne, Jerry Wayne,
Eddie Mack. Even their women have double first names. Bobbie Sue, Betty Pearl, Mary
Belle, Thelma Lou, Sally Faye."
"What about Harry Rex?" asked Harry Rex.
"Never heard of a woman named Harry Rex."
"I mean for a male redneck."
"I guess it'll do."
Jake interrupted. "Dell Perry said he used to own a bait shop down by the lake. I take it no one knows him."
"No, but I bet he's a redneck," said Lucien. "Because of .his name. I'd scratch him."
"Aren't you given their addresses, ages, occupations, basic information like that?" asked Atcavage.
"Not until the day of trial. On Monday each prospective juror fills out a questionnaire in the courtroom. But until then we have only the names."
"What kind of juror are we looking for, Jake?" Ellen asked.
"Young to middle-aged men with families. I would prefer to have no one over fifty."
"Why?" Lucien asked belligerently.
"Younger whites are more tolerant of blacks."
"Like Cobb and Willard," Lucien said.
"Most of the older folks will always dislike blacks, but the younger generation has accepted an integrated society. Less bigotry, as a rule, with youth."
"I agree," said Harry Rex, "and I would stay away from women and rednecks."
"That's my plan."
"I think you're wrong," said Lucien. "Women are more sympathetic. Just look at Row
Ark. She's sympathetic toward everyone. Right, Row Ark?"
"Right, Lucien."
"She has sympathy for criminals, child pornographers, atheists, illegal immigrants, gays. Don't you, Row Ark?"
"Right, Lucien."
"She and I hold the only two ACLU cards existing at this very moment in Ford County, Mississippi."
"That's sick," said Atcavage, the banker.
"Clyde Sisco," Jake said loudly, trying to minimize controversy.
"He can be bought," Lucien said smugly.
"What do you mean 'He can be bought'?" Jake asked.
"Just what I said. He can be bought."
"How do you know?" asked Harry Rex.
"Are you kidding? He's a Sisco. Biggest bunch of crooks in the eastern part of the county.
They all live around the Mays community. They're professional thieves and insurance defrauders. They burn their houses every three years. You've never heard of them?" He was shouting at Harry Rex.
"No. How do you know he can be bought?"
"Because I bought him once. In a civil case, ten years ago. He was on the jury list, and I got word to him that I'd give him ten percent of the jury verdict. He's very persuasive."
Jake dropped the jury lists and rubbed his eyes. He knew this was probably true, but didn't want to believe it.
"And?" asked Harry Rex.
"And he was selected for the jury, and I got the largest verdict in the history of Ford County. It's still the record."
"Stubblefield?" Jake asked in disbelief.
"That's it, my boy. Stubblefield versus North Texas Pipeline. September 1974. Eight hundred thousand dollars. Appealed and affirmed by the Supreme Court."
"Did you pay him?" asked Harry Rex.
Lucien finished a long drink and smacked his lips. "Eighty thousand cash, in one-hundred-dollar bills," he said proudly. "He built a new house, then burned it down."
"What was your cut?" asked Atcavage.
"Forty percent, minus eighty thousand."
The room was silent as everybody but Lucien made the calculation.
"Wow," Atcavage mumbled.
"You're kidding, aren't you, Lucien?" Jake asked halfheartedly.
"You know I'm serious, Jake. You know I lie compulsively, but never about things like this. I'm telling the truth, and I'm telling you this guy can be bought."
"How much?" asked Harry Rex.
"Forget it!" said Jake.
"Five thousand cash, just guessing."
"Forget it!"
There was a pause as each one looked at Jake to make sure he was not interested in Clyde
Sisco, and when it was obvious he was not interested, they took a drink and waited for the next name.
Around ten-thirty Jake had his first beer, and an hour later the case was gone and forty names remained. Lucien staggered to the balcony and watched the blacks carry their candles along the sidewalks next to the streets around the courthouse.
"Jake, why is this deputy sitting in his car in front of my office?" he asked.
"That's my bodyguard."
"What's his name?"
"Nesbit."
"Is he awake?"
"Probably not."
Lucien leaned dangerously over the railing. "Hey, Nesbit," he yelled.
Nesbit opened the door of his patrol car. "Yeah, what is it?".
"Jake here wants you to go to the store and get us some more beer. He's very thirsty.
Here's a twenty. He'd like a case of Coors."
"I can't buy it when I'm on duty," Nesbit protested.
"Since when?" Lucien laughed at himself. .
"I can't do it."
"It's not for you, Nesbit. It's for Mr. Brigance, and he really needs it. He's already called the sheriff, and it's okay."
"Who called the sheriff?"
"Mr. Brigance," lied Lucien. "Sheriff said he didn't care what you did as long as you didn't drink any."
Nesbit shrugged and appeared satisfied. Lucien dropped a twenty from the balcony.
Within minutes Nesbit was back with a case minus one which had been opened and was sitting on his radar gun.
Lucien ordered Atcavage to fetch the beer from below and distribute the first six-pack.
An hour later the list was finished and the party was over. Nesbit loaded Harry Rex,
Lucien, and Atcavage into his patrol car and took them home. Jake and'his clerk sat on the balcony, sipping and watching the candles flicker and move slowly around the courthouse. Several cars were parked on the west side of the square, and a small group of blacks sat nearby in lawn chairs waiting to take their turns with the candles.
"We didn't do bad," Jake said quietly, staring at the vigil. "We made notes on all but twenty of the hundred and fifty."
"What's next?"
"I'll try to find something on the other twenty, then we'll make an index card for each juror. We'll know them like family by Monday."
Nesbit returned to the square and circled twice, watching the blacks. He parked between the Saab and the BMW.
"The M'Naghten brief is a masterpiece. Our psychiatrist, Dr. Bass, will be here tomorrow, and I want you to review M'Naghten with him. You need to outline in detail the necessary questions to ask him at trial, and cover these with him. He worries me. I don't know him, and I'm relying on Lucien. Get his resume and investigate his background.
Make whatever phone calls are necessary. Check with the state medical association to make sure he has no history of disciplinary problems. He is very important to our case, and I don't want any surprises."
"Okay, boss."
Jake finished his last beer. "Look, Row Ark, this is a very small town. My wife left five days ago, and I'm sure people will know it soon. You look suspicious. People love to talk, so be discreet. Stay in the office and do your research and tell anyone who asks that you're Ethel's replacement."
"That's a big bra to fill."
"You could do it if you wanted to."
"I hope you know that I'm not nearly as sweet as I'm being forced to act."
"I know that."
They watched the blacks change shifts and a new crew take up the candles. Nesbit threw an empty beer can ont o the sidewalk.
"You're not driving home are you?" Jake asked.
"It would not be a good idea. I'd register at least .20."
"You can sleep on the couch in my office."
"Thanks. I will."
Jake said good night, locked the office, and spoke briefly to Nesbit. Then he placed himself carefully behind the wheel of the Saab.. Nesbit followed him to his home on
Adams. He parked under the carport, next to Carla's car, and Nesbit parked in the driveway. It was 1:00 A.M., Thursday, July 18.
They arrived in groups of two and three and came from all over the state. They parked along the gravel road by the cabin deep in the woods. They entered the cabin dressed as normal working men, but once inside they slowly and meticulously changed into their neatly pressed and neatly folded robes and headdresses. They admired one another's uniforms and helped each other into the bulky outfits. Most of them knew each other, but a few introductions were necessary. They were forty in number; a good turnout.
Stump Sisson was pleased. He sipped whiskey and moved around the room like a head coach reassuring his team before the kickoff. He inspected the uniforms and made adjustments. He was proud of his men, and told them so. It was the biggest meeting of its kind in years, he said. He admired them and their sacrifices in being there. He knew they had jobs and families, but this was important. He talked about the glory days when they were feared in Mississippi and had clout.
Those days must return, and it was up to this very group of dedicated men to take a stand for white people. The march could be dangerous, he explained. Niggers could march and demonstrate all day long and no one cared. But let white folks try and march and it was dangerous. The city had issued a permit, and the nigger sheriff promised order, but most
Klan marches nowadays were disrupted by roving bands of young wild nigger punks. So be careful, and keep ranks. He, Stump, would do the talking.
They listened intently to Stump's^rep talk, and when he finished they loaded into a dozen cars and followed him to town.
Few if any people in Clanton had ever seen the Klan march, and as 2:00 P.M. approached a great wave of excitement rippled around the square. The merchants and their customers found excuses to inspect the sidewalks. They milled about importantly and watched the side streets. The vultures were out in full force and had congregated near the gazebo on the front lawn. A group of young blacks gathered nearby under a massive oak. Ozzie smelled trouble. They assured him they had only come to watch and listen. He threatened them with jail if trouble started. He stationed his men at various points around the courthouse.
"Here they come!" someone yelled, and the spectators strained to get a glimpse of the marching Klansmen as they strutted importantly from a small street onto Washington
Avenue, the north border of the square. They walked cautiously, but arrogantly, their faces hidden by the sinister red and white masks hanging from the royal headdresses. The spectators gawked at the faceless figures as the procession moved slowly along
Washington, then south along Caffey Street, then east along Jackson Street. Stump waddled proudly in front of his men. When he neared the front of the courthouse, he made a sharp left turn and led his troops down the long sidewalk in the center of the front lawn. They closed ranks in a loose semicircle around the podium on the courthouse steps.
The vultures had scrambled and fallen over themselves following the march, and when
Stump stopped his men the podium was quickly adorned with a dozen microphones trailing wires in all directions to the cameras and recorders. Under the tree the group of blacks had grown larger, much larger, and some of them walked to within a few feet of the semicircle. The sidewalks emptied as the merchants and shopkeepers, their customers, and the other curious streamed across the streets onto the lawn to hear what the leader, the short fat one, was about to say. The deputies walked slowly through the crowd, paying particular attention to the group of blacks. Ozzie placed himself under the oak, in the midst of his people.
Jake watched intently from the window in Jean Gilles-pie's second floor office. The sight of the Klansmen, in full regalia, their cowardly faces hidden behind the ominous masks, gave him a sick feeling. The white hood, for decades a symbol of hatred and violence in the South, was back.
Which one of those men had burned the cross in his yard? Were they all active in planning the bombing of his home? Which one would try something next? From the second floor, he could see the blacks inch closer.
"You niggers were not invited to this rally!" Stump screamed into the microphone, pointing at the blacks. "This is a Klan meetin', not a meetin' for a buncha niggers!"
From the side streets and small alleys behind the rows of red brick buildings, a steady stream of blacks moved toward the courthouse. They joined the others, and in seconds
Stump and.his boys were outnumbered ten to one. Ozzie radioed for backup.
"My name's Stump Sisson," he said as he removed his mask. "And I'm proud to say I'm the Mississippi Imperial Wizard for the Invisible Empire of the Ku Klux Klan. I'm here to say that the law-abidin' white folks of Mississippi are sick and tired of niggers stealin', rapin', killin', and gettin' by with it. We demand justice, and we demand that this Hailey nigger be convicted and his black ass sent to the gas chamber!"
"Free Carl Lee!" screamed one of the blacks.
"Free Carl Lee!" they repeated in unison.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Shut up, you wild niggers!" Stump shrieked back. "Shut up, you animals!" His troops stood facing him, frozen, with their backs to the screaming crowd. Ozzie and six deputies moved between the groups.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
Stump's naturally colorful face had turned an even deeper red. His teeth nearly touched the microphones. "Shut up, you wild niggers! You had your rally yesterday and we didn't disturb you. We have a right to assemble in peace, just like you do! Now, shut up!"
The chanting intensified. "Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!"
"Where's the sheriff? He's supposed to keep law and order. Sheriff, do your job. Shut those niggers up so we can assemble in peace. Can't you do your job, Sheriff?
Can't you control your own people? See, folks, that's what you get when you elect niggers to public office."
The shouting continued and Stump stepped back from the microphones and watched the blacks.
The photographers and TV crews spun in circles trying to record it all. No one noticed a small window on the third floor of the courthouse. It opened slowly, and from the darkness within a wuuc mcuumo was tnrown onto the podium below. It landed perfectly at Stump's feet and exploded, engulfing the wizard in dames.
The riot was on. Stump screamed and rolled wildly down the front steps. Three of his men shed their heavy robes and masks and attempted to cover him and smother the flames. The wooden podium and platform burned with the thick, unmistakable smell of gasoline. The blacks charged, wielding sticks and knives and hacking at anything with a white face or white robe. Under each white robe was a short black nightstick, and the Klansmen proved ready for the assault. Within seconds of the explosion, the front lawn of the Ford County Courthouse was a battlefield as men screamed and cursed and howled in pain through thick, heavy smoke. The air was filled with rocks and stones and nightsticks as the two groups brawled in hand-to-hand combat.
Bodies began falling on the lush, green grass. Ozzie fell first; the victim of a wicked smash to the base of his skull with a wrecking bar. Nesbit, Prather, Hastings, Pirtle,
Tatum, and other deputies ran here and there attempting unsuccessfully to separate various combatants before they killed each other. Instead of running for cover, the vultures darted cra-zily through the midst of the smoke and violence valiantly trying to capture yet a better shot of the blood and gore. They were sitting ducks. One cameraman, his right eye buried deep in his camera, caught a jagged piece of brick with his left eye.
He and his camera dropped quickly to the sidewalk, where, after a few seconds, another cameraman appeared and filmed his fallen comrade. A fearless, busy female reporter from a Memphis station charged into the melee with her
microphone in hand and her cameraman at her heels. She dodged a brick, then maneuvered too close to a large
Klansman who was just finishing off a couple of black teenagers, when, with a loud piercing scream, he slapped her pretty head with his nightstick, kicked her as she fell, then brutally attacked her cameraman.
Fresh troops from the Clanton City Police arrived. In the center of the battle, Nesbit,
Prather, and Hastings came together, stood with their backs to each other, and began firing their Smith & Wesson .357 magnum service revolvers into the air. The sound of the gunfire quelled the riot. The warriors froze and searched for the gunfire, then quickly separated and glared at each other. They retreated slowly to their own groups.
The officers formed a dividing line between the blacks and the Klansmen, all of whom were thankful for the truce.
A dozen wounded bodies were unable to retreat. Ozzie sat dazed, rubbing his neck. The lady from Memphis was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the head. Several
Klansmen, their white robes soiled and bloody, lay sprawled near the sidewalk. The fire continued to burn.
The sirens drew closer and finally the fire trucks and ambulances arrived and drove onto the battlefield. Firemen and medics at tended the wounded. None were dead. Stump
Sisson was taken away first. Ozzie was half dragged and half carried to a patrol car. More police arrived and broke up the crowd.
Jake, Harry Rex, and Ellen ate a lukewarm pizza and watched intently as the small television in the conference room broadcasted the day's events in Clanton, Mississippi.
CBS ran the story halfway through the news. The reporter had apparently escaped the riot unscathed, and he narrated the video with a play by play of the march, the shouting, the firebomb, and the melee. "As of late this afternoon," he reported, "the exact number of casualties is unknown. The most serious injuries are believed to be the extensive burns suffered by a Mr. Sisson, who identified himself as an imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. He is listed in serious condition at the Mid South Burn Hospital in Memphis."
The video showed a closeup of Stump burning while all hell broke loose. He continued:
"The trial of Carl Lee Hai-ley is scheduled to start Monday here in Clanton. It is unknown at this time what effect, if any, today's riot will have on this trial. There is some speculation the trial will be postponed and/or moved to another county."
"That's news to me," said Jake.
"You haven't heard anything?" asked Harry Rex.
"Not a word. And I presume I would be notified before CBS."
The reporter disappeared and Dan Rather said he would return in a moment.
"What does this mean?" asked Ellen.
"It means Noose is stupid for not changing venue."
"Be glad he didn't," said Harry Rex. "It'll give you something to argue on appeal."
"Thanks, Harry Rex. I appreciate your confidence in my ability as a trial lawyer."
The phone rang. Harry Rex grabbed it and said hello to Carla. He handed it to Jake. "It's your wife.
Can we listen?"
"No! Go get another pizza. Hello dear."
"Jake, are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right."
"I just saw it on the news. It's awful. Where were you?"
"I was wearing one of those white robes."
"Jake, please. This is not funny."
"I was in Jean Gillespie's office on the second floor. We had wonderful seats. Saw the whole thing.
It was very exciting."
"Who are those people?"
"Same ones who burned the cross in our front yard and tried to blow up the house."
"Where are they from?"
"Everywhere. Five are in the hospital and their addresses are scattered all over the state.
One is a local boy. How's Hanna?"
"She's fine. She wants to come home. Will the trial be postponed?"
"I doubt it."
"Are you safe?"
"Sure. I've got a full-time bodyguard and I carry a .38 in my briefcase. Don't worry."
"But I'm worried, Jake. I need to be home with you."
"No."
"Hanna can stay here until it's over, but I want to come home."
"No, Carla. I know you're safe out there. You won't be safe if you're here."
"Then you're not safe either."
"I'm as safe as I can get. But I'm not taking chances with you and Hanna. It's out of the question. That's final. How are your parents?"
"I didn't call to talk about my parents. I called because I'm scared and I want to be with you."
"And I want to be with you, but not now. Please understand."
She hesitated. "Where are you staying?"
"At Lucien's most of the time. Occasionally at home, with my bodyguard in the driveway."
"How's my house?"
"It's still there. Dirty, but still there."
"I miss it."
"Believe me, it misses you."
"I love you, Jake, and I'm scared."
"I love you, and I'm not scared. Just relax and take care of Hanna."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
Jake handed the receiver to Ellen. "Where is she?"
"Wilmington, North Carolina. Her parents spend the summers there."
Harry Rex had left for another pizza.
"You miss her, don't you?" asked Elleri.
"In more ways than you can imagine."
"Oh, I can imagine."
At midnight they were in the cabin drinking whiskey, cussing niggers, and comparing wounds. Several had returned from the hospital in Memphis where they had visited briefly with Stump Sisson. He told them to proceed as planned. Eleven had been released from the Ford County Hospital with various cuts and bruises, and the others admired their wounds as each took his turn describing to the last detail how he had gallantly battled multiple niggers before being wounded, usually from the rear or blind side. They were the heroes, the ones with the bandages. Then the others told their stories and the whiskey flowed. They heaped praise upon the
largest one when he told of his attack on the pretty television reporter and her nigger cameraman.
After a couple of hours of drinking and storytelling the talk turned to the task at hand. A map of the county was produced, and one of the locals pinpointed the targets. There were twenty homes this night-twenty names taken from the list of prospective jurors someone had furnished.
Five teams of four each left the cabin in pickups and headed into the darkness to further their mischief. In each pickup were four wooden crosses, the smaller models, nine feet by four feet, each soaked with kerosene. They avoided Clanton and the small towns in the county and instead kept to the dark countryside. The targets were in isolated areas, away from traffic and neighbors, out in the country where things go unnoticed and people go to bed early and sleep soundly.
The plan of attack was simple: a truck would stop a few hundred feet down the road, out of sight, no headlights, and the driver remained with engine running while the other three carried the cross to the front yard, stuck it in the ground, and threw a torch on it. The pickup then met them in front of the house for a quiet getaway and joyride to the next target.
The plan worked simply and with no complications at nineteen of the twenty targets. But at Luther Pickett's residence a strange noise earlier in the night had aroused Luther, and he sat in the darkness of his front porch waiting for nothing in particular when he saw a strange pickup move suspiciously along the gravel road out beyond his pecan tree. He grabbed his shotgun and listened as the truck turned around and stopped down the road.
He heard voices, and then saw three figures carrying a pole or something into his front yard, next to the gravel road. Luther crouched behind a shrub next to the porch, and aimed.
The driver took a slug of cold beer and watched to see the cross go up in flames. He heard a shotgun instead. His buddies abandoned the cross and the torch and the front yard, and jumped into a small ditch next to the road. Another shotgun blast. The driver could hear the screams and obscenities. They had to be rescued! He
threw down his beer and stepped on the gas, Old Luther fired again as he came off the porch, and again as the truck appeared and stopped by the shallow ditch. The three scrambled desperately from the mud, stum- bling and sliding, cussing and yelling as they attacked the truck and furiously fought to jump into the bed.
"Hang on!" yelled the driver just as old Luther fired again, this time spraying the pickup.
He watched with a smile as the truck sped away, spinning gravel and fishtailing from ditch to ditch. Just a bunch of drunk kids, he thought.
From a pay phone, a Kluxer held the list of twenty names and twenty phone numbers. He called them all, simply to ask them to take a look in their front yards.
Friday morning Jake phoned the Noose home and was informed by Mrs. Ichabod that His
Honor was presiding over a civil trial in Polk County. Jake gave instructions to Ellen and left for Smithfield, an hour away. He nodded at His Honor as he entered the empty courtroom and sat on the front row. Except for the jurors, there were no other spectators.
Noose was bored, the jurors were bored, the lawyers were bored, and after two minutes
Jake was bored. After the witness finished Noose called for a short recess, and Jake went to his chambers.
"Hello, Jake. Why're you here?"
"You heard what happened yesterday."
"I saw it on the news last night."
"Have you heard what happened this morning?"
"No."
"Evidently someone gave the Klan a list of the prospective jurors. Last night they burned crosses in the yards of twenty of the jurors."
Noose was shocked. "Our jurors!"
"Yes, sir."
"Did they catch anybody?"
"Of course not. They were too busy putting out fires. Besides, you don't catch these people."
"Twenty of our jurors," Noose repeated.
"Yes, sir."
Noose pawed at his mangled mass of brilliant gray hair and walked slowly around the small room, shaking his head and occasionally scratching his crotch.
"Sounds like intimidation to me," he muttered.
What a mind, thought Jake. A real genius. "I would say so."
"So what am I supposed to do?" he asked with a touch of frustration.
"Change venue."
"To where?"
"Southern part of the state."
"I see. Perhaps Carey County. I believe it's sixty percent black. That would generate at least a hung jury, wouldn't it? Or maybe you would like Brower County. I think it's even blacker. You'd probably get an acquittal there, wouldn't you?"
"I don't care where you move it. It's not fair to try him in Ford County. Things were bad enough before the war yesterday. Now the white folks are really in a lynching mood, and my man's got the nearest available neck. The situation was terrible before the Klan started decorating the county with Christmas trees. Who knows what else they'll try before
Monday. There's no way to pick a fair and impartial jury in Ford County."
"You mean black jury?"
"No, sir! I mean a jury that hasn't prejudged this case. Carl Lee Hailey is entitled to twelve people who haven't already decided his guilt or innocence."
Noose lumbered to ward his chair and fell into it. He removed those glasses from that nose and picked at the end of it.
"We could excuse the twenty," he wondered aloud.
"That won't help. The entire county knows about it or will know about it within a few hours. You know how fast word travels. The entire panel will feel threatened."
"Then we could disqualify the entire panel and summon a new one."
"Won't work," Jake answered sharply, frustrated by Noose's stubbornness. "All jurors must come from Ford County, and everybody in the county knows about it. And how do you keep the Klan from harassing the next panel? It won't work."
"What makes you so confident the Klan won't follow the case if I move it to another county?" The sarcasm dripped from every word.
"I think they will follow it," Jake admitted. "But we don't know that for sure. What we do know is that the Klan is already in Ford County, that it's quite active now, and that it has already intimidated some potential jurors. That's the issue. The question is, what will you do about it?"
"Nothing," Noose said bluntly.
"Sir?"
"Nothing. I will do nothing but dismiss the twenty. I will carefully interrogate the panel next Monday, when the trial starts in Clanton."
Jake stared in disbelief. Noose had a reason, a motive, a fear, something he was not telling. Lucien was right-someone had gotten to him. ' "May I ask why?"
"I don't think it matters where we try Carl Lee Hailey. I don't think it matters who we put in the jury box. I don't think it matters what color they are. Their minds are made up. All of them, wherever and whoever they are. They've already made up their minds, Jake, and it's your job to pick those who think your man is a hero."
That's probably true, thought Jake, but he wouldn't admit it. He continued staring at the trees outside. "Why are you afraid to move it?"
Ichabod's eyes narrowed, and he glared at Jake. "Afraid? I'm not afraid of any ruling I make. Why are you afraid to try it in Ford County?"
"I thought I just explained it."
"Mr. Hailey will be tried in Ford County starting Monday. That's three days from today.
And he will be tried there not because I'm afraid to move it, but because it wouldn't do any good to move it. I've considered all this very carefully, Mr. Brigance, many times, and I feel comfortable with the trial in Clanton. It will not be moved. Anything further?"
"No, sir."
"Good. See you Monday."
Jake entered his office through the rear door. The front door had been locked for a week now, and there was always someone banging on it and yelling at it. Most of them were reporters, but many were friends just stopping by to gossip and find out what they could about the big trial. Clients were a thing of the past. The phone rang constantly. Jake never touched it and Ellen grabbed it if she was nearby.
He found her in the conference room up to her elbows in law books. The M'Naghten brief was a masterpiece. He had requested no more than twenty pages. She gave him seventy-five perfectly typed and plainly worded pages, and explained there was no way to cover the Mississippi version of M'Naghten in fewer words. Her research was painstaking and detailed. She had started with the original M'Naghten case in England in the 1800's and worked through a hundred and fifty years of insanity law in Mississippi. She discarded insignificant or confusing cases, and explained in wonderful simplicity the complicated, major cases. The brief concluded with a summary of current law, and applied it to the trial of Carl Lee Hailey.
In a smaller brief, only fourteen pages, she had reached the unmistakable conclusion that the jury would see the sickening pictures of Cobb and Willard with their brains splattered about the stairway. Mississippi admitted such inflammatory evidence, and she had found no way around it. She had typed thirty-one pages of research on the defense of justifiable homicide, something Jake had considered briefly after the killings. She reached the same conclusion Jake had reached-it wouldn't work. She had found an old Mississippi case where a man had caught and killed an escaped convict who was armed. He had been acquitted, but the differences in that case and Carl Lee's case were enormous. Jake had not asked for the brief, and was irritated that so much energy had been spent on it. He said nothing, however, since she had produced everything he had asked for.
The most pleasant surprise had been her work with Dr. W.T. Bass. She had met with him twice during the week, and they had covered M'Naghten in great detail. She prepared a twenty-five-page script of the questions to be asked by Jake and the answers to be given by Bass. It was a skillfully crafted dialogue, and he marveled at her seasoning. When he was her age, he was an average student more concerned with romance than research. She, on the other hand, as a third-year law student was writing briefs that read like treatises.
"How'd it go?" she asked.
"As expected. He did not budge. The trial will start here Monday with the same panel, minus the twenty who received their subtle warnings."
"He's crazy."
"What're you working on?"
"I'm finishing the brief to support our position that the details of the rape should be discussed before the jury. It looks good, at this point."
"When will you finish it?"
"Is there some hurry?"
"By Sunday, if possible. I've got another chore, something a little different."
She slid her legal pad away and listened.
"The State's psychiatrist will be Dr. Wilbert Rode-heaver, head of staff at Whitfield. He's been there forever, and has testifed in hundreds of cases. I want you to dig a little and see how often his name appears in court decisions."
"Fve already run across his name."
"Good. As you know, the only cases we read about from the Supreme Court are the ones where the defendant at trial was convicted and has appealed. The acquittals are not reported. I'm more interested in these."
"Where are you coming from?"
"I have a hunch Rodeheaver is very reluctant to give an opinion that a defendant was legally insane.
There's a chance he's never done it. Even in cases where the defendant was clearly crazy and did not know what he was doing. I'd like to ask Rodeheaver, on cross-examination, about some of the cases in which he's said there's nothing wrong with an obviously sick man, and the jury acquitted him."
"Those cases will be very hard to find."
"I know, but you can do it, Row Ark. I've watched you work for a week now, and I know you can do it."
"I'm flattered, boss."
"You may have to make phone calls to attorneys around the state who've crossed
Rodeheaver before. It'll be hard, Row Ark, but get it done."
"Yes, boss. I'm sure you wanted it yesterday."
"Not really. I doubt if we'll get to Rodeheaver next week, so you have some time."
"I don't know how to act. You mean it's not urgent?"
"No, but that rape brief is."
"Yes, boss."
"Have you had lunch?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Good. Don't make any plans for dinner."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've got an idea."
"Sort of like a date?"
"No, sort of like a business lunch with two professionals."
Jake packed two briefcases and left. "I'll be at Lu-cien's," he told her, "but don't call unless it's a dire emergency. Don't tell anyone where I am."
"What are you working on?"
"The jury."
Lucien had passed out drunk in the swing on the porch, and Sallie was not around. Jake helped himself to the spacious study upstairs. Lucien had more law books in his home than most lawyers had in their offices. He unpacked his mess in a chair, and on the desk he placed an alphabetical list of the jurors, a stack of three-by-five notecards, and several Magic Markers.
The first name was Acker, Barry Acker. The last name was written in large print across the top of a notecard with a blue Magic Marker. Blue for men, red for women, black for blacks, regardless of gender. Under Acker's name he made notes with a pencil. Age, about forty. Married to his second wife, three children, two daughters. Runs a small unprofitable hardware store on the highway in Clanton. Wife, secretary at a bank. Drives a pickup. Likes to hunt. Wears cowboy boots. Pretty nice guy. Atcavage had gone to the hardware store Thursday to get a look at Barry Acker. Said he looked okay, talked like he had .some education. Jake wrote the number nine by the name Acker. Jake was impressed with his research. Surely Buckley would not be as thorough.
The next name was Bill Andrews. What a name. There were six of them in the phonebook. Jake knew one, Harry Rex knew another one, and Ozzie knew a black one, but nobody knew which one got the summons. He pvut a question mark by the name.
Gerald Ault. Jake smiled when he wrote the name on the notecard. Ault had passed through his office a few years back when the bank foreclosed on his house in Clanton.
His wife was stricken with kidney disease, and the medical bills broke them. He was an intellectual, educated at Princeton, where he met his wife. She was from Ford County, the only child of a once prominent family of fools who had invested all their money in railroads. He arrived in Ford County just in time for his in-laws
to go under, and the easy life he had married dissolved into one of struggle. He taught school for a while, then ran the library, then worked as a clerk in the courthouse. He developed an aversion to hard work. Then his wife got sick, and they lost their modest house. He now worked in a convenience store.
Jake knew something about Gerald Ault that no one else knew. As a child in
Pennsylvania, his family lived in a farmhouse near the highway. One night while they sl ept, the house caught fire. A passing motorist stopped, kicked in the front door and began rescuing the Aults. The fire spread quickly, and when Gerald and his brother awoke they were trapped in their upstairs bedroom. They ran to the window and screamed. Their parents and siblings yelled helplessly from the front lawn. Flames poured from every window in the house except for their bedroom. Suddenly, the rescuer soaked himself with water from the garden hose, dashed into the burning house, fought the flames and smoke as he raced upstairs, then bolted through the bedroom door. He kicked out the window, grabbed Gerald and his brother, and jumped to the ground. Miraculously, they were not hurt. They thanked him, through tears and embraces. They thanked this stranger, whose skin was black. He was the first Negro the children had ever seen.
Gerald Ault was one of the few white people in Ford County who truly loved black people. Jake put a ten by his name.
For six hours he went through the jury list, making note-cards, concentrating on each name, envisioning each juror in the box and in deliberation, talking to each one. He rated them. Every black got an automatic ten; the whites were not so easy. The men rated higher than the women; the young men higher than the old men; the educated slightly higher than the uneducated; the liberals, both of them, received the highest ratings.
He eliminated the twenty Noose planned to exclude. He knew something about one hundred and eleven of the prospective jurors. Surely, Buckley could not know so much.
Ellen was typing on Ethel's machine when Jake returned from Lucien's. She turned it off, closed the law books she was typing from, and watched him.
"Where's dinner?" she asked with a wicked smile.
"We're taking a road trip."
"All right! Where to?"
"Have you ever been to Robinsonville, Mississippi?"
"No, but I'm ready. What's there?"
"Nothing but cotton, soybeans, and a great little restaurant."
"What's the dress code?"
Jake inspected her. She wore the usual-jeans, neatly starched and faded, no socks, a navy button- down that was four sizes too big but tucked in nicely above her slender hips.
"You look fine," he said.
They turned off the copier and the lights and left Clanton in the Saab. Jake stopped at a liquor store in the black section of town and bought a six-pack of Coors and a tall, cold bottle of Chablis.
"You have to bring your own bottle to this place," he explained as they left town. The sun was setting into the highway ahead, and Jake flipped down the sun visors. Ellen played bartender and opened two cans.
"How far is this place?" she asked.
"Hour and a half."
"Hour and a half! I'm starving."
"Then fill up on beer. Believe me it's worth it."
"What's on the menu?"
"Barbecued, sauteed shrimp, frog legs, and charbroiled catfish."
She sipped on the beer. "We'll see."
Jake stepped on the gas, and they raced across bridges over the countless tributaries of
Lake Chatulla. They climbed steep hills covered with layers of dark green kudzu. They flew around corners and dodged pulpwood trucks making their last runs of the day. Jake opened the sunroof, lowered the windows and let the wind blow. Ellen leaned back in the seat and dosed her eyes. Her thick, wavy hair swirled around her face.
"Look, Row Ark, this dinner is strictly business-"
"Sure, sure."
"I mean it. I'm the employer, you're the employee, and this is a business meal. Nothing more or less. So don't get any lustful ideas in your ERA, sexually liberated brain."
"Sounds like you're the one with the ideas."
"Nope. I just know what you're thinking."
"How do you know what I'm thinking? Why do you assume you're so irresistible and that
I'm planning a big seduction scene?"
"Just keep your hands to yourself. I'm a wonderfully happily married man with a gorgeous wife who'd kill if she thought I was fooling around."
"Okay, let's pretend to be friends. Just two friends having dinner."
"That doesn't work in the South. A male friend cannot have dinner with a female friend if the male friend has a wife. It just doesn't work down here."
"Why not?"
"Because men don't have female friends. No way. I don't know of a single man in the entire South who is married and has a female friend. I think it goes back to the Civil War."
"I think it goes back to the Dark Ages. Why are Southern women so jealous?"
"Because that's the way we've trained them. They learned from us. If my wife met a male friend for lunch or dinner, I'd tear his head off and file for divorce. She learned it from me."
"That makes absolutely no sense."
"Of course it doesn't."
"Your wife has no male friends?"
"None that I know of. If you learn of any, let me know."
"And you have no female friends?"
"Why would I want female friends? They can't talk about football, or duck hunting, or politics, or lawsuits, or anything that I want to talk about. They talk about kids, clothes, recipes, coupons, furniture, stuff I know nothing about. No, I don't have any female friends. Don't want any."
"That's what I love about the South. The people are so tolerant."
"Thank you."
"Do you have any Jewish friends?"
"I don't know of any in Ford County. I had a real good friend in law school, Ira Tauber, from New Jersey. We were very close. I love Jews. Jesus was a Jew, you know. I've never understood anti- Semitism."
"My God, you are a liberal. How about, uh, homosexuals?"
"I feel sorry for them. They don't know what they're missing. But that's their problem."
"Could you have a homosexual friend?"
"I guess, as long as he didn't tell me."
"Nope, you're a Republican."
She took his empty can and threw it in the back seat. She opened two more. The sun was gone, and the heavy, humid air felt cool at ninety miles an hour.
"So we can't be friends?" she said.
"Nope."
"Nor lovers."
"Please. I'm trying to drive."
"So what are we?"
"I'm the lawyer, you're the law clerk. I'm the employer, you're the employee. I'm the boss, you're the gofer."
"You're the male, I'm the female."
Jake admired her jeans and bulky shirt. "There's not much doubt about that."
Ellen shook her head and stared at the mountains of kudzu flying by. Jake smiled, drove faster, and sipped his beer. He negotiated a series of intersections on the rural, deserted highways and, suddenly, the hills disappeared and the land became flat.
"What's the name of the restaurant?" she asked.
"The Hollywood."
"The what?"
"The Hollywood."
"Why is it called that?"
"It was once located in a small town a few miles away by the name of Hollywood,
Mississippi. It burned, and they moved it to Robinsonville. They still call it the Hollywood."
"What's so great about it?"
"Great food, great music, great atmosphere, and it's a thousand miles from Clanton and no one will see me having dinner with a strange and beautiful woman."
"I'm not a woman, I'm a gofer."
"A strange and beautiful gofer."
Ellen smiled to herself and ran her fingers through her hair. At another intersection, he turned left and headed west until they found a settlement near a railroad. A row of wooden buildings sat empty on one side of the road, and across the street, all by itself, was an old dry goods store with a dozen cars parked around it and music rolling softly out the windows. Jake grabbed the bottle of Chablis and escorted his law clerk up the steps, onto the front porch, and inside the building.
Next to the door was a small stage, where a beautiful old black lady, Merle, sat at her piano and sang "Rainy Night in Georgia." Three long rows of tables ran to the front and stopped next to the stage. The tables were half full, and* a waitress in the back poured beer from a pitcher and motioned for them to come on in. She seated them in the rear, at a small table with a red-checkered tablecloth.
"Y'all want some fried dill pickles, honey?" she asked Jake.
"Yes! Two orders."
Ellen frowned and looked at Jake. "Fried dill pickles?"
"Yes, of course. They don't serve them in Boston?"
"Do you people fry everything?"
"Everything that's worth eating. If you don't like them, I'll eat them."
A yell went up from the table across the aisle. Four couples toasted something or somebody, then broke into riotous laughing. The restaurant maintained a constant roar of yelling and talking.
"The good thing about the Hollywood," Jake explained, "is that you can make all the noise you want and stay as long as you want, and nobody cares. When you get a table here, it's yours for the night. They'll start singing and dancing in a minute."
Jake ordered sauteed shrimp and charbroiled catfish for both of them. Ellen passed on the frog legs. The waitress hurried back with the Chablis and two chilled glasses. They toasted Carl Lee Hailey and his insane mind.
"Whatta you think of Bass?" Jake asked.
"He's the perfect witness. He'll say anything we want him to say."
"Does that bother you?"
"It would if he was a fact witness. But he's an expert, and he can get by with his opinions.
Who will challenge him?"
"Is he believable?"
"When he's sober. We talked twice this week. On lues-day he was lucid and helpful. On
Wednesday, he was drunk and indifferent. I think he'll be as helpful as any psychiatrist we could find. He doesn't care what the truth is, and he'll tell us what we want to hear."
"Does he think Carl Lee was legally insane?"
"No. Do you?"
"No. Row Ark, Carl Lee told me five days before the 'killings that he would do it. He showed me the exact place where he would ambush them, although at the time I didn't realize it. Our client knew exactly what he was doing."
"Why didn't you stop him?"
"Because I didn't believe him. His daughter had just been raped and was fighting for her life."
"Would you have stopped him if you could?"
"I did tell Ozzie. But at the time neither of us dreamed it could happen. No, I would not have stopped him if I knew for certain. I would have done the same thing."
"How?"
"Exactly as he did it. It was very easy."
Ellen approached a fried dill pickle with her fork and played with it suspiciously. She cut it in half, pierced it with the fork, and sniffed it carefully. She put it in her mouth and chewed slowly. She swallowed, then pushed her pile of pickles across the table toward Jake.
"Typical yankee," he said. "I don't understand you, Row Ark. You don't like fried dill pickles, you're attractive, very bright, you could go to work with any blue-chip law firm in the country for megabucks, yet you want to spend your career losing sleep over cutthroat murderers who are on death row and about to get their just rewards. What makes you tick, Row Ark?"
"You lose sleep over the same people. Now it's Carl Lee Hailey. Next year it'll be some other murderer who everybody hates but you'll lose sleep over him because he happens to be your client. One of these days, Brigance, you'll have a client on death row, and you'll learn how terrible it is. When they strap him in the chair and he looks at you for the last time, you'll be a changed man. You'll know how barbaric the system is, and you'll remember Row Ark."
"Then I'll grow a beard and join the ACLU."
"Probably, if they would accept you."
The sauteed shrimp arrived in a small black skillet. It simmered in butter and garlic and barbeque sauce. Ellen dipped spoonfuls onto her plate and ate like a refugee. Merle lit into a stirring rendition of "Dixie," and the crowd sang and clapped along.
The waitress ran by and threw a platter of battered and crunchy frog legs on the table.
Jake finished a glass of wine and grabbed a handful of the frog legs. Ellen tried to ignore them. When they were full of appetizers, the catfish was served. The grease popped and fizzed and they did not touch the china. It was charbroiled to a deep brown crisp with black squares from the grill burned on each side. They ate and drank slowly, watching each other and savoring the delicious entree.
At midnight, the bottle was empty and the lights were dimmed. They said good night to the waitress and to Merle. They walked carefully down the steps and to the car. Jake buckled his seat belt.
"I'm too drunk to drive," he said.
"So am I. I saw a little motel not far down the road."
"I saw it too, and there were no vacancies. Nice try, Row Ark. Get me drunk and try to take advantage of me."
"I would if I could, mister."
For a moment their eyes met. Ellen's face reflected the red light cast by the neon sign that flashed HOLLYWOOD atop the restaurant.
The moment grew longer and then the sign was turned off. The restaurant had closed.
Jake started the Saab, let it warm, and raced away into the darkness.
Mickey Mouse called Ozzie early Saturday morning at his home and promised more trouble from the Klan. 'file riot on Thursday had not been their fault, he explained, yet they were being blamed for it. They had marched in peace, and now their leader lay near death with seventy percent of his body covered with third-degree burns. There would be retaliation; it had been ordered from above. Reinforcements were on the way from other states, and there would be violence. No specifics now, but he would call later when he knew more.
Ozzie sat on the side of his bed, rubbed the swollen hump on the back of his neck and called the mayor. And he called Jake. An hour later they met in Ozzie's office.
"The situation is about to get outta hand," Ozzie said, holding an ice pack to his neck and grimacing with every word. "I've got it from a reliable informant that the Klan plans to retaliate for what happened Thursday. They're supposed to bring fresh troops from other states."
"Do you believe it?" asked the mayor.
"I'm afraid not to believe it."
"Same informant?" asked Jake.
"Yep."
"Then I believe it."
"Somebody said there was talk of movin' or postponin' the trial," Ozzie said. "Any chance of it?"
"No. I met with Judge Noose yesterday. It won't be moved and it'll start Monday."
"Did you tell him about the burnin' crosses?"
"I told him everything."
"Is he crazy?" asked the mayor.
"Yes, and stupid. But don't quote me on that."
"Is he on solid legal ground?" asked Ozzie.
Jake shook his head. "More like quicksand."
"What have you got in mind?" asked the mayor.
Ozzie changed ice packs and carefully rubbed his neck. He spoke with pain. "I have a strong desire to prevent another riot. Our hospital is not big enough to allow
this crap to continue. We must do something. The blacks are angry and volatile, and it wouldn't take much to ignite them. Some blacks are just lookin' for a reason to start shootin', and those white robes are good targets. I've got a hunch the Klan may do somethin' really stupid, like try to kill somebody. They're gettin' more national exposure off this than they've had in ten years. The informant told me that after Thursday they've had calls from all over the country from volunteers wantin' to come down here and join the fun."
He slowly rolled his head around his shoulders and changed ice packs again. "I hate to say it, Mayor, but I think you should call the governor and ask for the National Guard. I know it's a drastic step, but I'd hate to get someone killed."
"The National Guard!" the mayor repeated in disbelief.
"That's what I said."
"Occupying Clanton?" .
"Yep. Protectin' your people."
"Patrolling the streets?"
"Yep. With guns and everthing."
"Oh my, this is drastic. Aren't you overreacting a bit?"
"No. It's evident I don't have enough men to keep peace around here. We couldn't even stop a riot that happened right in front of us. The Klan's burnin' crosses all
over the county, and we can't do anything about it. What will we do when the blacks decide to start some trouble? I don't have enough men, Mayor. I need some help."
Jake thought it was a marvelous idea. How could a fair and impartial jury be chosen when the National Guard had the courthouse surrounded? He thought of the jurors arriving for court Monday and walking past the soldiers with guns and jeeps and maybe even a tank or two parked in front of the courthouse. How could they be fair and impartial? How could Noose insist on trying the case in Clanton? How could the
Supreme Court refuse to reverse if, heaven forbid, there was a conviction?
It was a great idea.
"Whatta you think, Jake?" asked the mayor, looking for help.
"I don't think you have a choice, Mayor. We can't stand another riot. It could hurt you politically."
"I'm not worried about politics," the mayor replied angrily, knowing Jake and O/zie knew better.
The mayor had been reelected last time by less than fifty votes and did not make a move without weighing the political fallout. Ozzie caught a grin from Jake as the mayor squirmed with the thought of having his quiet little town occupied by the army.
After dark Saturday, Ozzie and Hastings led Carl Lee out the rear door of the jail and into the sheriff's patrol car. They talked and laughed as Hastings drove in slow motion out into the country, past Bates Grocery and onto Craft Road. The Haileys' front yard was covered with cars when they arrived, so he parked in the road. Carl
Lee walked through his front door like a free man and was immediately embraced by a mob of kinfolks, friends, and his children. They had not been told he was coming. He hugged them desperately, all four at the same time in one long bear hug as if there might be no more for a long time. The crowd watched in silence as this huge man knelt on the floor and buried his head among his weeping children. Most of those in the crowd wept too.
The kitchen was covered with food, and the guest of honor was seated in his usual chair at the head of the table with his wife and children seated around him. Reverend Agee returned thanks with a short prayer of hope and home-coming. A hundred friends waited on the family. Ozzie and Hastings filled their plates and retreated to the front porch, where they swatted mosquitoes and planned strategy for the trial. Ozzie was deeply concerned about Carl Lee's safety while they moved him from the jail to court and back each day. The defendant himself had proven clearly that such journeys are not always safe.
After supper the crowd spilled out into the front yard. The children played while the adults stayed on the porch, as close as possible to Carl Lee. He was their hero, the most famous man most of them would ever see, and they knew him personally. To his people he was on trial for one reason only. Sure he killed those boys, but that wasn't the issue. If he was white, he would receive civic awards for what he did. They would half-heartedly prosecute him, but with a white jury the trial would be a joke. Carl Lee was on trial because he was black. And if they convicted him, it would be because he was black. No other reason. They believed that. They listened carefully as he talked about the trial. He wanted their prayers and support, and wanted them all to be there and watch it and to protect his family.
They sat for hours in the sweltering humidity; Carl Lee and Gwen in the swing rocking slowly, surrounded by admirers all wanting to be near this great man. When they began to leave they all embraced him and promised to be there Monday. They wondered if they would see him again sitting on his front porch.
At midnight Ozzie said it was ti me to go. Carl Lee hugged Gwen and the kids one last time, then took his seat in Ozzie's car.
Bud Twitty died during the night. The dispatcher called Nes-bit, who told Jake. He made a note to send flowers.
Sunday. One day before trial. Jake awoke at 5:00 A.M. with a knot in his stomach that he attributed to the trial, and a headache that he attributed to the trial and a late Saturday night session on Lucien's porch with his law clerk and former boss. Ellen had decided to sleep in a guest room at Lucien's, so Jake spent the night on his couch in the office.
He lay on the couch and heard voices from the street below. He staggered in the dark to the balcony, and stopped in amazement at the scene around the courthouse. D-Day! The war was on! Patton had arrived! The streets around the square were lined with transport trucks, jeeps, and soldiers busy running here and there in an effort to get organized and look military. Radios squawked, and potbellied commanders yelled to their men to hurry and get organized. A command post was set up near the gazebo on the front lawn. Three squads of soldiers hammered on stakes and pulled ropes and strung up three enormous canvas camouflage pavilions. Barricades were set up on the four corners of the square, and sentries took their positions. They smoked cigarettes and leaned on the street lights.
Nesbit sat on the trunk of his car and watched the fortifying of downtown Clanton. He chatted with a few of the guardsmen. Jake made coffee and took him a cup. He was awake now, safe and secure, and Nesbit could go home and rest until dark. Jake returned to the balcony and watched the activity until dawn. Once the troops were unloaded, the transport trucks were moved to the National Guard armory north of town, where the men would sleep. He estimated their number at two hundred. They piddled around the courthouse and walked in small groups around the square, looking in shops, waiting for daylight and the hope of some excitement.
Noose would be furious. How dare they call the National Guard without asking him. It was his trial. The mayor had mentioned this, and Jake had explained that it was the mayors responsiomiy 10 Keep ^laniun saie, iiui me iriai judge's. Ozzie concurred, and
Noose was not called.
The sheriff and Moss Junior latum arrived and met with the colonel in the gazebo. They walked around the courthouse, inspecting troops and pavilions. Ozzie pointed in various directions and the colonel seemed to agree with whatever he wanted. Moss Junior unlocked the' courthouse so the troops would have drinking water and toilet facilities. It was after nine before the first of the vultures stumbled onto the occupation of downtown
Clanton. Within an hour they were running everywhere with cameras and microphones gathering important words from a sergeant or a corporal.
"What is your name, sir?"
"Sergeant Drumwright."
"Where are you from?"
"Booneville."
"Where's that?"
" 'Bout a hundred miles from here."
"Why are you here?"
"Governor called us."
"Why did he call you?"
"Keep things under control."
"Are you expecting trouble?"
"No."
"How long will you be here?"
"Don't know."
"Will you be here until the trial's over?"
"Don't know."
"Who knows?"
"The governor, I reckon."
And so on.
Word of the invasion spread quickly through the quiet Sunday morning, and after church the townfolk streamed to the square to verify for themselves that the army had indeed captured the courthouse. The sentries removed the barricades and allowed the curious to drive around their square and gawk at the real live soldiers with their rifles and jeeps.
Jake sat on the balcony, drinking coffee and memorizing the notecards of his jurors.
He called Carla and explained that the National Guard had been deployed, but he was still sate, in tact, ne naa never felt so safe. As he talked to her, he explained, there were hundreds of heavily armed army militiamen across Washington Street just waiting to protect him. Yes, he still had his bodyguard. Yes, the house was still standing. He doubted if the death of Bud Twitty had been reported yet, so he did not tell her. Maybe she would not hear of it. They were going fishing on her father's boat, and Hanna wanted her daddy to go. He said goodbye, and missed the two women in his life more than ever.
Ellen Roark unlocked the rear door of the office and placed a small grocery sack on the table in the kitchen. She pulled a file out of her briefcase and began looking for her boss.
He was on the balcony, staring at notecards and watching the courthouse. "Evenin', Row Ark."
"Good evening, boss." She handed him a brief an inch thick. "It's the research you requested on the admissibility of the rape. It's a tough issue, and it got involved. I apologize for the size of it."
It was as neat as her other briefs, complete with a table of contents, bibliography, and numbered pages. He flipped through it. "Damn, Row Ark, I didn't ask for a textbook."
"I know you're intimidated by scholarly work, so I made a conscious effort to use words with fewer than three syllables."
"My, aren't we frisky today. Could you summarize this in a dissertation of, say, thirty pages or so?"
"Look, it's a thorough study of the law by a gifted law student with a remarkable ability to think and write clearly. It's a work of genius, and it's yours, and it's absolutely free. So quit bitching."
"Yes, ma'am. Does your head hurt?"
"Yes. It's been aching since I woke up this morning. I've typed on that brief for ten hours, and I need a drink. Do you have a blender?"
"A what?"
"Blender. It's a new invention we have up North. They're kitchen appliances."
. "There's one in the shelves next to the microwave." she disappeared. It was almost dark, and the traffic had thinned around the square as the Sunday drivers had grown bored with the sight of soldiers guarding their courthouse. After twelve hours of suffocating heat and foglike humidity in downtown Clanton, the troops were weary and homesick.
They sat under trees and on folding canvas chairs, and cursed the governor. As it grew darker, they strung wires from inside the courthouse and hung floodlights around -the pavilions. By the post office a carload of blacks arrived with lawn chairs and candles to start the nightly vigil. They began pacing the sidewalk along Jackson Street under the suddenly aroused stares of two hundred heavily armed guardsmen. The lead walker was
Miss Rosia Alfie Gatewood, a two-hundred-pound widow who had raised eleven children and sent nine to college. She was the first black known to have sipped cold water from the public fountain on the square and live to tell about it. She glared at the soldiers. They did not speak.
Ellen returned with two Boston College beer mugs filled with a pale green liquid. She sat them on the table and pulled up a chair.
"What's that?"
"Drink it. It'll help you relax."
"I'll drink it. But I'd like to know what it is."
"Margaritas."
Jake studied the top of his mug. "Where's the salt?"
"I don't like salt on mine."
"Well, I don't either then. Why margaritas?"
"Why not?"
Jake closed his eyes and took a long drink. And then another. "Row Ark, you are a talented woman."
"Gofer."
He took another long drink. "I haven't had a margarita in eight years."
"I'm very sorry." Her twenty-ounce mug was half empty.
"What kind of rum?"
"I would call you a dumbass if you weren't my boss."
"Thank you."
"It's not rum. It's tequila, with lime juice and Coin-treau. I thought every law student knew that."
"How can you ever forgive me? I'm sure I knew it when I was a law student." •
She gazed around the square.
"This is incredible! It looks like a war zone."
Jake drained his glass.and licked his lips. Under the pavilions they played cards and laughed. Others sought'refuge from the mosquitoes in the courthouse. The candles turned the corner and made a pass down Washington Street.
"Yes," Jake said with a smile. "It's beautiful, isn't it? Think of our fair and impartial jurors as they arrive in the morning and are confronted with that. I'll renew my motion for a change of venue. It'll be denied. I'll ask for a mistrial, and Noose will say no. And then I'll make sure the court reporter records the fact that this trial is being conducted in the middle of a three-ring circus."
"Why are they here?"
"The sheriff and the mayor called the governor, and convinced him the National Guard was needed to preserve peace in Ford County. They told him our hospital is not large enough for this trial."
"Where are they from?"
"Booneville and Columbus. I counted two hundred and twenty around lunch."
"They've been here all day?"
"They woke me at five this morning. I've followed their movements all day. They were pinned down a couple of times, but reinforcements arrived. A few minutes ago they met the enemy when Miss Gatewood and her friends arrived with their candles. She stared them down, so now they're playing cards."
Ellen finished her drink and left for more. Jake picked up the stack of notecards for the hundredth time and flashed them on the table. Name, age, occupation, family, race, education-he had read and repeated the information since early morning. Round Two arrived with haste, and she took the cards.
"Correen Hagan," she said, sipping.
He thought a second. "Age, about fifty-five. Secretary for an insurance agent. Divorced, two grown children. Education, probably high school, no more. Native of Florida, for what that's worth."
"Rating?"
"I think I gave her a six."
"Very good. Millard Sills."
"Owns a pecan orchard near Mays. About seventy years old. Hi s nephew was shot in the head by two blacks during a robbery in Little Rock several years ago. Hates blacks. He will not be on the jury."
"Rating?"
"Zero, I believe."
"Clay Bailey."
"Age, about thirty. Six kids. Devout Pentecostal. Works at the furniture plant west of town."
"You've given him a ten."
"Yeah. I'm sure he's read that part in the Bible about an eye for an eye, etc. Plus, out of six kids, I'd think at least two would be daughters."
"Do you have all of them memorized?"
He nodded and took a drink. "I feel like I've known them for years."
"How many will you recognize?"
"Very few. But I'll know more about them than Buck-ley."
"I'm impressed."
"What! What did you say! I have impressed you with my intellect!"
"Among other things."
"I feel so honored. I've impressed a genius in criminal law. The daughter of Sheldon
Roark, whoever he is. A real live summa cum laude. Wait'111 tell Harry Rex."
"Where is that elephant? I miss him. I think he's cute."
"Go call him. Ask him to join us for a patio party as we watch the troops prepare for the
Third Battle of Bull Run."
She headed for the phone on Jake's desk. "What about Lucien?"
"No! I'm tired of Lucien."
Harry Rex brought a fifth of tequila he found somewhere deep in his liquor cabinet. He and the law clerk argued violently over the proper ingredients of a good margarita. Jake voted with his clerk. They sat on the balcony, calling names from index cards, drinking the tangy concoction, yelling at the soldiers, and singing Jimmy Buffet songs. At midnight, Nesbit loaded Ellen in his patrol car and took her to Lucien's. Harry Rex walked home. Jake slept on the couch.
Monday, July 22. Not long after the last margarita Jake bolted from the couch and stared at the clock on his desk. He had slept for three hours. A swarm of wild butterflies fought violently in his stomach. A nervous pain shot through his groin. He had no time for a hangover.
Nesbit slept like an infant behind the wheel. Jake roused him and jumped in the back seat.
He waved at the sentries, who watched curiously from across the street. Nesbit drove two blocks to Adams, released his passenger, and waited in the driveway as instructed. He showered and shaved quickly. He chose a charcoal worsted wool suit, a white pinpoint button-down, and a very neutral, noncontro-versial, expressionless burgundy silk tie with a few narrow navy stripes for good measure. The pleated pants hung perfectly from his trim waist. He looked great, much more stylish than the enemy.
Nesbit was asleep again when Jake released the dog and jumped in the back seat.
"Everything okay in there?" Nesbit asked, wiping the saliva from his chin.
"I didn't find any dynamite, if that's what you mean."
Nesbit laughed at this, with the same irritating, laughing response he made to almost everything. They circled the square and Jake got out in front of his office. Thirty minutes after he left, he turned on the front lights and made the coffee.
He took four aspirin and drank a quart of grapefruit juice. His eyes burned and his head ached from abuse and fatigue, and the tiring part had not yet begun. On the conference table he spread out his file on Carl Lee Hailey. It had been organized and indexed by his law clerk, but he wanted to break it down and put it back together. If a document or case can't be found in thirty seconds, it's no good.
He smiled at Jier talent for organization. She had files and sub-files on everything, all ten seconds away at a fingertip. In a one-inch, three-ring notebook she had a summary of Dr.
Bass's qualifi- cations and the outline of his testimony. She had made notes on anticipated objections from Buckley, and provided case authority to fight his objections. Jake took great pride in his trial preparation, but it was humbling to learn from a third-year law student.
He repacked the file in his trial briefcase, the heavy black leather one with his initials in gold on the side. Nature called, and he sat on the toilet flipping through the index cards.
He knew them all. He was ready.
A few minutes after five, Harry Rex knocked on the door. It was dark and he looked like a burglar.
"Whatta you doing up so early?" Jake asked.
"I couldn't sleep. I'm kinda nervous." He thrust forward a loaded paper sack with grease spots.
"Dell sent these over. They're fresh and hot. Sausage biscuits, bacon and cheese biscuits, chicken and cheese biscuits, you name it. She's worried about you."
"Thanks, Harry Rex, but I'm not hungry. My system is in revolt."
"Nervous?"
"As a whore in church."
"You look pretty haggard."
"Thanks."
"Nice suit though."
"Carla picked it out."
Harry Rex reached into the sack and produced a handful of biscuits wrapped in foil. He piled them on the conference table and fixed his coffee. Jake sat across from him and flipped through Ellen's brief on M'Naghten.
"She write that?" Harry Rex asked with both cheeks full and his jaws grinding rapidly.
"Yeah, it's a seventy-five-page summary of the insanity defense in Mississippi. It took her three days."
"She seems very bright."
"She's got the brains, and she writes fluidly. The intellect is there, but she has trouble applying what she knows to the real world."
"Whatta you know about her?" Crumbs fell from his mouth and bounced on the table. He brushed them onto the floor with a sleeve.
"She's solid. Number two in her class at Ole Miss. I called Nelson Battles, Assistant Dean of the Law School, and she checked out fine. She has a good chance of finishing number one."
"I finished ninety-third outta ninety-eight. I would've finished ninety-second but they caught me cheating on an exam. I started to protest, but I figured ninety-third was just as good. Hell, I figured, who cares in Clanton. These people were just glad I came back here to practice when I graduated instead of going to Wall Street or some pjace like that."
Jake smiled at the story he had heard a hundred times.
Harry Rex unwrapped a chicken and cheese biscuit. "You look nervous, buddy."
"I'm okay. The first day is always the hardest. The preparation has been done. I'm ready..
It's just a matter of waiting now."
"What time does Row Ark make her entrance?"
"I don't know."
"Lord, I wonder what she'll wear."
"Or not wear. I just hope she's decent. You know what a prude Noose is."
"You're not gonna let her sit at counsel table are you?"
"I don't think so. She'll stay in the background, sort of like you. She might offend some of the women jurors."
"Yeah, keep her there, but outta sight."
Harry Rex wiped his mouth with a huge paw. "You sleeping with her?"
"No! I'm not crazy, Harry Rex."
"You're crazy if you don't. That woman could be had."
"Then have her. I've got enough on my mind."
"She thinks I'm cute, don't she?"
"She says she does."
"I think I'll give it a shot," he said with a straight face, then he smiled, then he burst into laughter with crumbs spraying the bookshelves.
The phone rang. Jake shook his head, and Harry Rex picked up the receiver. "He's not here, but I'll be glad to give him the message." He winked at Jake. "Yes sir, yes sir, uh huh, yes sir. It's a terrible thing, ain't it. Can you believe a man would do it? Yes sir, yes sir, I agree one hundred percent. Yes sir, and what's your name, sir? Sir?" Harry Rex smiled at the receiver and laid it down.
"What'd he want?"
"Said you was a shame to the white race for being that nigger's lawyer, and that he didn't see how any lawyer could represent a nigger such as Hailey. And that he hoped the Klan got ahold of you, and if they didn't he hoped the bar association looked into it and took away your license for helping niggers. Said he knew you were no 'count because you were trained by Lucien Wilbanks who lives with a nigger woman."
"And you agreed with him!"
"Why not? He was really sincere, not hateful, and he feels better now that it's off his chest." The phone rang again. Harry Rex snatched the receiver. "Jake Brigance, Attorney, Counselor, Consultant, Adviser, and Guru at Law."
Jake left for the restroom. "Jake, it's a reporter!" Harry Rex yelled.
"I'm on the potty."
"He's got the runs!" Harry Rex told the reporter.
At six-seven in Wilmington-Jake called Carla. She was awake, reading the paper, drinking coffee. He told her about Bud Twitty, and Mickey Mouse', and the promise of more violence. No, he wasn't afraid of that. It did not bother him. He was afraid of the jury, of the twelve who would be chosen, and their reaction to him and his client. His only fear, at the moment, was of what the jury might do to his client. Everything else was irrelevant. For the first time, she did not mention coming home. He promised to call that night.
When he hung up, he heard a commotion downstairs. Ellen had arrived, and Harry Rex was talking loudly. She's wearing a see-through blouse with a miniskirt, thought Jake as he walked downstairs. She was not. Harry Rex was congratulating her on dressing like a
Southern woman with all the accessories. She was wearing a gray glen plaid suit with a
V-necked jacket and short slim skirt. The silk blouse was black, and apparently the necessary garment was underneath. Her hair was pulled back and braided in some fashion. Incredibly, traces of mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick were visible.
In the words of Harry Rex, she looked as much like a lawyer as a woman could look.
"Thanks, Harry Rex," she said. "I wish I had your taste in clothes."
"You look nice, Row Ark," Jake said.
"So do you," she said. She looked at Harry Rex, but said nothing.
"Please forgive us, Row Ark," Harry Rex said. "We're impressed because we had no idea you owned so many types of garments. We apologize for admiring you and we know how much this infuriates your little liberated heart. Yes, we're sexist pigs, but you chose to come to the South. And in the South we, as a rule, drool over well-dressed attractive females, liberated or not."
"What's in the sack?" she said.
"Breakfast."
She tore it open and unwrapped a sausage and biscuit. "No bagels?" she asked.
"What's that?" asked Harry Rex.
"Forget it."
Jake rubbed his hands together and tried to sound enthusiastic. "Well, now that we've gathered here three hours before trial, what would y'all like to do?"
"Let's make some margaritas," said Harry Rex.
"No!" said Jake.
"It'll take the edge off."
"Not me," said Ellen. "This is business."
Harry Rex unwrapped a biscuit, the last of the sack. "What happens first today?"
"After the sun comes up, we start the trial. At nine, Noose will say a few words to the jurors and we start the selection process."
"How long will it take?" asked Ellen.
"Two or three days. In Mississippi, we have the right to interrogate each juror individually in chambers. That takes time."
"Where do I sit and what do I do?"
"She certainly sounds experienced," Harry Rex said to Jake. "Does she know where the courthouse is?"
"You do not sit at counsel table," said Jake. "Just me and Carl Lee."
She wiped her mouth. "I see. Just you and the defen- dant sitting alone, surrounded by the forces of evil, facing death alone."
"Something like that."
"My father uses that tactic occasionally."
"I'm glad you approve. You'll sit behind me, next to the railing. I'll ask Noose to allow you into chambers for the private discussions."
"What about me?" asked Harry Rex.
"Noose doesn't like you, Harry Rex. He never has. He'd have a stroke if I asked if you could go in chambers. It'd be best if you pretended we'd never met."
"Thanks."
"But we do appreciate your assistance," Ellen said.
"Up yours, Ellie Mae."
"And you can still drink with us," she said.
"And furnish the tequila."
"There will be no more alcohol in this office," Jake said.
"Until the noon recess," said Harry Rex.
"I want you to stand behind the clerk's table, just loiter about like you always do, and take notes on the jury. Try to match them with the notecards. There'll probably be a hundred and twenty."
"Whatever you say."
Daybreak brought the army out in force. The barricades were reinstalled, and on each corner of the square soldiers clustered around the orange and white barrels blocking the street. They were poised and anxious, watching every car intently, waiting for the enemy to attack, wanting some excitement. Things stirred a little when a few of the vultures in their compact wagons and minivans with fancy logos on the doors appeared at seven-thirty. The troops surrounded the vehicles and informed everyone there would be no parking around the courthouse during the trial. The vultures disappeared down the side streets, then moments later reappeared on foot with their bulky cameras and equipment.
Some set up camp on the front steps of the courthouse, others by the back door, and another group in the rotunda outside the main door of the courtroom on the second floor.
Murphy, the janitor and only real eyewitness to the killings of Cobb and Willard, informed the press, as best he could, that the courtroom would be opened at eight, and not a minute before. A line formed and soon circled the rotunda.
The church buses parked somewhere off the square, and the marchers were led slowly down Jackson Street by the ministers. They carried FREE CARL LEE signs and sang
"We Shall Overcome" in a perfect chorus. As they neared the square, the soldiers heard them and the radios began squawking. Ozzie and the colonel conferred quickly, and the soldiers relaxed. The marchers were led by Ozzie to a section of the front lawn where they milled about and waited under the watchful eyes of the Mississippi National Guard.
At eight, a metal detector was moved to the front doors of the courtroom, and a trio of heavily armed deputies began slowly searching and admitting the crowd of spectators that now filled the rotunda and trailed off into the halls. Inside the courtroom, Prather directed traffic, seating people on the long pews on one side of the aisle while reserving the other side for the jurors. The front pew was reserved for the family, and the second row was filled with courtroom artists who
immediately began sketching the bench and the bar and the portraits of Confederate heroes.
The Klan felt obligated to make its presence known on opening day, especially to the prospective jurors as they arrived. Two dozen Kluxers in full parade dress walked quietly onto Washington Street. They were immediately stopped and surrounded by soldiers. The potbellied colonel swaggered across the street and for the first time in his life came face to face with a white-robed and white-hooded Ku Klux Klansman, who happened to be a foot taller. He then noticed the cameras, which had gravitated to this confrontation, and the bully in him vanished. His usual bark and growl was instantly replaced by a high-pitched, nervous, trembling stutter that was incomprehensible even to himself.
Ozzie arrived and saved him. "Good mornin', fellas," he said coolly as he stepped beside the faltering colonel. "We've got you surrounded, and we've got you outnumbered. We also know we can't keep you from being here."
"That's right," said the leader.
"If you'll just follow me and do as I say, we won't have any trouble."
They followed Ozzie and the colonel to a small area on the front lawn, where it was explained that this was their turf for the trial. Stay there and stay quiet, and the colonel would personally keep the troops off them. They agreed.
As expected, the sight of the white robes aroused the blacks who were some two hundred feet away. They began shouting: "Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!"
The Klansmen shook their fists and shouted back:
"Fry Carl Lee!"
"Fry Carl Lee!"
"Fry Carl Lee!"
Two rows of troops lined the main sidewalk that divided the lawn and led to the front steps.
Another row stood between the sidewalk and the Klansmen, and one between the sidewalk and the blacks.
As the jurors began arriving, they walked briskly through the rows of soldiers. They clutched their summonses and listened in disbelief as the two groups screamed at each other.
The Honorable Rufus Buckley arrived in Clanton and politely informed the guardsmen of who he was and what that meant, and he was allowed to park in his spot marked
RESERVED FOR D.A. next to the courthouse. The reporters went wild. This must be important, someone had broken through the barricade. Buckley sat in his well-used
Cadillac for a moment to allow the reporters to catch him. They surrounded him as he slammed the door. He smiled and smiled and made his way ever so slowly to the front door of the courthouse. The rapid fire of questions proved irresistible, and Buckley violated the gag order at least eight times, each time smiling and explaining that he could not answer the question he had just answered. Musgrove trailed behind carrying the great man's briefcase.
Jake paced nervously in his office. The door was locked. Ellen was downstairs working on another brief. Harry Rex was at ,the Coffee Shop eating another breakfast and gossiping. The notecards were scattered on his desk, and he was tired of them. He flipped through a brief, then walked to the French doors. The shouting echoed through the open windows. He returned to the desk and studied the outline of his opening comments to the prospective jurors. The first impression was critical.
He lay on the couch, closed his eyes, and thought of a thousand things he'd rather be doing. For the most part, he enjoyed his work. But there were moments, frightening moments like this one, when he wished he'd become an insurance agent or a stockbroker.
Or maybe even a tax lawyer. Surely those guys didn't regularly suffer from nausea and diarrhea at critical moments in their careers. Lucien had taught him that fear was good; fear was an ally; that every lawyer was afraid when he stood before a new jury and presented his case. It was okay to be afraid- just don't show it. Jurors would not follow the lawyer with the quickest tongue or prettiest words. They would not follow the sharpest dresser. They would not follow a clown or court jester. They would not follow the lawyer who preached the loudest or fought the hardest. Lucien had convinced him that jurors followed the lawyer who told the truth, regardless of his looks, words, or superficial abilities. A lawyer had to be himself in the courtroom, and if he was afraid, so be it. The jurors were afraid too.
Make friends with fear, Lucien always said, because it will not go away, and it will destroy you if left uncontrolled.
The fear hit deep in his bowels, and he walked carefully downstairs to the rest room.
"How are you, boss?" Ellen asked when.he checked on her.
"Ready, I guess. We'll leave in a minute."
"There are some reporters waiting outside. I told them you had withdrawn from the case and left town."
"At this moment, I wish I had."
"Have you heard of Wendall Solomon?"
"Not right off hand."
"He's with the Southern Prisoner Defense Fund. I worked under him last summer. He's tried over a hundred capital cases all over the South. He gets so nervous before a trial he can neither eat nor sleep. His doctor gives him seda- tives, but he's still so jumpy no one speaks to him on opening day. And that's after a hundred of these trials."
"How does your father handle it?"
" He has a couple of martinis with a Valium. Then he lies on his desk with the door locked and the lights off until it's time for court. His nerves are ragged and he's ill-tempered. Of course, a lot of that is natural."
"So you know the feeling?"
"I know it well."
"Do I look nervous?"
"You look tired. But you'll do."
Jake checked his watch. "Let's go."
The reporters on the sidewalk pounced on their prey. "No comment" he insisted as he moved slowly across the street toward the courthouse. The barrage continued.
"Is it true you plan to ask for a mistrial?"
"I can't do that until the trial starts."
"Is it true the Klan has threatened you?"
"No comment."
"Is it true you sent your family out of town until after the trial?"
Jake hesitated and glanced at the reporter. "No comment."
"What do you think of the National Guard?"
"I'm proud of them."
"Can your client get a fair trial in Ford County?"
Jake shook his head, then added, "No comment."
A deputy stood guard a few feet from where the bodies had come to rest. He pointed at Ellen.
"Who's she, Jake?"
"She's harmless. She's with me."
They ran up the rear stairs. Carl Lee sat alone at the defense table, his back to the packed courtroom. Jean Gil-lespie was busy checking in jurors while deputies roamed the aisles looking for anything suspicious. Jake greeted his client warmly, taking special care to shake his hand, smile broadly at him, and put his hand on his shoulder. Ellen unpacked the briefcases and neatly arranged the files on the table.
Jake whispered to his client and looked around the courtroom. All eyes were on him. The
Hailey clan sat handsomely in the front row. Jake smiled at them and nodded at Lester.
Tbnya and the boys were decked out in their Sunday clothes, and they sat between Lester and Gwen like perfect little statues. -The jurors sat across the aisle, and they were carefully studying Hailey's lawyer. Jake thought this would be a good time for the jurors to see the family, so he walked through the swinging gate in the railing and went to speak to the Haileys. He patted Gwen on the shoulder, shook hands with Lester, pinched each of the boys, and, finally, hugged Tonya, the little Hailey girl, the one who had been raped by the two rednecks who got what they deserved. The jurors watched every move of this production, and paid special attention to the little girl.
"Noose wants us in chambers," Musgrove whispered to Jake as he returned to the defense table.
Ichabod, Buckley, and the court reporter were chatting when Jake and Ellen entered chambers. Jake introduced his clerk to His Honor and Buckley and Musgrove, and to
Norma Gallo, the court reporter. He explained that Ellen Roark was a third-year law student at Ole Miss who was clerking in his office, and requested that she be allowed to sit near counsel table and participate in the proceedings in chambers. Buckley had no objections. It was common practice, Noose explained, and he welcomed her.
"Preliminary matters, gentlemen?" Noose asked.
"None," said the D.A.
"Several," said Jake as he opened a file. "I want this on the record." Norma Gallo started writing.
"First of all, I want to renew my motion for a change of venue-"
"We object," interrupted Buckley.
"Shut up, Governor!" Jake yelled. "I'm not through, and don't interrupt me again!"
Buckley and the others were startled by this loss of composure. It's all those margaritas, thought Ellen.
"I apologize, Mr. Brigance," Buckley said calmly. "Please don't refer to me as governor."
"Let me say something at this point," Noose started. "This trial will be a long and arduous ordeal. I can appreciate the pressure you're both under. I've been in your shoes many times myself, and I know what you're going through. You're both excellent lawyers, and
I'm thankful that I have two fine lawyers for a trial of this magnitude. I can also detect a certain amount of ill will between you. That's certainly not uncommon, and I will not ask you to shake hands and be good friends. But I will insist that when you're in my courtroom or in these chambers that you refrain from interrupting each other, and that the shouting be held to a bare minimum. You will refer to each other as Mr. Brigance, and
Mr. Buckley, and Mr. Musgrove. Now do each of you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Then continue, Mr. Brigance."
"Thank you, Your Honor, I appreciate that. As I was saying, the defendant renews his motion for a change of venue. I want the record to reflect that as we sit here now in chambers, at nine-fifteen, July twenty-second, as we are about to select a jury, the Ford
County Courthouse is surrounded by the Mississippi National Guard. On the front lawn a group of Ku Klux Klansmen, in white robes, is at this very moment yelling at a group of black demonstrators, who are, of course, yelling back.
The two groups are separated by heavily armed National Guardsmen. As the jurors arrived for court this morning, they witnessed this circus on the courthouse lawn. It will be impossible to select a fair and impartial jury."
Buckley watched with a cocky grin on his huge face, and when Jake finished he said,
"May I respond, Your Honor?"
"No," Noose said bluntly. "Motion is overruled. What else do you have?"
"The defense moves to strike this entire panel."
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that there has been an overt effort by the Klan to intimidate this panel.
We know of at least twenty cross burnings."
"I intend to excuse those twenty, assuming they all showed up," said Noose.
"Fine," Jake replied sarcastically. "What about the threats we don't know about? What about the jurors who've heard of the cross burnings?"
Noose wiped his eyes and said nothing. Buckley had a speech but didn't want to interrupt.
"I've got a list here," Jake said, reaching into a file, "of the twenty jurors who received visits. I've also got copies of the police reports, and an affidavit from Sheriff Walls in which he details the acts of intimidation. I am submitting these to the court in support of my motion to strike this panel. I want this made a part of the record so the Supreme Court can see it in black and white."
"Expecting an appeal, Mr. Brigance?" asked Mr. Buck-ley. Ellen had just met Rufus
Buckley, and now, seconds later, she understood exactly why Jake and Harry Rex hated him.
"No, Governor, I'm not expecting an appeal. I'm trying to insure that my man gets a fair trial from a fair jury. You should understand that."
"I'm not going to strike this panel. That would cost us a week," Noose said.
"What's time when a man's life is at stake? We're talking about justice. The right to a fair trial, remember, a most basic constitutional right. It's a travesty not to strike this panel when you know for a fact that some of these people have been intimidated by a bunch of goons in white robes who want to see my client hanged."
"Your motion is overruled," Noose said flatly. "What else do you have?"
"Nothing, really. I request that when you do excuse the twenty, you so do in such a way that the other jurors don't know the reason."
"I can handle that, Mr. Brigance."
Mr. Pate was sent to find Jean Gillespie. Noose handed her a list of the twenty names.
She returned to the courtroom and read the list. They were not needed for jury duty, and were free to go. She returned to chambers.
"How many jurors do we have?" Noose asked her.
"Ninety-four."
"That's enough. I'm sure we can find twelve who are fit to serve."
"You couldn't find two," Jake mumbled to Ellen, loud enough for Noose to hear and
Norma Gallo to record. His Honor excused them and they took their places in the courtroom. Ninety-four names were written on small strips of paper that were placed in a short wooden cylinder. Jean Gillespie spun the cylinder, stopped it, and picked a name at random. She handed it to Noose, who sat above her and everyone else on his throne, or bench, as it was called. The courtroom watched in dead silence as he squinted down that nose and looked at the first name.
"Carlene Malone, juror number one," he shrieked in his loudest voice. The front row had been cleared, and Mrs. Malone took her seat next to the aisle. Each pew would seat ten, and there were ten pews, all to be filled with jurors. The ten pews on the other side of the aisle were packed with family, friends, spectators, but mainly reporters who scribbled down the name of Carlene Malone.
Jake wrote her name too. She was white, fat, divorced, lower income. She was a two on the Brigance scale. Zero for one, he thought.
Jean spun again.
"Marcia Dickens, juror number two," yelled Noose. White, fat, over sixty with a rather unforgiving look. Zero for two.
"Jo Beth Mills, number three."
Jake sank a little in his seat. She was white, about fifty, and worked for minimum wage at a shirt factory in Karaway. Thanks to affirmative action, she had a black boss who was ignorant and abusive. She had a zero by her name on the Brigance notecard. Zero for three.
Jake stared desperately at Jean as she spun again. "Reba Betts, number four."
He sunk lower and began pinching his forehead. Zero for four. "This is incredible," he mumbled in the direction of Ellen. Harry Rex shook his head.
"Gerald Ault, number five."
Jake smiled as his number-one juror took a seat next to Reba Betts. Buckley placed a nasty black mark by his name.
"Alex Summers, number six."
Carl Lee managed a weak smile as the first black emerged from the rear and took a seat next to Gerald Ault. Buckley smiled too as he neatly circled the name of the first black.
The next four were white women, none of whom rated ab ove three on the scale. Jake was worried as the first pew filled. By law he had twelve peremptory challenges, free strikes with no reason required. The luck of the draw would force him to use at least half of his peremptories on the first pew.
"Walter Godsey, number eleven," announced Noose, his voice declining steadily in volume. Godsey was a middle-aged sharecropper with no compassion and no potential.
When Noose finished the second row, it contained seven white women, two black men, and Godsey. Jake sensed a disaster. Relief didn't come until the fourth row when Jean hit a hot streak and pulled the names of seven men, four of whom were black.
It took almost an hour to seat the entire panel. Noose recessed for fifteen minutes to allow
Jean time to type a numerical list of names. Jake and Ellen used the break to review their notes and place the names with the faces. Harry Rex had sat at the counter behind the red docket books and feverishly taken notes while Noose called the names. He huddled with
Jake and agreed things were not going well.
At eleven, Noose reassumed the bench, and the courtroom was silenced. Someone suggested he should use the mike, and he placed it within inches of his nose. He spoke loudly, and his fragile, obnoxious voice rattled violently around the courtroom as he asked a lengthy series of statu-torily required questions. He introduced Carl Lee and asked if any juror was kin to him or knew him.
They all knew of him, and Noose assumed that, but only two of the panel admitted knowing him prior to May. Noose introduced the lawyers, then explained briefly the nature of the charges. Not a single juror confessed to being ignorant of the Hailey case.
Noose rambled on and on, and mercifully finished at twelve-thirty. He recessed until two.
Dell delivered hot sandwiches and iced tea to the conference room. Jake hugged and thanked her, and told her to send him the bill. He ignored his food, and laid the notecards on the table in the order the jurors had been seated. Harry Rex attacked a roast beef and cheddar sandwich. "We got a terrible draw," he kept repeating with both cheeks stretched to the limit. "We got a terrible draw."
When the ninety-fourth card was in place, Jake stood back and studied them. Ellen stood beside him and nibbled on a french fry. She studied the cards.
"We got a terrible draw," Harry Rex said, washing it all down with a pint of tea.
"Would you shut up," Jake snapped.
"Of the first fifty, we have eight black men, three black women, and thirty white women.
That leaves nine white men, and most are unattractive. Looks like a white female jury," Ellen said.
"White females, white females," Harry Rex said. "The worst possible jurors in the world. White females!"
Ellen stared at him. "I think fat white men are the worst jurors."
"Don't get me wrong, Row Ark, I love white females. I've married four of them, remember. I just hate white female jurors."
"I wouldn't vote to convict him."
"Row Ark, you're an ACLU communist. You wouldn't vote to convict anybody of anything. In your little demented mind you think child pornographers and PLO terrorists are really swell people who've been abused by the system and should be given a break."
"And in your rational, civilized, and compassionate mind, what do you think we should do with them?"
"Hang them by their toes, castrate them, and let them bleed to death, without a trial."
"And the way you understand the law, that would be constitutional?"
"Maybe not, but it'd stop a lot of child pornography and terrorism. Jake, are you gonna eat this sandwich?"
"No."
Harry Rex unwrapped a ham and cheese. "Stay away from number one, Carlene Malone.
She's one of those Malones from Lake Village. White trash and mean as hell."
"I'd like to stay away from this entire panel," Jake said, still staring at the table.
"We got a terrible draw."
"Whatta you think, Row Ark?" Jake asked.
Harry Rex swallowed quickly. "I think we oughtta plead him guilty and get the hell outta there. Run like a scalded dog."
Ellen stared at the cards. "It could be worse."
Harry Rex forced a loud laugh. "Worse! The only way it could be worse would be if the first thirty were sitting there wearing white robes with pointed hats and little masks."
"Harry Rex, would you shut up," Jake said.
"Just trying to help. Do you want your french fries?"
"No. Why don't you put all of them in your mouth and chew on them for a long time?"
"I think you're wrong about some of these women," Ellen said. "I'm inclined to agree with
Lucien. Women, as a very general rule, will have more sympathy. We're the ones who get raped, remember?"
"I have no response to that," Harry Rex said.
"Thanks," replied Jake. "Which one of these girls is your former client who'll supposedly do anything for you if you'll simply wink at her?"
Ellen snickered. "Must be number twenty-nine. She's five feet tall and weighs four hundred pounds."
Harry Rex wiped his mouth with a sheet of paper. "Very funny. Number seventy-four.
She's too far back. Forget her."
Noose rapped his gavel at two and the courtroom came to order.
"The State may examine the panel," he said.
The magnificent district attorney rose slowly and walked importantly to the bar, where he stood and gazed pensively at the spectators and jurors. He realized the artists were sketching him, and he seemed to pose for just a moment. He smiled sincerely at the jurors, then introduced himself. He explained that he was the people's lawyer; his client, the State of Mississippi. He had served as their prosecutor for nine years now, and it was an honor for which he would always be grateful to the fine folks of Ford County. He pointed at them and told them that they, the very ones sitting there, were the folks who had elected him to represent them. He thanked them, and hoped he did not let them down.
Yes, he was nervous and frightened. He had prosecuted thousands of criminals, but he was always scared with each trial. Yes! He was scared, and not ashamed to admit it.
Scared because of the awesome responsibility the people had bestowed upon him as the man responsible for sending criminals to jail and protecting the people. Scared because he might fail to adequately represent his client, the people of this great state.
Jake had heard all this crap many times before. He had it memorized. Buckley the good guy, the state's lawyer, united with the people to seek justice, to save society. He was a smooth, gifted orator who one moment could chat softly with a jury, much like a grandfather giving advice to his grandchildren. The next moment he would launch into a tirade and deliver a sermon that any black preacher would envy. A split second later, in a fluid burst of eloquence, he could convince a jury that the stability of our society, yes, even the future of the human race, depended upon a guilty verdict. He was at his best in big trials, and this was his biggest. He spoke without notes, and held the courtroom captivated as he portrayed himself as the underdog, the friend and partner of the jury, who, together with him, would find the truth, and punish this man for his monstrous deed.
After ten minutes, Jake had enough. He stood with a frustrated look. "Your Honor, I object to this. Mr. Buckley is not selecting a jury. I'm not sure what he's doing, but he's not interrogating the panel."
"Sustained!" Noose yelled into the mike. "If you don't have any questions for the panel,
Mr. Buckley, then please sit down."
"I apologize, Your Honor," Buckley said awkwardly, pretending to be hurt. Jake had drawn first blood.
Buckley picked up a legal pad and launched into a list of a thousand questions. He asked if anyone on the panel had ever served on a jury before. Several hands went up. Civil or criminal? Did you vote to acquit or convict? How long ago? Was the defendant black or white? Victim, black or white? Had anyone been the victim of a violent crime? Two hands. When? Where? Was the assailant caught? Convicted? Black or white? Jake, Harry
Rex, and Ellen took pages of notes. Any member of your family been the victim of a violent crime? Several more hands. When? Where? What happened to the criminal? Any member of your family ever been charged with a crime? Indicted? Put on trial?
Convicted? Any friends or family members employed in law enforcement? Who?
Where?
For three nonstop hours Buckley probed and picked like a surgeon. He was masterful.
The preparation was obvious. He asked questions that Jake had not considered. And he asked virtually every question Jake had written in his outline. He delicately pried details of personal feelings and opinions. And when the time was right, he would say something funny so everyone could laugh and relieve the tension. He held the courtroom in his palm, and when Noose stopped him at five o'clock he was in full stride. He would finish in the morning.
His Honor adjourned until nine the next morning. Jake talked to his client for a few moments while the crowd moved toward the rear. Ozzie stood nearby with the handcuffs.
When Jake finished, Carl Lee knelt before his family on the front row and hugged them all. He would see them tomorrow, he said. Ozzie led him into the holding room and down the stairs, where a swarm of deputies waited to take him to jail.
For Day TWo the sun rose quickly in the east and in seconds burned the dew off the thick green Bermuda around the Ford County Courthouse. A sticky, invisible fog smoldered from the grass and clung to the heavy boots and bulky pants of the soldiers. The sun baked them as they nonchalantly paced the sidewalks of downtown Clanton. They loitered under shade trees and the canopies of small shops . By the time breakfast was served under the pavilions, the soldiers had stripped to their pale green undershirts and were drenched in sweat.
The black preachers and their followers went directly to their spot and set up camp. They unfolded lawn chairs under oak trees' and placed coolers of ice water on card tables. Blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards were tacked on tomato stakes and stuck in the ground like neat fencerows.
Agee had printed some new posters with an enlarged black and white photo of Carl Lee in the center and a red, white, and blue border. They were slick and professional.
The Klansmen went obediently to their section of the front lawn. They brought their own placards- white backgrounds with bold red letters screaming FRY CARL LEE, FRY
CARL LEE. They waved them at the blacks across the lawn, and the two groups started shouting. The soldiers formed neat lines along the sidewalk, and stood armed but casual as obscenities and chants flew over their heads. It was 8:00 A.M. of Day Two.
The reporters were giddy with all the newsworthiness. They rushed to the front lawn when the yelling started. Oz-zie and the colonel walked around and around the courthouse, pointing here and there and yelling into their radios.
At nine, Ichabod said good morning to the standing-room-only crowd. Buckley stood slowly and with great animation informed His Honor that he had no further questions for the panel. Lawyer Brigance rose from his seat with rubber knees and turbulence in his stomach. He walked to the railing and gazed into the anxious eyes of ninety- four prospective jurors.
The crowd listened intently to this young, cocky mouthpiece who had once boasted of never having lost a murder case. He appeared relaxed and confident. His voice was loud, yet warm. His words were educated, yet colloquial. He introduced himself again, and his client, then his client's family, saving the little girl for last. He complimented the D.A. for such an exhaustive interrogation yesterday afternoon, and confessed that most of his questions had already been asked. He glanced at his notes. His first question was a bombshell.
"Ladies and gentlemen, do any of you believe that the insanity defense should not be used under any circumstances?"
They squirmed a little, but no hands. He caught them off-guard, right off the bat.
Insanity! Insanity! The seed had been planted.
"If we prove Carl Lee Hailey was legally insane when he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard, is there a person on this panel who cannot find him not guilty?"
The question was hard to follow-intentionally so. There were no hands. A few wanted to respond, but they were not certain of the appropriate response.
Jake eyed them carefully, knowing most of them were confused, but also knowing that for this moment every member of the panel was thinking about his client being insane.
That's where he would leave them.
"Thank you," he said with all the charm he had ever mustered in his life. "I have nothing further, Your Honor."
Buckley looked confused. He stared at the judge, who was equally bewildered.
"Is that all?" Noose asked incredulously. "Is that all, Mr. Brigance?"
"Yes, sir, Your Honor, the panel looks fine to me," Jake said with an air of trust, as opposed to Buckley, who had grilled them for three hours. The panel was anything but acceptable to Jake, but there was no sense repeating the same questions Buckley had asked.
"Very well. Let me see the attorneys in chambers."
Buckley, Musgrove, Jake, Ellen, and Mr. Pate followed icnaDod through the door behind the bench and sat around the desk in chambers. Noose spoke: "I assume, gentlemen, that you want each juror questioned individually on the death penalty."
"Yes, sir," said Jake.
"That's correct, Your Honor," said Buckley.
"Very well. Mr. Bailiff, would you bring in juror number one, Carlene Malone."
Mr. Pate left, walked to the courtroom and yelled for Carlene Malone. Moments later she followed him into chambers. She was terrified. The attorneys smiled but said nothing: Noose's instructions.
"Please have a seat," Noose offered as he removed his robe. "This will only take a minute, Mrs. Malone. Do you have any strong feelings one way or the other about the death penalty?" asked Noose.
She shook her head nervously and stared at Ichabod. "Uh, no, sir."
"You realize that if you're selected for this jury and Mr. Hailey is convicted, you will be called upon to sentence him to death?"
"Yes, sir."
"If the State proves beyond a reasonable doubt that the killings were premeditated, and if you believe Mr. Hailey was not legally insane at the time of the killings, could you consider imposing the death penalty?"
"Certainly. I think it should be used all the time. Might stop some of this meanness. I'm all for it."
Jake continued smiling and nodding politely at juror number one. Buckley smiled too, and winked at Musgrove.
"Thank you, Mrs. Malone. You may return to your seat in the courtroom," Noose said.
"Bring in number two," Noose ordered Mr. Pate. Mar-cia Dickens, an elderly white
woman with a hard frown, was led to chambers. Yes, sir, she said, she was very much in favor of the death penalty. Would have no problems voting for it. Jake sat there and smiled. Buckley winked again. Noose thanked her and called for number three.
Three and four were equally unforgiving, ready to kill if the proof was there. Then number five, Gerald Ault, Jake's secret weapon, was seated in chambers.
"Thank you Mr. Ault, this will only take a minute, Noose repeated. "First of all, do you have strong feelings for or against the death penalty?"
"Oh, yes, sir." Ault answered eagerly, his voice and face radiating compassion. "I'm very much against it. It's cruel and unusual. I'm ashamed I live in a society which permits the legal killing of a human being."
"I see. Could you, under any circumstances, if you were a juror, vote to impose the death penalty?"
"Oh, no, sir. Under no circumstances. Regardless of the crime. No, sir."
Buckley cleared his throat and somberly announced, "Your Honor, the State would challenge Mr. Ault for cause and move to excuse him under the authority of State vs. Witherspoon."
"Motion sustained. Mr. Ault, you are excused from jury duty," Noose said. "You may leave the courtroom if you wish. If you choose to remain in the courtroom, I ask that you not sit with the other jurors."
Ault was puzzled and looked helplessly at his friend Jake, who at the moment was staring at the floor with a tight mouth.
"May I ask why?" Gerald asked.
Noose removed his glasses and became the professor. "Under the law, Mr. Ault, the court is required to excuse any potential juror who admits he or she cannot consider, and the key word is consider, the death penalty. You see, whether you like it or not, the death penalty is a legal method of punishment in Mississippi and in most states. Therefore, it is unfair to select jurors who cannot follow the law."
The curiosity of the crowd was piqued when Gerald Ault emerged from behind the bench, walked through the small gate in the railing, and left the courtroom. The bailiff fetched number six, Alex Summers, and led him to chambers. He returned moments later and took his seat on the first row. He lied about the death penalty. He opposed it as did most blacks, but he told Noose he had no objections to it. No problem. Later during a recess, he quietly met with other black jurors and explained how the questions in chambers should be answered.
The slow process continued until mid-afternoon, when the last juror left chambers.
Eleven had been excused due to reservations about capital punishment. Noose recessed at three-thirty and gave the lawyers until four to review their notes.
In the library on the third floor, Jake and his team stared at the jury lists and notecards. It was time to decide. He had dreamed about names written in blue and red and black with numbers beside them. He had watched them in the courtroom for two full days now. He knew them. Ellen wanted women. Harry Rex wanted men.
Noose stared at his master list, with the jurors renumbered to reflect the dismissals for cause, and looked at his lawyers. "Gentlemen, are you ready? Good. As you know this is a capital case, so each of you have twelve peremptory challenges. Mr. Buckley, you are required to submit a list of twelve jurors to the defense. Please start with juror number one and refer to each juror only by number."
"Yes sir. Your Honor, the State will accept jurors number one, two, three, four, use our first challenge on number five, accept numbers six, seven, eight, nine, use our second challenge on number ten, accept numbers eleven, twelve, thirteen, use our third challenge on number fourteen, and accept number fifteen. That's twelve, I believe." Jake and Ellen circled and made notes on their lists. Noose methodically recounted. "Yes, that's twelve. Mr. Brigance."
Buckley submitted twelve white females. Two blacks and a white male had been stricken.
Jake studied his list and scratched names. "The defense will strike jurors number one, two, three, accept four, six, and seven, strike eight, nine, eleven, twelve, accept thirteen, strike fifteen. I believe that's eight of our challenges."
His Honor drew lines and check marks down his list, calculating slowly as he went.
"Both of you have accepted jurors number four, six, seven, and thirteen. Mr. Buckley, it's back to you. Give us eight more jurors."
"The State will accept sixteen, use our fourth challenge on seventeen, accept eighteen, nineteen, twenty, strike twenty-one, accept twenty-two, strike twenty-three, accept twenty-four, strike twenty-five and twenty-six, and accep t twenty-seven and twenty-eight. That's twelve with four challenges remaining." Jake was flabbergasted. Buckley had again stricken all the blacks and all the men. He was reading Jake's mind.
"Mr. Brigance, it's back to you."
"May we have a moment to confer, Your Honor?"
"Five minutes," Noose replied.
Jake and his clerk stepped next door to the coffee room, where Harry Rex was waiting.
"Look at this," Jake said as he laid the list on a table and the three huddled around it.
"We're down to twenty- nine. I've got four challenges left and so does Buckley. He's struck every black and every male. It's an all-white female jury right now. The next two are white females, thirty-one is Clyde Sisco, and thirty-two is Barry Acker."
"Then four of the next six are black," Ellen said.
"Yeah, but Buckley won't take it that far. In fact, I'm surprised he's let us get this close to the fourth row."
"I know you want Acker. What about Sisco?" asked Harry Rex.
"I'm afraid of him. Lucien said he's a crook who could be bought."
"Great! Let's get him, then go buy him."
"Very funny. How do you know Buckley hasn't already bought him?"
"I'd take him."
Jake studied the list, counting and recounting. Ellen wanted to strike both men-Acker and Sisco.
They returned to chambers and sat down. The court reporter was ready. "Your Honor, we will strike number twenty-two and number twenty-eight, with two challenges remaining."
"Back to you, Mr. Buckley. Twenty-nine and thirty."
"The State will take them both. That's twelve with four challenges left."
"Back to you, Mr. Brigance."
"We will strike twenty-nine and thirty."
"And you're out of challenges, correct?" Noose asked.
"Correct."
"Very well. Mr. Buckley, thirty-one and thirty-two."
"The State will take them both," Buckley said quickly. looking at the names of the blacks coming after Clyde Sisco.
"Good. That's twelve. Let's select two alternates. You will both have two challenges for the alternates. Mr. Buck-ley, thirty-three and thirty-four."
Juror thirty-three was a black male. Thirty-four was a white female Jake wanted. The next two were black males.
"We'll strike thirty-three, accept thirty-four and thirty-five."
"The defense will accept both," Jake said.
Mr. Pate brought the courtroom to order as Noose and the lawyers took their places. His
Honor called the names of the twelve and they slowly, nervously made their way to the jury box, where they were seated in order by Jean Gillespie. Ten women, two men, all white. The blacks in the courtroom mumbled and eyed each other in disbelief.
"Did you pick that jury?" Carl Lee whispered to Jake.
"I'll explain later," Jake said.
The two alternates were called and seated next to the jury box.
"What's the black dude for?" Carl Lee whispered, nodding at the alternate.
"I'll explain later," Jake said.
Noose cleared his throat and looked down at his new jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, you have been carefully selected to serve as jurors in this case. You have been sworn to fairly try all issues presented before you and to follow the law as I instruct. Now, according to Mississippi law, you will be sequestered until this trial is over. This means you will be housed in a motel and will not be allowed to return home until it's over. I realize this is an extreme hardship, but it's one the law requires. In just a few moments we will recess until in the morning, and you will be given the chance to call home and order your clothes, toiletries, and whatever else you need. Each night you will stay in a motel at an undisclosed location outside of Clanton. Any questions?"
The twelve appeared dazed, bewildered by the thought of not going home for several days. They thought of families, kids, jobs, laundry. Why them? Out of all those people in the courtroom, why them?
With no response, Noose banged his gavel and the courtroom began to empty, juror to the judge's chambers, where she called home and ordered clothes and a toothbrush.
"Where are we going?" she asked Jean.
"It's confidential," Jean said.
"It's confidential," she repeated over the phone to her husband.
By seven, the families had responded with a wild assortment of luggage and boxes. The chosen ones loaded a chartered Greyhound bus outside the rear door. Preceded by two patrol cars and an army jeep and followed by three state troopers, the bus circled the square and left Clanton. Stump Sisson died Tuesday night at the burn hospital in Memphis. His short, fat body had been neglected over the years and proved itself deficient in resisting the complications bred by the serious burns. His death brought to four the number of fatalities related to the rape of Tonya Hailey. Cobb, Willard, Bud
Twitty, and now Sisson.
Immediately, word of his death reached the cabin deep in the woods where the patriots met, ate, and drank each night after the trial. Revenge, they vowed, an eye for an eye and so on. There were new recruits from Ford County-five in all-making a total of eleven local boys. They were eager and hungry, and wanted some action.
The trial had been too quiet so far. It was time for excitement.
Jake paced in front of the couch and delivered his opening statement for the hundredth time. Ellen listened intently. She had listened, interrupted, objected, criticized, and argued for two hours. She was tired now. He had it perfect. The margaritas had calmed him and plated his tongue silver. The words flowed smoothly. He was gifted. Especially after a drink or two.
When he finished they sat on the balcony and watched the candles inch slowly in the darkness around the square. The laughter from the poker games under the pavilions echoed softly through the night. There was no moon.
Ellen left for the final round of drinks. She returned with her same beer mugs filled with ice and margaritas. She sat them on the table and stood behind her boss. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began rubbing the lower part of his neck with her thumbs. He relaxed and moved his head from side to side. She massaged his shoulders and upper back, and pressed her body against his.
"Ellen, it's ten-thirty, and I'm sleepy. Where are you staying tonight?"
"Where do you think I should stay?"
"I think you should stay at your apartment at Ole Miss."
"I'm too drunk to drive."
"Nesbit will drive you."
"Where, may I ask, are you staying?"
"At the house my wife and I own on Adams Street."
She stopped rubbing and grabbed her drink. Jake stood and leaned over the rail and yelled at Nesbit. "Nesbit! Wake up! You're driving to Oxford!"
Carla found the story on the second page of the front section. "All White Jury Chosen for
Hailey" read the headline. Jake had not called Tuesday night. She read the story and ignored her coffee. The beach house sat by itself in a semisecluded area of the beach. The nearest neighbor was two hundred yards away. Her father owned the land in between and had no plans to sell it. He had built the house ten years earlier when he sold his company in Knoxville and retired wealthy. Carla was the only child, and now Hanna would be the only grandchild. The house-with four bedrooms and four bathrooms scattered over three levels-had room for a dozen grandchildren.
She finished the article and walked to the bay windows in the breakfast room overlooking the beach, and then the ocean. The brilliant orange mass of the sun had just cleared the horizon. She preferred the warmth of the bed until well after daybreak, but life with Jake had brought new adventure to the first seven hours of each day. Her body was conditioned to at least wake up at five- thirty. He once told her his goal was to go to work in the dark and return from work in the dark. He usually achieved this goal. He took great pride in working more hours each day than any lawyer in Ford County. He was different, but she loved him.
Forty-eight miles northeast of Clanton, the Milburn county seat of Temple lay peacefully beside the Tippah River. It had three thousand people and two motels. The Temple Inn was deserted, there being no moral reason to be there this time of year. At the end of one secluded wing, eight rooms were occupied and guarded by soldiers and a couple of state troopers. The ten women had paired off nicely, as had Barry Acker and Clyde Sisco. The black alternate, Ben Lester Newton, was awarded a room to himself, as was the other alternate, Francie Pitts. The televisions had been disconnected and no newspapers were allowed. Supper Tuesday night had been delivered to the rooms, and Wednesday's breakfast arrived promptly at seven-thirty while the Greyhound warmed and blew diesel fumes all over the parking lot. Thirty minutes later the fourteen loaded aboard and the entourage set out for Clanton.
They talked on the bus about their families and jobs. Two or three had known each other prior to Monday; most were strangers. They awkwardly avoided any mention of why they were all together and the task before them. Judge Noose had been very plain on this point; no discussions about the case. They wanted to talk about many things: the rape, the rapists, Carl Lee, Jake, Buckley, Noose, the Klan, lots of things. Everyone knew of the burning crosses, but they weren't discussed, at least they weren't discussed on the bus.
There had been many discussions back in the motel rooms. The Greyhound arrived at the courthouse five minutes before nine, and the jurors stared through dark windows to see how many blacks and how many Klansmen and how many others were being separated by the guardsmen. It eased past the barricades and parked at the rear of the courthouse, where the deputies were waiting to escort them upstairs as soon as possible. They went up the back stairs to the jury room, where coffee and doughnuts were waiting. The bailiff informed them it was nine, and His Honor was ready to start. He led them into the crowded courtroom and into the jury box, where they sat in their designated seats.
"All rise for the court," Mr. Pate yelled.
"Please be seated," Noose said as he fell into the tall leather chair behind the bench.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he said warmly to the jurors. "I trust you're all feeling well this morning, and ready to go."
They all nodded.
"Good. I'm going to ask you this question every morning: Did anybody attempt to contact you, talk to you, or influence you in any way last night?"
They all shook their heads.
"Good. Did you discuss this case among yourselves?"
They all lied and shook their heads.
"Good. If anyone attempts to contact you and discuss me as soon as possible. Do you understand?"
They nodded.
"Now at this time we are ready to start the trial. The first order of business is to allow the attorneys to make opening statements. I want to caution you that nothing the attorneys say is testimony and is not to be taken as evidence. Mr. Buckley, do you wish to make an opening statement?"
Buckley rose and buttoned his shiny polyester coat. "Yes, Your Honor."
"I thought so. You may proceed."
Buckley lifted the small, wooden podium and moved it squarely in front of the jury box, where he stood behind it and breathed deeply and slowly flipped through some notes on a legal pad. He enjoyed the brief period of quietness with all eyes on him and all ears anxious for his words. He started by thanking the jurors for being there, for their sacrifices, for their citizenship (as if they had a choice, thought Jake). He was proud of them and honored to be associated with them in this most important case. Again, he was their lawyer. His client, the State of Mississippi. He expressed fear at this awesome responsibility that they, the people, had given to him, Rufus Buckley, a simple country lawyer from Smith-field. He rambled on about himself and his thoughts on the trial, and his hopes and prayers that he would do a good job for the people of this state.
He gave pretty much the same spiel in all of his opening statements, but this was a better performance. It was refined and polished garbage, and objectionable. Jake wanted to burn him, but from experience he knew Ichabod would not sustain an objection during an opening statement unless the offense was flagrant, and Buckley's rhetoric did not qualify -yet. All this fake sincerity and gushiness irritated Jake to no end, primarily because the jury listened to it and, more often than not, fell for it. The prosecutor was always the good guy, seeking to right an injustice and punish a criminal for some heinous crime; to lock him away forever
so he could sin no more. Buckley was master at convincing a jury, right off the mark, during the opening statement, that it was up to them, He and The Twelve
Chosen Ones, to search diligently for the truth, together as a team, united against evil. It was the truth they were after, nothing but the truth. Find the truth and justice would win.
Follow him, Rufus Buckley, the people's lawyer, and they would find the truth.
The rape was a terrible deed. He was a father, in fact had a daughter the same age of
Tonya Hailey, and when he first heard of the rape he was sick at his stomach. He grieved for Carl Lee and his wife. Yes, he thought of his own little girls and had thoughts of retribution.
Jake smiled quickly at Ellen. This was interesting. Buck-ley had chosen to confront the rape instead of keeping it from the jury. Jake was expecting a critical confrontation with him on the admissibility of any testimony regarding the rape. Ellen's research found the law to be clear that the lurid details were inadmissible, but it wasn't so clear as to whether it could be mentioned or referred to. Evidently Buckley felt it was better to acknowledge the rape than try to hide it. Good move, thought Jake, since all twelve and the rest of the world knew the details anyway.
Ellen smiled too. The rape of Tonya Hailey was about to be tried for the first time.
Buckley explained it would be natural for any parent to want revenge. He would too, he admitted. But, he continued with his voice growing heavier, there is a mighty distinction between wanting revenge and getting revenge.
He was warming up now as he paced deliberately back and forth, ignoring the podium, getting his rhythm. He launched himself into a twenty-minute discourse on the criminal justice system and how it was practiced in Mississippi, and how many rapists that he,
Rufus Buckley, had personally sent to Parchman, for life, most of them. The system worked because Mississippians had enough good common sense to make it work, and it would collapse if people like Carl Lee Hailey were allowed to short-circuit the system and dispense justice according to their own terms. Imagine that.
A lawless society where vigilantes roamed at will. No police, no jails, no courts, no trials, no juries. Every man for himself.
It was sort of ironic, he said, winding down for a moment. Carl Lee Hailey now sat before them asking for due process and a fair trial, yet he did not believe in such things.
Ask the mothers ot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard. Ask them what kind of fair trials their sons received.
He paused to allow the jury and the courtroom to absorb and ponder that last thought. It sunk in heavy, and every person in the jury box looked at Carl Lee Hailey. They were not looks of compassion, Jake cleaned his fingernails with a small knife and looked thoroughly bored. Buckley pretended to review his notes at the podium, then checked his watch. He started again, this time in a most confident businesslike tone of voice. The
State would prove that Carl Lee Hailey carefully planned the killings. He waited for almost an hour in a small room next to the stairs where he knew the boys would eventually be led as they were taken back to jail. He somehow managed to sneak an M-16 into the courthouse. Buckley walked to a small table by the court reporter and hoisted the M 16. "This is the M-16!" he announced to the jury, waving it wildly about with one hand. He sat it on the podium and talked about how it was carefully selected by Carl Lee
Hailey because he had used one before in close combat, and he knew how to kill with it.
He had been trained with an M-16. It's an illegal weapon. You can't buy one down at the
Western Auto. He had to go find it. He planned it. The proof would be clear: premeditated, carefully planned, cold-blooded murder.
And then there was Deputy DeWayne Looney. A fourteen-year veteran of the Sheriffs
Department. A family man -one of the finest law enforcement officers he had ever known. Gunned down in the line of duty by Carl Lee Hailey. His leg was partially amputated. What was his sin? Perhaps the defense would say it was accidental, that it shouldn't count. That's no defense in Mississippi.
There's no excuse, ladies and gentlemen, for any of this violence. The verdict must be guilty.
They each had an hour for their openings, and the lure of that much time proved irresistible for the D.A., whose remarks were becoming repetitive. He lost himself twice during his condemnation of the insanity ruse. The jurors began to look bored and searched for other points of interest around the courtroom. The artists quit sketching, the reporters quit writing, and Noose cleaned his glasses seven or eight times. It was a known fact that Noose cleaned the glasses to stay awake and fight boredom, and he usually deaned them throughout the trial. Jake had seen him rub them with a handkerchief or tie or shirttail while witnesses broke down and cried and lawyers screamed and flailed their arms at each other. He didn't miss a word or objection or trick; he was just bored with it all, even a case of this magnitude. He never slept on the bench, although he was sorely tempted at times. Instead he removed his glasses, held them upward in the light, blew on them, rubbed them as though they were caked with grease, then remounted them just north of the wart. No more than five minutes later they would be dirty again. The longer
Buckley droned on, the more they were cleaned. Finally, after an hour and a half,
Buckley shut up and the courtroom sighed.
"Ten-minute recess," Noose announced, and lunged off the bench, through the door, past chambers to the men's room.
Jake had planned a brief opening, and after Buckley's marathon, he decided to make it even shorter. Most people don't like lawyers to begin with, especially long-winded, tall-talking, wordy lawyers who feel that every insignificant point must be repeated at least three times, and the major ones have to be hammered and drilled by constant repetition into whoever happened to be listening.
Jurors especially dislike lawyers who waste time, for two very good reasons. First, they can't tell the lawyers to shut up. They're captives. Outside the courtroom a person can curse a lawyer and shut him up, but in the jury box they become trapped and forbidden to speak. Thus, they must resort to sleeping, snoring, glaring, squirming, checking their watches, or any one of a dozen signals which boring lawyers never recognize. Second, jurors don't like long trials. Cut the crap and get it over with. Give us the facts and we'll give you a verdict.
He explained this to his client during the recess.
"I agree. Keep it short," said Carl Lee.
He did. Fourteen minutes worth of opening statement, and the jury appreciated every word. He began by talking about daughters and how special they are. How they are diffe rent from little boys and need special protection. He told them of his own daughter and trie special oonu mat exists between father and daughter, a bond that could not be explained and should not be tampered with. He admitted admiration for Mr. Buckley and his alleged ability to be so forgiving and compassionate to any drunken pervert who might rape his daughter. He was a big man indeed. But in reality, could they, as jurors, as parents, be so tender and trusting and indulging if their daughter had been raped-by two drunk, stoned, brutal animals who tied her to a tree and-"
"Objection!" shouted Buckley.
"Sustained," Noose shouted back.
He ignored the shouting and continued softly. He asked them to try to imagine, throughout the trial, how they would feel had it been their daughter. He asked them not to convict Carl Lee but to send him home to his family. He didn't mention insanity. They knew it was coming.
He finished shortly after he started, and left the jury with a marked contrast in the two styles.
"Is that all?" Noose asked in amazement.
Jake nodded as he sat by his client.
"Very well. Mr. Buckley, you may call your first witness."
"The State calls Cora Cobb."
The bailiff went to the witness room and fetched Mrs. Cobb, He led her through the door by the jury box, into the courtroom where she was sworn by Jean Gillespie, and then he seated her in the witness chair.
"Speak into the microphone," he instructed.
"You are Cora Cobb?" Buckley asked with full volume as he situated the podium near the railing.
"Yes, sir."
"Where do you live?"
"Route 3, Lake Village, Ford County."
"You are the mother of Billy Ray Cobb, deceased?"
"Yes, sir," she said as her eyes watered. She was a rural woman whose husband had left when the boys were small. They had raised themselves while she worked two shifts at a cheap furniture factory between Karaway and Lake Village. She lost control over them at an early age. She was about fifty, tried to look forty with hair dye and makeup, but could easily pass for early sixties.
"How old was your son at the time of his death?"
"Twenty-three."
"When did you last see him alive?"
"Just a few seconds before he was kilt."
"Where did you see him?"
"Here in this courtroom."
"Where was he killed?"
"Downstairs."
"Did you hear the shots that killed your son?"
She began to cry. "Yes, sir."
"Where did you last see him?"
"At the funeral home."
"And what was his condition?"
"He was dead."
"Nothing further," Buckley announced.
"Cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?"
She was a harmless witness, called to establish that the victim was indeed dead, and to evoke a little sympathy. Nothing could be gained by cross-examination, and normally she would have been left alone. But Jake saw an opportunity he couldn't pass. He saw a chance to set the tone for the trial, to wake Noose and Buckley and the jury; to just get everyone aroused. She was not really that pitiful; she was faking some. Buckley had probably instructed her to cry if possible.
"Just a few questions," Jake said as he walked behind Buckley and Musgrove to the podium. The D.A. was immediately suspicious.
"Mrs. Cobb, is it true that your son was convicted of selling marijuana?"
"Objection!" Buckley roared, springing to his feet. "The criminal record of the victim is inadmissible!"
"Sustained!"
"Thank you, Your Honor," Jake said properly, as if Noose had done him a favor.
She wiped her eyes and cried harder.
"You say your son was twenty-three when he died?"
"Yes."
"In his twenty-three years, how many other children am he rape?"
"Objection! Objection!" yelled Buckley, waving his arms and looking desperately at
Noose, who was yelling, "Sustained! Sustained! You're out of order, Mr. Brigance!
You're out of order!" Mrs. Cobb burst into tears and bawled uncontrollably as the shouting erupted. She managed to keep the microphone in her face, and her wailing and carrying on resounded through the stunned courtroom.
"He should be admonished, Your Honor!" Buckley demanded, his face and eyes glowing with violent anger and his neck a deep purple.
"I'll withdraw the question," Jake replied loudly as he returned to his seat.
"Cheap shot, Brigance," Musgrove mumbled.
"Please admonish him," Buckley begged, "and instruct the jury to disregard."
"Any redirect?" asked Noose.
"No," answered Buckley as he dashed to the witness stand with a handkerchief to rescue
Mrs. Cobb, who had buried her head in her hands and was sobbing and shaking violently.
"You are excused, Mrs. Cobb," Noose said. "Bailiff, please assist the witness."
The bailiff lifted her by the arm, with Buckley's assistance, and led her down from the witness stand, in front of the jury box, through the railing, down the center aisle. She shrieked and whined every step of the way, and her noises increased as she neared the back door until she was roaring at full throttle when she made her exit.
Noose glared at Jake until she was gone and the courtroom was quiet again. Then he turned to the jury and said: "Please disregard the last question by Mr. Brigance."
"What'd you do that for?" Carl Lee whispered to his lawyer.
"I'll explain later."
"The State calls Earnestine Willard," Buckley announced in a quieter tone and with much more hesitation.
Mrs. Willard was brought from the witness room above the courtroom. She was sworn and seated.
"You are Earnestine Willard?" asked Buckley.
"Yes, sir," she said in a fragile voice. Life had been rough on her too, but she had a certain dignity that made her more pitiful and believable than Mrs. Cobb. The clothes were inexpensive, but clean and neatly pressed. The hair was minus the cheap black dye that Mrs. Cobb relied on so heavily.
The face was minus the layers of makeup. When she began crying, she cried to herself.
"And where do you live?"
"Out from Lake Village."
"Pete Willard was your son?"
"Yes, sir."
"When did you last see him alive?"
"Right here in this room, just before he was killed."
"Did you hear the gunfire that killed him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did you last see him?"
"At the funeral home."
"And what was his condition?"
"He was dead," she said, wiping tears with a Kleenex.
"I'm very sorry," Buckley offered. "No further questions," he added, eyeing Jake carefully.
"Any cross-examination?" Noose asked, also eyeing Jake suspiciously.
"Just a couple," Jake said.
"Mrs. Willard, I'm Jake Brigance." He stood behind the podium and looked at her without compassion.
She nodded.
"How old was your son when he died?"
"Twenty-seven."
Buckley pushed his chair from the table and sat on its edge, ready to spring. Noose removed his glasses and leaned forward. Carl Lee lowered his head.
"During his twenty-seven years, how many other children did he rape?"
Buckley bolted upright. "Objection! Objection! Objection!"
"Sustained! Sustained! Sustained!"
The yelling frightened Mrs. Willard, and she cried louder.
"Admonish him, Judge! He must be admonished!"
"I'll withdraw the question," Jake said on his way back to his seat.
Buckley pleaded with his hands. "But that's not good enough, Judge! He must be admonished!"
"Let's go into chambers," Noose ordered. He excused the witness and recessed until one.
Harry Rex was waiting on the balcony of Jake's office with sandwiches and a pitcher of margaritas. Jake declined and drank grapefruit juice. Ellen wanted just one, a small one she said to calm her nerves. For the third day, lunch had been prepared by Dell and personally delivered to Jake's office.
Compliments of the Coffee Shop.
They ate and relaxed on the balcony and watched the carnival around the courthouse.
What happened in chambers? Harry Rex demanded. Jake nibbled on a Reuben. He said he wanted to talk about something other than the trial.
"What happened in chambers, dammit?"
"Cardinals are three games out, did you know that, Row Ark?"
"I thought it was four."
"What happened in chambers!"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"Okay. I've got to go use the rest room. I'll tell you when I get back." Jake left.
"Row Ark, what happened in chambers?"
"Not much. Noose rode Jake pretty good, but no permanent damage. Buckley wanted blood, and Jake said he was sure, some was forthcoming if Buckley's face got any redder.
Buckley ranted and screamed and condemned Jake for intentionally inflaming the jury, as he called it. Jake just smiled at him and said he was sorry, Governor. Every time he would say governor, Buckley would scream at Noose, 'He's calling me governor, Judge, do something.' And Noose would say, 'Please, gentlemen, I expect you to act like professionals.' And Jake would say, 'Thank you, Your Honor.'
Then he would wait a few minutes and call him governor again."
"Why did he make those two old ladies cry?"
"It was a brilliant move, Harry Rex. He showed the jury, Noose, Buckley, everybody, that it's his courtroom and he's not afraid of a damned person in it. He drew first blood.
He's got Buckley so jumpy right now he'll never relax. Noose respects him because he's not intimidated by His Honor. The jurors were shocked, but he woke them up and told them in a not so subtle way that this is war. A brilliant move."
"Yeah, I thought so myself."
"It didn't hurt us. Those women were asking for sympathy, but Jake reminded the jury of what their sweet little boys did before they died."
"The scumbags."
"If there's any resentment by the jury, they'll forget by the time the last witness testifies."
"Jake's pretty smooth, ain't he?"
"He's good. Very good. He's the best I've seen for his age."
"Wait till his closing argument. I've heard a couple. He could get sympathy out of a drill sergeant."
Jake returned and poured a small margarita. Just a very small one, for his nerves. Harry
Rex drank like a sailor.
Ozzie was the first State witness after lunch. Buckley produced large, multicolored plats of the first and second floors of the courthouse, and together they traced the precise, last movements of Cobb and Willard.
Then Buckley produced a set of ten 16 x 24 color photographs of Cobb and Willard lying freshly dead on the stairs. They were gruesome. Jake had seen lots of pictures of dead bodies, and although none were particularly pleasant given their nature, some weren't so bad. In one of his cases, the victim had been shot in the heart with a .357 and simply fell over dead on his porch. He was a large, muscular old man, and the bullet never found its way out of the body. So there was no blood, just a small hole in his overalls, and then a small sealed hole in his chest. He looked as though he could have fallen asleep and slumped over, or passed out drunk on the porch, like Lucien. It was not a spectacular scene, and Buckley had not been proud of those photo- graphs. They had not been enlarged. He had just
handed the small Polaroids to the jury and looked disgusted because they were so clean.
But most murder pictures were grisly and sickening, with blood splashed on walls and ceilings, and parts of bodies blown free and scattered everywhere. Those were always enlarged by the D.A. and entered into evidence with great fanfare, then waved around the courtroom by Buckley as he and the witness described the scenes in the pictures. Finally, with the jurors fidgeting with curiosity, Buckley would politely ask the judge for permission to show the photographs to the jury, and the judge would always consent.
Then Buck-ley and everybody else would watch their faces intently as they were shocked, horrified, and occasionally nauseated. Jake had actually seen two jurors vomit when handed photos of a badly slashed corpse.
Such pictures were highly prejudicial and highly inflammatory, and also highly admissible.
"Probative" was the word used by the Supreme Court. Such pictures could aid the jury, according to ninety years of decisions from the Court. It was well settled in Mississippi that murder pictures, regardless of their impact on the jury, were always admissible. Jake had seen the Cobb and Willard photographs weeks earlier, and had filed the standard objection and received the standard denial.
These were mounted professionally on heavy pos-terboard, something the D.A. had not done before. He handed the first one into the jury box to Reba Betts. It was the one of
Willard's head and brains taken at close range.
"My God!" she gasped, and shoved it to the next juror, who gawked in horror, and passed it on.
They handed it to one another, then to the alternates. Buckley took it, and gave Reba another one.
The ritual continued for thirty minutes until all the pictures were returned to the D.A.
Then he grabbed the M-16 and thrust it at Ozzie. "Can you identify this?"
"Yes, it's the weapon found at the scene."
"Who picked it up at the scene?"
"I did."
"And what did you do with it?"
"Wrapped in a plastic bag and placed in a vault at the jail. Kept it locked up until I handed it to Mr. Laird with the crime lab in Jackson."
"Your Honor, the State would offer the weapon, Exhibit S-13, into evidence," Buckley said, waving it wildly.
"No objections," Jake said.
"We have nothing further of this witness," Buckley announced.
"Cross-examination?"
Jake flipped through his notes as he walked slowly to the podium. He had just a few questions for his friend.
"Sheriff, did you arrest Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?"
Buckley pushed his chair back and perched his ample frame on the edge, poised to leap and scream if necessary.
"Yes I did," answered the sheriff.
"For what reason?"
"For the rape of Tonya Hailey," he answered perfectly.
"And how old was she at the time she; was raped by Cobb and Willard?"
"She was ten."
"Is it true, Sheriff, that Pete Willard signed a written confession in-"
"Objection! Objection! Your Honor! That's inadmissible and Mr. Brigance knows it."
Ozzie nodded affirmatively during the objection.
"Sustained."
Buckley was shaking. "I ask that the question be stricken from the record and the jury be instructed to disregard it."
"I'll withdraw the question," Jake said to Buckley with a smile.
"Please disregard the last question from Mr. Brigance," Noose instructed the jury.
"No further questions," said Jake.
"Any redirect examination, Mr. Buckley?"
"No, sir."
"Very well. Sheriff, you may step down."
Buckley's next witness was a fingerprint man from Washington who spent an hour telling the jurors what they had known for weeks. His dramatic final conclusion unmis- takably linked the prints on M-10 to those of Carl Lee Hailey. Then came the ballistics expert from the state crime lab whose testimony was as boring and uninformative as his predecessor on the stand. Yes, without a doubt, the fragments recovered from the crime scene were fired from the M16 lying there on the table. That was his final opinion, and with the charts and diagrams, it took Buckley an hour to get it to the jury. Prosecutorial overkill, as Jake called it; a debility suffered by all prosecutors.
The defense had no questions for either expert, and at five-fifteen Noose said goodbye to the jurors with strict instructions against discussing the case. They nodded politely as they filed from the courtroom. Then he banged his gavel and adjourned until nine in the morning.
The great civic duty of jury service had grown old rapidly. The second night in the
Temple Inn had seen the telephones removed-judge's orders. Some old magazines donated by the Clanton library were circulated and quickly discarded, there being little interest among the group in The New Yorker, The Smith-sonian, and Architectural Digest.
"Got any PenthousesT Clyde Sisco had whispered to the bailiff as he made the rounds.
He said no, but he'd see what he could do.
Confined to their rooms with no television, newspapers, or phones, they did little but play cards and talk about the trial. A trip to the end of the hall for ice and a soft drink became a special occasion, something the roommates planned and rotated. The boredom descended heavily.
At each end of the hall two soldiers guarded the darkness and solitude, the stillness interrupted only by the systematic emergence of the jurors with change for the drink machine. Sleep came early, and when the sentries knocked on the doors at 6:00 A.M., all the jurors were awake, some even dressed. They devoured Thursday's breakfast of pancakes and sausage, and eagerly boarded the Greyhound at eight for the trip back home.
For the fourth straight day the rotunda was crowded by eight o'clock. The spectators had learned that all seats were taken by eight-thirty. Prather opened the door and the crowd filed slowly through the metal detector, past the careful eyes of the deputies and finally into the courtroom, where the blacks filled the left side and the whites the right. The front row was again reserved by Hastings for Gwen,
Lester, the kids, and other relatives. Agee and other council members sat in the second row with the kinfolks who couldn't fit up front. Agee was in charge of alternating courtroom duty and outside demonstration duty for the ministers. Personally, he preferred the courtroom duty, wnere ne ieu miss the cameras and reporters which were so abundant on the front lawn. To his right, across the aisle, sat the families and friends of the victims. They had behaved so far.
A few minutes before nine, Carl Lee was escorted from the small holding room. The handcuffs were removed by one of the many officers surrounding him. He flashed a big smile at his family and sat in his chair. The lawyers took their places and the courtroom grew quiet. The bailiff poked his head through the door beside the jury box, and, satisfied with whatever he saw, opened the door and released the jurors to their assigned seats. Mr.
Pate was watching all this from the door leading to chambers, and when all was perfect, he stepped forward and yelled: "All rise for the Court!"
Ichabod, draped in his favorite wrinkled and faded black robe, loped to the bench and instructed everyone to have a seat. He greeted the jury and questioned them about what happened or didn't happen since yesterday's adjournment.
He looked at the lawyers. "Where's Mr. Musgrove?"
"He's running a bit late, Your Honor. We are ready to proceed," Buckley announced.
"Call your next witness," Noose ordered Buckley.
The pathologist from the state crime lab was located in the rotunda and entered the courtroom.
Normally, he would have been much too busy for a simple trial and would have sent one of his underlings to explain to the jury precisely what killed Cobb and Willard. But this was the Hailey case, and he felt compelled to do the job himself. It was actually the simplest case he had seen in a while; the bodies were found as they were dying, the weapon was with the bodies, and there were enough holes in the boys to kill them a dozen times. Everybody in the world knew how those boys died. But the D.A. had insisted on the most thorough pathological workup, so the doctor took the stand Thursday morning laden with photos of the autopsies and multicolored anatomy charts.
Earlier in chambers, Jake had offered to stipulate to the causes of death, but Buckley would have no part of it. No sir, he wanted the jury to hear and know how they died.
"We will admit that they died by multiple wounds from bullets fired from the M-16,"
Jake had stated precisely.
"No, sir. I have a right to prove it," Buckley said stubbornly.
"But he's offering to stipulate to the causes of death," Noose said incredulously.
"I have the right to prove it," Buckley hung on.
So he proved it. In a classic case of prosecutorial overkill, Buckley proved it. For three hours the pathologist talked about how many bullets hit Cobb and how many hit Willard, and what each bullet did upon penetration, and the ghastly damage thereafter. The anatomy charts were placed on easels before the jury, and the expert took a plastic, numbered pellet that represented a bullet, and moved it ever so slowly through the body.
Fourteen pellets for Cobb and eleven for Willard.
Buckley would ask a question, elicit a response, then interrupt to belabor a point.
"Your Honor, we would be glad to stipulate as to the causes of death," Jake announced with great frustration every thirty minutes.
"We won't," Buckley replied tersely, and moved to the next pellet.
Jake fell into his chair, shook his head, and looked at the jurors, those who were awake.
The doctor finished at noon and Noose, tired and numb with boredom, awarded a two-hour lunch break. The jurors were awakened by the bailiff and led to the jury room where they dined on barbeque specials on plastic plates, then struck up card games. They were forbidden to leave the courthouse.
In every small Southern town there's a kid who was born looking for the quick buck. He was the kid who at the age of five set up the first lemonade stand on his street and charged twenty-five cents a cup for four ounces of artificially flavored water. He knew it tasted awful, but he knew the adults thought he was adorable. He was the first kid on the street to purchase a lawn mower on credit at the Western Auto and knock on doors in
February to line up_yard work for the summer.
He was the first kid to pay for his own bike, which he used for morning and afternoon paper routes. He sent Christmas cards to old ladies in August.
He sold fruitcakes door to door in November. On Saturday mornings when his friends were watching cartoons, he was at the flea markets at the courthouse selling roasted peanuts and corn dogs. At the age of twelve he bought his first certificate of deposit. He had his own banker. At fifteen, he paid cash for his new pickup the same day he passed his driver's license exam. He bought a trailer to follow the
truck and filled it with lawn equipment. He sold T-shirts at high school football games. He was a hustler; a millionaire to be.
In Clanton, his name was Hinky Myrick, age sixteen. He waited nervously in the rotunda until Noose broke for lunch, then moved past the deputies and entered the courtroom.
Seating was so precious that almost none of the spectators left for lunch. Some would stand, glare at their neighbors, point at their seats and make sure everybody knew it was theirs for the day, then leave for the rest room. But most of them sat in their highly treasured spaces on the pews, and suffered through lunch.
Hinky could smell opportunity. He could sense people in need. On Thursday, just as he had on Wednesday, he rolled a shopping cart down the aisle to the front of the courtroom.
It was filled with a wide assortment of sandwiches and plate lunches in plastic containers.
He began yelling toward the far end of the rows, then passing food down to his customers. He worked his way slowly toward the rear of the courtroom. He was a vicious scalper. A tuna salad on white bread went for two dollars; his cost, eighty cents. A plate lunch of cold chicken with a few peas went for three dollars; his cost, a buck twenty-five.
A canned soft drink was one-fifty. But they gladly paid his prices and kept their seats. He sold out before he reached the fourth row from the front, and began taking orders from the rest of the courtroom. Hinky was the man of the hour.
With a fistful of orders, he raced from the courthouse, across the lawn, through the crowd of blacks, across Caffey Street and into Claude's. He ran to the kitchen, shoved a twenty-dollar bill at the cook and handed him the orders. He waited and watched his watch. The cook moved slowly. Hinky gave him another twenty.
The trial ushered a wave of prosperity Claude naa never dreamed of. Breakfast and lunch in his small cafe became happenings as demand greatly exceeded the number of chairs and the hungry lined the sidewalk, waiting in the heat and haze for a
table. After the lunch recess on Monday, he had dashed around Clanton buying every folding card table and matching chair set he could find.
At lunch the aisles disappeared, forcing his waitresses to maneuver nimbly among and between the rows of people, virtually all of whom were black.
The trial was the only topic of conversation. On Wednesday, the composition of the jury had been hotly condemned. By Thursday, the talk centered on the growing dislike for the prosecutor.
"I hear tell he wants to run for governor."
"He Democrat or Republican?"
"Democrat."
"He can't win without the black vote, not in this state."
"Yeah, and he ain't likely to get much after this trial."
"I hope he tries."
"He acts more like a Republican."
In pretrial Clanton, the noon hour began ten minutes before twelve when the young, tanned, pretty, coolly dressed secretaries from the banks, law offices,
insurance agencies, and courthouse left their desks and took to the sidewalks. During lunch they ran errands around the square. They went to the post office. They did their banking. They shopped.
Most of them bought their food at the Chinese Deli and ate on the park benches under the shade trees around the courthouse. They met friends and gossiped. At noon the gazebo in front of the courthouse attracted more beautiful women than the Miss Mississippi pageant. It was an unwritten rule in Clanton that an office girl on the square got a headstart on lunch and did not have to return until one. The men followed at twelve, and watched the girls.
But the trial changed things. The shade trees around the courthouse were in a combat zone. The cafes were full from eleven to one with soldiers and strangers who couldn't get seats in the courtroom. The Chinese Deli was packed with foreigners. The office girls ran their errands and ate at their desks.
At the Tea Shoppe the bankers and other white collars discussed the trial more in terms of its publicity and how the town was being perceived. Of particular concern was the Klan.
Not a single customer knew anyone connected with the Klan, and it had long been forgotten in north Mississippi. But the vultures loved the white robes, and as far as the outside world knew, Clanton, Mississippi, was the home of the Ku Klux Klan. They hated the Klan for being there. They cussed the press for keeping them there.
For lunch Thursday, the Coffee Shop offered the daily special of country-fried pork chops, turnip greens, and either candied yams, creamed corn, or fried okra. Dell served the specials to a packed house that was evenly divided among locals, foreigners, and soldiers. The unwritten but firmly established rule of not speaking to anyone with a beard or funny accent was strictly enforced, and for a friendly people it was awkward not to smile and carry on with those from the outside. A tight- lipped arrogance had long since replaced the warm reception given to the visitors in the first few days after the shootings.
Too many of the press hounds had betrayed their hosts and printed unkind, unflattering, and unfair words about the county and its people. It was amazing how they could arrive in packs from all over and within twenty-four hours become experts on a place they had never heard of and a people they had never met.
The locals had watched them as they scrambled like idiots around the square chasing the sheriff, the prosecutor, the defense lawyer, or anybody who might know anything. They watched them wait at the rear of the courthouse like hungry wolves to pounce on the defendant, who was invariably surrounded by cops, and who invariably ignored them as they yelled the same ridiculous questions at him. The locals watched with distaste as they kept their cameras on the Kluxers and the rowdier blacks, always searching for the most radical elements, and then making those elements appear to be the norm.
They watched them, and they hated them.
"What's that orange crap all over her face?" Tim Nunley asked, looking at a reporter sitting in a booth by the window. Jack Jones crunched on his okra and studied the orange face.
"I think it's something they use for the cameras. Makes her face look white on TV."
"But it's already white."
"I know, but it don't look white on TV unless it's painted orange."
Nunley was not convinced. "Then what do the niggers use on TV?" he asked.
No one could answer.
"Did you see her on TV last night?" asked Jack Jones.
"Nope. Where's she from?"
"Channel Four, Memphis. Last night she interviewed Cobb's mother, and of course she kept on pushing till the old woman broke down. All they showed on TV was the cryin'. It was sickenin'. Night before she had some Klansmen from Ohio talkin' about what we need here in Mississippi. She's the worst."
The State finished its case against Carl Lee Thursday afternoon. After lunch Buckley put
Murphy on the stand. It was gut-wrenching, nerve-wracking testimony as the poor little man stuttered uncontrollably for an hour.
"Calm down, Mr. Murphy," Buckley said a hundred times.
He would nod, and take a drink of water. He nodded affirmatively and shook negatively as much as possible, but the court reporter had an awful time picking up the nods and shakes.
"I didn't get that," she would say, her back to the witness stand. So he would try to answer and get hung, usually on a hard consonant like a "P" or "T." He would blurt out something, then stutter and spit incoherently.
"I didn't get that," she would say helplessly when he finished. Buckley would sigh. The jurors rocked furiously. Half the spectators chewed their fingernails.
"Could you repeat that?" Buckley would say with as much .patience as he could find.
"I'm s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sorry," he would say frequently. He was pitiful.
Through it all, it was determined that he had been drinking a Coke on the rear stairs, facing the stairs where the boys were killed. He had noticed a black man peeking out of a small closet some forty feet away. But he didn't think much about it. Then when the boys came down, the black man just stepped out and opened fire, screaming and laughing.
When he stopped shooting, he threw down the. gun and took off. Yes, that was him, sitting right there. The black one.
Noose rubbed holes in his glasses listening to Murphy. When Buckley sat down, His
Honor looked desperately at Jake. "Any cross-examination?" he asked painfully.
Jake stood with a legal pad. The court reporter glared at him. Harry Rex hissed at him.
Ellen closed her eyes. The jurors wrung their hands and watched him carefully.
"Don't do it," Carl Lee whispered firmly.
"No, Your Honor, we have no questions."
"Thank you, Mr. Brigance," Noose said, breathing again.
The next witness was Officer Rady, the investigator for the Sheriffs Department. He informed the jury that he found a Royal Crown Cola can in the closet next to the stairs, and the prints on the can matched those of Carl Lee Hailey.
"Was it empty or full?" Buckley asked dramatically.
"It was completely empty."
Big deal, thought Jake, so he was thirsty. Oswald had a chicken dinner waiting on
Kennedy. No, he had no questions for this witness.
"We have one final witness, Your Honor," Buckley said with great finality at 4:00 P.M.
"Officer DeWayne Looney."
Looney limped with a cane into the courtroom and to the witness stand. He removed his gun and handed it to Mr. Pate.
Buckley watched him proudly. "Would you state your name, please, sir?"
"DeWayne Looney."
"And your address?"
"Fourteen sixty-eight Bennington Street, Clanton, Mississippi."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-nine."
"Where are you employed?"
"Ford County Sheriff's Department."
"And what do you do there?"
"I'm a dispatcher."
"Where did you work on Monday, May 20?"
"I was a deputy."
"Were you on duty?"
"Yes. I was assigned to transport two subjects from the jail to court and back."
"Who were those two subjects?"
"Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard."
"What time did you leave court with them?"
"Around one-thirty, I guess."
"Who was on duty with you?"
"Marshall Prather. He and I were in charge of the two subjects. There were some other deputies in the courtroom helpin' us, and we had two or three men outside waitin' on us.
But me and Marshall were in charge."
"What happened when the hearing was over?"
"We immediately handcuffed Cobb and Willard and got them outta here. We took them to that little room over there and waited a second or two, and Prather walked on down the stairs."
"Then what happened?"
"We started down the back stairs. Cobb first, then Willard, then me. Like I said, Prather had already gone on down. He was out the door."
"Yes, sir. Then what happened?"
"When Cobb was near 'bout to the foot of the stairs, the shootin' started. I was on the landing, fixin' to go on down. I didn't see anybody at first for a second, then I seen Mr.
Hailey with the machine gun firin' away. Cobb was blown backward into Willard, and they both screamed and fell in a heap, tryin' to get back up where I was."
"Yes, sir. Describe what you saw."
"You could hear the bullets bouncin' off the walls and hittin' everywhere. It was the loudest gun I ever heard and seemed like he kept shootin' forever. The boys just twisted and thrashed about, screamin' and squealin'. They were handcuffed, you know."
"Yes, sir. What happened to you?"
"Like I said, I never made it past the landing. I think one of the bullets ricocheted off the wall and caught me in the leg. I was tryin' to get back up the steps when I felt my leg burn."
"And what happened to your leg?"
"They cut it off," Looney answered matter-of-factly, as if an amputation happened monthly. "Just below the knee."
"Did you get a good look at the man with the gun?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you identify him for the jury?"
"Yes, sir. It's Mr. Hailey, the man sittin' over there."
That answer would have been a logical place to end Looney's testimony. He was brief, to the point, sympathetic and positive of the identification. The jury had
listened to every word so far. But Buckley and Musgrove retrieved the large diagrams of the courthouse and arranged them before the jury so that Looney could limp around for a while. Under
Buckley's direction, he retraced everybody's exact movements just before the killings.
Jake rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. Noose cleaned and recleaned his glasses. The jurors fidgeted.
"Any cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?" Noose asked at last.
"Just a few questions," Jake said as Musgrove cleared the debris from the courtroom.
"Officer Looney, who was Carl Lee looking at when he was shooting?"
"Them boys, as far as I could tell."
"Did he ever look at you?"
"Well, now, I didn't spend a lotta time tryin' to make eye contact with him. In fact, I was movin' in the other direction."
"So he didn't aim at you?"
"Oh, no, sir. He just aimed at those boys. Hit them too."
"What did he do when he was shooting?"
"He just screamed and laughed like he was crazy. It was the weirdest thing I ever heard, like he was some kinda madman or something. And you know, what I'll always remember is that with all the noise, the gun firin', the bullets whistlin', the boys screamin' as they got hit, over all the noise I could hear him laughin' that crazy laugh."
The answer was so perfect Jake had to fight off a smile. He and Looney had worked on it a hundred times, and it was a thing of beauty. Every word was perfect. Jake busily flipped through his legal pad and glanced at the jurors. They all stared at Looney, enthralled by his answer. Jake scribbled something, anything, nothing, just to kill a few more seconds before the most important questions of the trial.
"Now, Deputy Looney, Carl Lee Hailey shot you in the leg."
"Yes, sir, he did."
"Do you think it was intentional?"
"Oh, no, sir. It was an accident."
"Do you want to see him punished for shooting you?" •
"No, sir. I have no ill will toward the man.
He did what I would've done."
Buckley dropped his pen and slumped in his chair. He looked sadly at his star witness.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean I don't blame him for what he did. Those boys raped his little girl. I gotta little girl. Somebody rapes her and he's a dead dog. I'll blow him away, just like Carl Lee did.
We oughtta give him a trophy."
"Do you want the jury to convict Carl Lee?"
Buckley jumped and roared, "Objection! Objection! Improper question!"
"No!" Looney yelled. "I don't want him convicted. He's a hero. He-"
"Don't answer, Mr. Looney!" Noose said loudly. "Don't answer!"
"Objection! Objection!" Buckley continued, on his tiptoes.
"He's a hero! Turn him loose!" Looney yelled at Buckley.
"Order! Order!" Noose banged his gavel.
Buckley was silent. Looney was silent. Jake walked to his chair and said, "I'll withdraw the question."
"Please disregard," Noose instructed the jury.
Looney smiled at the jury and limped from the courtroom.
"Call your next witness," Noose said, removing nis glasses.
Buckley rose slowly and with a great effort at drama, said, "Your Honor, the State rests."
"Good," Noose replied, looking at Jake. "I assume you have a motion or two, Mr. Brigance."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Very well, we'll take those up in chambers."
Noose excused his jury with the same parting instructions and adjourned until nine Friday.
Jake awoke in the darkness with a slight hangover, a headache due to fatigue and Coors, and the distant but unmistakable sound of his doorbell ringing continually as if held firmly in place by a large and determined thumb. He opened the front
door in his nightshirt and tried to focus on the two figures standing on the porch. Ozzie and Nesbit, it was finally determined.
"Can I help you?" he asked as he opened the door. They followed him into the den.
"They're gonna kill you today," Ozzie said.
Jake sat on the couch and massaged his temples. "Maybe they'll succeed."
"Jake, this is serious. They plan to kill you."
"Who?"
"The Klan."
"Mickey Mouse?"
"Yeah. He called yesterday and said something was up. He called back two hours ago and said you're the lucky man. Today is the big day. Time for some excitement. They bury
Stump Sisson this morning in Loydsville, and it's time for the eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth routine."
"Why me? Why don't they kill Buckley or Noose or someone more deserving?"
"We didn't get a chance to talk about that."
"What method of execution?" Jake asked, suddenly feeling awkward sitting there in his nightshirt.
"He didn't say."
"Does he know?"
"He ain't much on details. He just said they'd try to do it sometime today."
"So what am I supposed to do? Surrender?"
"What time you goin' to the office?"
"What time is it?"
"Almost five."
"As soon as I can shower and dress."
"We'll wait."
At f ive-thirty, they rushed him into his office and locked the door. At eight, a platoon of soldiers gathered on the sidewalk under the balcony and waited for the target. Harry Rex and Ellen watched from the second floor of the courthouse. Jake squeezed between Ozzie and Nesbit, and the three of them crouched in the center
tight formation. Off they went across Washington Street in the direction of the courthouse. The vultures sniffed something and surrounded the entourage.
The abandoned feed mill sat near the abandoned railroad tracks halfway down the tallest hill in Clanton, two blocks north and east of the square. Beside it was a neglected asphalt and gravel street that ran downhill and intersected Cedar Street, after which it became much smoother and wider and continued downward until finally it terminated and merged into Quincy Street, the eastern boundary of the Clanton square.
From his position inside an abandoned silo, the marksman had a clear but distant view of the rear of the courthouse. He crouched in the darkness and aimed through a small opening, confident no one in the world could see him. The whiskey helped the confidence, and the aim, which he practiced a thousand times from seven-thirty until eight, when he noticed activity around the nigger's lawyer's office.
A comrade waited in a pickup hidden in a run-down warehouse next to the silo. The engine was running and the driver chain-smoked Lucky Strikes, waiting anxiously to hear the clapping sounds from the deer rifle.
As the armored mass stepped its way across Washington, the marksman panicked.
Through the scope he could barely see the head of the nigger's lawyer as it bobbed and weaved awkwardly among the sea of green, which was surrounded and chased by a dozen reporters. Go ahead, the whiskey said, create some excitement. He timed the bobbing and weaving as best he could, and pulled the trigger as the target approached the rear door of the courthouse.
The rifle shot was clear and unmistakable.
Half the soldiers hit the ground rolling and the other half grabbed Jake and threw him violently under the veranda/A guardsman screamed in anguish. The reporters and TV people crouched and stumbled to the ground, but valiantly kept the
cameras rolling to record the carnage. The soldier clutched his throat and screamed again. Another shot.
Then another.
"He's hit!" someone yelled. The soldiers scrambled on all fours across the driveway to the fallen one. Jake escaped through the doors to the safety of the courthouse. He fell onto the floor of the rear entrance and buried his head in his hands. Ozzie stood next to him, watching the soldiers through the door.
The gunman dropped from the silo, threw his gun behind the back seat, and disappeared with his comrade into the countryside. They had a funeral to attend in south Mississippi.
"He's hit in the throat!" someone screamed as his buddies waded around the reporters.
They lifted him and dragged him to a jeep.
"Who got hit?" Jake asked without removing his palms from his eyes.
"One of the guardsmen," Ozzie said. "You okay?"
"I guess," he answered as he clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the floor.
"Where's my briefcase?"
"It's out there on the driveway. We'll get it in a min-* ute." Ozzie removed his radio from his belt and barked orders to the dispatcher, something about all men to the courthouse.
When it was apparent the shooting was over, Ozzie joined the mass of soldiers outside.
Nesbit stood next to Jake. "You okay?" he asked.
The colonel rounded the corner, yelling and swearing. "What the hell happened?" he demanded. "I heard some shots."
"Mackenvale got hit."
"Where is he?" the colonel said. -
"Off to the hospital," a sergeant replied, pointing at a jeep flying away in the distance.
"How bad is he?"
"Looked pretty bad. Got him in the throat."
"Throat! Why did they move him?"
No one answered.
"Did anybody see anything?" the colonel demanded.
Sounded like it came from up, Ozzie said the looking up past Cedar Street. "Why don't you send a jeep up there to look around."
"Good idea." The colonel addressed his eager men with a string of terse commands, punctuated liberally with obscenities. The soldiers scattered in all directions, guns drawn and ready for combat, in search of an assassin they could not identify, who was, in fact, in the next county when the foot patrol began exploring the abandoned feed mill.
Ozzie laid the briefcase on the floor next to Jake. "Is Jake okay?" he whispered to Nesbit. Harry
Rex and Ellen stood on the stairs where Cobb and Willard had fallen.
"I don't know. He ain't moved in ten minutes," Nesbit said.
"Jake, are you all right?" the sheriff asked.
"Yes," he said slowly without opening his eyes. The soldier had been on Jake's left shoulder. "This is kinda silly, ain't it?" he had just said to Jake when a bullet ripped through his throat. He fell into
Jake, grabbing at his neck, gurgling blood and screaming. Jake fell, and was tossed to safety.
"He's dead, isn't he?" Jake asked softly.
"We don't know yet," replied Ozzie. "He's at the hospital."
"He's dead. I know he's dead. I heard his neck pop."
Ozzie looked at Nesbit, then at Harry Rex. Four or five coin-sized drops of blood were splattered on Jake's light gray suit. He hadn't noticed them yet, but they were apparent to everyone else.
"Jake, you've got blood on your suit," Ozzie finally said. "Let's go back to your office so you can change clothes."
"Why is that important?" Jake mumbled to the floor. They stared at each other.
Dell and the others from the Coffee Shop stood on the sidewalk and watched as they led
Jake from the courthouse, across the street, and into his office, ignoring the absurdities thrown by the reporters. Harry Rex locked the front door, leaving the bodyguards on the sidewalk. Jake went upstairs and removed his coat.
"Row Ark, why don't you make some margaritas," Harry Rex said. "I'll go upstairs and stay with him."
"Judge, we've had some excitement," Ozzie explained as Noose unpacked his briefcase and removed his coat.
"What is it?" Buckley asked.
"They tried to kill Jake this mornin'."
"What!"
"When?" asked Buckley.
" 'Bout an hour ago, somebody shot at Jake as he was comin' into the courthouse. It was a rifle at long range. We have no idea who did it. They missed Jake and hit a guardsman.
He's in surgery now."
"Where's Jake?" asked His Honor.
"Over in his office. He's pretty shook up."
"I would be too," Noose said sympathetically.
"He wanted you to call him when you got here."
"Sure." Ozzie dialed the number and handed the phone to the judge.
"It's Noose," Harry Rex said, handing the phone to Jake.
"Hello."
"Are you okay, Jake?"
"Not really. I won't be there today."
Noose struggled for a response. "Do what?"
"I said I won't be in court today. I'm not up to it."
"Well, uh, Jake, where does that leave the rest of us?"
"I don't care, really," Jake said, sipping on his second margarita.
"Beg your pardon?"
"I said I don't care, Judge. I don't care what you do, I won't be there."
Noose shook his head and looked at the receiver. "Are you hurt?" he asked with feeling.
"You ever been shot at, Judge?"
"No, Jake."
"You ever seen a man get shot, hear him scream?"
"No, Jake."
"You ever had somebody else's blood splashed on your suit?"
"No, Jake."
"I won't be there."
Noose paused and thought for a moment. Come on over, Jake, and let's talk about it."
"No. I'm not leaving my office. It's dangerous out there."
"Suppose we stand in recess until one. Will you feel better then?"
"I'll be drunk by then."
"What!"
"I said I'll be drunk by then,"
Harry Rex covered his eyes. Ellen left for the kitchen.
"When do you think you might be sober?" Noose asked sternly. Ozzie and Buckley looked at each other.
"Monday."
"What about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow's Saturday."
"Yes, I know, and I'd planned to hold court tomorrow. We've got a jury sequestered, remember?"
"Okay, I'll be ready in the morning."
"That's good to hear. What do I tell the jury right now? They're sitting in the jury room waiting on us. The courtroom is packed. Your client is sitting out there by himself waiting on you. What do I tell these people?"
"You'll think of something, Judge. I've got faith in you." Jake hung up. Noose listened to the unbelievable until it was evident that he had in fact been hung up on. He handed the phone to Ozzie.
His Honor looked out the window and removed his glasses. "He says he ain't comin' today."
Uncharacteristically, Buckley remained silent.
Ozzie was defensive. "It really got to him, Judge."
"Has he been drinking?"
"Naw, not Jake," Ozzie replied. "He's just tore up over that boy gettin' shot like he did.
He was right next to Jake, and caught the bullet that was aimed for him. It would upset anybody, Judge."
"He wants us to remain in recess until tomorrow morning," Noose said to Buckley, who shrugged and again said nothing.
As word spread, a regular carnival developed on the sidewalk outside Jake's office. The press set up camp and pawed at the front window in hopes of seeing someone or something newsworthy inside.
Friends stopped by to check on Jake, but were informed by various of the reporters that he was locked away inside and would not come out. Yes, he was unhurt.
Dr. Bass had been scheduled to testify Friday morning. He and Lucien entered the office through the rear door a few minutes after ten, and Harry Rex left for the liquor store.
With all the crying, the conversation with Carla had been difficult. He called after three drinks, and things did not go well. He talked to her father, told him he was safe, unhurt, and that half of the Mississippi National Guard had been assigned to protect him. Settle her down, he said, and he would call back later.
Lucien was furious. He had fought with Bass to keep him sober Thursday night so he could testify Friday. Now that he would testify Saturday, there was no way to keep him sober two days in a row. He thought of all the drinking they had missed Thursday, and was furious.
Harry Rex returned with a gallon of liquor. He and Ellen mixed drinks and argued over the ingredients. She rinsed the coffeepot, filled it with Bloody Mary mix and a disproportionate helping of Swedish vodka. Harry Rex added a lavish dose of Tabasco.
He made the rounds in the conference room and refilled each cup with the delightful mixture.
Dr. Bass gulped frantically and ordered more. Lucien and Harry Rex debated the likely identity of the gunman. Ellen silently watched Jake, who sat in the corner and stared at the bookshelves.
The phone rang. Harry Rex grabbed it and listened intently. He hung up and said, "That was Ozzie. The soldier's outta surgery. Bullet's lodged in the spine. They think he'll be paralyzed."
They all sipped in unison and said nothing. They made great efforts to ignore Jake as he rubbed his forehead with one hand and sloshed his drink with the other. The faint sound of someone knocking at me rear door interrupted brief memorial.
"Go see who it is," Lucien ordered Ellen, who left to see who was knocking.
"It's Lester Hailey," she reported to the conference room.
"Let him in," Jake mumbled, almost incoherently.
Lester was introduced to the parry and offered a Bloody Mary. He declined and asked for something with whiskey in it.
"Good idea," said Lucien. "I'm tired of light stuff. Let's get some Jack Daniel's."
"Sounds good to me," added Bass as he gulped the remnants in his cup.
Jake managed a weak smile at Lester, then returned to the study of the bookshelves.
Lucien threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and Harry Rex left for the liquor store.
When she awoke hours later, Ellen was on the couch in Jake's office. The room was dark and deserted, with an acrid, intoxicating smell to it. She moved cautiously. She found her boss peacefully snoring away in the war room, on the floor, partially under the war desk.
There were no lights to extinguish, so she carefully walked down the stairs. The conference room was littered with empty liquor bottles, beer cans, plastic cups and chicken dinner boxes. It was 9:30 P.M. She had slept five hours.
She could stay at Lucien's, but needed to change clothes. Her friend Nesbit would drive her to Oxford, but she was sober. Plus, Jake needed all the protection he could get. She locked the front door and walked to her car.
Ellen almost made it to Oxford when she saw the blue lights behind her. As usual, she was driving seventy-five. She parked on the shoulder and walked to her taillights, where she searched her purse and waited on the trooper.
Two plainsclothesmen approached from the blue lights.
"You drunk, ma'am?" one of them asked, spewing tobacco juice.
"No, sir. I'm trying to find my license."
She crouched before the taillights and fished for the license. Suddenly, she was knocked to the ground. A heavy quilt was thrown over her and both men held her down. A rope was wrapped around her chest and waist. She kicked and cursed, but could offer little resistance. The quilt covered her head and trapped her arms underneath. They pulled the rope tightly.
"Be still, bitch! Be still!"
One of them removed her keys from the ignition and opened the trunk. They threw her inside and slammed it shut. The blue lights were unplugged in the old Lincoln and it roared away, trailed by the BMW. They found a gravel road and followed it deep into the woods. It turned into a dirt road that led to a small pasture where a large cross was being burned by a handful of Kluxers.
The two assailants quickly donned their robes and masks and removed her from the trunk. She was thrown to the ground and the quilt removed. They bound and gagged her, and dragged her to a large pole a few feet from the cross where she was tied, her back to the Kluxers, her face to the pole. She saw the white robes and pointed hats, and tried desperately to spit out the oily, cotton rag crammed in her mouth. She managed only to gag and cough.
The flaming cross illuminated the small pasture, discharging a glowing wave of heat that began to roast her as she wrestled with the pole and emitted strange, guttural noises.
A hooded figure left the others and approached her. She could hear him walking and breathing.
"You nigger-loving bitch," he said in a crisp Midwestern voice. He grabbed the rear of her collar and ripped the white silk blouse until it hung in shreds around her neck and shoulders. Her hands were tied firmly around the pole. He removed a
bowie knife from under the robe, and began cutting the remainder of the blouse from her body. "You nigger-loving bitch. You nigger-loving bitch."
Ellen cursed him, but her words were muffled groans.
He unzipped the navy linen skirt on the right side. She tried to kick, but the heavy rope around her ankles held her feet to the pole. He placed the tip of the knife at the bottom of the zipper, and cut downward through the hem. He grabbed around the waist and pulled it off like a magician. The Kluxers stepped forward.
He slapped her on the butt, and said, "Nice, very nice." He stepped back to admire his handiwork. She grunted and twisted but could not resist. The slip fell to mid-thigh. With great ceremony, he cut the straps, then sliced it neatly down the back. He yanked it off and threw it at the foot of the burning cross. He cut the bra straps and removed it. She jerked and the moans became louder. The silent semicircle inched forward and stopped ten feet away.
The fire was hot now. Her bare back and legs were covered with sweat. The light red hair was drenched around her neck and shoulders. He reached under his robe again and brought out a bullwhip. He popped it loudly near her^ and she flinched. He marched backward, carefully measur^ ing the distance to the pole.
He cocked the bullwhip and aimed at the bare back. The tallest one stepped forward with his back to her. He shook his head. Nothing was said, but the whip disappeared.
He walked to her and grabbed her head. With his knife, he cut her hair. He grabbed handfuls and hacked away until her scalp was gapped and ugly. It piled gently around her feet. She moaned and did not move.
They headed for their cars. A gallon of gasoline was splashed inside the BMW with
Massachusetts tags and somebody threw a match.
When he was certain they were gone, Mickey Mouse slid from the bushes. He untied her and carried her to a small clearing away from the pasture. He gathered the remains of her clothing and tried to cover her. When her car finished burning beside the dirt road, he left her. He drove to Oxford, to a pay phone, and called the Lafayette County sheriff.
Saturday court was unusual but not unheard of, especially in capital cases where the jury was locked up. The participants didn't mind because Saturday brought the end one day nearer.
The locals didn't mind either. It was their day off, and for most Ford Countians it was their only chance to watch the trial, or if they couldn't get a seat, at least hang around the square and see it all first-hand. Who knows, there may even be some more shooting.
By seven, the cafes downtown were at full capacity serving nonregulars. For every customer who was awarded a seat, two were turned away and left to loiter around the square and the courthouse and wait for a seat in the courtroom. Most of them paused for a moment in front of the lawyer's office, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one they tried to kill. The braggarts told of being clients of this famous man.
Upward, a few feet, the target sat at his desk and sipped a bloody concoction left from yesterday's party. He smoked a Roi-Tan, ate headache powders, and rubbed the cobwebs from his brain. Forget about the soldier, he had told himself for the past three hours.
Forget about the Klan, the threats, forget everything but the trial, and specifically Dr.
W.T. Bass. He uttered a short prayer, something about Bass being sober on the witness stand. The expert and Lucieh had stayed through the afternoon, drinking and arguing, accusing each other of being a drunk and receiving a dishonorable discharge from their respective professions. Violence flared briefly at Ethel's desk when they were leaving.
Nesbit intervened and escorted them to the patrol car for the ride home. The reporters burned with curiosity as the two blind drunks were led from Jake's office by the deputy and put in the car, where they continued to rage and cuss at each other, Lucien in the back seat, Bass in the front.
He reviewed Ellen's masterpiece on the insanity defense. Her outline of questions for
Bass needed only minor changes. He studied his expert's resume, and though unimpressive, it would suffice for Ford County. The nearest psychiatrist was eighty miles away.
Judge Noose glanced at the D.A. and looked sympathetically at Jake, who sat next to the door and watched the faded portrait of some dead judge hanging over Buckley's shoulder.
"How do you feel this morning, Jake?" Noose asked warmly.
"I'm fine."
"How's the soldier?" asked Buckley.
"Paralyzed."
Noose, Buckley, Musgrove, and Mr. Pate looked at the same spot on the carpet and grimly shook their heads in a quiet moment of respect.
"Where's your law clerk?" Noose asked, looking at the clock on the wall.
Jake looked at his watc h. "I don't know. I expected her by now."
"Are you ready?"
"Sure."
"Is the courtroom ready, Mr. Pate?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. Let's proceed."
Noose seated the courtroom, and for ten minutes offered a rambling apology to the jurors for yesterday's delay. They were the only fourteen in the county who did not know what happened Friday morning, and it might be prejudicial to tell them. Noose droned on about emergencies and how sometimes during trials things conspire to cause delays. When he finally finished, the jurors were completely bewildered and praying that somebody would call a witness.
"You may call your first witness," Noose said in Jake's direction.
"Dr. W.T. Bass," Jake announced as he moved to the podium. Buckley and Musgrove exchanged winks and silly grins.
Bass was seated next to Lucien on the second row in the middle of the family. He stood noisily and made his way to the center aisle, stepping on feet and assaulting people with his heavy, leather, empty briefcase. Jake heard the commotion behind him and continued smiling at the jury.
"I do, I do," Bass said rapidly at Jean Gillespie during his swearing in.
Mr. Pate led him to the witness stand and delivered the standard orders to speak up and use the microphone. Though mortified and hung over, the expert looked remarkably arrogant and sober. He wore his most expensive dark gray hand-sewn wool suit, a perfectly starched white button-down, and a cute little red paisley bow tie that made him appear rather cerebral. He looked like an expert, in something. He also wore, over Jake's objections, a pair of light gray ostrich skin cowboy boots that he had paid over a thousand for and worn less than a dozen times. Lucien had insisted on the boots eleven years earlier in the first insanity case. Bass wore them, and the very sane defendant went to
Parchman. He wore them in the second insanity trial, again at Lucien's behest; again,
Parchman. Lucien referred to them as Bass's good luck charm.
Jake wanted no part of the damned boots. But the jury could relate to them, Lucien had argued. Not expensive ostrich skin, Jake countered. They're too dumb to know the difference, replied Lucien.
Jake could not be swayed. The rednecks will trust someone with boots, Lucien had explained. Fine, said Jake, let him wear a pair of those camouflage squirrel-hunting boots with a little mud on the heels and soles, some boots they could really identify with. Those wouldn't complement his suit, Bass had inserted.
He crossed his legs, laying the right boot on his left knee, flaunting it. He grinned at it, then grinned at the jury. The ostrich would have been proud.
Jake looked from his notes on the podium and saw the boot, which was plainly visible above the rail of the witness stand. Bass was admiring it, the jurors pondering it. He choked and returned to his notes.
"State your name, please."
"Dr. W.T. Bass," he replied, his attention suddenly diverted from the boot. He looked grimly, importantly at Jake.
"What is your address?"
"Nine-oh-eight West Canterbury, Jackson, Mississippi."
"What is your profession?"
"I am a physician."
"Are you licensed to practice in Mississippi?"
"Yes."
"When were you licensed?"
"February 8, 1963."
"Are you licensed to practice medicine in any other state?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Texas."
"When did you obtain that license?"
"November 3, 1962."
"Where did you go to college?"
"I received my bachelor's degree from Millsaps College in 1956, and received my M.D., or Doctor of Medicine, from the University of Texas Health Science Center in Dallas, Texas, in 1960."
"Is that an accredited medical school?"
"Yes."
"By whom?"
"By the Council of Medical Education and Hospitals of the American Medical
Association, the recognized accrediting agency of our profession, and by the educational authority of the State of Texas."
Bass relaxed a bit, uncrossed and recrossed his legs, and displayed his left boot. He rocked gently and turned the comfortable swivel chair partially toward the jury.
"Where did you intern and for how long?"
"After graduation from medical school, I spent twelve months as an intern at the Rocky
Mountain Medical Center in Denver."
"What is your medical specialty?"
"Psychiatry."
"Explain to us what that means."
"Psychiatry is that branch of medicine concerned with the treatment of disorders of the mind. It usually, but not always, deals with mental malfunction, the organic basis of which is unknown."
Jake breathed for the first time since Bass took the stand. His man was sounding good.
"Now, Doctor," he said as he casually walked to within a foot of the jury box, "describe to the jury the specialized training you received in the field of psychiatry."
"My specialized training in psychiatry consisted of two years as a resident in psychiatry at the Texas State Mental Hospital, an approved training center. I engaged in clinical work with psychoneurotic and psychotic patients. I studied psychology, psychopathology, psychotherapy, and the physiological therapies. This training, supervised by competent psychiatric teachers, included instruction in the psychiatric aspects of general medicine, the behavior aspects of children, adolescents, and adults."
It was doubtful if a single person in the courtroom comprehended any of what Bass had just said, but it came from the mouth of a man who suddenly appeared to be a genius, an expert, for he had to be a man of great wisdom and intelligence to pronounce those words. With the bow tie and vocabulary, and in spite of the boots, Bass was gaining credibility with each answer.
"Are you a diplomate of the American Board of Psychiatry?"
"Of course," he answered confidently.
"In which branch are you certified?"
"I am certified in psychiatry."
"And when were you certified?"
"April of 1967."
"What does it take to become certified by the American Board of Psychiatry?"
"A candidate must pass oral and practical exams, as well as a written test at the direction of the Board."
Jake glanced at his notes and noticed Musgrove winking at Buckley.
"Doctor, do you belong to any professional groups?"
"Yes."
"Name them please."
"I am a member of the American Medical Association, American Psychiatric
Association, and the Mississippi Medical Association."
"How long have you been engaged in the practice of psychiatry?"
"Twenty-two years."
Jake walked three steps in the direction ot me oencn and eyed Noose, who was watching intently.
"Your Honor, the defense offers Dr. Bass as an expert in the field of psychiatry."
"Very well," replied Noose. "Do you wish to examine this witness, Mr. Buckley?"
The D.A. stood with his legal pad. "Yes, Your Honor, just a few questions."
Surprised but not worried, Jake took his seat next to Carl Lee. Ellen was still not in the courtroom.
"Dr. Bass, in your opinion, are you an expert in the field of psychiatry?" asked Buckley.
"Yes."
"Have you ever taught psychiatry?"
"No."
"Have you ever published any articles on psychiatry?"
"No."
"Have you ever published any books on psychiatry?"
"No."
"Now, I believe you testified that you are a member of the A.M.A., M.M.A., and the American Psychiatric Association?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever served as an officer in any of these organizations?"
"No."
"What hospital positions do you currently hold, as of today?"
“None."
"Has your experience in psychiatry included any work under the auspices of the federal government or any state government?"
"No."
The arrogance was beginning to fade from his face, and the confidence from his voice.
He shot a glance at Jake, who was digging through a file.
"Dr. Bass, are you now engaged in the practice of psychiatry full-time?"
The expert hesitated, and looked briefly at Lucien on the second row. "I see patients on a regular basis."
"How many patients and how regular?" Buckley retorted with an enormous air of confidence.
"I see from five to ten patients per week."
"One or two a day?"
"Something like that."
"And you consider that a full-time practice?"
"I'm as busy as I want to be."
Buckley threw his legal pad on the table and looked at Noose. "Your Honor, the State objects to this man testifying as an expert in the field of psychiatry. It's obvious he's not qualified."
Jake was on his feet with his mouth open.
"Overruled, Mr. Buckley. You may proceed, Mr. Bri-gance."
Jake gathered his legal pads and returned to the podium, well aware of the suspicion the D.A. had just artfully thrown over his star witness. Bass shifted boots.
"Now, Dr. Bass, have you examined the defendant, Carl Lee-Hailey?"
"Yes."
"How many times?"
"Three."
"When was your first examination?"
"June 10."
"What was the purpose of this examination?"
"I examined him to determine his current mental condition as well as his condition on
May 20, when he allegedly shot Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard."
"Where did this examination take place?"
"Ford County Jail."
"Did you conduct this examination alone?"
"Yes. Just Mr. Hailey and myself."
"How long did the examination last?"
"Three hours."
"Did you review his medical history?"
"In a roundabout way, you could say. We talked at great length about his past."
"What did you learn?"
"Nothing remarkable, except for Vietnam."
"What about Vietnam?"
Bass folded his hands over his slightly overweight stom- ach and frowned intelligently at the defense attorney. Well, Mr. Brigance, like many Vietnam vets I've worked with, Mr.
Hailey had some rather horrible experiences over there."
War is hell, thought Carl Lee. H e listened intently. Now, Vietnam was bad. He'd been shot. He'd lost friends. He'd killed people, many people. He'd killed children, Vietnamese children carrying guns and grenades. It was bad. He wished he'd never seen the place. He dreamed about it, had flashbacks and nightmares occasionally. But he didn't feel warped or insane because of it. He didn't feel warped or insane because of Cobb and Willard. In fact, he felt quite satisfied because they were dead. Just like those in Vietnam.
He had explained all this to Bass once at the jail, and Bass had seemed unimpressed by it.
And they had talked only twice, and never more than an hour.
Carl Lee eyed the jury and listened suspiciously to the expert, who talked at length of
Carl Lee's dreadful experiences in the war. Bass's vocabulary jumped several octaves as he explained to the laymen in nonlaymen terms the ef: fects of Vietnam on Carl Lee. It sounded good. There had been nightmares over the years, dreams Carl Lee had never worried much about, but to hear Bass explain it, were extremely significant events.
"Did he talk freely of Vietnam?"
"Not really," replied Bass, then explaining in great detail the tremendous task he confronted in dragging out the war from this complex, burdened, probably unstable mind.
Carl Lee didn't remember it that way. But he dutifully listened with a pained expression, wondering for the first time in his life if perhaps he could be a little off.
After an hour, the war had been refought and its effects flogged thoroughly. Jake decided to move on.
"Now, Dr. Bass," Jake said, scratching his head. "Other than Vietnam, what other significant events did you note regarding his mental history?"
"None, except the rape of his daughter."
"Did you discuss the rape with Carl Lee?"
"At great length, during each of the three examinations."
"Explain to the jury what the rape did to Carl Lee Hailey."
Bass stroked his chin and looked perplexed. "Quite frankly, Mr. Brigance, it would take a great deal of time to explain what the rape did to Mr, Hailey."
Jake thought a moment, and seemed to thoroughly analyze this last statement. "Well, could you summarize it for the jury?"
Bass nodded gravely. "I'll try."
Lucien grew weary of listening to Bass, and began watching the jury in hopes of eyeing
Clyde Sisco, who had also lost interest but appeared to be admiring the boots. Lucien watched intently from the corner of his eye, waiting for Sisco to gaze around the courtroom.
Finally, as Bass rambled on, Sisco left the testimony and looked at Carl Lee, then
Buckley, then one of the reporters on the front row. Then his line of vision locked solidly into a wild-eyed, bearded old man who had once handed him eighty thousand cash for performing his civic duty and returning a just verdict. They focused unmistakably on each other, and both managed a slight grin. How much? was the look in Lucien's eyes.
Sisco returned to the testimony, but seconds later he was staring at Lucien. How much?
Lucien said, his lips actually moving but with no sound.
Sisco looked away and watched Bass, thinking of a fair price. He looked in Lucien's direction, scratched his beard, then suddenly, while staring at Bass, flashed five fingers across his face and coughed. He coughed again and studied the expert.
Five hundred or five thousand? Lucien asked himself. Knowing Sisco, it was five thousand, maybe fifty thousand. It made no difference; Lucien would pay it. He was worth a ton.
By ten-thirty, Noose had cleaned his glasses a hundred times and consumed a dozen cups of coffee. His bladder pressed forward toward the spillway. "Time for the morning recess. We'll adjourn until eleven." He rapped the gavel and disappeared.
"How'm I doing?" Bass asked nervously. He followed Jake and Lucien to the law library on the third floor.
"You're doing fine," Jake said. "Just keep those boots outta sight."
"The boots are critical," Lucien protested."
"I need a drink," Bass said desperately.
"Forget it," Jake said.
"So do I," Lucien added. "Let's run over to your office for a quick one."
"Great idea!" Bass said.
"Forget it," Jake repeated. "You're sober and you're doing great."
"We got thirty minutes," Bass said as he and Lucien were leaving the library and heading for the stairs.
"No! Don't do it, Lucien!" Jake demanded.
"Just one," Lucien replied, pointing a finger at Jake. "Just one."
"You've never had just one."
"Come with us, Jake. It'll settle your nerves."
"Just one," Bass yelled as he disappeared down the steps.
At eleven, Bass sat himself in the witness chair and looked through glazed eyes at the jury. He smiled, and almost giggled. He was aware of the artists on the front row, so he looked as expert as possible. His nerves were indeed settled. "Dr. Bass, are you familiar with the criminal responsibility test relative to the M'Naghten Rule?" Jake asked.
"I certainly am!" Bass replied with a sudden air of superiority.
"Would you explain this rule to the jury?" "Of course. The M'Naghten Rule is the standard for criminal responsibility in Mississippi, as in fifteen other states. It goes back to England, in the year 1843, when a man by the name of Daniel M'Naghten
attempted to assassinate the prime minister, Sir Robert Peel. He mistakenly shot and killed the prime minister's secretary, Edward Drummond.
During his trial the evidence plainly showed M'Naghten was suffering from what we would call paranoid schizophrenia. The jury returned a verdict of not guilty, by reason of insanity. From this the M'Naghten Rule was established. It is still followed in England and sixteen states." "What does the M'Naghten Rule mean?" "The M'Naghten Rule is fairly simple. Every man is presumed to be sane, and to establish a defense on the ground of insanity, it must be clearly proven that when the defendant did what he did he was laboring under such a defect of reason, from a mental disease, that he did not know the nature and quality of the act he was doing, or if he did know what he was doing, he did not know it was wrong."
"Could you simplify that?"
"Yes. If a defendant cannot distinguish right from wrong, he is legally insane."
"Define insanity, please."
"It has no significance, medically. It is strictly a legal standard for a person's mental state or condition."
Jake breathed deeply and plowed forward. "Now, Doctor, based upon your examination of the defendant, do you have an opinion as to the mental condition of Carl Lee Hai-ley on May 20 of this year, at the time of the shooting?"
"Yes, I do."
"And what is that opinion?"
"It is my opinion," Bass said slowly, "that the defendant had a total break with reality when his daughter was raped. When he saw her immediately after the rape he didn't recognize her, and when someone told him she'd been gang-raped, and beaten, and almost hanged, something just snapped in Carl Lee's mind. That's a very elementary way of putting it, but that's what happened. Something snapped. He broke with reality.
"They had to be killed. He told me once that when he first saw them in court, he could not understand why the deputies were protecting them. He kept waiting for one of the cops to pull a gun and blow their heads off. A few days went by and nobody killed them, so he figured it. was up to him. I mean, he felt as though someone in the system would execute the two for raping his little girl.
"What I'm saying, Mr. Brigance, is that, mentally, he left us. He was in another world. He was suffering from delusions. He broke."
Bass knew he was sounding good. He was talking to the jury now, not the lawyer.
"The day after the rape he spoke with his daughter in the hospital. She could barely talk, with the broken jaws and all, but she said she saw him in the woods running to save her, and she asked him why he disappeared. Now, can you imagine what that would do to a father? She later told him she begged for her daddy, and the two men laughed at her and told her she didn't have a daddy."
Jake let those words sink in. He studied Ellen's outline and saw only two more questions.
"Now, Dr. Bass, based upon your observations of Carl Lee Hailey, and your diagnosis of his mental condition at the time of the shooting, do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was capable of knowing the
difference between right and wrong when he shot these men?"
"I have."
"And what is that opinion?"
"That due to his mental condition, he was totally incapable of distinguishing right from wrong."
"Do you have an opinion, based upon the same factors, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was able to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions?"
"I do."
"And what is that opinion?"
"In my opinion, as an expert in the field of psychiatry, Mr. Hailey was totally incapable of understanding and appreciating the nature and quality of what he was doing."
"Thank you, Doctor. I tender the witness."
Jake gathered his legal pad and strolled confidently back to his seat. He glanced at
Lucien, who was smiling and nodding. He glanced at the jury. They were watching Bass and thinking about his testimony. Wanda Womack, a young woman with a
sympathetic glow about her, looked at Jake and smiled ever so slightly. It was the first positive signal he received from the jury since the trial started.
"So far so good," Carl Lee whispered.
Jake smiled at his client. "You're a real psycho, big man."
"Any cross-examination?" Noose asked Buckley.
"Just a few questions," Buckley said as he grabbed the podium.
Jake could not imagine Buckley arguing psychiatry with an expert, even if it was W.T. Bass.
But B uckley had no plans to argue psychiatry. "Dr. Bass, what is your full name?"
Jake froze. The question had an ominous hint to it. Buckley asked it with a great deal of suspicion.
"William Tyler Bass."
"What do you go by?"
"W.T. Bass."
"Have you ever been known as Tyler Bass?"
The expert hesitated. "No," he said meekly.
An immense feeling of anxiety hit Jake and felt like a hot spear tearing into his stomach.
The question could only mean trouble.
"Are you positive?" Buckley asked with raised eyebrows and an enormous amount of distrust in his voice.
Bass shrugged. "Maybe when I was younger."
"I see. Now, I believe you testified that you studied medicine at the University of Texas
Health Science Center?"
"That's correct."
"And where is that?"
"Dallas."
"And when were you a student there?"
"From 1956 to 1960."
"And under what name were you registered?"
"William T. Bass."
Jake was numb with fear. Buckley had something, a dark secret from the past known only to Bass and himself.
"Did you ever use the name Tyler Bass while you were a medical student?"
"No."
"Are you positive?"
"I certainly am."
"What is your social security number?"
"410-96-8585."
Buckley made a check mark beside something on his legal pad.
"And what is your date of birth?" he asked carefully.
"September 14, 1934."
"And what was your mother's name?"
"Jonnie Elizabeth Bass."
"And her maiden name?"
"Skidmore."
Another check mark. Bass looked nervously at Jake.
"And your place of birth?"
"Carbondale, Illinois."
Another check mark.
An objection to the relevance of these questions was in order and sustainable, but Jake's knees were like Jell-O and his bowels were suddenly fluid. He feared he would embarrass himself if he stood and tried to speak.
Buckley studied his check marks and waited a few seconds. Every ear in the courtroom waited for the next question, knowing it would be brutal. Bass watched
the D.A. like a prisoner watching the firing squad, hoping and praying the guns would somehow misfire.
Finally, Buckley smiled at the expert. "Dr. Bass, have you ever been convicted of a felony?"
The question echoed throughout the silence and landed from all directions on the trembling shoulders of Tyler Bass. Even a cursory look at his face revealed the answer.
Carl Lee squinted and looked at his lawyer.
"Of course not!" Bass answered loudly, desperately.
Buckley just nodded and walked slowly to the table, where Musgrove, with much ceremony, handed him some important-looking papers.
"Are you certain?" Buckley thundered.
"Of course I'm certain," Bass protested as he eyed the important-looking papers.
Jake knew he needed to rise and say something or do something to stop the carnage that was seconds away, but his mind was paralyzed.
"You're certain?" Buckley asked.
"Yes," Bass answered through clenched teeth.
"You've never been convicted of a felony?"
"Of course not."
"Are you as certain of that as you are the rest of your testimony before this jury?"
That was the trap, the killer, the deadliest question of all; one Jake had used many times, and when he heard it, he knew Bass was finished. And so was Carl Lee.
"Of course," Bass answered with feigned arrogance.
Buckley moved in for the kill. "You're telling this jury that on October 17, 1956, in
Dallas, Texas, you were not convicted of a felony under the name of Tyler Bass?"
Buckley asked the question while looking at the jury and reading from the important-looking documents.
"That's a lie," Bass said quietly, and unconvincingly.
"Are you sure it's a lie?" Buckley asked.
"A bald-faced lie."
"Do you know a lie from the truth, Dr. Bass?"
"Damn right I do."
Noose placed his glasses on his nose and leaned forward. The jurors quit rocking. The reporters quit scribbling. The deputies along the back wall stood still and listened.
Buckley picked out one of the important-looking documents and studied it. "You're telling this jury that on October 17, 1956, you were not convicted of statutory rape?"
Jake knew it was important, in the midst of any great courtroom crisis, even this one, to maintain a straight, poker face. It was important for the jurors, who missed nothing, to see the defendant's lawyer with a positive look about him. Jake had practiced this positive, everything's-wonderful, I'm-in-control look through many trials and many surprises, but with the "statutory rape" the positive and confident and certain look was immediately replaced by a sickly, pale, pained expression that was being scrutinized by at least half of those in the jury box.
The other half scowled at the witness on the stand.
"Were you convicted of statutory rape, Doctor?" Buck-ley asked again after a lengthy silence.
No answer.
Noose uncoiled and leaned downward in the direction of the witness. "Please answer the question, Dr. Bass."
Bass ignored His Honor and stared at the D.A., then said, "You've got the wrong man."
Buckley snorted and walked to Musgrove, who was holding some more important-looking papers.
He opened a large white envelope and removed something that resembled an 8 x 10 photograph.
"Well, Dr. Bass, I've got some photographs of you taken by the Dallas Police Department on September 11, 1956. Would you like to see them?"
No answer.
Buckley held them out to the witness. "Would you like to see these, Dr. Bass? Perhaps they could refresh your memory."
Bass slowly shook his head, then lowered it and stared blankly at his boots.
"Your Honor, the State would introduce into evidence these copies, certified under the
Acts of Congress, of the Final Judgment and Sentencing Order in the case styled State of
Texas versus Tyler Bass, said records being obtained by the State from the proper officials in Dallas, Texas, and showing that on October 17, 1956, a one Tyler Bass pled guilty to the charge of statutory rape, a felony under the laws of the State of Texas. We can prove that Tyler Bass and this witness, Dr. W.T. Bass, are one and the same."
Musgrove politely handed Jake a copy of everything Buckley was waving.
"Any objections to this introduction into evidence?" Noose asked in Jake's direction.
A speech was needed. A brilliant, emotional explanation that would touch the hearts of the jurors and make them weep with pity for Bass and his patient. But the rules of procedure did not permit one at this point. Of course the evidence was admissible. Unable to stand, Jake waved in the negative. No objections.
"We have no further questions," Buckley announced.
"Any redirect, Mr. Brigance?" Noose asked.
In the split second available, Jake could not think of a single thing he could ask Bass to improve the situation. The jury had heard enough from the defense expert.
"No," Jake said quietly.
"Very well, Dr. Bass, you are excused."
Bass made a quick exit through the small gate in the railing, down the center aisle, and out of the courtroom. Jake watched his departure intently, conveying as much hatred as possible. It was important for the jury to see how shocked the defendant and his lawyer were. The jury had to believe a convicted felon was not knowingly put on the stand.
When the door closed and Bass was gone, Jake scanned the courtroom in hopes of finding an encouraging face. There were none. Lucien stroked his beard and stared at the floor. Lester sat with his arms folded and a disgusted look on his face. Gwen was crying.
"Call your next witness," Noose said. Jake continued searching. In the third row, between
Reverend Ollie Agee and Reverend Luther Roosevelt, sat Norman Reinfeld. When his eyes met Jake's, he frowned and shook his head as if to say "I told you so." On the other, side of the courtroom, most of the whites looked relaxed and a few even grinned at Jake.
"Mr. Brigance, you may call your next witness."
Against his better judgment, Jake attempted to stand. His knees buckled and he leaned forward with his palms flat against the table. "Your Honor," he said in a high-pitched, shrill, defeated voice,
"Could we recess till one?"
"But Mr. Brigance, it's only eleven-thirty."
A lie seemed appropriate. "Yes, Your Honor, but our next witness is not here, and will not arrive until one."
"Very well. We'll stand in recess until one. I need to see the attorneys in chambers."
Next to chambers was a coffee room where the lawyers loitered and gossiped by the hour, and next to it was a small rest room. Jake closed and locked the rest room door and removed his coat, throwing it to the floor. He knelt beside the toilet, waited momentarily, then vomited.
Ozzie stood before the judge and attempted small talk while Musgrove and the D.A. smiled at each other. They waited on Jake. Finally, he entered chambers and apologized.
"Jake, I have some bad news," Ozzie said.
"Let me sit down."
"I got a call an hour ago from the sheriff of Lafayette , County. Your law clerk, Ellen
Roark, is in the hospital."
"What happened!"
"The Klan got her last night. Somewhere between here and Oxford. They tied her to a tree and beat her."
"How is she?" Jake asked.
"Stable but serious."
"What happened?" Buckley asked.
"We ain't sure. They stopped her car somehow and took her out in the woods. Cut her clothes off her and cut her hair. She's got a concussion and cuts on the head, so they figure she was beat."
Jake needed to vomit again. He couldn't speak. He massaged his temples and thought how nice it would be to tie Bass to a tree and beat him.
Noose studied the defense attorney with compassion. "Mr. Brigance, are you okay?"
No response.
"Let's recess until two. I think we could all use the break," Noose said.
Jake walked slowly up the front steps with an empty Coors bottle and for a moment gave serious thought to smashing it against Lucien's head. He realized the injury would not be felt.
Lucien rattled his ice cubes and stared off in the distance, in the direction of the square, which had long been deserted except for the soldiers and the regular crowd of teenagers flocking to the theater, for the Saturday night double feature.
They said nothing. Lucien stared away. Jake glared at him with the empty bottle. Bass was hundreds of miles away.
After a minute or so, Jake asked, "Where's Bass?"
"Gone."
"Gone where?"
"Gone home."
"Where's his home?"
"Why do you wanna know?"
"I'd like to see his home. I'd like to see him in his home. I'd like to beat him to death with a baseball bat in his home."
Lucien rattled some more. "I don't blame you."
"Did you know?"
"Know what?"
"About the conviction?"
"Hell no. No one knew. The record was expunged."
"I don't understand."
"Bass told me the record of the conviction in Texas was expunged three years after it was entered."
Jake placed the beer bottle on the porch beside his chair. He grabbed a dirty glass, blew into it, then filled it with ice cubes and Jack Daniel's.
"Do you mind explaining, Lucien?"
"According to Bass, the girl was seventeen, and the daughter of a prominent judge in
Dallas. They fell in heat, and the judge caught them screwing on the couch. He pressed charges, and Bass didn't have a chance. He pled guilty to the statutory rape. But the girl was in love. They kept seeing each other and she comes up pregnant. Bass married her, and gives the judge a perfect baby boy for his first grandchild. The old man has a change of heart, and the record is expunged."
Lucien drank and watched the lights from the square.
"What happened to the girl?"
"According to Bass, a week before he finished medical school, his wife, who's pregnant again, and the little boy were killed in a train wreck in Fort Worth. That's when he started drinking, and quit living."
"And he's never told you this before?"
"Don't interrogate me. I told you I knew nothing about it. I put him on the witness stand twice myself, remember. If I had known it, he would never have testified."
"Why didn't he ever tell you?"
"I guess because he thought the record was erased. I don't know. Technically, he's right.
There is no record after the expungement. But he was convicted."
Jake took a long, bitter drink of whiskey. It was nasty.
They sat in silence for ten minutes. It was dark and the crickets were in full chorus. Sallie walked to the screen door and asked Jake if he wanted supper. He said no thanks.
"What happened this afternoon?" Lucien asked.
"Carl Lee testified, and we adjourned at four. Buckley didn't have his psychiatrist ready.
He'll testify Monday."
"How'd he do?"
"Fair. He followed Bass, and you could feel the hatred from the jurors. He was stiff and sounded rehearsed. I don't think he scored too many points."
"What'd Buckley do?"
"Went wild. Screamed at Carl Lee for an hour. Carl Lee kept getting smart with him, and they sniped back and forth. I think they both got hurt. On redirect, I propped him up some and he came across pitiful and sympathetic. Almost cried at the end."
"That's nice."
"Yeah, real nice. But they'll convict him, won't they?"
"I would imagine."
"After we adjourned, he tried to fire me. Said I'd lost his case and he wanted a new lawyer."
Lucien walked to the edge of the porch and unzipped his pants. He leaned on a column and sprayed the shrubs. He was barefoot and looked like a flood victim. Sallie brought him a fresh drink.
"How's Row Ark?" he asked.
"Stable, they say. I called her room and a nurse said she couldn't talk. I'll go over tomorrow."
"I hope she's okay. She's a fine girl."
"She's a radical bitch, but a very smart one. I feel like it's my fault, Lucien."
"It's not your fault. It's a crazy world, Jake. Full of crazy people. Right now I think half of them are in Ford County."
"Two weeks ago, they planted dynamite outside my bedroom window. They beat to death my secretary's husband. Yesterday they shot at me and hit a guardsman. Now they grab my law clerk, tie her to a pole, rip her clothes off, cut her hair, and she's in the hospital with a concussion. I wonder what's next."
"I think you should surrender."
"I would. I would march down to the courthouse right now and surrender my briefcase, lay down my arms, give up. But to whom? The enemy is invisible."
"You can't quit, Jake. Your client needs you."
"To hell with my client. He tried to fire me today."
"He needs you. This thing ain't over till it's over."
Nesbit's head hung halfway out the window and the saliva dripped down the left side of his chin, down the door, forming a small puddle over the "O" in the Ford of the Sheriffs
Department insignia on the side of the car. An empty beer can moistened his crotch. After two weeks of bodyguard duty he had grown accustomed to sleeping with the mosquitoes in his patrol car while protecting the nigger's lawyer.
Moments after Saturday turned into Sunday, the radio violated his rest. He grabbed the mike while wiping his chin on his left sleeve.
"S.O. 8," he responded.
"What's your 10-20?"
"Same place it was two hours ago."
"The Wilbanks house?"
"10-4."
"Is Brigance still there?"
"10-4."
"Get him and take him to his house on Adams. It's an emergency."
Nesbit walked past the empty bottles on the porch, through the unlocked door, where he found Jake sprawled on the couch in the front room.
"Get up, Jake! You gotta go home! It's an emergency!"
Jake jumped to his feet and followed Nesbit. They stopped on the front steps and looked past the dome of the courthouse. In the distance a boiling funnel of black smoke rose above an orange glow and drifted peacefully toward the half moon.
Adams Street was blocked with an assortment of volunteer vehicles, mostly pickups.
Each had a variety of red and yellow emergency lights, at least a thousand in all. They spun and flashed and streaked through the darkness in a silent chorus, illuminating the street.
The fire engines were parked haphazardly in front of the house. The firemen and volunteers worked frantically laying lines and getting organized, responding occasionally to the commands of the chief. Ozzie, Prather, and Hastings stood near an engine. Some guardsmen lingered benignly near a jeep.
The fire was brilliant. Flames roared from every window across the front of the. house, upstairs and down. The carport was completely engulfed. Carla's Cutlass burned inside and out-the four tires emitting a darker glow of their own. Curiously, another, smaller car, not the Saab, burned next to the Cutlass.
The thundering, crackling noise of the fire, plus the rumbling of the fire engines, plus the loud voices, attracted neighbors from several blocks. They crowded together in the lawns across the street and watched.
Jake and Nesbit ran down the street. The chief spotted them and came running.
"Jake! Is anybody in the house?"
"No!"
"Good. I didn't think so."
"Just a dog."
"A dog!"
Jake nodded and watched the house.
"I'm sorry," said the chief.
They gathered at Ozzie's car in front of Mrs. Pickle's house. Jake answered questions,
"That's not your Volkswagen under there, is it, Jake?"
Jake stared in stunned silence at Carla's landmark. He shook his head.
"I didn't think so. Looks like that's where it started."
"I don't understand," said Jake.
"If it ain't your car, then somebody parked it there, right? Notice how the floor of the carport is burnin'? Concrete don't normally burn. It's gasoline. Somebody loaded the VW with gasoline, parked it and ran away. Probably had some kinda device which set the thing off."
Prather and two volunteers agreed.
"How long's it been burning?" Jake asked.
"We got here ten minutes ago," the chief said, "and it was well involved. I'd say thirty minutes. It's a good fire. Somebody knew what they's doin'."
"I don't suppose we could get anything out of there, could we?" Jake asked in general, knowing the answer.
"No way, Jake. It's too involved. My men couldn't go in there if people were trapped. It's a good fire."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, look at it. It's burnin' evenly through the house. You can see flames in every window.
Downstairs and up. •That's very unusual. In just a minute, it'll burn through the roof."
Two squads inched forward with the lines, shooting water in the direction of the windows by the front porch. A smaller line was aimed at a window upstairs. After watching for a minute or two as the water disappeared into the flames with no noticeable effect, the chief spat and said, "It'll burn to the ground." With that he disappeared around an engine and began shouting.
Jake looked at Nesbit. "Will you do me a favor?"
"Sure, Jake."
"Drive over to Harry Rex's and bring him back. I'd hate for him to miss this."
"Sure."
For two hours Jake, Ozzie, Harry Rex, and Nesbit sat on the patrol car and watched the fire fulfill the chiefs prediction. From time to time a neighbor would stop by and extend sympathies and ask about the family. Mrs. Pickle, the sweet old woman next door, cried loudly when informed by Jake that Max had been consumed.
By three, the deputies and other curious had disappeared, and by four the quaint little
Victorian had been reduced to smoldering rubble. The last of the firemen smothered any sign of smoke from the ruins. Only the chimney and burnt frames of two cars stood above the remains as the heavy rubber boots kicked and plowed through the waste looking for sparks or hidden flames that might somehow leap from the dead and burn the rest of the wreckage.
They rolled up the last of the lines as the sun began to appear. Jake thanked them when they left.
He and Harry Rex walked through the backyard and surveyed the damage.
"Oh well," Harry Rex said. "It's just a house."
"Would you call Carla and tell her that?"
"No. I think you should."
"I think I'll wait."
Harry Rex looked at his watch. "It's about breakfast time, isn't it?"
"It's Sunday morning, Harry Rex. Nothing's open."
"Ah, Jake, you're an amateur, and I'm a professional. I can find hot food at any time of any day."
"The truck stop?"
"The truck stop!"
"Okay. And when we finish we'll go to Oxford to check on Row Ark."
"Great. I can't wait to see her with a butch haircut."
Sallie grabbed the phone and threw it at Lucien, who rumbled with it until it was arranged properly next to his head.
"Yeah, who is it?" he asked, squinting through the window into the darkness.
"Is this Lucien Wilbanks?"
"Yeah, who's this?"
"Do you know Clyde Sisco?"
"Yeah."
"It's fifty thousand."
"Call me back in the morning."
Sheldon Roark sat in the window with his feet on the back of a chair, reading the Memphis Sunday paper's version of the Hailey trial. On the bottom of the front page was a picture of his daughter and the story about her encounter with the Klan. She rested comfortably in the bed a few feet away. The left side of her head was shaved and covered with a thick bandage. The left ear was sewn with twenty-eight stitches. The severe concussion had been downgraded to a mild concussion, and the doctors had promised she could leave by Wednesday.
She had not been raped or whipped. When the doctors called him in Boston they were short on details. He had flown for seven hours not knowing what they had done to her, but expecting the worst. Late Saturday night, the doctors ran more X rays and told him to relax. The scars would fade and the hair would grow back. She had been frightened and roughed up, but it could have been much worse.
He heard a commotion in the hall. Someone was arguing with a nurse. He laid the paper on her bed and opened the door.
A nurse had caught Jake and Harry Rex sneaking down the hall. She explained that visiting hours started at 2:00 P.M., and that happened to be six hours away; that only family members were allowed; and that she would call security if they didn't leave. Harry
Rex explained that he didn't give a damn about visiting hours or any other silly rules of the hospital; that it was his fiancee and that he would see her one last time before she died; and that if the nurse didn't shut up he would sue her for harassment because he was a lawyer and hadn't sued anybody in a week and was getting anxious.
"What's going on here?" Sheldon said.
Jake looked at the small man with the red hair and green eyes, and said, "You must be Sheldon Roark."
"I am."
"I'm Jake Brigance. The one-"
"Yes, I've been reading about you. It's okay, nurse, they're with me."
"Yeah," Harry Rex said. "It's okay. We're with him. Now would you please leave us alone before I garnishee your check."
She vowed to call security, and stormed down the hall.
"I'm Harry Rex Vonner," he said, shaking hands with Sheldon Roark.
"Step inside," he said. They followed him into the small room and stared at Ellen. She was still asleep.
"How bad is she?" Jake asked.
"Mild concussion. Twenty-eight stitches in her ear, and eleven in her head. She'll be fine.
Doctor said she might leave by Wednesday. She was awake last night and we talked for a long time."
"Her hair looks awful," Harry Rex observed..
"They yanked it and cut it with a dull knife, she said. They also cut her clothes off, and at one time threatened to bullwhip her. The head injuries are self-inflicted. She thought they would either kill her or rape her, or both. So she banged her brains out against the pole she was tied to. Must have scared them."
"You mean they didn't beat her?"
"No. They didn't hurt her. Just scared the hell out of her."
"What did she see?"
"Not much. Burning cross, white robes, about a dozen men. Sheriff said it was a pasture eleven miles east of here. Owned by some paper company."
"Who found her?" Harry Rex asked.
"The sheriff received an anonymous phone call from a fella by the name of Mickey Mouse."
"Ah yes. My old friend."
Ellen moaned softly and stretched.
"Let's step outside," Sheldon said.
"Does this place have a cafeteria?" Harry Rex asked. "I get hungry when I get near a hospital."
"Sure. Let's have coffee."
The cafeteria on the first floor was empty. Jake and Mr. Roark drank black coffee. Harry
Rex started with three sweet rolls and a pint of milk.
"According to the paper, things aren't going too well," Sheldon said.
"The paper is very kind," Harry Rex said with a mouthful. "Jake here is gettin' his ass kicked all over the courtroom. And life ain't so great outside the courtroom, either. When they're not shooting at him, or kidnapping his law clerk, they're burning his house."
"They burned your house!"
Jake nodded. "Last night. It's still smoldering."
"I thought I detected the smell of smoke."
"We watched it burn to the ground. It took four hours."
"I'm sorry to hear that. They've threatened me with that before, but the worst I've had was slashed tires. I've never been shot at either."
"I've been shot at a couple of times."
"Do y'all have the Klan in Boston?" asked Harry Rex.
"Not'that I know of."
"It's a shame. Those folks add a real dimension to your law practice."
"Sounds like it. We saw the television reports of the riot around the courthouse last week.
I've watched it pretty close since Ellen became involved. It's a famous case. Even up there. I wish I had it."
"It's all yours," said Jake. "I think my client is looking for a new lawyer."
"How many shrinks will the State call?"
"Just one. He'll testify in the morning, and we'll have closing arguments. The jury should get it by late tomorrow afternoon."
"I hate that Ellen will miss it. She called me every day and talked about the case."
"Where did Jake go wrong?" Harry Rex asked.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Jake said.
"I think Jake has done a good job. It's a lousy set of facts to begin with. Hailey committed the murders, planned them carefully, and is relying on a rather weak plea of insanity.
Juries in Boston would not be too sympathetic."
"Nor in Ford County," added Harry Rex.
"I hope you have a soul-stirring final summation up your sleeve," Sheldon said.
"He doesn't have any sleeves," said Harry Rex.
"They've all been burned. Along with his pants and underwear."
"Why don't you come over tomorrow and watch?" Jake asked. "I'll introduce you to the judge and ask that you have privileges of chambers."
"He wouldn't do that for me," Harry Rex said.
"I can understand why," Sheldon said with a smile. "I might just do that. I had planned to stay until Tuesday anyway. Is it safe over there?"
"Not really."
Woody Mackenvale's wife sat on a plastic bench in the hall next to his room and cried quietly while trying to be brave for her two small sons seated next to her. Each boy squeezed a well-used wad of Kleenexes, occasionally wiping their cheeks and blowing their noses. Jake knelt before her and listened intently as she described what the doctors had said. The bullet had lodged in the spine-the paralysis was severe and permanent. He was a foreman at a plant in Booneville. Good job. Good life. She didn't work, at least until now. They would make it somehow, but she wasn't sure how. He coached his sons'
Little League team. He was very active.
She cried louder and the boys wiped their cheeks.
"He saved my life," Jake said to her, and looked at the boys.
She closed her eyes and nodded. "He was doing his jotx. We'll make it."
Jake took a Kleenex from the box on the bench and wiped his eyes. A group of relatives stood nearby and watched. Harry Rex paced nervously at the end of the hall.
Jake hugged her and patted the boys on the head. He gave her his phone number-office-and told her to call if he could do anything. He promised to visit Woody when the trial was over.
The beer stores opened at noon on Sunday, as if the church folks needed it then and would stop on the way home from the Lord's house to pick up a couple of six-packs, then on to Grandmother's for Sunday dinner and an afternoon of hell- raising. Oddly, they would close again at six in the afternoon, as if the same folks should then be denied beer as they returned to church for the Sunday night services. On the other six days beer was sold from six in the morning until midnight. But on Sunday, the selling was curtailed in honor of the Almighty.
Jake bought a six-pack at Bates Grocery and directed his chauffeur toward the lake.
Harry Rex's antique Bronco carried three inches of dried mud across the doors and fenders. The tires were imperceptible. The windshield was cracked and dangerous, with thousands of splattered insects caked around the edges. The inspection sticker was four years old and unseen from the outside.
Dozens of empty beer cans and broken bottles littered the floorboard. The air conditioner had not worked in six years. Jake had suggested use of the Saab. Harry Rex had cursed him for his stupidity. The red Saab was an easy target for snipers. No one would suspect the Bronco.
They drove slowly in the general direction of the lake, to no place in particular. Willie
Nelson wailed from the cassette. Harry Rex tapped the steering wheel and sang alon g.
His normal speaking voice was coarse and unrefined. With song, it was heinous. Jake sipped his beer and searched for daylight through the windshield.
The heat wave was about to be broken. Dark clouds loomed to the southwest, and when they passed Huey's Lounge the rains fell and showered the parched earth. It cleansed and removed the dust from the kudzu that lined the roadbeds and hung like Spanish moss from the trees. It cooled the scorched pavement and created a sticky fog that rose three feet above the highway. The red baked gullies absorbed the water, and when full began to carry tiny streams downward to the larger field drains and road ditches. The rains drenched the cotton and soybeans, and pounded the crop rows until small puddles formed between the stalks.
Remarkably, the windshield wipers worked. They slapped back and forth furiously and removed the mud and insect collection. The storm grew. Harry Rex increased the volume of the stereo. The blacks with their cane poles and straw hats camped under the bridges and waited for the storm to blow over. Below them, the still creeks came to life. Muddy water from the fields and gullies rushed downward and stirred the small streams and brooks. The water rose and moved forward. The blacks ate bologna and crackers and told fishing stories.
Harry Rex was hungry. He stopped at Treadway's Grocery near the lake, and bought more beer, two catfish dinners, and a large bag of Cajiin-spiced red-hot barbecue pork skins. He threw them at Jake.
They crossed the dam in a blinding downpour. Harry Rex parked next to a small pavilion over a picnic area. They sat on the concrete table and watched the rain batter Lake
Chatulla. Jake drank beer while Harry Rex ate the catfish dinners.
"When you gonna tell Carla?" he asked, slurping beer.
The tin roof roared above. "About what?"
"The house."
"I'm not gonna tell her. I think I can have it rebuilt before she gets back."
"You mean by the end of the week?"
"Yeah."
"You're cracking up, Jake. You're drinking too much, and you're losing your mind."
"I deserve it. I've earned it. I'm two weeks away from bankruptcy. I'm about to lose the biggest case of my career, for which I have been paid nine hundred dollars. My beautiful home that everyone took pictures of and the old ladies from the Garden Club tried to get written up in Southern Living has been reduced to rubble. My wife has left me, and when she hears about the house, she'll divorce me. No question about that. So I'll lose my wife.
And once my daughter learns that her damned dog died in the fire, she'll hate me forever.
There's a contract on my head. I've got Klan goons looking for me. Snipers shooting at me. There's a soldier lying up in the hospital with my bullet in his spine. He'll be a vegetable, and I'll think about him every hour of every day for the rest of my life. My secretary's husband was killed because of me. My last employee is in the hospital with a punk haircut and a concussion because she worked for me. The jury thinks I'm a lying crook because of my expert witness. My client wants to fire me. When he's convicted, every- body will blame me. He'll hire another lawyer for the appeal, one of those ACLU types, and they'll sue me claiming ineffective trial counsel. And they'll be right. So I'll get my ass sued for malpractice. I'll have no wife, no daughter, no house, no practice, no clients, no money, nothing."
"You need psychiatric help, Jake. I think you should make an appointment with Dr. Bass.
Here, have a beer."
"I guess I'll move in with Lucien and sit on the porch all day."
"Can I have your office?"
"Do you think she'll divorce me?"
"Probably so. I've had four divorces, and they'll file for damned near anything."
"Not Carla. I worship the ground she walks on, and she knows it."
"She'll be sleeping on the ground when she gets back to Clanton."
"Naw, we'll get a nice, cozy little double-wide trailer. It'll do us fine until the bankruptcy is over. Then we'll find another old house and start over."
"You'll probably find you another wife and start over. Why would she leave a swanky cottage on the beach and return to a house trailer in Clanton?"
"Because I'll be in the house trailer."
"That's not good enough, Jake. You'll be a drunk, bankrupt, disbarred lawyer, living in a house trailer. You will be publicly disgraced. All of your friends, except me and Lucien, will forget about you. She'll never come back. It's over, Jake. As your friend and divorce lawyer, I advise you to file first. Do it now, tomorrow, so she'll never know what hit her."
"Why would I sue her for divorce?"
"Because she's gonna sue you. We'll file first and allege that she deserted you in your hour of need."
"Is that grounds for divorce?"
"No. But we'll also claim that you're crazy, temporary insanity. Just let me handle it. The
M'Naghten Rule. I'm the sleazy divorce lawyer, remember."
"How could I forget?"
Jake poured hot beer from his neglected bottle, and opened another. The rain slackened and the clouds lightened. A cool wind blew up from the lake.
"They'll convict him, won't they, Harry Rex?" he asked, staring at the lake in the distance.
He quit chomping and wiped his mouth. He laid the paper plate on the table, and took a long drink of beer. The wind blew light drops of water onto his face. He wiped it with a sleeve.
"Yeah, Jake. Your man is about to be sent away. I can see it in their eyes. The insanity crap just didn't work. They didn't want to believe Bass to begin with, and after Buckley yanked his pants down, it was all over. Carl Lee didn't help himself any. He seemed rehearsed and too sincere. Like he was begging for sympathy. He
was a lousy witness. I watched the jury while he testified. I saw no support for him. They'll convict, Jake. And quickly."
"Thanks for being so blunt."
"I'm your friend, and I think you should start preparing for a conviction and a long appeal."
"You know, Harry Rex, I wish I'd never heard of Carl Lee Hailey."
"I think it's too late, Jake."
Sallie answered the door and told Jake she was sorry about the house. Lucien was upstairs in his study, working and sober. He pointed to a chair and instructed Jake to sit down. Legal pads littered his desk.
"I've spent all afternoon working on a closing argument," he said, waving at the mess before him.
"Your only hope of saving Hailey is with a spellbinding performance on final summation.
I mean, we're talking about the greatest closing argument in the history of jurisprudence.
That's what it'll take."
"And I assume you've created such a masterpiece."' "As a matter of fact, I have. It's much better than anything you could come up with. And I assumed-correctly- that you would spend your Sunday afternoon mourning the loss of your home and
drowning your sorrows with Coors. I knew you would have nothing prepared. So I've done it for you."
"I wish I could stay as sober as you, Lucien."
"I was a better lawyer drunk than you are sober."
"At least I'm a lawyer."
Lucien tossed a legal pad at Jake. "There it is. A compilation of my greatest closing arguments. Lucien Wilbanks at his best, all rolled into one for you and your client. I suggest you memorize it and use it word for word. It's that good. Don't try to modify it, or improvise. You'll just screw it up."
"I'll think about it. I've done this before, remember?"
"You'd never know it."
"Dammit, Lucien! Get off my back!"
"Take it easy, Jake. Let's have a drink. Sallie! Sallie!"
Jake threw the masterpiece on the couch and walked to the window overlooking the backyard.
Sallie ran up the stairs. Lucien ordered whiskey and beer.
"Were you up all night?" Lucien asked.
"No. I slept from eleven to twelve."
"You look terrible. You need a good night's rest."
"I feel terrible, and sleep will not help. Nothing will help, except the end of this trial. I don't understand, Lucien. I don't understand how everything has gone so wrong. Surely to
God we're entitled to a little good luck. The case should not even be tried in Clanton. We were dealt the worst possible jury-a jury that's been tampered with. But I can't prove it.
Our star witness was completely destroyed. The defendant made a lousy witness. And the jury does not trust me. I don't know what else could go wrong."
"You can still win the case, Jake. It'll take a miracle, but those things happen sometimes.
I've snatched victory from the jaws of defeat many times with an effective closing argument. Zero in on one or two jurors. Play to them. Talk to them. Remember, it just takes one to hang the jury."
"Should I make them cry?"
"If you can. It's not that easy. But I believe in tears in the jury box. It's very effective."
Sallie brought the drinks, and they followed her downstairs to the porch. After dark, she fed them sandwiches and fried potatoes. At ten, Jake excused himself and went to his room. He called Carla and talked for an hour. There was no mention of the house. His stomach cramped when he heard her voice and realized that one day very soon he would be forced to tell her that the house, her house, no longer existed. He hung up and prayed she didn't read about it in the newspaper.
Clanton returned to normal Monday morning as the barricades were put in place around the square and the ranks of the soldiers swelled to preserve the public peace. They loitered about in loose formation, watching as the Kluxers returned to their appointed ground on one side, and the black protestors on the other. The day of rest brought renewed energy to both groups, and by eight-thirty they were in full chorus. The collapse of Dr. Bass had been big news, and the Kluxers smelled victory. Plus th ey had scored a direct hit on Adams Street. They appeared to be louder than normal. At nine, Noose summoned the attorneys to chambers. "Just wanted to make sure you were all alive and well." He grinned at Jake.
"Why don't you kiss my ass, Judge?" Jake said under his breath, but loud enough to be heard. The prosecutors froze. Mr. Pate cleared his throat.
Noose cocked his head sideways as if hard of hearing. "What did you say, Mr. Brigance?"
"I said, 'Why don't we get started, Judge?'"
"Yes, that's what I thought you said. How's your clerk, Ms. Roark?"
"She'll be fine."
"Was it the Klan?"
"Yes, Judge. The same Klan that tried to kill me. Same Klan that lit up the county with crosses and who knows what else for our jury panel. Same Klan that's probably intimidated most of those jurors sitting out there. Yes, sir, it's the same Klan."
Noose ripped off his glasses. "Can you substantiate that?"
"You mean, do I have written, signed, notarized confessions from the Klansmen? No, sir.
They're most uncooperative."
"If you can't prove it, Mr. Brigance, then leave it alone."
"Yes, Your Honor."
Jake left chambers and slammed the door. Seconds later Mr. Pate called the place to order and everyone rose. Noose welcomed his jury back and promised the ordeal was almost over. No one smiled at him. It had been a lonely weekend at the Temple Inn.
"Does the State have any rebuttal?" he asked Buckley.
"One witness, Your Honor."
Dr. Rodeheaver was fetched from the witness room. He carefully situated himself in the witness chair and nodded warmly at the jury. He looked like a psychiatrist. Dark suit, no boots.
Buckley assumed the podium and smiled at the jury. "You are Dr. Wilbert Rodeheaver?" he thundered, looking at the jury as if to say, "Now you'll meet a real psychiatrist."
"Yes, sir."
Buckley asked questions, a million questions, about his educational and professional background. Rodeheaver was confident, relaxed, prepared, and accustomed to the witness chair. He talked at great length about his broad educational training, his vast experience as a practicing physician, and more recently, the enormous magnitude of his job as head of staff at the state mental hospital.
Buckley asked him if he had written any articles in his field. He said yes, and for thirty minutes they discussed the writings of this very learned man. He had received research grants from the federal government and from various states. He was a member of all the organizations Bass belonged to, and a few more. He had been certified by every association remotely touching the study of the human mind. He was polished, and sober.
Buckley tendered him as an expert, and Jake had no questions.
Buckley continued. "Dr. Rodeheaver, when did you first examine Carl Lee Hailey?"
The expert checked his notes. "June 19."
"Where did the examination take place?"
"In my office at Whitfield."
"How long did you examine him?"
"Couple of hours."
"What was the' purpose of this examination?"
"To try and determine his mental condition at that time and also at the time he killed Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard."
"Did you obtain his medical history?"
"Most of the information was taken by an associate at the hospital. I reviewed it with Mr. Hailey."
"What did the history reveal?"
"Nothing remarkable. He talked a lot about Vietnam, but nothing remarkable."
"Did he talk freely about Vietnam?"
"Oh yes. He wanted to talk about it. It was almost like he had been told to discuss it as much as possible."
"What else did you discuss at the first examination?"
"We covered a wide variety of topics. His childhood, family, education, various jobs, just about everything."
"Did he discuss the rape of his daughter?"
"Yes, in great detail. It was painful for him to talk about it, the sam& as it would have been for me had it been my daughter."
"Did he discuss with you the events leading up to the shootings of Cobb and Willard?"
"Yes, we talked about that for quite a while. I tried to ascertain the degree of knowledge and understanding he had about those events."
"What did he tell you?"
"Initially, not much. But with time, he opened up and explained how he inspected "the courthouse three days before the shooting and picked a good place to attack."
"What about the shootings?"
"He never told me much about the actual killings. Said he didn't remember much, but I suspect otherwise."
Jake sprang to his feet. "Objection! The witness can only testify as to what he actually knows. He cannot speculate."
"Sustained. Please continue, Mr. Buckley."
"What else did you observe concerning his mood, attitude, and manner of speech?"
Rodeheaver crossed his legs and rocked gently. He lowered his eyebrows in deep thought.
"Initially, he was distrustful of me and had difficulty looking me in the eye. He gave short answers to my questions. He was very resentful of the fact that he was guarded and sometimes handcuffed while at our facility. He questioned the padded walls. But after a while, he opened up and talked freely about most everything. He flatly refused to answer a few questions, but other than that I would say he was fairly cooperative."
"When and where did you examine him again?"
"The next day, same place."
"What was his mood and attitude?"
"About the same as the day before. Cool at first, but he opened up eventually. He discussed basically the same topics as the day before."
"How long did this examination last?"
"Approximately four hours."
Buckley reviewed something on a legal pad, then whispered to Musgrove. "Now, Dr.
Rodeheaver, as a result of your examinations of Mr. Hailey on June 19 and 20, were you able to arrive at a medical diagnosis of the defendant's psychiatric condition on those dates?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what is that diagnosis?"
"On June 19 and 20, Mr. Hailey appeared to be of sound mind. Perfectly normal, I would say."
"Thank you. Based on your examinations, were you able to arrive at a diagnosis of Mr.
Hailey's mental condition on the day he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?"
"Yes."
"And what is that diagnosis?"
"At that time his mental condition was sound, no defects of any nature."
"Upon what factors do you base this?"
Rodeheaver turned to the jury and became a professor. "You must look at the level of premeditation involved in this crime. Motive is an element of premeditation. He certainly had a motive for doing what he did, and his mental condition at that time did not prevent him from entertaining the requisite premeditation. Frankly, Mr. Hailey carefully planned what he did."
"Doctor, you are familiar with the M'Naghten Rule as a test for criminal responsibility?"
"Certainly."
"And you are aware that another psychiatrist, a Dr. W.T. Bass, has told this jury that Mr.
Hailey was incapable of knowing the difference between right and wrong, and, further, that he was unable to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions."
"Yes, I am aware of that."
"Do you agree with that testimony?"
"No. I find it preposterous, and I am personally offended by it. Mr. Hailey himself has testified he planned the murders. He's admitted, in effect, that his mental condition at the time did not prevent him from possessing the ability to plan. That's called premeditation in every legal and medical book. I've never heard of someone planning a murder, admitting he planned it, then claiming he did not know what he was doing. It's absurd."
At that moment, Jake felt it was absurd too, and as it echoed around the courtroom it sounded mighty absurd. Rodeheaver sounded good and infinitely credible. Jake thought of Bass and cursed to himself.
Lucien sat with the blacks and agreed with every word of Rodeheaver's testimony. When compared to Bass, the State's doctor was terribly believable. Lucien ignored the jury box.
From time to time he would cut his eyes without moving his head and catch Clyde Sisco blatantly and openly staring directly at him. But Lucien would not allow their eyes to meet. The messenger had not called Monday morning as instructed. An affirmative nod or wink from Lucien would consummate the deal, with payment to be arranged later, after the verdict. Sisco knew the rules, and he watched for an answer. There was none.
Lucien wanted to discuss it with Jake.
"Now, Doctor, based upon these factors and your diagnosis of his mental condition as of May 20, do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, as to whether Mr. Hailey was capable of knowing the difference between right and wrong when he shot Billy Ray Cobb, Pete Willard, and Deputy DeWayne Looney?"
"I have."
"And what is that opinion?"
"His mental condition was sound, and he was very capable of distinguishing right from wrong."
"And do you have an opinion, based upon the same factors, as to whether Mr. Hailey was able to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions?"
"I have."
"And what is that opinion?"
"That he fully appreciated what he was doing."
Buckley snatched his legal pad and bowed politely. "Thank you, Doctor. I have no further questions."
"Any cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?" Noose asked.
"Just a few questions."
"I thought so. Let's take a fifteen-minute recess."
Jake ignored Carl Lee, and moved quickly out of the courtroom, up the stairs, and into the law library on the third floor. Harry Rex was waiting, and smiling.
"Relax, Jake. I've called every newspaper in North Carolina, and there's no story about the house. There's nothing about Row Ark. The Raleigh morning paper ran a story about the trial, but it was in real general terms. Nothing else. Carla doesn't know about it, Jake.
As far as she knows, her pretty little landmark is still standing. Isn't that great?"
"Wonderful. Just wonderful. Thanks, Harry Rex."
"Don't mention it. Look, Jake, I sorta hate to bring this up."
"I can't wait."
"You know I hate Buckley. Hate him worse than you do. But me and Musgrove get along okay. I can talk to Musgrove. I was thinking last night that it might be a good idea to approach them-me through Musgrove-and explore the possibilities of a plea bargain."
"No!"
"Listen, Jake. What harm will it do? None! If you can plead him guilty to murder with no gas chamber, then you know you have saved his life."
"No!"
"Look, Jake. Your man is about forty-eight hours away from a death penalty conviction.
If you don't believe that, then you're blind, Jake. My blind friend."
"Why should Buckley cut a deal? He's got us on the ropes."
"Maybe he won't. But let me at least find out."
"No, Harry Rex. Forget it."
Rodeheaver returned to his seat after the recess, and Jake looked at him from behind the podium. In his brief legal career, he had never won an argument, in court or out, with an expert witness. And the way his luck was running, he decided not to argue with this one.
"Dr. Rodeheaver, psychiatry is the study of the human mind, is it not?"
"It is."
"And it is an inexact science at best, is it not?"
"That is correct."
"You might examine a person and reach a diagnosis, and the next psychiatrist might reach a completely different diagnosis?"
"That's possible, yes."
"In fact, you could have ten psychiatrists examine a mental patient, and arrive at ten different opinions about what's wrong with the patient."
"That's unlikely."
"But it could happen, couldn't it, Doctor?"
"Yes, it could. Just like legal opinions, I guess."
"But we're not dealing with legal opinions in this case, are we, Doctor?"
"No."
"The truth is, Doctor, in many cases psychiatry cannot tell us what is wrong with a person's mind?"
"That is true."
"And psychiatrists disagree all the time, don't they, Doctor?"
"Of course."
"Now, who do you work for, Doctor?"
"The State of Mississippi."
"And for how long?"
"Eleven years."
"And who is prosecuting Mr. Hailey?"
"The State of Mississippi."
"During your eleven-year career with the State, how many times have you testified in trials where the insanity defense was used?"
Rodeheaver thought for a moment. "I think this is my forty-third trial."
Jake checked something in a file and eyed the doctor with a nasty little smile. "Are you sure it's not your forty-sixth?"
"It could be, yes. I'm not certain."
The courtroom became still. Buckley and Musgrove hovered over their legal pads, but watched their witness carefully.
"Forty-six times you've testified for the State in insanity trials?"
"If you say so."
"And forty-six times you've testified that the defendant was not legally insane. Correct, Doctor?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, let me make it simple. You've testified forty-six times, and forty-six times it has been your opinion the defendant was not legally insane. Correct?"
Rodeheaver squirmed just a little, and a hint of discomfort broke around his eyes. "I'm not sure."
"You've never seen a legally insane criminal defendant, have you, Doctor?"
"Of course I have."
"Good. Would you then, please, sir, tell us the name of the defendant and where he was tried?"
Buckley rose and buttoned his coat. "Your Honor, the State objects to these questions.
Dr. Rodeheaver cannot be required to remember the names and places of the trials he has testified in."
"Overruled, Sit down. Answer the question, Doctor."
Rodeheaver breathed deeply and studied the ceiling. Jake glanced at the jurors. They were awake and waiting on an answer.
"I can't remember," he finally said.
Jake lifted a thick stack of papers and waved it at the witness. "Could it be, Doctor, that the reason you can't remember is that in eleven years, forty-six trials, you have never testified in favor of the defendant?"
"I honestly can't remember."
"Can you honestly name us one trial in which you found the defendant to be legally insane?"
"I'm sure there are some."
"Yes or no, Doctor. One trial?"
The expert looked briefly at the D.A. "No. My memory fails me. I cannot at this time."
Jake walked slowly to the defense table and picked up a thick file.
"Dr. Rodeheaver, do you recall testifying in the trial of a man by the name of Danny
Booker in McMurphy County in December of 1975? A rather gruesome double homicide?"
"Yes, I recall that trial."
"And you testified to the effect that he was not legally insane, did you not?"
"That is correct."
"Do you recall how many psychiatrists testified in his behalf?"
"Not exactly. There were several."
"Do the names Noel McClacky, M.D.; O.G. McGuire, M.D.; and Lou Watson, M.D., ring a bell?"
"Yes."
"They're all psychiatrists, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"They're all qualified, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"And they all examined Mr. Booker and testified at trial that in their opinions the poor man was legally insane?"
"That's correct."
"And you testified he was not legally insane?"
"That's correct."
"How many other doctors supported your position?"
"None, that I recall."
"So it was three against one?"
"Yes, but I'm still convinced I was right."
"I see. What did the jury do, Doctor?"
"He, uh, was found not guilty by reason of insanity."
"Thank you. Now, Dr. Rodeheaver, you're the head doctor at Whitfield, aren't you?"
"Yes, so to speak."
"Are you directly or indirectly responsible for the treatment of every patient at Whitfield?"
"I'm directly responsible, Mr. Brigance. I may not personally see every patient, but their doctors are under my supervision."
"Thank you. Doctor, where is Danny Booker today?"
Rodeheaver shot a desperate look at Buckley, and immediately covered it with a warm, relaxed grin for the jury. He hesitated for a few seconds, then hesitated one second too long.
"He's at Whitfield, isn't he?" Jake asked in a tone of voice that informed everyone that the answer was yes.
"I believe so," Rodeheaver said.
"So, he's directly under your care, then, Doctor?"
"I suppose."
"And what is his diagnosis, Doctor?"
"I really don't know. I have a lot of patients and-"
"Paranoid schizophrenic?"
"It's possible, yes."
Jake walked backward and sat on the railing. He turned up the volume. "Now, Doctor, I want to make this clear for the jury. In 1975 you testified that Danny Booker was legally sane and understood exactly what he was doing when he committed his crime, and the jury disagreed with you and found him not guilty, and since that time he has been a patient in your hospital, under your supervision, and treated by you as a paranoid schizophrenic. Is that correct?"
The smirk on Rodeheaver's face informed the jury that it was indeed correct.
Jake picked up another piece of paper and seemed to review it. "Do you recall testifying in the trial of a man by the name of Adam Couch in Dupree County in May of 1977?"
"I remember that case."
"It was a rape case, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"And you testified on behalf of the State against Mr. Couch?"
"That's correct."
"And you told the jury that he was not legally insane?"
"That was my testimony."
"Do you recall how many doctors testified on his behalf and told the jury he was a very sick man, that he was legally insane?"
"There were several."
"Have you ever heard of the following doctors: Felix Perry, Gene Shumate, and Hobny
Wicker?"
"Yes."
"Are they all qualified psychiatrists?"
"They are."
"And they all testified on behalf of Mr. Couch, didn't they?"
"Yes."
"And they all said he was legally insane, didn't they?"
"They did."
"And you were the only doctor in the trial who said he was not legally insane?"
"As I recall, yes."
"And what did the jury do, Doctor?"
"He was found not guilty."
"By reason of insanity?"
"Yes."
"And where is Mr. Couch today, Doctor?"
"I think he's at Whitfield."
"And how long has he been there?"
"Since the trial, I believe."
"I see. Do you normally admit patients and keep them for several years if they are of perfectly sound mind?"
Rodeheaver shifted his weight and began a slow burn. He looked at his lawyer, the people's lawyer, as if to say he was tired of this, do something to stop it.
Jake picked up more papers. "Doctor, do you recall the trial of a man by the name of
Buddy Wooddall in Cleburne County, May of 1979?"
"Yes, I certainly do."
"Murder, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"And you testified as an expert in the field of psychiatry and told the jury that Mr.
Wooddall was not insane?"
"I did."
"Do you recall how many psychiatrists testified on his behalf and told the jury the poor man was legally insane?"
"I believe there were five, Mr. Brigance."
"That's correct, Doctor. Five against one. Do you recall what the jury did?"
The anger and frustration was building in the witness stand. The wise old grandfather/professor with all the right answers was becoming rattled. "Yes, I recall. He was found not guilty by reason of insanity."
"How do you explain that, Dr. Rodeheaver? Five against one, and the jury finds against you?"
"You just can't trust juries," he blurted, then caught himself. He fidgeted and grinned awkwardly at the jurors.
Jake stared at him with a wicked smile, then looked at the jury in disbelief. He folded his arms and allowed the last words to sink in. He waited, staring and grinning at the witness.
"You may proceed, Mr. Brigance," Noose finally said.
Moving sl owly and with great animation, Jake gathered his files and notes while staring at Rodeheaver. "I think we've heard enough from this witness, Your Honor."
"Any redirect, Mr. Buckley?"
"No, sir. The State rests."
Noose addressed the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, this trial is almost over. There will be no more witnesses. I will now meet with the attorneys to cover some technical areas, then they will be allowed to make their final arguments to you. That will begin at two o'clock and take a couple of hours. You will finally get the case around four, and I will allow you to deliberate until six. If you do not reach a verdict today, you will be taken back to your rooms until tomorrow. It is now almost eleven, and we'll recess until two. I need to see the attorneys in chambers."
Carl Lee leaned over and spoke to his lawyer for the first time since Saturday's adjournment. "You tore him up pretty good, Jake."
"Wait till you hear the closing argument."
Jake avoided Harry Rex, and drove to Karaway. His childhood home was an old country house in downtown, surrounded by ancient oaks and maples and elms that kept it cool in spite of the summer heat. In the back, past the trees, was a long open field which ran for an eighth of a mile and disappeared over a small hill. A chickenwire backstop stood over the weeds in one corner. Here, Jake had taken his first steps, rode his first bike, thrown his first football and base- ball. Under an oak beside the field, he had buried three dogs, a raccoon, a rabbit, and some ducks. A tire from a '54 Buick swung not far from the small cemetery.
The house had been locked and deserted for two months. A neighborhood kid cut the grass and tended the lawn. Jake checked the house once a week. His parents were somewhere in Canada in a camper-the summer ritual. He wished he were with them.
He unlocked the door and walked upstairs to his room. It would never change. The walls were covered with team pictures, trophies, baseball caps, posters of Pete Rose, Archie
Manning, and Hank Aaron. A row of baseball gloves hung above the closet door. A cap and gown picture sat on the dresser. His mother still cleaned it weekly. She once told him she often went to his room and expected to find him doing homework or sorting baseball cards. She would flip through his scrapbooks, and get all teary eyed.
He thought of Hanna's room, with the stuffed animals and Mother Goose wallpaper. A thick knot formed in his throat.
He looked out the window, past the trees, and saw himself swinging in the tire near the three white crosses where he buried his dogs. He remembered each funeral, and his father's promises to get another dog. He thought of Hanna and her dog, and his eyes watered.
The bed was much smaller now. He removed his shoes and lay down. A football helmet hung from the ceiling. Eighth grade, Karaway Mustangs. He scored seven
touchdowns in five games. It was all on film downstairs under the bookshelves. The butterflies floated wildly through his stomach. He carefully placed his notes-his notes, not Lucien's- on the dresser. He studied himself in the mirror.
He addressed the jury. He began by facing his biggest problem, Dr. W.T. Bass. He apologized. A lawyer walks into a courtroom, faces a strange jury, and has nothing to offer but his credibility. And if he does anything to hurt his credibility, he has hurt his cause, his client. He asked them tb believe that he would never put a convicted felon on the stand as an expert witness in any trial. He did not know of the conviction, he raised his hand and swore to this. The world is full of psychiatrists, and he could easily have found another if he had known Bass had a problem, but he simply did not know. And he was sorry.
But what about Bass's testimony. Thirty years ago he had sex with a girl under eighteen in Texas. Does that mean he is lying now in this trial? Does that mean you cannot trust his professional opinion? Please be fair to Bass the psychiatrist, forget Bass the person.
Please be fair to his patient, Carl Lee Hailey. He knew nothing of the doctor's past.
There was something about Bass they might like to know. Something that was not mentioned by Mr. Buckley when he was ripping the doctor to pieces. The girl he had sex with was seventeen. She later became his wife, bore him a son, and was pregnant when she and the boy were killed in a train-
"Objection!" Buckley shouted. "Objection, Your Honor. That evidence is not in the record!"
"Sustained. Mr. Brigance, you are not to refer to facts not in evidence. The jury will disregard the last statements by Mr. Brigance."
Jake ignored Noose and Buckley and stared painfully at the jury.
When the shouting died, he continued. What about Rodeheaver? He wondered if the
State's doctor had ever engaged in sex with a girl under eighteen. Seemed silly to think about such things, didn't it? Bass and Rodeheaver in their younger days-it seemed so unimportant now in this courtroom almost thirty years later.
The State's doctor is a man with an obvious bias. A highly trained specialist who treats thousands for all sorts of mental illnesses, yet when crimes are involved he cannot recognize insanity. His testimony should be carefully weighed.
They watched him, listened to every word. He was not a courtroom preacher, like his opponent. He was quiet, sincere. He looked tired, almost hurt.
Lucien was sober, and he sat with folded arms and watched the jurors, all except Sisco. It was not his closing, but it was good. It was coming from the heart.
Jake apologized for his inexperience. He had not been in many trials, not nearly as many as Mr. Buckley. And if he seemed a little green, or if he made mistakes, please don't hold it against Carl Lee. It wasn't his fault. He was just a rookie trying his best against a seasoned adversary who tried murder cases every month. He made a mistake with Bass, and he made other mistakes, and he asked the jury to forgive him.
He had a daughter, the only one he would ever have. She was four, almost five, and his world revolved around her. She was special; she was a little girl, and it was up to him to protect her.
There was a bond there, something he could not explain. He talked about little girls.
Carl Lee had a daughter. Her name was Tonya. He pointed to her on the front row next to her mother and brothers. She's a beautiful little girl, ten years old. And she can never have children.
She can never have a daughter because-"
"Objection," Buckley said without shouting.
"Sustained," Noose said.
Jake ignored the commotion. He talked about rape for a while, and explained how rape is much worse than murder. With murder, the victim is gone, and not forced to deal with what happened to her. The family must deal with it, but not the victim. But rape is much worse. The victim has a lifetime of coping, of trying to understand, of asking questions, and, the worst part, of knowing the rapist is still alive and may someday escape or be released. Every hour of every day, the victim thinks of the rape and asks herself a thousand questions. She relives it, step by step, minute by minute, and it hurts just as bad.
Perhaps the most horrible crime of all is the violent rape of a child. A woman who is raped has a pretty good idea why it happened. Some animal was filled with hatred, anger and violence. But a child? A ten-year-old child? Suppose you're a parent. Imagine yourself trying to explain to your child why she was raped. Imagine yourself trying to explain why she cannot bear children.
"Objection."
"Sustained. Please disregard that last statement, ladies and gentlemen."
Jake never missed a beat. Suppose, he said, your ten-year-old daughter is raped, and you're a Vietnam vet, very familiar with an M-16, and you get your hands on one while your daughter is lying in the hospital fighting for her life. Suppose the rapist is caught, and six days later you manage to maneuver to within five feet of him as he leaves court.
And you've got the M-16.
What do you do?
Mr. Buckley has told you what he would do. He would mourn for his daughter, turn the other cheek, and hope the judicial system worked. He would hope the rapist would receive justice, be sent to Parchman, and hopefully never paroled. That's what he would do, and they should admire him for being such a kind, compassionate, and forgiving soul.
But what would a reasonable father do?
What would Jake do? If he had the M-16? Blow the bastard's head off!
It was simple. It was justice.
Jake paused for a drink of water, then shifted gears. The pained and humble look was replaced with an air of indignation. Let's talk about Cobb and Willard. They started this mess. It was their lives the State was attempting to justify. Who would miss them except their mothers? Child rapists. Drug pushers. Would society miss such productive citizens?
Wasn't Ford County safer without them?
Were not the other children in the county better off now that two rapists and pushers had been removed? All parents should feel safer. Carl Lee deserves a medal, or at least a round of applause. He was a hero. That's what Looney said. Give the man a trophy. Send him home to his family.
He talked about Looney. He had a daughter. He also had one leg, thanks to Carl Lee
Hailey. If anyone had a right to be bitter, to want blood, it was DeWayne Looney. And he said Carl Lee should be sent home to his family.
He urged them to forgive as Looney had forgiven. He asked them to follow Looney's wishes.
He became much quieter, and said he was almost through. He wanted to leave them with one thought. Picture this if they could. When she was lying there, beaten, bloodied, legs spread and tied to trees, she look ed into the woods around her. Semiconscious and hallucinating, she saw some- one running toward her. It was her daddy, running desperately to save her. In her dreams she saw him when she needed him the most. She cried out for him, and he disappeared. He was taken away. She needs him now, as much as she needed him then. Please don't take him away. She waits on the front row for her daddy.
Let him go home to his family.
The courtroom was silent as Jake sat next to his client. He glanced at the jury, and saw
Wanda Womack brush away a tear with her finger. For the first time in two days he felt a flicker of hope. At four, Noose bid farewell to his jury. He told them to elect a foreman, get organized, and get busy. He told them they could deliberate until six, maybe seven, and if no verdict was reached he would recess until nine Tuesday morning. They stood and filed slowly from the courtroom. Once out of sight, Noose recessed until six and instructed the attorneys to remain close to the courtroom or leave a number with the clerk.
The spectators held their seats and chatted quietly. Carl Lee was allowed to sit on the front row with his family. Buckley and Musgrove waited in chambers with Noose. Harry
Rex, Lucien, and Jake left for the office and a liquid supper. No one expected a quick verdict.
The bailiff locked them in the jury room and instructed the two alternates to take a seat in the narrow hallway. Inside, Barry Acker was elected foreman by acclamation. He laid the jury instructions and exhibits on a small table in a corner. They sat anxiously around two folding tables placed end to end.
"I suggest we take an informal vote," he said. "Just to see where we are. Any objections to that?"
There were none. He had a list of twelve names.
"Vote guilty, not guilty, or undecided. Or you can pass for now."
"Reba Betts."
"Undecided."
"Bernice Toole."
"Guilty."
"Carol Corman."
"Guilty."
"Donna Lou Peck."
"Undecided."
"Sue Williams."
"Pass."
"Jo Ann Gates."
"Guilty."
"Rita Mae Plunk."
"Guilty."
"Frances McGowan."
"Guilty."
"Wanda Womack."
"Undecided."
"Eula Dell Yates."
"Undecided, for now. I wanna talk about it."
"We will. Clyde Sisco."
"Undecided."
"That's eleven. I'm Barry Acker, and I vote not guilty."
He tallied for a few seconds and said, "That's five guilties, five undecideds, one pass, and one not guilty. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."
They worked through the exhibits, photographs, fingerprints, and ballistics reports. At six, they informed the judge they had not reached a verdict. They were hungry and wanted to go. He recessed until Tuesday morning.
They sat for hours on the porch, saying little, watching as darkness surrounded the town below and ushered in the mosquitoes. The heat wave had returned. The soggy air clung to their skin and moistened their shirts. The sounds of a hot summer night echoed softly across the front lawn. Sallie had offered to cook. Lucien declined and ordered whiskey.
Jake had no appetite for food, but the Coors filled his system and satisfied any hunger pangs stirring within. When things were good and dark, Nesbit emerged from his car, walked across the porch, through the front screen door, and into the house. A moment later he slammed the door, walked past them with a cold beer, and disappeared down the driveway in the direction of his car. He never said a word.
Sallie stuck her head through the door and made one last offer of food. Both declined.
"Jake, I got a call this afternoon. Clyde Sisco wants twenty-five thousand to hang the jury, fifty thousand for an acquittal."
Jake began shaking his head.
"Before you say no, listen to me. He knows he can't guarantee an acquittal, but he can guarantee a hung jury. It just takes one. That's twenty-five thousand. I know it's a lot of money, but you know I've got it. I'll pay it and you can repay me over the years.
Whenever, I don't care. If you never repay it, I don't care. I've got a bankful of C.D.'s.
You know money means nothing to me. If I were you I'd do it in a minute."
"You're crazy, Lucien."
"Sure I'm crazy. You haven't been acting so good yourself. Trial work'll drive you crazy.
Just take a look at what this trial has done to you. No sleep, no food, no routine, no house. Plenty of booze, though."
"But I've still got ethics."
"And I have none. No ethics, no morals, no conscience. But I won, bubba. I won more than anybody has ever won around here, and you know it."
"It's corrupt, Lucien."
"And I guess you think Buckley's not corrupt. He would lie, cheat, bribe, and steal to win this case. He's not worried about fancy ethics, rules, and opinions. He's not concerned about morality. He's concerned with one thing and only one thing-winning! And you've got a golden chance to beat him at his own game. I'd do it, Jake."
"Forget it, Lucien. Please, just forget it."
An hour passed with no words. The lights of the town below slowly disappeared. Nesbit's snoring was audible in the darkness. Sallie brought one last drink and said good night.
"This is the hardest part," Lucien said. "Waiting on twelve average, everyday people to make sense of all this."
"It's a crazy system, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. But it usually works. Juries are right ninety percent of the time."
"I just don't feel lucky. I'm waiting on the miracle."
"Jake, my boy, the miracle happens tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes. Early tomorrow morning."
"Would you care to elaborate?"
"By noon tomorrow, Jake, there will be ten thousand angry blacks swarming like ants around the Ford County Courthouse. Maybe more."
"Ten thousand! Why?"
"To scream and shout and chant 'Free Carl Lee, Free Carl Lee.' To raise hell, to scare everybody, to intimidate the jury. To just disrupt the hell out of everything. There'll be so many blacks, white folks will run for cover. The governor will send in more troops."
"And how do you know all this?"
"Because I planned it, Jake."
"You?"
"Listen, Jake, when I was in my prime I knew every black preacher in fifteen counties.
I've been in their churches. Prayed with them, marched with them, sang with them. They sent me clients, and I sent them money. I was the only white radical NAACP lawyer in north Mississippi. I' filed more race discrimination lawsuits than any ten firms in
Washington. These were my people. I've just made a few phone calls. They'll start arriving in the morning, and by noon you won't be able to stir niggers with a stick in downtown Clanton."
"Where will they come from?"
"Everywhere. You know how tracks love to march and protest. This will be great for them. They're looking forward to it."
"You're crazy, Lucien. My crazy friend."
"I win, bubba."
In Room 163, Barry Acker and Clyde Sisco finished their last game of gin rummy and made preparations for bed. Acker gathered some coins and announced he wanted a soft drink. Sisco said he was not thirsty.
Acker tiptoed past a guardsman asleep in the hall. The machine informed him it was out of order, so he quietly opened the exit door and walked up the stairs to the second floor, where he found another machine next to an ice maker. He inserted his coins. The machine responded with a diet Coke. He bent over to pick it up.
Out of the darkness two figures charged. They knocked him to the floor, kicked him and pinned him in a dark corner beside the ice maker, next to a door with a chain and padlock. The large one grabbed Acker's collar and threw him against the cinder block wall. The smaller one stood by the Coke machine and watched the dark hall.
"You're Barry Acker!" said the large one through clenched teeth.
"Yeah! Let go of me!" Acker attempted to shake free, but his assailant lifted him by the throat and held him to the wall with one hand. He used the other hand to unsheathe a shiny hunting knife, which he placed next to Acker's nose. The wiggling stopped.
"Listen to me," he demanded in a loud whisper, "and listen good. We know you're married and you live at 1161 Forrest Drive. We know you got three kids, and we know where they play and go to school. Your wife works at the bank."
Acker went limp.
"If that nigger walks free, you'll be sorry. Your family will be sorry. It may take years, but you'll be awfully sorry." He dropped him to the floor and grabbed his hair. "You breathe one word of this to anyone, and you'll lose a kid. Understand?"
They vanished. Acker breathed deeply, almost gasping for breath. He rubbed his throat and the back of his head.
He sat in the darkness, too scared to move.
At hundreds of small black churches across north Mississippi, the faithful gathered before dawn and loaded picnic baskets, coolers, lawn chairs, and water jugs into converted school buses and church vans. They greeted friends and chatted nervously about the trial.
For weeks they had read and talked about Carl Lee Hailey; now, they were about to go help. Many were old and retired, but there were entire families with children and playpens. When the buses were full, they piled into cars and followed their preachers.
They sang and prayed. The preachers met other preachers in small towns and county seats, and they set out in force down the dark highways. When daylight
materialized, the highways and roads leading to Ford County were filled with caravans of pilgrims. They jammed the side streets for blocks around the square. They parked where they stopped and unloaded.
The fat colonel had just finished breakfast and stood in the gazebo watching intently.
Buses and cars, many with horns honking, were coming from all directions to the square.
The barricades held firm. He barked command s and the soldiers jumped into high gear.
More excitement. At seven- thirty, he called Ozzie and told him of the invasion. Ozzie arrived immediately and found Agee, who assured him it was a peaceful march. Sort of like a sit-in. How many were coming? Ozzie asked. Thousands, said Agee. Thousands.
'They set up camp under the stately oaks, and milled around the lawn inspecting things.
They arranged tables and chairs and playpens. They were indeed peaceful, until a group began the familiar cry of "Free Carl Lee!" They cleared their throats and joined in. It was not yet eight o'clock.
A black radio station in Memphis flooded the airwaves early Tuesday with a call for help.
Black bodies were needed to march and demonstrate in Clanton, Mississippi, an hour away. Hundreds of cars met at a mall and headed south.
Every civil rights activist and black politician in the city made the trip. Agee was a man possessed. He used a bullhorn to shout orders here and there. He herded new arrivals into their places. He organized the black preachers. He assured Ozzie and the colonel everything was okay.
Everything was okay until a handful of Klansmen made their routine appearance. The sight of the white robes was new to many of the blacks, and they reacted loudly. They inched forward, screaming and jeering. The troops surrounded the robes and protected them. The Kluxers were stunned and scared, and did not yell back. By eight-thirty, the streets of Clanton were gridlocked. Deserted cars, vans, and buses were scattered haphazardly through parking lots and along the quiet residential streets. A steady stream of blacks walked toward the square from all directions. Traffic did not move. Driveways were blocked. Merchants parked blocks away from their shops. The mayor stood in the center of the gazebo, wringing his hands and begging Ozzie to do something. Around him thousands of blacks swarmed and yelled in perfect unison. Ozzie asked the mayor if he wanted him to start arresting everybody on the courthouse lawn.
Noose parked at a service station a half mile south of the jail, and walked with a group of blacks to the courthouse. They watched him curiously, but said nothing. No one would suspect he was a person of authority. Buckley and Musgrove parked in a driveway on
Adams Street. They cursed and walked toward the square. They noticed the pile of rubble that had been Jake's house but said nothing. They were too busy cursing. With state troopers leading the way, the Greyhound from Temple reached the square at twenty minutes after nine. Through the dark windows, the fourteen passengers stared in disbelief at the carnival around the courthouse.
Mr. Pate called the packed courtroom to order, and Noose welcomed his jury. He apologized for the trouble outside, but there was nothing he could do. If there were no problems to report, they could continue deliberations.
"Very well, you may retire to the jury room and get to work. We will meet again just before lunch."
The jurors filed out and went to the jury room. The Hailey children sat with their father at the defense table. The spectators, now predominantly black, remained seated and struck up conversations. Jake returned to his office.
Foreman Acker sat at the end of the long, dusty table and thought of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Ford Countians who had served in this room and sat around this table and argued about justice over the past century. Any pride he may have felt for serving on the jury of the most famous case was greatly overshadowed by what happened last night. He wondered how many of his predecessors had been threatened with death.
Probably a few, he decided.
The others fixed their coffee and slowly found seats around the tables. The room brought back fond memories for Clyde Sisco. Prior jury duty had proved lucrative for him, and he relished the thought of another handsome payoff for another just and true verdict. His messenger had not contacted him.
"How would y'all like to proceed?" the foreman asked.
Rita Mae Plunk had an especially hard and unforgiving look about her. She was a rough woman with a house trailer, no husband, and two outlaws for sons, both of whom had expressed hatred for Carl Lee Hailey. She had a few things she wanted to get off her large chest.
"I got a few things I wanna say," she informed Acker.
"Fine. Why don't we start with you, Miss Plunk, and go around the table."
"I voted guilty yesterday in the first vote, and I'll vote guilty next time. I don't see how anybody could vote not guilty, and I want just one of you to explain to me how you could vote in favor of this nigger!"
"Don't say that word again!" yelled Wanda Womack.
"I'll say 'nigger' if I wanna say 'nigger,' and there ain't a damned thing you can do," replied Rita Mae.
"Please don't use that word," said Frances McGowan.
"I find it personally offensive," said Wanda Womack.
"Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger," Rita Mae yelled across the table.
"Come on," said Clyde Sisco.
"Oh boy," said the foreman. "Look, Miss Plunk, let's be honest, okay. Most of us use that word, from time to time. I'm sure some of us use it more than others. But it's offensive to many people, and I think it'd be a good idea not to use it during our deliberations. We've got enough to worry about as it is. Can we all agree not to use that word?"
Everyone nodded but Rita Mae.
Sue Williams decided to answer. She was well dressed, attractive, about forty. She worked for the county welfare department. "I didn't vote yesterday. I passed. But I tend to sympathize with Mr. Hailey. I have a daughter, and if she was raped, it would greatly affect my mental stability. I can understand how a parent might crack in that situation, and I think it's unfair for us to judge Mr. Hailey as if he was supposed to act completely rational."
"You think he was legally insane?" asked Reba Betts, an undecided.
"I'm not sure. But I know he wasn't stable. He couldn't have been."
"So you believe that nut of a doctor who testified for him?" asked Rita Mae.
"Yes. He was as believable as the State's doctor."
"I liked his boots," said Clyde Sisco. No one laughed.
"But he's a convict," said Rita Mae. "He lied and tried to cover it up. You can't believe a word he said."
"He had sex with a girl under eighteen," Clyde said. "If that's a crime, then a bunch of us should've been indicted."
Again, no one appreciated the attempt at humor. Clyde decided to stay quiet for a while.
"He later married the girl," said Donna Lou Peck, an undecided.
They went around the table, one at a time, expressing opinions and answering questions.
The N word was carefully avoided by those wanting a conviction. The battle lines became clearer. Most of the undecideds leaned toward guilty, it seemed. The careful planning by Carl Lee, knowing the exact movements of the boys, the M-16-it all seemed so premeditated. If he had caught them in the act and killed them on the spot, he would not be held accountable. But to plan it so carefully for six days did not indicate an insane mind.
Wanda Womack, Sue Williams, and Clyde Sisco leaned toward acquittal-the rest toward conviction. Barry Acker was noticeably noncommittal.
Agee unfurled a long blue and white FREE CARL LEE banner. The ministers gathered fifteen abreast behind it, and waited for the parade to form behind them. They stood in the center of Jackson Street, in front of the courthouse, while Agee screamed instructions to the masses.
Thousands of blacks packed tightly behind them, and off they went. They inched down Jackson, and turned left on Caffey, up the west side of the square. Agee led the marchers in their now familiar battle cry of "Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!" They screamed it in an endless, repetitive, numbing chorus. As the crowd moved around the square, it grew in number and volume.
Smelling trouble, the merchants locked up and headed for home and safety. They checked their policies to see if they were insured for riot damage. The green soldiers were lost in a sea of black. The colonel, sweating and nervous, ordered his troops to circle the courthouse and stand firm. While Agee and the marchers were turning onto Washington
Street, Ozzie met with the handful of Kluxers. In a sincere and diplomatic way, he convinced them things could get out of hand, and he could no longer guarantee their safety. He acknowledged their right to assemble, said they had made their point, and asked them to get away from the square before there was trouble. They huddled quickly, and disappeared.
When the banner passed under the jury room, all twelve gaped from the window. The incessant chanting rattled the glass panes. The bullhorn sounded like a loudspeaker hanging from the ceiling. The jurors stared in disbelief at the mob, the black mob which filled the street and trailed around the corner onto Caffey. A varied assortment of homemade signs bobbed above the masses and demanded that the man be freed.
"I didn't know there were this many niggers in Ford County," Rita Mae Plunk said. At that moment, the other eleven held the same thought.
Buckley was furious. He and Musgrove watched from a third-floor window in the library.
The roar below had disrupted their quiet conversation.
"I didn't know there were this many niggers in Ford County," Musgrove said.
"There ain't. Somebody shipped these niggers in here. I wonder who put them up to it."
"Probably Brigance."
"Yeah, probably so. It's mighty convenient that they start all this hell-raising when the jury is deliberating. There must be five thousand niggers down there."
"At least."
Noose and Mr. Pate watched and listened from a second-floor window in cha mbers. His
Honor was not happy. He worried about his jury. "I don't see how they can concentrate on much with all this going on."
"Pretty good timing, ain't it, Judge?" Mr. Pate said.
"It certainly is."
"I didn't know we had that many blacks in the whole county."
It took twenty minutes for Mr. Pate and Jean Gillespie to find the attorneys and bring the courtroom to order. When it was quiet, the jurors filed into their seats. There were no smiles.
Noose cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for lunch. I don't suppose you have anything to report."
Barry Acker shook his head.
"That's what I figured. Let's break for lunch, until one-thirty. I realize you cannot leave the courthouse, but I want you to eat for a while without working on the case. I apologize for the disturbance outside, but, frankly, I can't do anything about it. We'll be in recess until one-thirty."
In chambers, Buckley went wild. "This is crazy, Judge! There's no way the jury can concentrate on this case with all that noise out there. This is a deliberate effort to intimidate the jury."
"I don't like it," Noose said.
"It was planned, Judge! It's intentional!" Buckley yelled.
"It looks bad," Noose added.
"I'm almost ready for a mistrial!"
"I won't grant one. What do you say, Jake?"
Jake grinned for a moment, and said, "Free Carl Lee."
"Very funny," Buckley growled. "You probably planned all this."
"No. If you will recall, Mr. Buckley, I tried to prevent it. I have repeatedly asked for a change of venue. I have repeatedly said the trial should not be held in this courthouse.
You wanted it here, Mr. Buckley, and you kept it here, Judge Noose. You both now look foolish complaining."
Jake was impressed with his arrogance. Buckley growled and stared out the window.
"Look at them. Wild niggers. Must be ten thousand out there."
During lunch the ten thousand grew to fifteen thousand. Cars from a hundred miles away-some with Tennessee plates-parked on the shoulders of the highways outside the city limits. The people hiked for two and three miles under a blistering sun to join the festivities around the courthouse. Agee broke for lunch, and the square quieted.
The blacks were peaceful. They opened their coolers and picnic baskets, and shared with each other. They congregated in the shade, but there were not enough trees to go around.
They filled the courthouse in search of cold water and rest rooms. They walked the sidewalks and gazed in the windows of the closed shops and stores. Fearing trouble from the horde, the Coffee Shop and the Tea Shoppe closed during lunch. Outside of Claude's, they lined the sidewalk for a block and a half. Jake, Harry Rex, and
Lucien relaxed on the balcony and enjoyed the circus below. A pitcher of fresh, slushy mar-garitas sat on the table and slowly disappeared. At times they participated in the rally, yelling "Free Carl Lee" or humming along with "We Shall Overcome." No one knew the words but Lucien.
He had learned them during the glorious civil rights days of the sixties, and still claimed to be the only white in Ford County who knew all the words to every stanza. He had even joined a black church back then, he explained between drinks, after his church voted to exclude black members. He dropped out after a three-hour sermon ruptured a disc. He had decided white people were not cut out for that kind of worship. He still contributed, however.
Occasionally, a crew of TV people would stray near Jake's office and serve up a question.
Jake would pretend not to hear, then finally yell "Free Carl Lee."
Precisely at one-thirty, Agee found his bullhorn, unfurled his banner, lined up the ministers and gathered his marchers. He started with the hymn, sung directly into the bullhorn, and the parade crawled down Jackson, then onto Caffey, and around and around the square. Each lap attracted more people and made more noise.
The jury room was silent for fifteen minutes after Reba Betts was converted from an undecided to a not guilty. If a man raped her, she just might blow his head off if she got the chance. It was"now five to five with two undecideds, and a compromise looked hopeless. The foreman continued to straddle the fence. Poor old Eula Dell Yates had cried one way, then cried the other, and everyone knew she would eventually go with the majority. She had burst into tears at the window, and was led to her seat by Clyde Sisco.
She wanted to go home. Said she felt like a prisoner.
The shouting and marching had taken its toll. When the bullhorn passed nearby, the anxiety level in the small room reached a frenzied peak. Acker would ask for quiet, and they would wait impatiently until the racket faded to the front of the courthouse. It never disappeared completely.
Carol Corman was the first to inquire about their safety. For the first time in a week, the quiet motel was awfully attractive.
Three hours of nonstop chanting had unraveled whatever nerves were left. The foreman suggested they talk about their families and wait until Noose sent for them at five.
Bernice Toole, a soft guilty, suggested something they had all thought about but no one had mentioned. "Why don't we just tell the judge we are hopelessly deadlocked?"
"He'd declare a mistrial, wouldn't he?" asked Jo Ann Gates.
"Yes," answered the foreman. "And he would be re- tried in a few months. Why don't we call it a day, and try again tomorrow?"
They agreed. They were not ready to quit. Eula Dell cried softly.
At four, Carl Lee and the kids walked to one of the tall windows lining each side of the courtroom. He noticed a small knob. He turned it, and the windows swung open to a tiny platform hanging over the west lawn. He nodded at a deputy, and stepped outside. He held Tonya and watched the crowd.
They saw him. They yelled his name and rushed to the building under him. Agee led the marchers off the street and across the lawn. A wave of black humanity gathered under the small porch and pressed forward for a closer look at their champion.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
He waved at his fans below him. He kissed his daughter and hugged his sons. He waved and told the kids to wave.
Jake and his small band of hombres used the diversion to stagger across the street to the courthouse.
Jean Gillespie had called. Noose wanted to see the lawyers in chambers. He was disturbed. Buckley was raging.
"I demand a mistrial! I demand a mistrial!" he yelled at Noose the second Jake walked in.
"You move for a mistrial, Governor. You don't demand," Jake sard through glassy eyes.
"You go to hell, Brigance! You planned all this. You plotted this insurrection. Those are your niggers out there."
"Where's the court reporter?" Jake asked. "I want this on the record."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Noose said. "Let's be professionals."
"Judge, the State moves for a mistrial," Buckley said, somewhat professionally.
"Overruled."
"All right, then. The State moves to allow the jury to deliberate at someplace other than the courthouse."
"Now that's an interesting idea," Noose said. "I see no reason why they can't deliberate at the motel. It's quiet and few people know where it is,"
Buckley said confidently.
"Jake?" Noose said.
"Nope, it won't work. There is no statutory provision giving you the authority to allow deliberations outside the courthouse." Jake reached in his pocket and found several folded papers. He threw them on the desk. "State versus Dubose, 1963 case from Linwood
County. The air conditioning in the Linwood County Courthouse quit during a heat wave.
The circuit judge allowed the jury to deliberate in a local library. The defense objected.
Jury convicted. On appeal, the Supreme Court ruled the judge's decision was improper and an abuse of discretion. The court went on to hold that the jury deliberations must take place in the jury room in the courthouse where the defendant is being tried. You can't move them."
Noose studied the case and handed it to Musgrove.
"Get the courtroom ready," he said to Mr. Pate.
With the exception of the reporters, the courtroom was solid black. The jurors looked haggard and strained.
"I take it you do not have a verdict," Noose said.
"No, sir," replied the foreman.
"Let me ask you this. Without indicating any numerical division, have you reached a point where you can go no further?"
"We've talked about that, Your Honor. And we'd like to leave, get a good night's rest, and try again tomorrow. We're not ready to quit."
"That's good to hear. I apologize for the distractions, but, again, there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry. You'll just have to do your best. Anything further?"
"No, sir."
"Very well. We'll stand adjourned until nine A.M. tomorrow."
Carl Lee pulled Jake's shoulder. "What does all this mean?"
"It means they're deadlocked. It could be six to six, or eleven to one against you, or eleven to one for acquittal. So , don't get excited."
Barry Acker cornered the bailiff and handed him a folded sheet of paper. It read:
Luann:
Pack the kids and go to your mother's. Don't tell anyone. Stay there until this thing is over. Just do as I say. Things are dangerous.
Barry
"Can you get this to my wife today? Our number is 881-0774."
"Sure," said the bailiff.
Tim Nunley, mechanic down at the Chevrolet place, former client of Jake Brigance, and
Coffee Shop regular, sat on a couch in the cabin deep in the woods and drank a beer. He listened to his Klan brothers as they got drunk and cursed niggers. Occasionally, he cursed them too. He had noticed whispering for the past two nights now, and felt something was up. He listened carefully.
He stood to g et another beer. Suddenly, they jumped him. Three of his comrades pinned him against the wall and pounded him with fists and feet. He was beaten
badly, then gagged, bound, and dragged outside, across the gravel road, and into the field where he had been inducted as a member. A cross was lit as he was tied to a pole and stripped. A bullwhip lashed him until his shoulders, back, and legs were solid crimson.
Two dozen of his ex-brethren watched in mute horror as the pole and limp body were soaked with kerosene. The leader, the one with the bullwhip, stood next to him for an eternity. He pronounced the death sentence, then threw a match.
Mickey Mouse had been silenced.
They packed their robes and belongings, and left for home. Most would never return to Ford County.
Wednesday. For the first time in weeks Jake slept more than eight hours. He had fallen asleep on the couch in his office, and he awoke at five to the sounds of the military preparing for the worst. He was rested, but the nervous throbbing returned with the thought that this day would probably be the big day. He showered and shaved downstairs, and ripped open a new pack of Fruit of the Loom he had purchased at the drug store. He dressed himself in Stan Atcavage's finest navy all-season suit, which was an inch too short and a bit loose, but not a bad fit under the circumstances. He thought of the rubble on Adams Street, then Carla, and the knot in his stomach began to churn. He ran for the newspapers.
On the front pages of the Memphis, Jackson, and Tupelo papers were identical photos of
Carl Lee standing on the small porch over the mob, holding his daughter and waving to his people. There was nothing about Jake's house. He was relieved, and suddenly hungry.
Dell hugged him like a lost child. She removed her apron and sat next to him in a corner booth. As the regulars arrived and saw him, they stopped by and patted him on the back.
It was good to see him again. They had missed him, and they were for him. He looked gaunt, she said, so he ordered most of the menu.
"Say, Jake, are all those blacks gonna be back today?" asked Bert West.
"Probably," he said as he stabbed a chunk of pancakes.
"I heard they's plannin' to bring more folks this mornin'," said Andy Rennick. "Ever nigger radio station in north Mississippi is tellin' folks to come to Clanton."
Great, thought Jake. He added Tabasco to his scrambled eggs.
"Can the jury hear all that yellin'?" asked Bert.
"Sure they can," Jake answered. "That's why they're doing it. They're not deaf."
"That's gotta scare them."
Jake certainly hoped so.
"How's the family?" Dell asked quietly.
"Fine, I guess. I talked to Carla every night."
"She scared?"
"Terrified."
"What have they done to you lately?"
"Nothing since Sunday morning."
"Does Carla know?"
Jake chewed and shook his head.
"I didn't think so. You poor thing."
"I'll be okay. What's the talk in here?"
"We closed at lunch yesterday. There were so many blacks outside, and we were afraid of a riot. We'll watch it close this morning, and we may close again. Jake, what if there's a conviction?"
"It could get hairy."
He stayed for an hour and answered their questions. Strangers arrived, and Jake excused himself. There was nothing to do but wait. He sat on the balcony, drank coffee, smoked a cigar, and watched the guardsmen. He thought of the clients he once had; of a quiet little
Southern law office with a secretary and clients waiting to see him. Of docket calls and interviews at the jail. Of normal things, like a family, a home, and church on Sunday mornings. He was not meant for the big time.
The first church bus arrived at seven-thirty and was halted by the soldiers. The doors flew open and an endless stream of blacks with lawn chairs and food baskets headed for the front lawn. For an hour Jake blew smoke into the heavy air and watched with great satisfaction as the square filled beyond capacity with noisy yet peaceful protestors. The reverends were out in full force, directing their people and assuring Ozzie and the colonel they were nonviolent folk. Ozzie was convinced.
The colonel was nervous. By nine, the streets were crammed with demonstrators.
Someone spotted the Greyhound. "Here they come!" Agee screamed into the loudspeaker. The mob pushed to the corner of Jackson and Quincy, where the soldiers, troopers, and deputies formed a mobile barricade around the bus and walked it through the crowd to the rear of the courthouse.
Eula Dell Yates cried openly. Clyde Sisco sat next to the window and held her hand. The others stared in fear as the bus inched around the square. A heavily armed passageway was cleared from the bus to the courthouse, and Ozzie came aboard. The situation was under control, he assured them over the roar. Just follow him and walk as fast as possible.
The bailiff locked the door as they gathered around the coffeepot. Eula Dell sat by herself in the corner crying softly and flinching as each "Free Carl Lee!'" boomed from below.
"I don't care what we do," she said. "I really don't care, but I just can't take any more of this. I haven't seen my family in eight days, and now this madness. I didn't sleep any last night." She cried louder. "I think I'm close to a nervous breakdown. Let's just get outta here."
Clyde handed her a Kleenex and rubbed her shoulder.
Jo Ann Gates was a soft guilty who was ready to crack. "I didn't sleep either last night. I can't take another day like yesterday. I wanna go home to my kids."
Barry Acker stood by the window and thought of the riot that would follow a guilty verdict. There wouldn't be a building left downtown, including the courthouse. He doubted if anybody would protect the jurors in the aftermath of a wrong verdict. They probably wouldn't make it back to the bus. Thankfully, his wife and kids had fled to safety in Arkansas.
"I feel like a hostage," said Bernice Toole, a firm guilty. "That mob would storm the courthouse in a split second if we convict him. I feel intimidated."
Clyde handed her a box of Kleenexes.
"I don't care what we do," Eula Dell whined in desperation. "Let's just get outta here. I honestly don't care if we convict him or cut him loose, let's just do something. My nerves can't take it."
Wanda Womack stood at the end of the table and nervously cleared her throat. She asked for attention. "I have a proposal," she said slowly, "that just might settle this thing."
The crying stopped, and Barry Acker returned to his seat. She had their complete attention.
"I thought of something last night when I couldn't sleep, and I want you to consider it. It may be painful. It may cause you to search your heart and take a long look at your soul.
But I'll ask you to do it anyway. And if each of you will be honest with yourself, I think we can wrap this up before noon."
The only sounds came from the street below.
"Right now we are evenly divided, give or take a vote. We could tell Judge Noose that we are hopelessly deadlocked. He would declare a mistrial, and we would go home. Then in a few months this entire spectacle would be repeated. Mr. Hailey would be tried again in this same courtroom, with the same judge, but with a different jury, a jury drawn from this county, a jury of our friends, husbands, wives, and parents. The same kind of people who are now in this room. That jury will be confronted with the same issues before us now, and those people will not be any smarter than we are.
"The time to decide this case is now. It would be morally wrong to shirk our responsibilities and pass the buck to the next jury. Can we all agree on that?"
They silently agreed.
"Good. This is what I want you to do. I want you to pretend with me for a moment. I want you to use your imaginations. I want you to close your eyes and listen to nothing but my voice."
They obediently closed their eyes. Anything was worth a try.
Jake lay on the couch in his office and listened to Lucien tell stories about his prestigious father and grandfather, and their prestigious law firm, and all the people they screwed out of money and land.
"My inheritance was built by my promiscuous ancestors!" he yelled. "They screwed everybody they could!"
Harry Rex laughed uncontrollably. Jake had heard the stories before, but they were always funny, and different.
"What about Ethel's retarded son?" Jake asked.
"Don't talk that way about my brother," Lucien protested. "He's the brightest one in the family. Sure he's my brother. Dad hired her when she was seventeen, and believe it or not, she looked good back then. Ethel Twitry was the hottest thing in Ford County. My dad couldn't keep his hands off her. Sickening to think about now, but it's true."
"It's disgusting," Jake said.
"She had a houseful of kids, and two of them looked just like me, especially the dunce. It was very embarrassing back then."
"What about your mother?" asked Harry Rex.
"She was one of those dignified old Southern ladies whose main concern was who had blue blood and who didn't. There's not much blue blood around here, so she spent most of her time in Memphis trying to impress and be accepted by the cotton families. I spent a good part of my childhood at the Peabody Hotel all starched out with a little red bow tie, trying to act polished around the rich kids from Memphis. I hated it, and I didn't care much for my mother either. She knew about Ethel, but she accepted it. She told the old man to be discreet and not embarrass the family. He was discreet, and I wound up with a retarded half-brother."
"When did she die?"
"Six months before my father was killed in the plane crash."
"How'd she die?" asked Harry Rex.
"Gonor rhea. Caught it from the yard boy."
"Lucien! Seriously?"
"Cancer. Carried it for three years, but she was dignified to the very end."
"Where'd you go wrong?" Jake asked.
"I think it started in the first grade. My uncle owned the big plantation south of town, and he owned several black families. This was in the Depression, right? I spent most of my childhood there because my father was too busy right here in this office and my mother was too busy with her hot- tea-drinkers clubs. All of my playmates were black. I'd been raised by black servants. My best friend was Willie Ray Wilbanks. No kidding. My great-grandfather purchased his great- grandfather. And when the slaves were freed, most of them just kept the family name. What were they supposed to do? That's why you've got so many black Wilbankses around here. We owned all the slaves in Ford County, and most of them became Wilbankses."
"You're probably kin to some," Jake said.
"Given the proclivities of my forefathers, I'm probably kin to all of them."
The phone rang. They froze and stared at it. Jake sat up and held his breath. Harry Rex picked up the receiver, then hung up. "Wrong number," he said.
They studied each other, then smiled.
"Anyway, back to the first grade," Jake said.
"Okay. When it came time to start school, Willie Ray and the rest of my little buddies got on the bus headed for the black school. I jumped on the bus too, and the driver very carefully took my hand and made me get off. I cried and screamed, and my uncle took me home and told my mother, 'Lucien got on the nigger school bus.' She was horrified, and beat my little ass. The old man beat me too, but years later admitted it was funny. So I went to the white school where I was always the little rich kid. Everybody hated the little rich kid, especially in a poor town like Clanton. Not that I was lovable to begin with, but everyone got a kick out of hating me just because we had money.
That's why I've never thought much of money. That's where the nonconformity started. In the first grade. I decided not to be like my mother because she frowned all the time and looked down on the world. And my old man was always too busy to enjoy himself. I said piss on it. I'm gonna have some fun."
Jake stretched and closed his eyes.
"Nervous?" Lucien asked.
"I just want it to be over."
The phone rang again, and Lucien grabbed it. He listened, then hung up.
"What is it?" Harry Rex demanded.
Jake sat up and glared at Lucien. The moment had arrived.
"Jean Gillespie. The jury is ready."
"Oh my God," Jake said as he rubbed his temples.
"Listen to me, Jake," Lucien lectured. "Millions of people will see what is about to happen. Keep your cool. Be careful what you say."
"What about me?" Harry Rex moaned. "I need to go vomit."
"That's strange advice coming from you, Lucien," Jake said as he buttoned Stan's coat.
"I've learned a lot. Show your class. If you win, watch what you say to the press. Be sure and thank the jury. If you lose-"
"If you lose," Harry Rex said, "run like hell, because those niggers will storm the courthouse."
"I feel weak," Jake admitted.
Agee took the platform on the front steps and announced the jury was ready. He asked for quiet, and instantly the mob grew still. They moved toward the front columns. Agee asked them to fall to their knees and pray. They knelt obediently and prayed earnestly.
Every man, woman, and child on the front lawn bowed before God and begged him to let their man go.
The soldiers stood bunched together and also prayed for an acquittal.
Ozzie and Moss Junior seated the courtroom and lined deputies and reserves around the walls and down the aisle. Jake entered from the holding room and stared at Carl Lee at the defense table. He glanced at the spectators. Many were praying. Many were biting their fingers. Gwen was wiping tears. Lester looked fearfully at Jake. The children were confused and scared.
Noose assumed the bench and an electrified silence engulfed the courtroom. There was no sound from the outside. Twenty thousand blacks knelt on the ground like Muslims.
Perfect stillness inside the courtroom and out.
"I have been advised that the jury has reached a verdict, is that correct, Mr. Bailiff? Very well. We will soon seat the jury, but before we do so I have some instructions. I will not tolerate any outbursts or displays of emotion. I will direct the sheriff to remove any person who creates a disturbance. If need be, I will clear the courtroom. Mr. Bailiff, will you seat the jury."
The door opened, and it seemed like an hour before Eula Dell Yates appeared first with tears in her eyes. Jake dropped his head. Carl Lee stared gamely at the portrait of Robert
E. Lee above Noose.
They awkwardly filled the jury box. They seemed jittery, tense, scared. Most had been crying. Jake felt sick. Barry Acker held a piece of paper that attracted the attention of everyone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?"
"Yes, sir, we have," answered the foreman in a high-pitched, nervous voice.
"Hand it to the clerk, please."
Jean Gillespie took it and handed it to His Honor, who studied it forever. "It is technically in order," he finally said.
Eula Dell was flooding, and her sniffles were the only sounds in the courtroom. Jo Ann
Gates and Bernice Toole padded their eyes with handkerchiefs. The crying could mean only one thing. Jake had vowed to ignore the jury before the verdict was read, but it was impossible. In his first criminal trial, the jurors had smiled as they took their seats. At that moment, Jake had become confident of an acquittal. Seconds later he learned that the smiles were because a criminal was about to be removed from the streets. Since that trial, he had vowed never to look at the jurors. But he always did. It would be nice to see a wink or a thumbs up, but that never happened.
Noose looked at Carl Lee. "Will the defendant please rise."
Jake knew there were probably more terrifying requests known to the English tongue, but to a criminal lawyer that request at that particular moment had horrible implications. His client stood awkwardly, pitifully. Jake closed his eyes and held his breath. His hands shook and his stomach ached.
Noose handed the verdict back to Jean Gillespie. "Please read it, Madam Clerk."
She unfolded it and faced the defendant. "As to each count of the indictment, we the jury find the defendant not guilty by reason of insanity."
Carl Lee turned and bolted for the railing. Tonya and the boys sprang from the front pew and grabbed him. The courtroom exploded in pandemonium. Gwen screamed and burst into tears. She buried her head in Lester's arms. The reverends stood, looked upward, and shouted "Hallelujah!" and "Praise Jesus!" and "Lord! Lord! Lord!"
Noose's admonition meant nothing. He rapped the gavel half-heartedly and said, "Order, order, order in the seemed content to allow a little celebration.
Jake was numb, lifeless, paralyzed. His only movement was a weak smile in the direction of the jury box. His eyes watered and his lip quivered, and he decided not to make a spectacle of himself. He nodded at Jean Gillespie, who was crying, and just sat at the defense table nodding and trying to smile, unable to do anything else. From the corner of his eye he could see Musgrove and Buckley removing files, legal pads, and important-looking papers, and throwing it all into their briefcases. Be gracious, he told himself.
A teenager darted between two deputies, through the door, and ran through the rotunda screaming "Not guilty! Not guilty!" He ran to a small balcony over the front _steps and screamed to the masses below "Not guilty! Not guilty!" Bedlam erupted.
"Order, order in the court," Noose was saying when the delayed reaction from the outside came thundering through the windows.
"Order, order in the courtroom." He tolerated the excitement for another minute, then asked the sheriff to restore order. Ozzie raised his hands and spoke. The clapping, hugging and praising died quickly. Carl Lee released his children and returned to the defense table. He sat close to his attorney and put his arm around him, grinning and crying at the same time.
Noose smiled at the defendant. "Mr. Hailey, you have been tried by a jury of your peers and found not guilty. I do not recall any expert testimony that you are now dangerous or in need of further psychiatric treatment. You are a free man."
His Honor looked at the attorneys. "If there is nothing further, this court will stand adjourned until August 15."
Carl Lee was smothered by his family and friends. They hugged him, hugged each other, hugged Jake. They wept unashamedly and praised the Lord. They told Jake they loved him.
The reporters pressed against the railing and began firing questions at Jake. He held up his hands, and said he would have no comment. But there would be a full-blown press conference in his office at 2:00 P.M.
Buckley and Musgrove left through a side door. The jurors were locked in the jury room to await the last bus ride to the motel. Barry Acker asked to speak to the sheriff. Ozzie met him in the hallway, listened intently, and promised to escort him home and provide protection around the clock.
The reporters assaulted Carl Lee. "I just wanna go home," he said over and over. "I just wanna go home."
The celebration kicked into high gear on the front lawn. There was singing, dancing, crying, backslapping, hugging, thanks-giving, congratulating, outright laughing, cheering, chanting, high fives, low fives, and soul brother shakes. The
heavens were praised in one glorious, tumultuous, irreverent jubilee. They packed closer together in front of the courthouse and waited impatiently for their hero to emerge and bask in his much deserved adulation.
Their patience grew thin. After thirty minutes of screaming "We Want Carl Lee! We
Want Carl Lee!" their man appeared at the door. An ear-splitting, earth-shaking roar greeted him. He inched forward through the mass with his lawyer and family, and stopped on the top step under the pillars where the plywood platform held a thousand microphones. The whooping and yelling of twenty thousand voices was deafening. He hugged his lawyer, and they waved to the sea of screaming faces.
The shouting from the army of reporters was completely inaudible. Occasionally, Jake would stop waving and yell something about a press conference in his office at two.
Carl Lee hugged his wife and children, and they waved. The crowd roared its approval.
Jake slid away and into the courthouse, where he found Lucien and Harry Rex waiting in a corner, away from the mad rush of spectators. "Let's get out of here," Jake yelled. They pushed through the mob, down the hall and out the rear door. Jake spotted a swarm of reporters on the sidewalk outside his office.
"Where are you parked?" he asked Lucien. He pointed to a side street, and they disappeared behind the Coffee Shop.
Sallie fried pork chops and green tomatoes, and served them on the porch. Lucien produced a bottle of expensive cham-
Rex ate with his fingers, gnawing on the bones as if he hadn't seen food in a month. Jake played with his food and worked on the ice-cold champagne. After two glasses, he smiled into the distance. He savored the moment.
"You look silly as hell," Harry Rex said with a mouthful of pork.
"Shut up, Harry Rex," Lucien said. "Let him enjoy his finest hour."
"He's enjoying it. Look at that smirk."
"What should I tell the press?" Jake asked.
"Tell them you need some clients," Harry Rex said.
"Clients will be no problem," Lucien said. "They'll line the sidewalks waiting for appointments."
"Why didn't you talk to the reporters in the courthouse? They had their cameras running and everything. I started to say something for them," Harry Rex said.
"I'm sure it would've been a gem," Lucien said.
"I've got them at my fingertips," Jake said. "They're not going anywhere. We could sell tickets to the press conference and make a fortune."
"Can I sit and watch, please, Jake, please," Harry Rex said.
They argued over whether they should take the antique Bronco or the nasty little Porsche.
Jake said he was not driving. Harry Rex cursed the loudest, and they loaded into the
Bronco. Lucien found a spot in the rear seat. Jake rode shotgun and gave instructions.
They hit the back streets, and missed most of the traffic from the square. The highway was crowded, and Jake directed his driver through a myriad of gravel roads. They found blacktop, and Harry Rex raced away in the direction of the lake.
"I have one question, Lucien," Jake said.
"What?"
"And I want a straight answer."
"What?"
"Did you cut a deal with Sisco?"
"No, my boy, you won it on your own."
"Do you swear?"
"I swear to God. On a stack of Bibles."
Jake wanted to believe him, so he dropped it. They rode in silence, in the sweltering heat, and listened as Harry Rex sang along with the stereo. Suddenly, Jake pointed and yelled.
Harry Rex slammed on the brakes, made a wild left turn, and sped down another gravel road.
"Where are we going?" Lucien demanded.
"Just hang on," Jake said as he looked at a row of houses approaching on the right. He pointed to the second one, and Harry Rex pulled into the driveway and parked under a shade tree. Jake got out, looked around the front yard, and walked onto the porch. He knocked on the screen door.
A man appeared. A stranger. "Yeah, whatta you want?"
"I'm Jake Brigance, and-"
The door flew open, and the man rushed onto the porch and grabbed Jake's hand. "Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm Mack Loyd Crowell. I was on the grand jury that almost didn't indict.
You done a real good job. I'm proud of you."
Jake shook his hand and repeated his name. Then he remembered, Mack Loyd Crowell, the man who told Buckley to shut up and sit down in the grand jury. "Yeah, Mack Loyd, now I remember. Thanks."
Jake looked awkwardly through the door.
"You lookin' for Wanda?" Crowell asked.
"Well, yes. I was just passing by, and remembered her address from the jury research."
"You've come to the right place. She lives here, and I do too most of the time. We ain't married or nothing, but we go together. She's layin' down takin' a nap. She's pretty wore out."
"Don't wake her," Jake said.
"She told me what happened. She won it for you."
"How? What happened?"
"She made them all close their eyes and listen to her. She told them to pretend that the little girl had blond hair and blue eyes, that the two rapists were black, that they tied her right foot to a tree and her left foot to a fence post, that they raped her repeatedly and cussed her because she was white.
She told them to picture the little girl layin' there beggin' for her daddy while they kicked her in the mouth and knocked out her teeth, broke both jaws, broke her nose. She said to imagine two drunk blacks pouring beer on her and pissing in her face, and laughing like idiots. And then she told them to imagine that the little girl belonged to them -their daughter. She told them to be honest with themselves and to write on a piece of paper whether or not they would kill those black bastards if they got the chance. And they voted, by secret ballot. All twelve said they would do the killing. The foreman counted the votes. Twelve to zero. Wanda said she'd sit in that jury room until Christmas before she'd vote to convict, and if they were honest with themselves, then they ought to feel the same way. Ten of them agreed with her, and one lady held out. They all started cryin' and cussin' her so bad, she finally caved in. It was rough in there, Jake."
Jake listened to every word without breathing. He heard a noise. Wanda Womack walked to the screen door. She smiled at him and began crying. He stared at her through the screen, but could not talk. He bit his lip and nodded. "Thanks," he managed weakly. She wiped her eyes and nodded.
On Craft Road, a hundred cars lined both shoulders east and west of the Hailey driveway.
The long front yard was packed with vehicles, children playing, and parents sitting under shade trees and on car hoods. Harry Rex parked in a ditch by the mailbox. A crowd rushed to greet Carl Lee's lawyer. Lester grabbed him and said, "You done it again, you done it again."
They shook hands and slapped backs across the yard and up to the porch. Agee hugged him and praised God. Carl Lee left the swing and walked down the steps, followed by his family and admirers. They gathered around Jake as the two great men came face to face.
They clutched hands and smiled at each other, both searching for words. They embraced.
The crowd clapped and shouted.
"Thank you, Jake," Carl Lee said softly.
The lawyer and client sat in the swing and answered questions about the trial. Lucien and
Harry Rex joined Lester and some of his friends under a shade tree for a little drink.
Tonya ran and jumped around the yard with a hundred other kids.
At two-thirty, Jake sat at his desk and talked to Carla. Harry Rex and Lucien drank the last of the margaritas, and quickly got drunk. Jake drank coffee and told his wife he would leave Memphis in three hours and be in North Carolina by ten. Yes, he was fine, he said. Everything was okay, and everything was over. There were dozens of reporters packed into his conference room, so be sure and watch the evening news. He would meet with them briefly, then drive to Memphis. He said he loved her, missed her body, and would be there soon. He hung up.
Tomorrow, he'd call Ellen.
"Why are you leaving today!" Lucien demanded.
"You're stupid, Jake, just stupid. You've got a thousand reporters in the palm of your hand, and you're leaving town. Stupid, just stupid," Harry Rex shouted.
Jake stood. "How do I look, fellas?"
"Like a dumbass if you leave town," Harry Rex said.
"Hang around for a couple of days," Lucien pleaded. "This is an opportunity you'll never have again. Please, Jake."
"Relax, fellas. I'm going to meet with them now, let them take my picture, answer a few of their stupid questions, then I'm leaving town."
"You're crazy, Jake," Harry Rex said.
"I agree," said Lucien.
Jake checked the mirror, adjusted Stan's tie, and smiled at his friends. "I appreciate you guys. I really do. I got paid nine hundred dollars for this trial, and I plan to share it with y'all."
They poured the last of the margaritas, gulped it down, and followed Jake Brigance down the stairs to face the reporters.

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Adventures of Huckleberry Finn