A Time to Kill

"I don’t know of any in Ford County. I had a real good friend in law school, Ira Tauber, from New Jersey. We were very close. I love Jews. Jesus was a Jew, you know. I’ve never understood anti-Semitism."

"My God, you are a liberal. How about, uh, homosexuals?"

"I feel sorry for them. They don’t know what they’re missing. But that’s their problem."

"Could you have a homosexual friend?"

"I guess, as long as he didn’t tell me."

"Nope, you’re a Republican."

She took his empty can and threw it in the back seat. She opened two more. The sun was gone, and the heavy, humid air felt cool at ninety miles an hour.

"So we can’t be friends?" she said.

"Nope."

"Nor lovers."

"Please. I’m trying to drive."

"So what are we?"

"I’m the lawyer, you’re the law clerk. I’m the employer, you’re the employee. I’m the boss, you’re the gofer."

"You’re the male, I’m the female."

Jake admired her jeans and bulky shirt. "There’s not much doubt about that."

Ellen shook her head and stared at the mountains of kudzu flying by. Jake smiled, drove faster, and sipped his beer. He negotiated a series of intersections on the rural, deserted highways and, suddenly, the hills disappeared and the land became flat.

"What’s the name of the restaurant?" she asked.

"The Hollywood."

"The what?"

"The Hollywood."

"Why is it called that?"

"It was once located in a small town a few miles away by the name of Hollywood, Mississippi. It burned, and they moved it to Robinsonville. They still call it the Hollywood."

"What’s so great about it?"

"Great food, great music, great atmosphere, and it’s a

thousand miles from Clanton and no one will see me having dinner with a strange and beautiful woman."

"I’m not a woman, I’m a gofer."

"A strange and beautiful gofer."

Ellen smiled to herself and ran her fingers through her hair. At another intersection, he turned left and headed west until they found a settlement near a railroad. A row of wooden buildings sat empty on one side of the road, and across the street, all by itself, was an old dry goods store with a dozen cars parked around it and music rolling softly out the windows. Jake grabbed the bottle of Chablis and escorted his law clerk up the steps, onto the front porch, and inside the building.

Next to the door was a small stage, where a beautiful old black lady, Merle, sat at her piano and sang "Rainy Night in Georgia." Three long rows of tables ran to the front and stopped next to the stage. The tables were half full, and* a waitress in the back poured beer from a pitcher and motioned for them to come on in. She seated them in the rear, at a small table with a red-checkered tablecloth.

"Y’all want some fried dill pickles, honey?" she asked Jake.

"Yes! Two orders."

Ellen frowned and looked at Jake. "Fried dill pickles?"

"Yes, of course. They don’t serve them in Boston?"

"Do you people fry everything?"

"Everything that’s worth eating. If you don’t like them, I’ll eat them."

A yell went up from the table across the aisle. Four couples toasted something or somebody, then broke into riotous laughing. The restaurant maintained a constant roar of yelling and talking.

"The good thing about the Hollywood," Jake explained, "is that you can make all the noise you want and stay as long as you want, and nobody cares. When you get a table here, it’s yours for the night. They’ll start singing and dancing in a minute."

Jake ordered sauteed shrimp and charbroiled catfish for both of them. Ellen passed on the frog legs. The waitress hurried back with the Chablis and two chilled glasses. They toasted Carl Lee Hailey and his insane mind.

"Whatta you think of Bass?" Jake asked.

"He’s the perfect witness. He’ll say anything we want him to say."

"Does that bother you?"

"It would if he was a fact witness. But he’s an expert, and he can get by with his opinions. Who will challenge him?"

"Is he believable?"

"When he’s sober. We talked twice this week. On lues-day he was lucid and helpful. On Wednesday, he was drunk and indifferent. I think he’ll be as helpful as any psychiatrist we could find. He doesn’t care what the truth is, and he’ll tell us what we want to hear."

"Does he think Carl Lee was legally insane?"

"No. Do you?"

"No. Row Ark, Carl Lee told me five days before the ‘killings that he would do it. He showed me the exact place where he would ambush them, although at the time I didn’t realize it. Our client knew exactly what he was doing."

"Why didn’t you stop him?"

"Because I didn’t believe him. His daughter had just been raped and was fighting for her life."

"Would you have stopped him if you could?"

"I did tell Ozzie. But at the time neither of us dreamed it could happen. No, I would not have stopped him if I knew for certain. I would have done the same thing."

"How?"

"Exactly as he did it. It was very easy."

Ellen approached a fried dill pickle with her fork and played with it suspiciously. She cut it in half, pierced it with the fork, and sniffed it carefully. She put it in her mouth and chewed slowly. She swallowed, then pushed her pile of pickles across the table toward Jake.

"Typical yankee," he said. "I don’t understand you, Row Ark. You don’t like fried dill pickles, you’re attractive, very bright, you could go to work with any blue-chip law firm in the country for megabucks, yet you want to spend your career losing sleep over cutthroat murderers who are on death row and about to get their just rewards. What makes you tick, Row Ark?"

"You lose sleep over the same people. Now it’s Carl

Lee Hailey. Next year it’ll be some other murderer who everybody hates but you’ll lose sleep over him because he happens to be your client. One of these days, Brigance, you’ll have a client on death row, and you’ll learn how terrible it is. When they strap him in the chair and he looks at you for the last time, you’ll be a changed man. You’ll know how barbaric the system is, and you’ll remember Row Ark."

"Then I’ll grow a beard and join the ACLU."

"Probably, if they would accept you."

The sauteed shrimp arrived in a small black skillet. It simmered in butter and garlic and barbeque sauce. Ellen dipped spoonfuls onto her plate and ate like a refugee. Merle lit into a stirring rendition of "Dixie," and the crowd sang and clapped along.

The waitress ran by and threw a platter of battered and crunchy frog legs on the table. Jake finished a glass of wine and grabbed a handful of the frog legs. Ellen tried to ignore them. When they were full of appetizers, the catfish was served. The grease popped and fizzed and they did not touch the china. It was charbroiled to a deep brown crisp with black squares from the grill burned on each side. They ate and drank slowly, watching each other and savoring the delicious entree.

At midnight, the bottle was empty and the lights were dimmed. They said good night to the waitress and to Merle. They walked carefully down the steps and to the car. Jake buckled his seat belt.

"I’m too drunk to drive," he said.

"So am I. I saw a little motel not far down the road."

"I saw it too, and there were no vacancies. Nice try, Row Ark. Get me drunk and try to take advantage of me."