A Time to Kill

"You know what them rednecks on the jury’H say when they see Marsharfsky?" Leroy asked.

"What?"

"They’re gonna think this poor nigger is guilty, and he’s sold his soul to hire the biggest crook in Memphis to tell us he ain’t guilty."

Carl Lee mumbled something through the bars.

"They’re gonna fry you, Carl Lee."

Moss Junior Tatum was on duty at six-thirty Saturday morning when the phone rang in Ozzie’s office. It was the sheriff.

"What’re you doing awake?" asked Moss.

"I’m not sure I’m awake," answered the sheriff. "Listen, Moss, do you remember an old black preacher named Street, Reverend Isaiah Street?"

"Not really."

"Yeah you do. He preached for fifty years at Springdale Church, north of town. First member of the NAACP in Ford County. He taught all the blacks around here how to march and boycott back in the sixties."

"Yeah, now I remember. Didn’t the Klan catch him once?"

"Yeah, they beat him and burned his house, but nothin’ serious. Summer of ’65."

"I thought he died a few years back."

"Naw, he’s been half dead for ten years, but he still moves a little. He called me at five-thirty and talked for an hour. Reminded me of all the political favors I owe him."

"What’s he want?"

"He’ll be there at seven to see Carl Lee. Why, I don’t know. But treat him nice. Put them in my office and let them talk. I’ll be in later." ouic, oneriii.

Chapter Thirteen

In his heyday in the sixties, the Reverend Isaiah Street had been the moving force behind civil rights activity in Ford County. He walked with Martin Luther King in Memphis and Montgomery. He organized marches and protests in Clanton and Karaway and other towns in north Mississippi. In the summer of ’64 he greeted students from the North and coordinated their efforts to register black voters. Some had lived in his home that memorable summer, and they still visited him from time to time. He was no radical. He was quiet, compassionate, intelligent, and had earned the respect of all blacks and most whites. His was a calm, cool voice in the midst of hatred and controversy. He unofficially officiated the great public school desegregation in ’69, and Ford County saw little trouble.

A stroke in ’75 deadened the right side of his body but left his mind untouched. Now, at seventy-eight, he walked by himself, slowly and with a cane. Proud, dignified, erect as possible. He was ushered into the sheriffs office and seated. He,declined coffee, and Moss Junior left to get the defendant.

"You awake, Carl Lee?" he whispered loudly, not wanting to wake the other prisoners, who would begin screaming for breakfast, medicine, lawyers, bondsmen, and girlfriends.

Carl Lee sat up immediately. "Yeah, I didn’t sleep much."

"You have a visitor. Come on." Moss quietly unlocked the cell.

Carl Lee had met the reverend years earlier when he addressed the last senior class at East High, the black school. Desegregation followed, and East became the junior high. He had not seen the reverend since the stroke.

"Carl Lee, do you know Reverend Isaiah Street?" Moss asked properly.

"Yes, we met years ago."

"Good, I’ll close the door and let y’all talk."

"How are you, sir?" Carl Lee asked. They sat next to each other on the couch.

"Finej my son, and you?"

"As good as possible."

"I’ve been in jail too, you know. Years ago. It’s a terri-

ble place, but I guess it’s necessary. How are they treating you?"

"Fine, just fine. Ozzie lets me do as I please."

"Yes, Ozzie. We’re very proud of him, aren’t we?"

"Yes, sub. He’s a good man." Carl Lee studied the frail, feeble old man with the cane. His body was weak and tired, but his mind was sharp, his voice strong.

"We’re proud of you too, Carl Lee. I don’t condone violence, but at times it’s necessary too, I guess. You did a good deed, my son."

"Yes, suh," answered Carl Lee, uncertain of the appropriate response.

"I guess you wonder why I’m here."

Carl Lee nodded. The reverend tapped his cane on the floor.

"I’m concerned about your acquittal. The black community is concerned. If you were white, you would most likely go to trial, and most likely be acquitted. The rape of a child is a horrible crime, and who’s to blame a father for rectifying the wrong? A white father, that is. A black father evokes the same sympathy among blacks, but there’s one problem: the jury will be white. So a black father and a white father would not have equal chances with the jury. Do you follow me?"

"I think so."

"The jury is all important. Guilt versus innocence. Freedom versus prison. Life versus death. All to be determined by the jury. It’s a fragile system, this trusting of lives to twelve average, ordinary people who do not understand the law and are intimidated by the process."

"Yes, suh."

"Your acquittal by a white jury for the killings of two white men will do more for the black folk of Mississippi than any event since we integrated the schools. And it’s not just Mississippi; it’s black folk everywhere. Yours is a most famous case, and it’s being watched carefully by many people."

"I just did what I had to do."

"Precisely. You did what you thought was right. It was right; although it was brutal and ugly, it was right. And most folks, black and white, believe that. But will you be treated as though you were white? That’s the question."

"Ana 11 I’m convicted?"

"Your conviction would be another slap at us; a symbol of deep-seated racism; of old prejudices, old hatreds. It would be a disaster. You must not be convicted."

"I’m doin’ all I can do."

"Are you? Let’s talk about your attorney, if we may."

Carl Lee nodded.

"Have you met him?"

"No." Carl Lee lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. "Have you?"

"Yes, I have."

"You have? When?"

"In Memphis in 1968.1 was with Dr. King. Marsharfsky was one of the attorneys representing the garbage workers on strike against the city. He asked Dr. King to leave Memphis, claimed he was agitating the whites and inciting the blacks, and that he was impeding the contract negotiations. He was arrogant and abusive. He cursed Dr. King-in private, of course. We thought he was selling out the workers and getting money under the table from the city. I think we were right."

Carl Lee breathed deeply and rubbed his temples.

"I’ve followed his career," the reverend continued. "He’s made a name for himself representing gangsters, thieves, and pimps. He gets some of them off, but they’re always guilty. When you see one of his clients, you know he’s guilty. That’s what worries me most about you. I’m afraid you’ll be considered guilty by association."

Carl Lee sunk lower, his elbows resting on his knees. "Who told you to come here?" he asked softly.

"I had a talk with an old friend."

"Who?"

"Just an old friend, my son. He’s concerned about you too. We’re all concerned about you."

"He’s the best lawyer in Memphis."

"This isn’t Memphis, is it?"

"He’s an expert on criminal law."

"That could be because he’s a criminal."

Carl Lee stood abruptly and walked across the room, his back to the reverend.

"He’s free. He’s not costin’ me a dime."

"His fee won’t seem important when you’re on death row, my son."