A Time to Kill

Tank flipped on a light switch by the front door. "Say, everbody, this here is Carl Lee Hailey's lawyer, Jake Bri-gance. 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 At-cavage, 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. The 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 buried 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. Buck-ley will save his peremptory challenges for the blacks. We know that. We've got to concentrate on white people."

"Women," said Lucien. "Always pick women 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."