A Time to Kill

"Hell no. And my name is Jake."

"Why don’t you trust me?"

"Because you’re a reporter, you’re from a New York paper, you’re looking for a sensational story, and if you’re true to form, you’ll write some well-informed, moralistic piece of trash depicting us all as racist, ignorant rednecks."

"You’re wrong. First of all, I’m from Texas."

"Your paper is from New York."

"But I consider myself a Southerner."

"How long have you been gone?"

"About twenty years."

Jake smiled and shook his head, as if to say: That’s too long.

"And I don’t work for a sensational newspaper."

"We’ll see. The trial is several months away. We’ll have time to read your stories."

"Fair enough."

Jake punched the play button on his tape recorder, and McKittrick did likewise.

"Can Carl Lee Hailey receive a fair trial in Ford County?"

"Why couldn’t he?" Jake asked.

"Well, he’s black. He killed two white men, and he will be tried by a white jury."

"You mean he will be tried by a bunch of white racists."

"No, that’s not what I said, nor what I implied. Why do

you automatically assume I think you are all a bunch of racists?"

"Because you do. We’re stereotyped, and you know it."

McKittrick shrugged and wrote something on his steno pad. "Will you answer the question?"

"Yes. He can receive a fair trial in Ford County, if he’s tried here."

"Do you want it tried here?"

"I’m sure we’ll try to move it."

"To where?"

"We won’t suggest a place. That’s up to the judge."

"Where did he get the M-16?"

Jake chuckled and stared at the tape recorder. "I do not know."

"Would he be indicted if he were white?"

"He’s black, and he has not been indicted."

"But if he were white, would there be an indictment?"

"Yes, in my opinion."

"Would he be convicted?"

"Would you like a cigar?" Jake opened a desk drawer and found a Roi-Tan. He unwrapped it; then lit it with a butane lighter.

"No thanks."

"No, he would not be convicted if he were white. In my opinion. Not in Mississippi, not in Texas, not in Wyoming. I’m not sure about New York."

"Why not?"

"Do you have a daughter?"

"No."

"Then you wouldn’t understand."

"I think I do. Will Mr. Hailey be convicted?"

"Probably."

"So the system does not work as fairly for blacks?"

"Have you talked with Raymond Hughes?"

"No. Who is he?"

"He ran for sheriff last time, and had the misfortune of making the runoff against Ozzie Walls. He’s white. Ozzie, of course, is not. If I’m not mistaken, he got thirty-one percent of the vote. In a county that’s seventy-four percent white. Why don’t you ask Mr. Hughes if the system treats blacks fairly?"

"I was referring to the judicial system."

"It’s the same system. Who do you think sits in the jury box? The same registered voters who elected Ozzie Walls."

"Well, if a white man would not be convicted, and Mr. Hailey will probably be convicted, explain to me how the system treats both fairly."

"It doesn’t."

"I’m not sure I’m following you."

"The system reflects society. It’s not always fair, but it’s as fair as the system in New York, or Massachusetts, or California. It’s as fair as biased, emotional humans can make it."

"And you think Mr. Hailey will be treated as fairly here as he would be in New York?"

"I’m saying there’s as much racism in New York as in Mississippi. Look at our public schools-they’re as desegregated as any."

"By court order."

"Sure, but what about the courts in New York. For years you pious bastards pointed your fingers and noses at us down here and demanded that we desegregate. It happened, and it has not been the end of the world. But you’ve conveniently ignored your own schools and neighborhoods, your own voting irregularities, your own all-white juries and city councils. We were wrong, and we’ve paid dearly for it. But we learned, and although the change has been slow and painful, at least we’re trying. Y’all are still pointing fingers."

"I didn’t intend to refight Gettysburg."

"I’m sorry. What defense will we use? I do not know at this point. Honestly, it’s just too early. He hasn’t even been indicted."

"Of course he will?"

"Of course we don’t know yet. More than likely. When will this be printed?"

"Maybe Sunday."

"Makes no difference. No one here takes your paper. Yes, he will be indicted."

McKittrick glanced at his watch, and Jake turned off his recorder.

"Look, I’m not a bad guy," McKittrick said. "Let’s drink a beer sometime and finish this."

"Off the record, I don’t drink. But I accept your invitation."

The First Presbyterian Church of Clanton was directly across the street from the First United Methodist Church of Clanton, and both churches were within sight of the much larger First Baptist Church. The Baptists had more members and money, but the Presbyterians and Methodists adjourned earlier on Sunday and outraced the Baptists to the restaurants for Sunday dinner. The Baptists would arrive at twelve-thirty and stand in line while the Presbyterians and Methodists ate slowly and waved at them.

Jake was content not to be a Baptist. They were a bit too narrow and strict, and they were forever preaching about Sunday night church, a ritual Jake had always struggled with. Carla was raised as a Baptist, Jake a Methodist, and during the courtship a compromise was negotiated, and they became Presbyterians. They were happy with their church and its activities, and seldom missed.

On Sunday, they sat in their usual pew, with Hanna asleep between them, and ignored the sermon. Jake ignored it by watching the preacher and picturing his confronting Buckley, in court, before twelve good and lawful citizens, as the nation watched and waited, and Carla ignored it by watching the preacher and mentally redecorating the dining room. Jake caught a few inquisitive stares during the worship service, and he figured his fellow church members were somewhat awed to have a celebrity among them. There were some strange faces in the congregation, and they were either long-lost repentant members or reporters. Jake was unsure until one persisted in staring at him-then he knew they were all reporters.

"Enjoyed your sermon, Reverend," Jake lied as he shook hands with the minister on the steps outside the sanctuary.

"Good to see you, Jake," replied the reverend. "We’ve watched you all week on TV. My kids get excited every time they see you."

"Thanks. Just pray for us."

They drove to Karaway for Sunday lunch with Jake’s

parents. Gene and Eva Brigance lived in the old family house, a sprawling country home on five acres of wooded land in downtown Karaway, three blocks from Main Street and two blocks from the school where Jake and his sister put in twelve years. Both were retired, but young enough to travel the continent in a mobile home each summer. They would leave Monday for Canada and return after Labor Day. Jake was their only son. An older daughter lived in New Orleans.

Sunday lunch on Eva’s table was a typical Southern feast of fried meats, fresh garden vegetables-boiled, battered, baked, and raw, homemade rolls and biscuits, two gravies, watermelon, cantaloupe, peach cobbler, lemon pie, and strawberry shortcake. Little of it would be eaten, and the leftovers would be neatly packaged by Eva and Carla and sent to Clanton, where it would last for a week.