A Time to Kill

"I am very serious. The problem with the death penalty is that we don’t use it enough."

"Have you explained that to Mr. Hailey?"

"Mr. Hailey does not deserve the death penalty. But the two men who raped his daughter certainly did."

"I see. How do you determine who gets it and who doesn’t?"

"That’s very simple. You look at the crime and you look at the criminal. If it’s a dope dealer who guns down an undercover narcotics officer, then he gets the gas. If it’s a drifter who rapes a three-year-old girl, drowns her by holding her little head in a mudhole, then throws her body off a bridge, then you take his life and thank God he’s gone. If it’s an escaped convict who breaks into a farmhouse late at night and beats and tortures an elderly couple before burning them with their house, then you strap him in a chair, hook up a few wires, pray for his soul, and pull the switch. And if it’s two dopeheads who gang-rape a ten-year-old girl and kick her with pointed-toe cowboy boots until her jaws break, then you happily, merrily, thankfully, gleefully lock them in a gas chamber and listen to them squeal. It’s very simple."

"It’s barbaric."

"Their crimes were barbaric. Death is too good for them, much too good."

"And if Mr. Hailey is convicted and sentenced to die?"

"If that happens, I’m sure I’ll spend the next ten years cranking out appeals and fighting furiously to save his life. And if they ever strap him in the chair, I’m sure I’ll be outside the prison with you and the Jesuits and a hundred other kindly souls marching and holding candles and singing hymns. And then stand beside his grave behind his church with his widow and children and wish I’d never met him."

"Have you ever witnessed an execution?"

"Not that I recall."

"I’ve watched two. You’d change your mind if you saw one."

"Good. I won’t see one."

"It’s a horrible thing to watch."

"Were the victims’ families there?"

"Yes, in both instances."

"Were they horrified? Were their minds changed? Of course not. Their nightmares were over."

"I’m surprised at you."

"And I’m bewildered by people like you. How can you be so zealous and dedicated in trying to save people who have begged for the death penalty and according to the law should get it?"

"Whose law? It’s not the law in Massachusetts."

"You don’t say. What do you expect from the only state McGovern carried in 1972? You folks have always been tuned in with the rest of the country."

The Claudeburgers were being ignored and their voices had grown too loud. Jake glanced around and caught a few stares. Ellen smiled again, and took one of his onion rings.

"What do you think of the ACLU?" she asked, crunching.

"I suppose you’ve got a membership card in your purse."

"I do."

"Then you’re fired."

"I joined when I was sixteen."

"Why so late? You must have been the last one in your Girl Scout troop to join."

"Do you have any respect for the Bill of Rights?"

"I adore the Bill of Rights. I despise the judges who interpret them. Eat."

They finished the burgers in silence, watching each other carefully. Jake ordered coffee and two more headache powders.

"So how do we plan to win this case?" she asked.

"We?"

"I still have the job, don’t I?"

"Yes. Just remember that I’m the boss and you’re the clerk."

"Sure, boss. What’s your strategy?"

"How would you handle it?"

"Well, from what I gather, our client carefully planned the killings and shot them in cold blood, six days after the rape. It sounds exactly like he knew what he was doing."

"He did."

"So we have no defense and I think you should plead him guilty for a life sentence and avoid the gas chamber."

"You’re a real fighter."

"Just kidding. Insanity is our only defense. And it sounds impossible to prove."

"You’re familiar with the M’Naghten Rule?" Jake asked.

"Yes. Do we have a psychiatrist?"

"Sort of. He’ll say anything we want him to say; that is, if he’s sober at trial. One of your more difficult tasks as my new law clerk will be to make sure he is sober at trial. It won’t be easy, believe me."

"I live for new challenges in the courtroom."

"All right Row Ark, take a pen. Here’s a napkin. Your boss is about to give you instructions."

She began making notes on a paper napkin.

"I want a brief on the M’Naghten decisions rendered by the Mississippi Supreme Court in the past fifty years. There’s probably a hundred. There’s a big case from 1976, State vs. Hill, where the court was bitterly divided five to four, with the dissenters opting for a more liberal definition of insanity. Keep the brief short, less than twenty pages. Can you type?"

"Ninety words a minute."

"I should’ve known. I’d like it by Wednesday."

"You’ll have it."

"There are some evidentiary points I need researched. You saw those gruesome pictures of the two bodies. Noose normally allows the jury to see the blood and gore, but I’d like to keep them away from the jury. See if there’s a way."

"It won’t be easy."

"The rape is crucial to his defense. I want the jury to know details. This needs to be researched thoroughly. I’ve got two or three cases you can start from, and I think we can prove to Noose that the rape is very relevant."

"Okay. What else?"

"I don’t know. When my brain is alive again I’ll think of more, but that will do it for now."

"Do I report Monday morning?"

"Yes, but no sooner than nine. I like my quiet time."

"What’s the dress code?"

"You look fine."

"Jeans and no socks?"

"I have one other employee, a secretary by the name of Ethel. She’s sixty-four, top heavy, and thankfully she wears a bra. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you."

"I’ll think about it."

"I don’t need the distraction."

Monday, July 15. One week until trial. Over the weekend word spread quickly that the trial would be in Clanton, and the small town braced for the spectacle. The phones rang steadily at the three motels as the journalists and their crews confirmed reservations. The cafes buzzed with anticipation. A county maintenance crew swarmed around the courthouse after breakfast and began painting and polishing. Ozzie sent the yardboys from the jail with their mowers and weed-eaters. The old men under the Vietnam monument whittled cautiously and watched all this activity. The trusty who supervised the yard work asked them to spit their Red Man in the grass, not on the sidewalk. He was told to go to hell. The thick, dark Bermuda was given an extra layer of fertilizer, and a dozen lawn sprinklers were hissing and splashing by 9:00 A.M.

By 10:00 A.M. the temperature was ninety-two. The merchants in the small shops around the square opened their doors to the humidity and ran their ceiling fans. They called Memphis and Jackson and Chicago for inventory to be sold at special prices next week.

Noose had called Jean Gillespie, the Circuit Court clerk, late Friday and informed her that the trial would be in her courtroom. He instructed her to summon one hundred and fifty prospective jurors. The defense had requested an enlarged panel from which to select the twelve, and Noose agreed. Jean and two deputy clerks spent Saturday combing the voter registration books randomly selecting potential jurors. Following Noose’s specific instructions, they culled those over sixty-five. One thousand names were chosen, and each name along with its address was written on a small index card and thrown into a cardboard box. The two deputy clerks then took turns drawing cards at random from the box. One clerk was white, one black. Each would pull a card blindly from the box and arrange it neatly on a folding table with the other cards. When the count reached one hundred and fifty, the drawing ceased and a master list was typed. These were the jurors for State vs. Hailey. Each step of their