A Time to Kill

"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 they 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.