A Time to Kill

Harry Rex raised his eyebrows and smiled at Jake. They watched the stairs and listened.

"My boss, who happens to be your boss, said I could dress like this."

"But you forgot something, didn’t you?"

"Jake said I could forget it. He told me you hadn’t worn

a bra in twenty years. He said most of the women in Clanton go braless, so I left mine at home."

"He what?" Ethel screamed with arms crossed over her chest.

"Is he upstairs?" Ellen asked coolly.

"Yes, I’ll call him."

"Don’t bother."

Jake and Harry Rex retreated into the big office and waited for the law clerk. She entered carrying a large briefcase.

"Good morning, Row Ark," Jake said. "I want you to meet a good friend, Harry Rex Vonner."

Harry Rex shook her hand and stared at her shirt. "Nice to meet you. What was your first name?"

"Ellen."

"Just call her Row Ark," Jake said. "She’ll clerk here until Hailey’s over."

"That’s nice," said Harry Rex, still staring.

"Harry Rex is a local lawyer, Row Ark, and one of the many you cannot trust."

"What’d you hire a female law clerk for, Jake?" he asked bluntly.

"Row Ark’s a genius in criminal law, like most third-year law students. And she works very cheap."

"You have something against females, sir?" Ellen asked.

"No ma’am. I love females. I’ve married four of them."

"Harry Rex is the meanest divorce lawyer in Ford County," Jake explained. "In fact, he’s the meanest lawyer, period. Come to think of it, he’s the meanest man I know."

"Thanks," said Harry Rex. He had stopped staring at her.

She looked at his huge, dirty, scuffed, worn wirigtips, his ribbed nylon socks that had drooped into thick wads around his ankles, his soiled and battered khaki pants, his frayed navy blazer, his brilliant pink wool tie that fell eight inches above his belt, and she said, "I think he’s cute."

"I might make you wife number five," Harry Rex said.

"The attraction is purely physical," she said.

"Watch it," Jake said. "There’s been no sex in this office since Lucien left."

said Harry Rex.

"Who’s Lucien?"

Jake and Harry Rex looked at each other. "You’ll meet him soon enough," Jake explained.

"Your secretary is very sweet," Ellen said.

"I knew y’all would hit it off. She’s really a doll once you get to know her."

"How long does that take?"

"I’ve known her for twenty years," said Harry Rex, "and I’m still waiting."

"How’s the research coming?" Jake asked.

"Slow. There are dozens of M’Naghten cases, and they are all very long. I’m about half through. I planned to work on it all day here; that is, if that pit bull downstairs doesn’t attack me."

"I’ll take care of her," Jake said.

Harry Rex headed for the door. "Nice meetin’ you, Row Ark. I’ll see you around."

"Thanks, Harry Rex," said Jake. "See you Wednesday night."

The dirt and gravel parking lot of Tank’s Tonk was full when Jake finally found it after dark. There had been no reason to visit Tank’s before, and he was not thrilled about seeing the place now. It was well hidden off a dirt road, six miles out of Clanton. He parked far away from the small cinderblock building and toyed with the idea of leaving the engine running in case Tank was not there and a quick escape became necessary. But he quickly dismissed the stupid idea because he liked his car, and theft was not only likely but highly probable. He locked it, then double-checked it, almost certain that all or part of it would be missing when he returned.

The juke box blasted from the open windows, and he thought he heard a bottle crash on the floor, or across a table or someone’s head. He hesitated beside his car and decided to leave. No, it was important. He sucked in his stomach, held his breath, and opened the ragged wooden door.

Forty sets of black eyes immediately focused on this poor lost white boy with a coat and tie who was squinting

and trying to focus inside the vast blackness of their tonk. He stood there awkwardly, desperately searching for a friend. There were none. Michael Jackson conveniently finished his song on the juke box, and for an eternity the tonk was silent. Jake stayed close to the door. He nodded and smiled and tried to act like one of the gang. There were no other smiles.

Suddenly, there was movement at the bar and Jake’s knees began vibrating. "Jake! Jake!" someone shouted. It was the sweetest two words he had ever heard. From behind the bar he saw his friend Tank removing his apron and heading for him. They shook hands warmly.

"What brings you here?"

"I need to talk to you for a minute. Can we step outside?"

"Sure. What’s up?"

"Just business."

Chapter Twenty

Tank flipped on a light switch by the front door. "Say, everbody, this here is Carl Lee Hailey’s lawyer, Jake Bri-gance. A good friend of mine. Let’s hear it for him."

The small room exploded in applause and bravos. Several of the boys at the bar grabbed Jake and shook his hand. Tank reached in a drawer under the bar and pulled out a handful of Jake’s cards, which he passed out like candy. Jake was breathing again and the color returned to his face.

Outside, they leaned on the hood of Tank’s yellow Cadillac. Lionel Richie echoed through the windows and the crowd returned to normal. Jake handed Tank a copy of the list.

"Look at each name. See how many of these folks you know. Ask around and find out what you can."

Tank held the list near his eyes. The light from the Michelob sign in the window glowed over his shoulder. "How many are black?"

"You tell me. That’s one reason I want you to look at it. Circle the black ones. If you’re not sure, find out. If you know any of the white folks, make a note."

"I’ll be glad to, Jake. This ain’t illegal, is it?"

"Naw, but don’t tell anybody. I need it back by Wednesday morning."

"You’re the boss."

_ – _- ™*, u..u JUK.C ncaciea tor the office. It was almost ten. Ethel had retyped the list from the initial one provided by Harry Rex, and a dozen copies had been hand-delivered to selected, trusted friends. Lucien, Stan At-cavage, Tank, Dell at the Coffee Shop, a lawyer in Karaway named Roland Isom, and a few others. Even Ozzie got a list.

Less than three miles from the tonk was a small, neat white-framed country house where Ethel and Bud Iwitty had lived for almost forty years. It was a pleasant house with pleasant memories of raising children who were now scattered up North. The retarded son, the one who greatly resembled Lucien, lived in Miami for some reason. The house was quieter now. Bud hadn’t worked in years, not since his first stroke in ’75. Then a heart attack, followed by two more major strokes and several small ones. His days were numbered, and he had long since accepted the fact that he would most likely catch the big one and die on his front porch shelling butterbeans. That’s what he hoped for, anyway.

Monday night he sat on the porch shelling butterbeans and listening to the Cardinals on the radio. Ethel was working in the kitchen. In the bottom of the eighth with the Cards at bat and two on, he heard a noise from the side of the house. He turned the volume down. Probably just a dog. Then another noise. He stood and walked to the end of the porch. Suddenly, a huge figure dressed in solid black with red, white, and black war paint smeared wickedly across his face jumped from the bushes, grabbed Bud and yanked him off the porch. Bud’s anguished cry was not heard in the kitchen. Another warrior joined in and they dragged the old man to the foot of the steps leading up to the front porch. One maneuvered him into a half-nelson while the other pounded his soft belly and bloodied his face. Within seconds, he was unconscious.