A Time to Kill

"What the hell he’s doin’?" Hastings asked.

"Catchin’ butterflies," Carl Lee said.

Jake grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. "I think you should leave him at Whitfield." He slammed the door and left the jail.

Noose had scheduled the venue hearing for Monday, June 24, in Clanton. The hearing would be long and well publicized. Jake had requested the change of venue, and he had the burden of proving Carl Lee could not receive a fair and impartial trial in Ford County. He needed witnesses. Persons with credibility in the community who were willing to testify that a fair trial was not possible. Atcavage said he might do it as a favor, but the bank might not want him involved. Harry Rex had eagerly volunteered. Reverend Agee said he would be glad to testify, but that was before the NAACP announced its lawyers would be handling the case. Lucien had no credibility, and Jake did not seriously consider asking him.

Buckley, on the other hand, would line up a dozen credible witnesses-elected officials, lawyers, businessmen, maybe other sheriffs-all of whom would testify that they had vaguely heard of Carl Lee Hailey and he could most certainly receive a fair trial in Clanton. .

Jake personally preferred the trial to be in Clanton, in his courthouse across the street from his office, in front of his people. Trials were pressure-filled, tedious, sleepless ordeals. It would be nice to have this one in a friendly arena, three minutes from his driveway. When the trial recessed, he could spend the free moments in his office doing research, preparing witnesses or relaxing. He could eat at the Coffee Shop or Claude’s, or even run home for a quick lunch. His client could remain in the Ford County jail, near his family.

And, of course, his media exposure would be much greater. The reporters would gather in front of his office each morning of the trial and follow him as he walked slowly toward the courthouse. That thought was exciting.

Did it matter where they tried Carl Lee Hailey? Lucien was correct: the publicity had reached every resident of every county in Mississippi. So why change venue? His guilt or

innocence had already been prejudged by every prospective juror in the state.

Sure it mattered. Some prospective jurors were white and some were black. Percentage-wise, there would be more white ones in Ford County than the surrounding counties. Jake loved black jurors, especially in criminal cases and especially when the criminal was black. They were not as anxious to convict. They were open minded. He preferred them in civil cases, too. They felt for the underdog against the big corporation or insurance company, and they were more liberal with other people’s money. As a rule, he picked all the black jurors he could find, but they were scarce in Ford County.

It was imperative the case be tried in another county, a blacker county. One black could hang the jury. A majority could force, maybe, an acquittal. Two weeks in a motel and strange courthouse was not appealing, but the small discomforts were greatly outweighed by the need to have black faces in the jury box.

The venue question had been thoroughly researched by Lucien. As instructed, Jake arrived promptly, although reluctantly, at 8:00 A.M. Sallie served breakfast on the porch. Jake drank coffee and orange juice; Lucien, bourbon and water. For three hours they covered every aspect of a change of venue. Lucien had copies of every Supreme Court case for the past eighty years, and lectured like a professor. The pupil took notes, argued once or twice, but mainly listened.

Whitfield was located a few miles from Jackson in a rural part of Rankin County. Two guards waited by the front gate and argued with reporters. Carl Lee was scheduled to arrive at nine, that was all the guards knew. At eight-thirty two patrol cars with Ford County insignia rolled to a stop at the gate. The reporters and their cameramen ran to the driver of the first car. Ozzie’s window was down.

"Where’s Carl Lee Hailey?" a reporter shouted in a panic.

"He’s in the other car," Ozzie drawled, winking at Carl Lee in the back seat.

"He’s in the second car!" someone shouted, and they ran to Hastings’ car.

"Where’s Hailey?" they demanded.

Pirtle, in the front seat, pointed to Hastings, the driver. "That’s him."

"Are you Carl Lee Hailey?" a reporter screamed at Hastings.

"Yep."

"Why are you driving?"

"What’s with the uniform?"

"They made me a deputy," answered Hastings with a straight face. The gate opened, and the two cars sped through.

Carl Lee was processed in the main building and led, along with Ozzie and the deputies, to another building where he was checked into his cell, or room, as it was called. The door was locked behind him. Ozzie and his men were excused and returned to Clanton.

After lunch, an assistant of some sort with a clipboard and white jacket arrived and began asking questions. Starting with birth, he asked Carl Lee about every significant event and person in his life. It lasted two hours. At 4:00 P.M., two security guards handcuffed Carl Lee and rode him in a golf cart to a modern brick building a half mile from his room. He was led to the office of Dr. Wilbert Rodeheaver, head of staff. The guards waited in the hall by the door.

It had been five weeks since the shootings of Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard. The trial was four weeks away. The three motels in Clanton were booked solid for the week of the trial and, the week before. The Best Western was the largest and nicest, and had attracted the Memphis and Jackson press. The Clanton Court had the best bar and restaurant, and was booked by reporters from Atlanta, Washington, and New York. At the less than elegant East Side Motel the rates had curiously doubled for the month of July but it had nonetheless sold out.

The town had been friendly at first to these outsiders, most of whom were rude and spoke with different accents. But some of the descriptions of Clanton and its people had been less than flattering, and most of the locals now honored a secret code of silence. A noisy cafe would become instantly silent when a stranger walked in and took a seat. Merchants around the square offered little assistance to anyone they did not recognize. The employees in the courthouse had become deaf to questions asked a thousand times by nosy intruders. Even the Memphis and Jackson reporters had to struggle to extract anything new from the locals. The people were tired of being described as backward, redneck, and racist. They ignored the outsiders whom they could not trust and went about their business.

The bar at the Clanton Court became the watering hole for the reporters. It was the one place in town they could go to find a friendly face and good conversation. They sat in the booths under the big-screen TV and gossiped about the small town and the upcoming trial. They compared notes and stories and leads and rumors, and drank until they were drunk because there was nothing else to do in Clanton after dark.

The motels filled Sunday night, June 23, the night before the venue hearing. Early Monday morning they gathered in the restaurant at the Best Western to drink coffee and speculate. The hearing was the first major skirmish, and

could likely be the only courtroom action until the trial. A rumor surfaced that Noose was ill and did not want to hear the case, and that he would ask the Supreme Court to appoint another judge. Just a rumor, with no source and nothing more definite, said a reporter from Jackson. At eight they packed their cameras and microphones and left for the square. One group set up outside the jail, another at the rear of the courthouse, but most headed for the courtroom. By eight-thirty it was filled.

From the balcony of his office, Jake watched the activity around the courthouse. His heart beat faster than normal, and his stomach tingled. He smiled. He was ready for Buck-ley, ready for the cameras.