A Time to Kill

Jake read the article without comment and laid the paper in the trash can.

Carla suggested a picnic, and although he needed to work he knew better than to mention it. They loaded the Saab with food and toys and drove to the lake. The brown, muddy waters of Lake Chatulla had crested for the year, and within days would begin their slow withdrawal to the center. The high water attracted a flotilla of skiboats, bass rigs, catamarans, and dinghies.

Carla threw two heavy quilts under an oak on the side of a hill while Jake unloaded the food and doll house. Hanna arranged her large family with pets and automobiles

on one quilt and began giving orders and setting up house. Her parents listened and smiled. Her birth had been a harrowing, gut-wrenching nightmare, two and a half months premature and shrouded with conflicting symptoms and prognoses. For eleven days Jake sat by the incubator in ICU and watched the tiny, purple, scrawny, beautiful three-pound body cling to life while an army of doctors and nurses studied the monitors and adjusted tubes and needles, and shook their heads. When he was alone he touched the incubator and wiped tears from his cheeks. He prayed as he had never prayed. He slept in a rocking chair near his daughter and dreamed of a beautiful blue-eyed, dark-haired little girl playing with dolls and sleeping on his shoulder. He could hear her voice.

After a month the nurses smiled and the doctors relented. The tubes were removed one at a time each day for a week. Her weight ballooned to a hearty four and a half pounds, and the proud parents took her home. The doctors suggested no more children, unless adopted.

She was perfect now, and the sound of her voice could still bring tears to his eyes. They ate and chuckled as Hanna lectured her dolls on proper hygiene.

"This is the first time you’ve relaxed in two weeks," Carla said as they lay on their quilt. Wildly colored catamarans crisscrossed the lake below dodging a hundred roaring boats pulling half-drunken skiers.

"We went to church last Sunday," he replied.

"And all you thought about was the trial."

"Still thinking about it."

"It’s over, isn’t it?"

"I don’t know."

"Will he change his mind?"

‘ "He might, if Lester talks to him. It’s hard to say. Blacks are so unpredictable, especially when they’re in trouble. He’s got a good deal, really. He’s got the best criminal lawyer in Memphis, and he’s free."

"Who’s paying the bill?"

"An old friend of Carl Lee’s from Memphis, a guy by the name of Cat Bruster."

"Who’s he?"

f\. very ncn pimp, dope pusher, thug, thief. Marsharf-sky’s his lawyer. A couple of crooks."

"Did Carl Lee tell you this?"

"No. He wouldn’t tell me, so I asked Ozzie."

"Does Lester know?"

"Not yet."

"What do you mean by that? You’re not going to call him, are you?"

"Well, yes, I had planned to."

"That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?"

"I don’t think so. Lester has a right to know, and-"

"Then Carl Lee should tell him."

"He should, but he won’t. He’s made a mistake, and he does not realize it."

"But it’s his problem, not yours. At least not anymore."

"Carl Lee’s too embarrassed to tell Lester. He knows Lester will cuss him and tell him he’s made another mistake."

"So it’s up to you to intervene in their family affairs."

"No. But I think Lester should know."

"I’m sure he’ll see it in the papers."

"Maybe not," Jake said without any conviction. "I think Hanna needs some more orange juice."

"I think you want to change the subject."

"The subject doesn’t bother me. I want the case, and I intend to get it back. Lester’s the only person who can retrieve it."

Her eyes narrowed and he could feel them. He watched a bass rig drift into a mud bar on the near shore.

"Jake, that’s unethical, and you know it." Her voice was calm, yet controlled and firm. The words were slow and scornful.

"That’s not true, Carla. I’m a very ethical attorney."

"You’ve always preached ethics. But at this moment you’re scheming to solicit the case. That’s wrong, Jake."

"Retrieve, not solicit."

"What’s the difference?"

"Soliciting is unethical. I’ve never seen a prohibition against retrieving."

"It’s not right, Jake. Carl Lee’s hired another lawyer and it’s time for you to forget it."

"And I suppose you think Marsharfsky reads ethics opinions. How do you think he got the case? He’s been hired by a man who’s never heard of him. He chased the case, and he’s got it."

"So that makes it okay if you chase it now?"

"Retrieve, not chase."

Hanna demanded cookies, and Carla searched through the picnic basket. Jake reclined on an elbow and ignored them both. He thought of Lucien. What would he do in this situation? Probably rent a plane, fly to Chicago, get Lester, slip him some money, bring him home, and convince him to browbeat Carl Lee. He would assure Lester that Marsharfsky could not practice in Mississippi, and since he was a foreigner, the rednecks on the jury wouldn’t believe him anyway. He would call Marsharfsky and curse him for chasing cases and threaten him with an ethics complaint the minute he stepped into Mississippi. He would get his black cronies to call Gwen and Ozzie and persuade them that the only lawyer with a dog’s chance in hell of winning the case was Lucien Wilbanks. Finally, Carl Lee would knuckle under and send for Lucien.

That’s exactly what Lucien would do. Talk about ethics.

"Why are you smiling?" Carla interrupted.

"Just thinking about how nice it is out here with you and Hanna. We don’t do this enough."

"You’re disappointed, aren’t you?"

"Sure. There will never be another case like this one. Win it, and I’m the greatest lawyer in these parts. We would never have to worry about money again."

"And if you lost it?"

"It would still be a drawing card. But I can’t lose what I don’t have."

"Embarrassed?"

"A little. It’s hard to accept. Every lawyer in the county is laughing about it, except maybe Harry Rex. But I’ll get over it."

"What should I do with the scrapbook?"

"Save it. You might fill it up yet."

unc, nine reel long and tour feet wide, made to fit inconspicuously in the long bed of a pickup. Much larger crosses were used for the rituals, but the small ones worked better in the nocturnal raids into residential areas. They were not used often, or often enough according to their builders. In fact, it had been many years since one had been used in Ford County. The last one was planted in the yard of a nigger accused of raping a white woman.

Several hours before dawn on Monday morning, the cross was lifted quietly and quickly from the pickup and thrust into a ten-inch, freshly dug slot in the front yard of the quaint Victorian house on Adams Street. A small torch was thrown at the foot of the cross, and in seconds it was in flames. The pickup disappeared into the night and stopped at a pay phone at the edge of town, where a call was placed to the dispatcher.

Moments later, Deputy Marshall Prather turned down Adams and instantly saw the blazing cross in Jake’s front yard. He turned into the driveway and parked behind the Saab. He punched the doorbell and stood on the porch watching the flames. It was almost three-thirty. He punched it again. Adams was dark and silent except for the glow of the cross and the snapping and crackling of the wood burning fifty feet away. Finally, Jake stumbled through the front door and froze, wild-eyed and stunned, next to the deputy. The two stood side by side on the porch, mesmerized not only by the burning cross, but by its purpose.