A Time to Kill

The Ford County Courthouse opened at 8:00 A.M. and closed at 5:00 P.M. every day except Friday, when it closed at four-thirty. At four-thirty on Friday Carl Lee was hiding in a moi-iiuui icsiroom wnen tney locked the courthouse. He sat on a toilet and listened quietly for an hour. No janitors. No one. Silence. He walked through the wide, semidark hall to the rear doors, and peeked through the window. No one in sight. He listened for a while. The courthouse was deserted. He turned and looked down the long hall, through the rotunda and through the front doors, two hundred feet away.

He studied the building. The two sets of rear doors opened to the inside into a large, rectangular entrance area. To the far right was a set of stairs, and to the left was an identical stairway. The open area narrowed and led into the hall. Carl Lee pretended to be on trial. He grabbed his hands behind him, and touched his back to the rear door. He walked to his right thirty feet to the stairs; up the stairs, ten steps, then a small landing, then a ninety-degree turn to the left, just like Lester said; then, ten more steps to the holding room. It was a small room, fifteen by fifteen, with nothing but a window and two doors. One door he opened, and walked into the huge courtroom in front of the rows of padded pews. He walked to the aisle and sat in the front row. Surveying the room, he noticed in front of him the railing, or bar, as Lester called it, which separated the general public from the area where the judge, jury, witnesses, lawyers, defendants, and clerks sat and worked.

He walked down the aisle to the rear doors and examined the courtroom in detail. It looked much different from Wednesday. Back down the aisle, he returned to the holding room and tried the other door, which led to the area behind the bar where the trial took place. He sat at the long table where Lester and Cobb and Willard had sat. To the right was another long table where the prosecutors sat. Behind the tables was a row of wooden chairs, then the bar with swinging gates on both ends. The judge sat high and lordly behind the elevated bench, his back to the wall under the faded portrait of Jefferson Davis, frowning down on everyone in the room. The jury box was against the wall to Carl Lee’s right, to the judge’s left, under the yellow portraits of other forgotten Confederate heroes. The witness stand was next to the bench, but lower, of course, and in front of the jury. To Carl Lee’s left, opposite the jury box, was a long, enclosed workbench covered with large red docket books.

Clerks and lawyers usually milled around behind it during a trial. Behind the workbench, through the wall, was the holding room.

Carl Lee stood, still as though handcuffed, and walked slowly through the small swinging gate in the bar, and was led through the first door into the holding room; then down the steps, ten of them, through the narrow, shadowy stairway; then he stopped. From the landing halfway down the steps, he could see the rear doors of the courthouse and most of the entrance area between the doors and the hall. At the foot of the stairs, to the right, was a door that he opened and found a crowded, junky janitor’s closet. He closed the door and explored the small room. It turned and ran under the stairway. It was dark, dusty, crowded with brooms and buckets and seldom used. He opened the door slightly and looked up the stairs.

For another hour he roamed the courthouse. The other rear stairway led to another holding room just behind the jury box. One door went to the courtroom, the other to the jury room. The stairs continued to the third floor, where he found the county law library and two witness rooms, just as Lester said.

Up and down, up and down, he traced and retraced the movements to be made by the men who raped his daughter.

He sat in the judge’s chair and surveyed his domain. He sat in the jury box and rocked in one of the comfortable chairs. He sat in the witness chair and blew into the microphone. It was finally dark at seven when Carl Lee raised a window in the restroom next to the janitor’s closet, and slid quietly through the bushes and into the darkness.

"Who would you report it to?" Carla asked as she closed the fourteen-inch pizza box and poured some more lemonade.

Jake rocked slightly in the wicker swing on the front porch and watched Hanna skip rope on the sidewalk next to the street.

"Are you there?" she asked.

"No."

"Who would you report it to?"

"I don’t plan to report it," he said.

"i mink you should."

"I think I shouldn’t."

"Why not?"

His rocking gained speed and he sipped the lemonade. He spoke slowly. "First of all, I don’t know for sure that a crime is being planned. He said some things any father would say, and I’m sure he’s having thoughts any father would have. But as far as actually planning a crime, I don’t think so. Secondly, what he said to me was said in confidence, just as if he was a client. In fact, he probably thinks of me as his lawyer."

"But even if you’re his lawyer, and you know he’s planning a crime, you have to report it, don’t you?"

"Yes. If I’m certain of his plans. But I’m not."

She was not satisfied. "I think you should report it."

Jake did not respond. It wouldn’t matter. He ate his last bite of crust and tried to ignore her.

"You want Carl Lee to do it, don’t you?"

"Do what?"

"Kill those boys."

"No, I don’t." He was not convincing. "But if he did, I wouldn’t blame him because I’d do the same thing."

"Don’t start that again."

"I’m serious and you know it. I’d do it."

"Jake, you couldn’t kill a man."

"Okay. Whatever. I’m not going to argue. We’ve been through it before."

Carla yelled at Hanna to move away from the street. She sat next to him in the swing and rattled her ice cubes. "Would you represent him?"

"I hope so."

"Would the jury convict him?"

"Would you?"

"I don’t know."

"Well, think of Hanna. Just look at that sweet little innocent child out there skipping rope. You’re a mother. Now think of the little Hailey girl, lying there, beaten, bloody, begging for her momma and daddy-"

"Shut up, Jake!"

He smiled. "Answer the question. You’re on the jury. Would you vote to convict the father?"

She placed her glass on the windowsill and suddenly became interested in her cuticles. Jake smelled victory.

"Come on. You’re on the jury. Conviction or acquittal?"

"I’m always on the jury around here. Either that or I’m being cross-examined."

"Convict or acquit?"

She glared at him. "It would be hard to convict."

He grinned and rested his case.

"But I don’t see how he could kill them if they’re in jail."

"Easy. They’re not always in jail. They go to court and they’re transported to and from. Remember Oswald and Jack Ruby. Plus, they get out if they can make bail."

"When can they do that?"

"Bonds will be set Monday. If they bond out, they’re loose."

"And if they can’t?"

"They remain in jail until trial."

"When is the trial?"

"Probably late summer."

"I think you should report it."

Jake bolted from the swing and went to play with Hanna.

K. T. Bruster, or Cat Bruster, as he was known, was, to his knowledge, the only one-eyed black millionaire in Memphis. He owned a string of black topless joints in town, all of which he operated legally. He owned blocks of rental property, which he operated legally, and he owned two churches in south Memphis, which were also operated legally. He was a benefactor for numerous black causes, a friend of the politicians, and a hero to his people.