A Time to Kill

He motioned for Mr. Pate, who approached the bench. "I’ve got a half pint of ice water in my desk drawer," he whispered. "Pour me some in a Styrofoam cup."

Mr. Pate nodded and disappeared.

"This is a bail hearing," he declared loudly, "and I don’t intend for it to last long. Are the defendants ready?"

"Yes, sir," said Tyndale.

"Yes, Your Honor," said Mr. Bernard.

"The State ready?"

"Yes, sir," answered Childers without standing.

"Good. Call your first witness."

Childers addressed the judge. "Your Honor, the State will call no witnesses. His Honor is well aware of the charges against these two defendants, since His Honor held the preliminary hearing last Wednesday. It is my understanding the victim is now home, so we do not anticipate further charges. The grand jury will be asked next Monday to indict the two defendants for rape, kidnapping, and aggravated assault. Because of the violent nature of these crimes, because of the age of the victim, and because Mr. Cobb is a convicted felon, the State would ask for the maximum bonds, and not a penny less."

Bullard almost choked on his ice water. What maximum? There’s no such thing as a maximum bond.

"What do you suggest, Mr. Childers?"

"Half a million apiece!" Childers announced proudly and sat down.

Half a million! Out of the question, thought Bullard. He sipped furiously and glared at the prosecutor. Half a million! Double-crossed in open court. He sent Mr. Pate after more ice water.

"The defense may proceed."

Cobb’s new lawyer stood purposefully. He cleared his throat and removed his horn-rimmed, academic, go-to-hell reading glasses. "May it please the court, Your Honor, my name is Peter K. Bernard. 1 am irom jviempms, aim i uavt been retained by Mr. Cobb to represent him-"

"Do you have a license to practice in Mississippi?" interrupted Bullard.

Bernard was caught off-guard. "Well, uh, not exactly, Your Honor."

"I see. When you say ‘not exactly,’ do you mean something other than no?"

Several lawyers in the jury box snickered. Bullard was famous for this. He hated Memphis lawyers, and required them to associate local counsel before appearing in his court. Years before when he was practicing, a Memphis judge had kicked him out of court because he was not licensed in Tennessee. He had enjoyed revenge since the day he was elected.

"Your Honor, I am not licensed in Mississippi, but I am licensed in Tennessee."

"I would hope so," came the retort from the bench. More suppressed laughter from the jury box. "Are you familiar with our local rules here in Ford County?" His Honor asked.

"Er, uh, yes, sir."

"Do you have a copy of these rules?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you read them carefully before you ventured into my courtroom?"

"Uh, yes, sir, most of them."

"Did you understand Rule 14 when you read it?"

Cobb glanced up suspiciously at his new lawyer.

"Uh, I don’t recall that one," Bernard admitted.

"I didn’t think so. Rule 14 requires out-of-state unlicensed attorneys to associate local counsel when appearing in my courtroom."

"Yes, sir."

From his looks and mannerisms, Bernard was a polished attorney, at least he was known as such in Memphis. He was, however, in the process of being totally degraded and humbled before a small-town, redneck judge with a quick tongue.

"Yes, sir, what?" snapped Bullard.

"Yes, sir, I think I’ve heard of that rule."

"There is none, but I planned-"

"Then you drove down here from Memphis, carefully read my rules, and deliberately ignored them. Right?"

Bernard lowered his head and stared at a blank yellow legal pad on the table.

Tyndale rose slowly. "Your Honor, for the record, I show myself as associated counsel for Mr. Bernard for purposes of this hearing and for no other purpose."

Bullard smiled. Slick move, Tyndale, slick move. The ice water warmed him and he relaxed. "Very well. Call your first witness."

Bernard stood straight again. He cocked his head. "Your Honor, on behalf of Mr. Cobb, I would like to call his brother, Mr. Fred Cobb, to the stand."

"Make it brief," Bullard mumbled.

CobB’s brother was sworn and seated in the witness chair. Bernard assumed the podium and began a long, detailed direct examination. He was well prepared. He elicited proof that Billy Ray Cobb was gainfully employed, owned real estate in Ford County, grew up there, had most of his family there, and friends, and had no reason to leave. A solid citizen with deep roots with much to lose if he fled. A man who could be trusted to show up for court. A man worthy of a low bond.

Bullard sipped, tapped his pen, and searched the black faces in the audience.

Childers had no questions. Bernard called Cobb’s mother, Cora, who repeated what her son Fred said about her son Billy Ray. She managed a couple of tears at an awkward moment, and Bullard shook his head.

Tyndale was next. He went through the same motions with Willard’s family.

Half a million dollars bond! Anything less would be too little, and the blacks wouldn’t like it. The judge had new reason to hate Childers. But he liked the blacks because they elected him last time. He received fifty-one percent of the vote countywide, but he got all the nigger vote.

"Anything else?" he asked when Tyndale finished.

The three lawyers looked blankly at each other, then at the judge. Bernard stood. "Your Honor, I would like to summarize my client’s position in regard to a reasonable bond-"

"Forget it, pal. I’ve heard enough from you and your client. Sit down."

Bullard hesitated, then rapidly announced: "Bond is hereby set at one hundred thousand for Pete Willard, and two hundred thousand for Billy Ray Cobb. Defendants will remain in the custody of the sheriff until they are able to make bail. Court’s adjourned." He rapped the gavel and disappeared into his chambers, where he finished the half pint and opened another one.

Lester was pleased with the bonds. His had been fifty thousand for the murder of Monroe Bowie. Of course, Bowie was black, and bonds were generally lower for those cases.

The crowd inched toward the rear door, but Lester did not move. He watched closely as the two white boys were handcuffed and taken through the door into the holding room. When they were out of sight, he placed his head in his hands and said a short prayer. Then he listened.

At least ten times a day Jake walked through the French doors and onto the balcony to inspect downtown Clanton. He sometimes puffed a cheap cigar and blew smoke over Washington Street. Even in the summer he left the windows open in the big office. The sounds of the busy small town made good company as he worked quietly. At times he was amazed at the volume of noise generated on the streets around the courthouse, and at other times he walked to the balcony to see why things were so quiet.

Just before 2:00 P.M., Monday, May 20, he walked to the balcony and lit a cigar. A heavy silence engulfed downtown Clanton, Mississippi.

Cobb went first down the stairs, cautiously, with his hands cuffed behind him, then Willard, then Deputy Looney. Ten steps down, then the landing, turn right, then ten steps to the first floor. Three other deputies waited outside by the patrol cars smoking cigarettes and watching reporters.

When Cobb reached the second step from the floor, and Willard was three steps behind, and Looney was one step off the landing, the small, dirty, neglected, unnoticed door to the janitor’s closet burst open and Mr. Carl Lee Hailey sprung from the darkness with an M-16. At point-blank range he opened fire. The loud, rapid, clapping, popping gunfire shook the courthouse and exploded the silence. The ra**sts froze, then screamed as they were hit-Cobb first, in the stomach and chest, then Willard in the face, neck, and throat. They twisted vainly up the stairs, handcuffed and helpless, stumbling over each other as their skin and blood splashed together.