A Time to Kill

"I doubt it."

"Are you safe?"

"Sure. I’ve got a full-time bodyguard and I carry a .38 in my briefcase. Don’t worry."

"But I’m worried, Jake. I need to be home with you."

"No."

"Hanna can stay here until it’s over, but I want to come home."

"No, Carla. I know you’re safe out there. You won’t be safe if you’re here."

"Then you’re not safe either."

"I’m as safe as I can get. But I’m not taking chances

with you and Hanna. It’s out of the question. That’s final. How are your parents?"

"I didn’t call to talk about my parents. I called because I’m scared and I want to be with you."

"And I want to be with you, but not now. Please understand."

She hesitated. "Where are you staying?"

"At Lucien’s most of the time. Occasionally at home, with my bodyguard in the driveway."

"How’s my house?"

"It’s still there. Dirty, but still there."

"I miss it."

"Believe me, it misses you."

"I love you, Jake, and I’m scared."

"I love you, and I’m not scared. Just relax and take care of Hanna."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Jake handed the receiver to Ellen. "Where is she?"

"Wilmington, North Carolina. Her parents spend the summers there."

Harry Rex had left for another pizza.

"You miss her, don’t you?" asked Elleri.

"In more ways than you can imagine."

"Oh, I can imagine."

At midnight they were in the cabin drinking whiskey, cussing niggers, and comparing wounds. Several had returned from the hospital in Memphis where they had visited briefly with Stump Sisson. He told them to proceed as planned. Eleven had been released from the Ford County Hospital with various cuts and bruises, and the others admired their wounds as each took his turn describing to the last detail how he had gallantly battled multiple niggers before being wounded, usually from the rear or blind side. They were the heroes, the ones with the bandages. Then the others told their stories and the whiskey flowed. They heaped praise upon the largest one when he told of his attack on the pretty television reporter and her nigger cameraman.

After a couple of hours of drinking and storytelling the

talk turned to the task at hand. A map of the county was produced, and one of the locals pinpointed the targets. There were twenty homes this night-twenty names taken from the list of prospective jurors someone had furnished.

Five teams of four each left the cabin in pickups and headed into the darkness to further their mischief. In each pickup were four wooden crosses, the smaller models, nine feet by four feet, each soaked with kerosene. They avoided Clanton and the small towns in the county and instead kept to the dark countryside. The targets were in isolated areas, away from traffic and neighbors, out in the country where things go unnoticed and people go to bed early and sleep soundly.

The plan of attack was simple: a truck would stop a few hundred feet down the road, out of sight, no headlights, and the driver remained with engine running while the other three carried the cross to the front yard, stuck it in the ground, and threw a torch on it. The pickup then met them in front of the house for a quiet getaway and joyride to the next target.

The plan worked simply and with no complications at nineteen of the twenty targets. But at Luther Pickett’s residence a strange noise earlier in the night had aroused Luther, and he sat in the darkness of his front porch waiting for nothing in particular when he saw a strange pickup move suspiciously along the gravel road out beyond his pecan tree. He grabbed his shotgun and listened as the truck turned around and stopped down the road. He heard voices, and then saw three figures carrying a pole or something into his front yard, next to the gravel road. Luther crouched behind a shrub next to the porch, and aimed.

The driver took a slug of cold beer and watched to see the cross go up in flames. He heard a shotgun instead. His buddies abandoned the cross and the torch and the front yard, and jumped into a small ditch next to the road. Another shotgun blast. The driver could hear the screams and obscenities. They had to be rescued! He threw down his beer and stepped on the gas,

Old Luther fired again as he came off the porch, and again as the truck appeared and stopped by the shallow ditch. The three scrambled desperately from the mud, stum-

bling and sliding, cussing and yelling as they attacked the truck and furiously fought to jump into the bed.

"Hang on!" yelled the driver just as old Luther fired again, this time spraying the pickup. He watched with a smile as the truck sped away, spinning gravel and fishtailing from ditch to ditch. Just a bunch of drunk kids, he thought.

From a pay phone, a Kluxer held the list of twenty names and twenty phone numbers. He called them all, simply to ask them to take a look in their front yards.

Friday morning Jake phoned the Noose home and was informed by Mrs. Ichabod that His Honor was presiding over a civil trial in Polk County. Jake gave instructions to Ellen and left for Smithfield, an hour away. He nodded at His Honor as he entered the empty courtroom and sat on the front row. Except for the jurors, there were no other spectators. Noose was bored, the jurors were bored, the lawyers were bored, and after two minutes Jake was bored. After the witness finished Noose called for a short recess, and Jake went to his chambers.

"Hello, Jake. Why’re you here?"

"You heard what happened yesterday."

"I saw it on the news last night."

"Have you heard what happened this morning?"

"No."

"Evidently someone gave the Klan a list of the prospective jurors. Last night they burned crosses in the yards of twenty of the jurors."

Noose was shocked. "Our jurors!"

"Yes, sir."

"Did they catch anybody?"

"Of course not. They were too busy putting out fires. Besides, you don’t catch these people."

"Twenty of our jurors," Noose repeated.

"Yes, sir."

Noose pawed at his mangled mass of brilliant gray hair and walked slowly around the small room, shaking his head and occasionally scratching his crotch.

"Sounds like intimidation to me," he muttered.

What a mind, thought Jake. A real genius. "I would say so."

"So what am I supposed to do?" he asked with a touch of frustration.

"Change venue."

"To where?"

"Southern part of the state."

"I see. Perhaps Carey County. I believe it’s sixty percent

black. That would generate at least a hung jury, wouldn’t it? Or maybe you would like Brower County. I think it’s even blacker. You’d probably get an acquittal there, wouldn’t you?"

"I don’t care where you move it. It’s not fair to try him in Ford County. Things were bad enough before the war yesterday. Now the white folks are really in a lynching mood, and my man’s got the nearest available neck. The situation was terrible before the Klan started decorating the county with Christmas trees. Who knows what else they’ll try before Monday. There’s no way to pick a fair and impartial jury in Ford County."

"You mean black jury?"

"No, sir! I mean a jury that hasn’t prejudged this case. Carl Lee Hailey is entitled to twelve people who haven’t already decided his guilt or innocence."

Noose lumbered toward his chair and fell into it. He removed those glasses from that nose and picked at the end of it.