A Time to Kill

"Jake, why is this deputy sitting in his car in front of my office?" he asked.

"That’s my bodyguard."

"What’s his name?"

"Nesbit."

"Is he awake?"

"Probably not."

Lucien leaned dangerously over the railing. "Hey, Nesbit," he yelled.

Nesbit opened the door of his patrol car. "Yeah, what is it?".

"Jake here wants you to go to the store and get us some more beer. He’s very thirsty. Here’s a twenty. He’d like a case of Coors."

"I can’t buy it when I’m on duty," Nesbit protested.

"Since when?" Lucien laughed at himself. .

"I can’t do it."

"It’s not for you, Nesbit. It’s for Mr. Brigance, and he really needs it. He’s already called the sheriff, and it’s okay."

"Who called the sheriff?"

"Mr. Brigance," lied Lucien. "Sheriff said he didn’t care what you did as long as you didn’t drink any."

Nesbit shrugged and appeared satisfied. Lucien dropped a twenty from the balcony. Within minutes Nesbit was back with a case minus one which had been opened and was sitting on his radar gun. Lucien ordered Atcavage to fetch the beer from below and distribute the first six-pack.

An hour later the list was finished and the party was over. Nesbit loaded Harry Rex, Lucien, and Atcavage into his patrol car and took them home. Jake and’his clerk sat on the balcony, sipping and watching the candles flicker and move slowly around the courthouse. Several cars were parked on the west side of the square, and a small group of blacks sat nearby in lawn chairs waiting to take their turns with the candles.

"We didn’t do bad," Jake said quietly, staring at the vigil. "We made notes on all but twenty of the hundred and fifty."

"What’s next?"

"I’ll try to find something on the other twenty, then we’ll make an index card for each juror. We’ll know them like family by Monday."

Nesbit returned to the square and circled twice, watching the blacks. He parked between the Saab and the BMW.

"The M’Naghten brief is a masterpiece. Our psychiatrist, Dr. Bass, will be here tomorrow, and I want you to review M’Naghten with him. You need to outline in detail the necessary questions to ask him at trial, and cover these with him. He worries me. I don’t know him, and I’m relying on Lucien. Get his resume and investigate his background. Make whatever phone calls are necessary. Check with the state medical association to make sure he has no history of disciplinary problems. He is very important to our case, and I don’t want any surprises."

"Okay, boss."

Jake finished his last beer. "Look, Row Ark, this is a

very small town. My wife left five days ago, and I’m sure people will know it soon. You look suspicious. People love to talk, so be discreet. Stay in the office and do your research and tell anyone who asks that you’re Ethel’s replacement."

"That’s a big bra to fill."

"You could do it if you wanted to."

"I hope you know that I’m not nearly as sweet as I’m being forced to act."

"I know that."

They watched the blacks change shifts and a new crew take up the candles. Nesbit threw an empty beer can onto the sidewalk.

"You’re not driving home are you?" Jake asked.

"It would not be a good idea. I’d register at least .20."

"You can sleep on the couch in my office."

"Thanks. I will."

Jake said good night, locked the office, and spoke briefly to Nesbit. Then he placed himself carefully behind the wheel of the Saab.. Nesbit followed him to his home on Adams. He parked under the carport, next to Carla’s car, and Nesbit parked in the driveway. It was 1:00 A.M., Thursday, July 18.

They arrived in groups of two and three and came from all over the state. They parked along the gravel road by the cabin deep in the woods. They entered the cabin dressed as normal working men, but once inside they slowly and meticulously changed into their neatly pressed and neatly folded robes and headdresses. They admired one another’s uniforms and helped each other into the bulky outfits. Most of them knew each other, but a few introductions were necessary. They were forty in number; a good turnout.

Stump Sisson was pleased. He sipped whiskey and moved around the room like a head coach reassuring his team before the kickoff. He inspected the uniforms and made adjustments. He was proud of his men, and told them so. It was the biggest meeting of its kind in years, he said. He admired them and their sacrifices in being there. He knew they had jobs and families, but this was important. He talked about the glory days when they were feared in Mississippi and had clout. Those days must return, and it was up to this very group of dedicated men to take a stand for white people. The march could be dangerous, he explained. Niggers could march and demonstrate all day long and no one cared. But let white folks try and march and it was dangerous. The city had issued a permit, and the nigger sheriff promised order, but most Klan marches nowadays were disrupted by roving bands of young wild nigger punks. So be careful, and keep ranks. He, Stump, would do the talking.

They listened intently to Stump’srep talk, and when he finished they loaded into a dozen cars and followed him to town.

Few if any people in Clanton had ever seen the Klan march, and as 2:00 P.M. approached a great wave of excitement rippled around the square. The merchants and their customers found excuses to inspect the sidewalks. They milled about importantly and watched the side streets. The vultures were out in full force and had congregated near the gazebo on the front lawn. A group of young blacks gathered

nearby under a massive oak. Ozzie smelled trouble. They assured him they had only come to watch and listen. He threatened them with jail if trouble started. He stationed his men at various points around the courthouse.

"Here they come!" someone yelled, and the spectators strained to get a glimpse of the marching Klansmen as they strutted importantly from a small street onto Washington Avenue, the north border of the square. They walked cautiously, but arrogantly, their faces hidden by the sinister red and white masks hanging from the royal headdresses. The spectators gawked at the faceless figures as the procession moved slowly along Washington, then south along Caffey Street, then east along Jackson Street. Stump waddled proudly in front of his men. When he neared the front of the courthouse, he made a sharp left turn and led his troops down the long sidewalk in the center of the front lawn. They closed ranks in a loose semicircle around the podium on the courthouse steps.

The vultures had scrambled and fallen over themselves following the march, and when Stump stopped his men the podium was quickly adorned with a dozen microphones trailing wires in all directions to the cameras and recorders. Under the tree the group of blacks had grown larger, much larger, and some of them walked to within a few feet of the semicircle. The sidewalks emptied as the merchants and shopkeepers, their customers, and the other curious streamed across the streets onto the lawn to hear what the leader, the short fat one, was about to say. The deputies walked slowly through the crowd, paying particular attention to the group of blacks. Ozzie placed himself under the oak, in the midst of his people.

Jake watched intently from the window in Jean Gilles-pie’s second floor office. The sight of the Klansmen, in full regalia, their cowardly faces hidden behind the ominous masks, gave him a sick feeling. The white hood, for decades a symbol of hatred and violence in the South, was back. Which one of those men had burned the cross in his yard? Were they all active in planning the bombing of his home? Which one would try something next? From the second floor, he could see the blacks inch closer.