A Time to Kill

"I don’t much believe in plea negotiating. Neither does Brigance. I wouldn’t expect that."

"He said he’s never lost a murder case to you." The smile disappeared instantly. He leaned forward on the desk and looked harshly at the reporter. "True, but I bet he didn’t mention a number of armed robberies and grand larcenies, did he? I’ve won my share. Ninety percent to be exact."

The camera was turned off and the reporter thanked him for his time. No problem, said Buckley. Anytime.

Ethel waddled up the stairs and stood before the big desk. "Mr. Brigance, my husband and I received an obscene phone call last night, and I’ve just taken the second one here at the office. I don’t like this."

He motioned to a chair. "Sit down, Ethel. What did these people say?"

"They weren’t really obscene. They were threatening. They threatened me because I work for you. Said I’d be sorry because I worked for a nigger lover. The ones here threaten to harm you and your family. I’m just scared."

Jake was worried too, but shrugged it off for Ethel. He had called Ozzie on Wednesday and reported the calls to his house.

"Change your number, Ethel. I’ll pay for it."

"I don’t want to change my number. I’ve had it for seventeen years."

"Good, then don’t. I’ve had my home number changed, and it’s no big deal."

"Well, I’ll not do it."

"Fine. What else do you want?"

"Well, I don’t think you should have taken that case. I-"

"And I don’t care what you think! You’re not paid to think about my cases. If I want to know what you think, I’ll ask. Until I do, keep quiet."

She huffed and left. Jake called Ozzie again.

An hour later Ethel announced through the intercom: "Lucien called this morning. He asked me to copy some recent cases, and he wants you to deliver them this afternoon. Said it had been five weeks since your last visit."

"Four weeks. Copy the cases, and I’ll take them this afternoon."

Lucien stopped by the office or called once a month. He read cases and kept abreast of current developments in the law. He had little else to do except drink Jack Daniel’s and play the stock market, both of which he did recklessly. He was a drunk, and he spent most of his time on the front porch of his big white house on the hill, eight blocks off the square, overlooking Clanton, sipping Jack in the Black and reading cases.

He had deteriorated since the disbarment. A full-time maid doubled as a nurse who served drinks on the porch from noon until midnight. He seldom ate or slept, preferring instead to rock away the hours.

Jake was expected to visit at least once a month. The visits were made out of some sense of duty. Lucien was a bitter, sick old man who cursed lawyers, judges, and especially the State Bar Association. Jake was his only friend, the only audience he could find and keep captive long enough to hear his sermons. Along with the preaching he also freely dispensed unsolicited advice on Jake’s cases, a most annoying habit. He knew about the cases, although Jake never knew how Lucien knew so much. He was seldom seen downtown or anywhere in Clanton except at the package store in the black section.

The Saab parked behind the dirty, dented Porsche, and Jake handed the cases to Lucien. There were no hellos or other greetings, just the handing of the copies to Lucien, who said nothing. They sat in the wicker rockers on the long porch and looked out over Clanton. The top floor of the courthouse stood above the buildings and houses and trees around the square.

Finally he offered whiskey, then wine, then beer. Jake declined. Carla frowned on drinking, and Lucien knew it.

"Congratulations."

"For what?" Jake asked.

"For the Hailey case."

"Why am I to be congratulated?"

"I never had a case that big, and I had some big ones."

"Big in terms of what?"

"Publicity. Exposure, That’s the name of the game for lawyers, Jake. If you’re unknown, you starve. When people get in trouble they call a lawyer, and they call someone they’ve heard of. You must sell yourself to the public, if you’re a street lawyer. Of course it’s different if you’re in a big corporate or insurance firm where you sit on your ass and bill a hundred bucks an hour, ten hours a day, ripping off little people and-"

"Lucien," Jake interrupted quietly, "we’ve talked about this many times. Let’s talk about the Hailey case."

"All right, all right. I’ll bet Noose refuses to change venue."

"Who said I would request it?"

"You’re stupid if you don’t."

"Why?"

"Simple statistics! This county is twenty-six percent black. Every other county in the Twenty-second is at least thirty percent black. Van Buren County is forty percent. That means more black jurors, potentialjurors.. If you get it moved, you have a better chance for blacks in the jury box. If it’s tried here, you run the risk of an all-white jury, and believe me, I’ve seen enough all-white juries in this county. All you need is one black to hang it and get a mistrial."

"But then it’ll be retried." ‘ ‘

"Then hang it again. They’ll give up after three trials. A hung jury is the same as a loss on Buckley’s scorecard. He’ll quit after the third trial."

"So I simply tell Noose I want the trial moved to a blacker county so I can get a blacker jury."

"You can if you want to, but I wouldn’t. I’d go through

the usual crap about pretrial publicity, a biased community, and on and on."

"And you don’t think Noose’11 buy it."

"Naw. This case is too big, and it’ll get bigger. The press has intervened and already started the trial. Everyone’s heard of it, and not just in Ford County. You couldn’t find a person in this state without a preconceived notion of guilt or innocence. So why move it to another county?"

"Then why should I request it?"

"Because when that poor man is convicted, you’ll need something to argue on appeal. You can claim he was denied a fair trial because venue was not changed."

"Thanks for the encouragement. What’re the chances of getting it moved to another district, say somewhere in the delta?"

"Forget it. You can request a change of venue, but you cannot request a certain location."

Jake didn’t know that. He usually learned something during these visits. He nodded confidently and studied the old man with the long, dirty gray beard. There had never been a time when he stumped Lucien on a point of criminal law.

"Sallie!" Lucien screamed, throwing his ice cubes into the shrubs.

"Who’s Sallie?"

"My maid," he replied as a tall, attractive black lady opened the screen door and smiled at Jake.

"Yeah, Lucien?" she answered.

"My glass is empty."

She walked elegantly across the porch and took his glass. She was under thirty, shapely, pretty, and very dark. Jake ordered iced tea.

"Where’d you find her?" he asked.

Lucien stared at the courthouse.

"Where’d you find her?"

"I dunno."

"How old is she?"

Lucien was silent.

"She live here?"

No response.

"How much do you pay her?"

"Why is it any of your business? More than you pay Ethel. She’s a nurse too, you know."

Sure, Jake thought with a grin. "I’ll bet she does a lot of things."

"Don’t worry about it."

"I take it you’re not thrilled with my chances for an acquittal."

Lucien reflected a moment. The maid/nurse returned with the whiskey and tea.