A Time to Kill

Cobb and Willard awoke with throbbing heads and red, swollen eyes. Ozzie was yelling at them. They were in a small cell by themselves. Through the bars to the right was a cell where the state prisoners were held awaiting the trip to Parchman. A dozen blacks leaned through the bars and glared at the two white boys as they struggled to clear their eyes. To the left was a smaller cell, also full of blacks. Wake up, Ozzie yelled, and stay quiet, or he would integrate his jail.

Jake’s quiet time was from seven until Ethel arrived at eight-thirty. He was jealous with this time. He locked the front door, ignored the phone, and refused to make appointments. He meticulously planned his day. By eight-thirty he would have enough work dictated to keep Ethel busy and quiet until noon. By nine he was either in court or seeing clients. He would not take calls until eleven, when he methodically returned the morning’s messages-all of them. He never delayed returning a phone call-another rule. Jake worked systematically and efficiently with little wasted time. These habits he had not learned from Lucien.

At eight-thirty Ethel made her usual noisy entrance downstairs. She made fresh coffee and opened the mail as she had every day for the past forty-one years. She was sixty-four and looked fifty. She was plump, but not fat, well kept, but not attractive. She chomped on a greasy sausage and biscuit brought from home and read Jake’s mail.

Jake heard voices. Ethel was talking to another woman. He checked his appointment book-none until ten.

"Good morning, Mr. Brigance," Ethel announced through the intercom.

"Morning, Ethel." She preferred to be called Mrs.

Twitty. Lucien and everyone else called her that. But Jake had called her Ethel since he had fired her shortly after the disbarment.

"There’s a lady here to see you."

"She doesn’t have an appointment."

"Yes, sir, I know."

"Make one for tomorrow morning after ten-thirty. I’m busy now."

"Yes, sir. But she says it’s urgent."

"Who is it?" he snapped. It was always urgent when they dropped in unannounced, like dropping by a funeral home or a Laundromat. Probably some urgent question about Uncle Luke’s will or the case set for trial in three months.

"A Mrs. Willard," Ethel replied.

"First name?"

"Earnestine Willard. You don’t know her, but her son’s in jail."

Jake saw his appointments on time, but drop-ins were another matter. Ethel either ran them off or made appointments for the next day or so. Mr. Brigance was very busy, she would explain, but he could work you in day after tomorrow. This impressed people.

"Tell her I’m not interested."

"But she says she must find a lawyer. Her son has to be in court at one this afternoon."

"Tell her to see Drew Jack Tyndale, the public defender. He’s good and he’s free."

Ethel relayed the message. "But, Mr. Brigance, she wants to hire you. Someone told her you’re the best criminal lawyer in the county." The amusement was obvious in Ethel’s voice.

"Tell her that’s true, but I’m not interested."

Ozzie handcuffed Willard and led him down the hall to his office in the front section of the Ford County jail. He removed the handcuffs and seated him in a wooden chair in the center of the cramped room. Ozzie sat in the big chair across the desk and looked down at the defendant.

"Mr. Willard, this here is Lieutenant Griffin with the

Mississippi Highway Patrol. Over here is Investigator Rady with my office, and this here is Deputy Looney and Deputy Prather, whom you met last night but I doubt if you remember it. I’m Sheriff Walls."

Willard jerked his head fearfully to look at each one. He was surrounded. The door was shut. Two tape recorders sat side by side near the edge of the sheriffs desk.

"We’d like to ask you some questions, okay?"

"I don’t know."

"Before I start, I wanna make sure you understand your rights. First of all, you have the right to remain silent. Understand?"

"Uh huh."

"You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but if you do, anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Understand?"

"Uh huh."

"Can you read and write?"

"Yeah."

"Good, then read this and sign it. It says you’ve been advised of your rights."

Willard signed. Ozzie pushed the red button on one of the tape recorders.

"You understand this tape recorder is on?"

"Uh huh."

"And it’s Wednesday, May 15, at eight forty-three in the mornin’."

"If you say so."

"What’s your full name?"

"James Louis Willard."

"Nickname?"

"Pete. Pete Willard."

"Address?"

"Route 6, Box 14, Lake Village, Mississippi."

"What road?"

"Bethel Road."

"Who do you live with?"

"My momma, Earnestine Willard. I’m divorced."

"You know Billy Ray Cobb?"

Willard hesitated and noticed his feet. His boots were back in the cell. His white socks were dirty and did not hide his two big toes. Safe question, he thought.

"Yeah, I know him."

"Was you with him yesterday?"

"Uh huh."

"Where were y’all?"

"Down at the lake."

"What time did you leave?"

" ‘Bout three."

"What were you drivin’?"

"I wasn’t."

"What were you ridin’ in?"

Hesitation. He studied his toes. "I don’t think I wanna talk no more."

Ozzie pushed another button and the recorder stopped. He breathed deeply at Willard. "You ever been to Parchman?"

Willard shook his head.

"You know how many niggers at Parchman?"

Willard shook his head.

" ‘Bout five thousand. You know how many white boys are there?"

"No."

" ‘Bout a thousand."

Willard dropped his chin to his chest. Ozzie let him think for a minute, then winked at Lieutenant Griffin.

"You got any idea what those niggers will do to a white boy who raped a little black girl?"

No response.

"Lieutenant Griffin, tell Mr. Willard how white boys are treated at Parchman."

Griffin walked to Ozzie’s desk and sat on the edge. He looked down at Willard. "About five years ago a young white man in Helena County, over in the delta, raped a black girl. She was twelve. They were waiting on him when he got to Parchman. Knew he was coming. First night about thirty blacks tied him over a fifty-five-gallon drum and climbed on. The guards watched and laughed. There’s no sympathy for ra**sts. They got him every night for three months, and then killed him. They found him castrated, stuffed in the drum."

Willard cringed, then threw his head back and breathed heavily toward the ceiling.

"Look, Pete," Ozzie said, "we’re not after you. We want Cobb. I’ve been after that boy since he left Parchman. I want him real bad. You help us get Cobb and I’ll help you as much as I can. I ain’t promisin’ nothin’, but me and the D.A. work close together. You help me get Cobb, and I’ll help you with the D.A. Just tell us what happened."

"I wanna lawyer," Willard said.

Ozzie dropped his head and groaned. "What’s a lawyer gonna do, Pete? Get the niggers off of you? I’m tryin’ to help you and you’re bein’ a wiseass."

"You need to listen to the sheriff, son. He’s trying to save your life," Griffin said helpfully.

"There’s a good chance you could get off with just a few years here in this jail," Rady said.