Jake whispered to his client and looked around the courtroom. All eyes were on him. The Hailey clan sat handsomely in the front row. Jake smiled at them and nodded at Lester. Tbnya and the boys were decked out in their Sunday clothes, and they sat between Lester and Gwen like perfect little statues.—The jurors sat across the aisle, and they were carefully studying Hailey’s lawyer. Jake thought this would be a good time for the jurors to see the family, so he walked through the swinging gate in the railing and went to speak to the Haileys. He patted Gwen on the shoulder, shook hands with Lester, pinched each of the boys, and, finally, hugged Tonya, the little Hailey girl, the one who had been raped by the two rednecks who got what they deserved. The jurors watched every move of this production, and paid special attention to the little girl.
   “Noose wants us in chambers,” Musgrove whispered to Jake as he returned to the defense table.
   Ichabod, Buckley, and the court reporter were chatting when Jake and Ellen entered chambers. Jake introduced his clerk to His Honor and Buckley and Musgrove, and to Norma Gallo, the court reporter. He explained that Ellen Roark was a third-year law student at Ole Miss who was clerking in his office, and requested that she be allowed to sit near counsel table and participate in the proceedings in chambers. Buckley had no objections. It was common practice, Noose explained, and he welcomed her.
   “Preliminary matters, gentlemen?” Noose asked.
   “None,” said the D. A.
   “Several,” said Jake as he opened a file. “I want this on the record.”
   Norma Gallo started writing.
   “First of all, I want to renew my motion for a change of venue—”
   “We object,” interrupted Buckley.
   “Shut up, Governor!” Jake yelled. “I’m not through, and don’t interrupt me again!”
   Buckley and the others were startled by this loss of composure. It’s all those margaritas, thought Ellen.
   “I apologize, Mr. Brigance,” Buckley said calmly. “Please don’t refer to me as governor.”
   “Let me say something at this point,” Noose started. “This trial will be a long and arduous ordeal. I can appreciate the pressure you’re both under. I’ve been in your shoes many times myself, and I know what you’re going through. You’re both excellent lawyers, and I’m thankful that I have two fine lawyers for a trial of this magnitude. I can also detect a certain amount of ill will between you. That’s certainly not uncommon, and I will not ask you to shake hands and be good friends. But I will insist that when you’re in my courtroom or in these chambers that you refrain from interrupting each other, and that the shouting be held to a bare minimum. You will refer to each other as Mr. Brigance, and Mr. Buckley, and Mr. Musgrove. Now do each of you understand what I’m saying?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Good. Then continue, Mr. Brigance.”
   “Thank you, Your Honor, I appreciate that. As I was saying, the defendant renews his motion for a change of venue. I want the record to reflect that as we sit here now in chambers, at nine-fifteen, July twenty-second, as we are about to select a jury, the Ford County Courthouse is surrounded by the Mississippi National Guard. On the front lawn a group of Ku Klux Klansmen, in white robes, is at this very moment yelling at a group of black demonstrators, who are, of course, yelling back. The two groups are separated by heavily armed National Guardsmen. As the jurors arrived for court this morning, they witnessed this circus on the courthouse lawn. It will be impossible to select a fair and impartial jury.”
   Buckley watched with a cocky grin on his huge face, and when Jake finished he said, “May I respond, Your Honor?”
   “No,” Noose said bluntly. “Motion is overruled. What else do you have?”
   “The defense moves to strike this entire panel.”
   “On what grounds?”
   “On the grounds that there has been an overt effort by the Klan to intimidate this panel. We know of at least twenty cross burnings.”
   “I intend to excuse those twenty, assuming they all showed up,” said Noose.
   “Fine,” Jake replied sarcastically. “What about the threats we don’t know about? What about the jurors who’ve heard of the cross burnings?”
   Noose wiped his eyes and said nothing. Buckley had a speech but didn’t want to interrupt.
   “I’ve got a list here,” Jake said, reaching into a file, “of the twenty jurors who received visits. I’ve also got copies of the police reports, and an affidavit from Sheriff Walls in which he details the acts of intimidation. I am submitting these to the court in support of my motion to strike this panel. I want this made a part of the record so the Supreme Court can see it in black and white.”
   “Expecting an appeal, Mr. Brigance?” asked Mr. Buck-ley.
   Ellen had just met Rufus Buckley, and now, seconds later, she understood exactly why Jake and Harry Rex hated him.
   “No, Governor, I’m not expecting an appeal. I’m trying to insure that my man gets a fair trial from a fair jury. You should understand that.”
   “I’m not going to strike this panel. That would cost us a week,” Noose said.
   “What’s time when a man’s life is at stake? We’re talking about justice. The right to a fair trial, remember, a most basic constitutional right. It’s a travesty not to strike this panel when you know for a fact that some of these people have been intimidated by a bunch of goons in white robes who want to see my client hanged.”
   “Your motion is overruled,” Noose said flatly. “What else do you have?”
   “Nothing, really. I request that when you do excuse the twenty, you so do in such a way that the other jurors don’t know the reason.”
   “I can handle that, Mr. Brigance.”
   Mr. Pate was sent to find Jean Gillespie. Noose handed her a list of the twenty names. She returned to the courtroom and read the list. They were not needed for jury duty, and were free to go. She returned to chambers.
   “How many jurors do we have?” Noose asked her.
   “Ninety-four.”
   “That’s enough. I’m sure we can find twelve who are fit to serve.”
   “You couldn’t find two,” Jake mumbled to Ellen, loud enough for Noose to hear and Norma Gallo to record. His Honor excused them and they took their places in the courtroom.
   Ninety-four names were written on small strips of paper that were placed in a short wooden cylinder. Jean Gillespie spun the cylinder, stopped it, and picked a name at random. She handed it to Noose, who sat above her and everyone else on his throne, or bench, as it was called. The courtroom watched in dead silence as he squinted down that nose and looked at the first name.
   “Carlene Malone, juror number one,” he shrieked in his loudest voice. The front row had been cleared, and Mrs. Malone took her seat next to the aisle. Each pew would seat ten, and there were ten pews, all to be filled with jurors. The ten pews on the other side of the aisle were packed with family, friends, spectators, but mainly reporters who scribbled down the name of Carlene Malone. Jake wrote her name too. She was white, fat, divorced, lower income. She was a two on the Brigance scale. Zero for one, he thought.
   Jean spun again.
   “Marcia Dickens, juror number two,” yelled Noose. White, fat, over sixty with a rather unforgiving look. Zero for two.
   “Jo Beth Mills, number three.”
   Jake sank a little in his seat. She was white, about fifty, and worked for minimum wage at a shirt factory in Karaway. Thanks to affirmative action, she had a black boss who was ignorant and abusive. She had a zero by her name on the Brigance notecard. Zero for three.
   Jake stared desperately at Jean as she spun again. “Reba Betts, number four.”
   He sunk lower and began pinching his forehead. Zero for four. “This is incredible,” he mumbled in the direction of Ellen. Harry Rex shook his head.
   “Gerald Ault, number five.”
   Jake smiled as his number-one juror took a seat next to Reba Betts. Buckley placed a nasty black mark by his name.
   “Alex Summers, number six.”
   Carl Lee managed a weak smile as the first black emerged from the rear and took a seat next to Gerald Ault. Buckley smiled too as he neatly circled the name of the first black.
   The next four were white women, none of whom rated above three on the scale. Jake was worried as the first pew filled. By law he had twelve peremptory challenges, free strikes with no reason required. The luck of the draw would force him to use at least half of his peremptories on the first pew.
   “Walter Godsey, number eleven,” announced Noose, his voice declining steadily in volume. Godsey was a middle-aged sharecropper with no compassion and no potential.
   When Noose finished the second row, it contained seven white women, two black men, and Godsey. Jake sensed a disaster. Relief didn’t come until the fourth row when Jean hit a hot streak and pulled the names of seven men, four of whom were black.
   It took almost an hour to seat the entire panel. Noose recessed for fifteen minutes to allow Jean time to type a numerical list of names. Jake and Ellen used the break to review their notes and place the names with the faces. Harry Rex had sat at the counter behind the red docket books and feverishly taken notes while Noose called the names. He huddled with Jake and agreed things were not going well.
   At eleven, Noose reassumed the bench, and the courtroom was silenced. Someone suggested he should use the mike, and he placed it within inches of his nose. He spoke loudly, and his fragile, obnoxious voice rattled violently around the courtroom as he asked a lengthy series of statu-torily required questions. He introduced Carl Lee and asked if any juror was kin to him or knew him. They all knew of him, and Noose assumed that, but only two of the panel admitted knowing him prior to May. Noose introduced the lawyers, then explained briefly the nature of the charges. Not a single juror confessed to being ignorant of the Hailey case.
   Noose rambled on and on, and mercifully finished at twelve-thirty. He recessed until two.
   Dell delivered hot sandwiches and iced tea to the conference room. Jake hugged and thanked her, and told her to send him the bill. He ignored his food, and laid the notecards on the table in the order the jurors had been seated. Harry Rex attacked a roast beef and cheddar sandwich. “We got a terrible draw,” he kept repeating with both cheeks stretched to the limit. “We got a terrible draw.”
   When the ninety-fourth card was in place, Jake stood back and studied them. Ellen stood beside him and nibbled on a french fry. She studied the cards.
   “We got a terrible draw,” Harry Rex said, washing it all down with a pint of tea.
   “Would you shut up,” Jake snapped.
   “Of the first fifty, we have eight black men, three black women, and thirty white women. That leaves nine white men, and most are unattractive. Looks like a white female jury,” Ellen said.
   “White females, white females,” Harry Rex said. “The worst possible jurors in the world. White females!”
   Ellen stared at him. “I think fat white men are the worst jurors.”
   “Don’t get me wrong, Row Ark, I love white females. I’ve married four of them, remember. I just hate white female jurors.”
   “I wouldn’t vote to convict him.”
   “Row Ark, you’re an ACLU communist. You wouldn’t vote to convict anybody of anything. In your little demented mind you think child pornographers and PLO terrorists are really swell people who’ve been abused by the system and should be given a break.”
   “And in your rational, civilized, and compassionate mind, what do you think we should do with them?”
   “Hang them by their toes, castrate them, and let them bleed to death, without a trial.”
   “And the way you understand the law, that would be constitutional?”
   “Maybe not, but it’d stop a lot of child pornography and terrorism. Jake, are you gonna eat this sandwich?”
   “No.”
   Harry Rex unwrapped a ham and cheese. “Stay away from number one, Carlene Malone. She’s one of those Malones from Lake Village. White trash and mean as hell.”
   “I’d like to stay away from this entire panel,” Jake said, still staring at the table.
   “We got a terrible draw.”
   “Whatta you think, Row Ark?” Jake asked.
   Harry Rex swallowed quickly. “I think we oughtta plead him guilty and get the hell outta there. Run like a scalded dog.”
   Ellen stared at the cards. “It could be worse.”
   Harry Rex forced a loud laugh. “Worse! The only way it could be worse would be if the first thirty were sitting there wearing white robes with pointed hats and little masks.”
   “Harry Rex, would you shut up,” Jake said.
   “Just trying to help. Do you want your french fries?”
   “No. Why don’t you put all of them in your mouth and chew on them for a long time?”
   “I think you’re wrong about some of these women,” Ellen said. “I’m inclined to agree with Lucien. Women, as a very general rule, will have more sympathy. We’re the ones who get raped, remember?”
   “I have no response to that,” Harry Rex said.
   “Thanks,” replied Jake. “Which one of these girls is your former client who’ll supposedly do anything for you if you’ll simply wink at her?”
   Ellen snickered. “Must be number twenty-nine. She’s five feet tall and weighs four hundred pounds.”
   Harry Rex wiped his mouth with a sheet of paper. “Very funny. Number seventy-four. She’s too far back. Forget her.”
   Noose rapped his gavel at two and the courtroom came to order.
   “The State may examine the panel,” he said.
   The magnificent district attorney rose slowly and walked importantly to the bar, where he stood and gazed pensively at the spectators and jurors. He realized the artists were sketching him, and he seemed to pose for just a moment. He smiled sincerely at the jurors, then introduced himself. He explained that he was the people’s lawyer; his client, the State of Mississippi. He had served as their prosecutor for nine years now, and it was an honor for which he would always be grateful to the fine folks of Ford County. He pointed at them and told them that they, the very ones sitting there, were the folks who had elected him to represent them. He thanked them, and hoped he did not let them down.
   Yes, he was nervous and frightened. He had prosecuted thousands of criminals, but he was always scared with each trial. Yes! He was scared, and not ashamed to admit it. Scared because of the awesome responsibility the people had bestowed upon him as the man responsible for sending criminals to jail and protecting the people. Scared because he might fail to adequately represent his client, the people of this great state.
   Jake had heard all this crap many times before. He had it memorized. Buckley the good guy, the state’s lawyer, united with the people to seek justice, to save society. He was a smooth, gifted orator who one moment could chat softly with a jury, much like a grandfather giving advice to his grandchildren. The next moment he would launch into a tirade and deliver a sermon that any black preacher would envy. A split second later, in a fluid burst of eloquence, he could convince a jury that the stability of our society, yes, even the future of the human race, depended upon a guilty verdict. He was at his best in big trials, and this was his biggest. He spoke without notes, and held the courtroom captivated as he portrayed himself as the underdog, the friend and partner of the jury, who, together with him, would find the truth, and punish this man for his monstrous deed.
   After ten minutes, Jake had enough. He stood with a frustrated look. “Your Honor, I object to this. Mr. Buckley is not selecting a jury. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but he’s not interrogating the panel.”

   “Sustained!” Noose yelled into the mike. “If you don’t have any questions for the panel, Mr. Buckley, then please sit down.”
   “I apologize, Your Honor,” Buckley said awkwardly, pretending to be hurt. Jake had drawn first blood.
   Buckley picked up a legal pad and launched into a list of a thousand questions. He asked if anyone on the panel had ever served on a jury before. Several hands went up. Civil or criminal? Did you vote to acquit or convict? How long ago? Was the defendant black or white? Victim, black or white? Had anyone been the victim of a violent crime? Two hands. When? Where? Was the assailant caught? Convicted? Black or white? Jake, Harry Rex, and Ellen took pages of notes. Any member of your family been the victim of a violent crime? Several more hands. When? Where? What happened to the criminal? Any member of your family ever been charged with a crime? Indicted? Put on trial? Convicted? Any friends or family members employed in law enforcement? Who? Where?
   For three nonstop hours Buckley probed and picked like a surgeon. He was masterful. The preparation was obvious. He asked questions that Jake had not considered. And he asked virtually every question Jake had written in his outline. He delicately pried details of personal feelings and opinions. And when the time was right, he would say something funny so everyone could laugh and relieve the tension. He held the courtroom in his palm, and when Noose stopped him at five o’clock he was in full stride. He would finish in the morning.
   His Honor adjourned until nine the next morning. Jake talked to his client for a few moments while the crowd moved toward the rear. Ozzie stood nearby with the handcuffs. When Jake finished, Carl Lee knelt before his family on the front row and hugged them all. He would see them tomorrow, he said. Ozzie led him into the holding room and down the stairs, where a swarm of deputies waited to take him to jail.
   For Day TWo the sun rose quickly in the east and in seconds burned the dew off the thick green Bermuda around the Ford County Courthouse. A sticky, invisible fog smoldered from the grass and clung to the heavy boots and bulky pants of the soldiers. The sun baked them as they nonchalantly paced the sidewalks of downtown Clanton. They loitered under shade trees and the canopies of small shops. By the time breakfast was served under the pavilions, the soldiers had stripped to their pale green undershirts and were drenched in sweat.
   The black preachers and their followers went directly to their spot and set up camp. They unfolded lawn chairs under oak trees’ and placed coolers of ice water on card tables. Blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards were tacked on tomato stakes and stuck in the ground like neat fencerows. Agee had printed some new posters with an enlarged black and white photo of Carl Lee in the center and a red, white, and blue border. They were slick and professional.
   The Klansmen went obediently to their section of the front lawn. They brought their own placards-white backgrounds with bold red letters screaming FRY CARL LEE, FRY CARL LEE. They waved them at the blacks across the lawn, and the two groups started shouting. The soldiers formed neat lines along the sidewalk, and stood armed but casual as obscenities and chants flew over their heads. It was 8:00 A. M. of Day Two.
   The reporters were giddy with all the newsworthiness. They rushed to the front lawn when the yelling started. Oz-zie and the colonel walked around and around the courthouse, pointing here and there and yelling into their radios.
   At nine, Ichabod said good morning to the standing-room-only crowd. Buckley stood slowly and with great animation informed His Honor that he had no further questions for the panel.
   Lawyer Brigance rose from his seat with rubber knees and turbulence in his stomach. He walked to the railing and gazed into the anxious eyes of ninety-four prospective jurors.
   The crowd listened intently to this young, cocky mouthpiece who had once boasted of never having lost a murder case. He appeared relaxed and confident. His voice was loud, yet warm. His words were educated, yet colloquial. He introduced himself again, and his client, then his client’s family, saving the little girl for last. He complimented the D. A. for such an exhaustive interrogation yesterday afternoon, and confessed that most of his questions had already been asked. He glanced at his notes. His first question was a bombshell.
   “Ladies and gentlemen, do any of you believe that the insanity defense should not be used under any circumstances?”
   They squirmed a little, but no hands. He caught them off-guard, right off the bat. Insanity! Insanity! The seed had been planted.
   “If we prove Carl Lee Hailey was legally insane when he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard, is there a person on this panel who cannot find him not guilty?”
   The question was hard to follow-intentionally so. There were no hands. A few wanted to respond, but they were not certain of the appropriate response.
   Jake eyed them carefully, knowing most of them were confused, but also knowing that for this moment every member of the panel was thinking about his client being insane. That’s where he would leave them.
   “Thank you,” he said with all the charm he had ever mustered in his life. “I have nothing further, Your Honor.”
   Buckley looked confused. He stared at the judge, who was equally bewildered.
   “Is that all?” Noose asked incredulously. “Is that all, Mr. Brigance?”
   “Yes, sir, Your Honor, the panel looks fine to me,” Jake said with an air of trust, as opposed to Buckley, who had grilled them for three hours. The panel was anything but acceptable to Jake, but there was no sense repeating the same questions Buckley had asked.
   “Very well. Let me see the attorneys in chambers.”
   Buckley, Musgrove, Jake, Ellen, and Mr. Pate followed icnaDod through the door behind the bench and sat around the desk in chambers. Noose spoke: “I assume, gentlemen, that you want each juror questioned individually on the death penalty.”
   “Yes, sir,” said Jake.
   “That’s correct, Your Honor,” said Buckley.
   “Very well. Mr. Bailiff, would you bring in juror number one, Carlene Malone.”
   Mr. Pate left, walked to the courtroom and yelled for Carlene Malone. Moments later she followed him into chambers. She was terrified. The attorneys smiled but said nothing: Noose’s instructions.
   “Please have a seat,” Noose offered as he removed his robe. “This will only take a minute, Mrs. Malone. Do you have any strong feelings one way or the other about the death penalty?” asked Noose.
   She shook her head nervously and stared at Ichabod. “Uh, no, sir.”
   “You realize that if you’re selected for this jury and Mr. Hailey is convicted, you will be called upon to sentence him to death?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “If the State proves beyond a reasonable doubt that the killings were premeditated, and if you believe Mr. Hailey was not legally insane at the time of the killings, could you consider imposing the death penalty?”
   “Certainly. I think it should be used all the time. Might stop some of this meanness. I’m all for it.”
   Jake continued smiling and nodding politely at juror number one. Buckley smiled too, and winked at Musgrove.
   “Thank you, Mrs. Malone. You may return to your seat in the courtroom,” Noose said.
   “Bring in number two,” Noose ordered Mr. Pate. Mar-cia Dickens, an elderly white woman with a hard frown, was led to chambers. Yes, sir, she said, she was very much in favor of the death penalty. Would have no problems voting for it. Jake sat there and smiled. Buckley winked again. Noose thanked her and called for number three.
   Three and four were equally unforgiving, ready to kill if the proof was there. Then number five, Gerald Ault, Jake’s secret weapon, was seated in chambers.
   “Thank you Mr. Ault, this will only take a minute, Noose repeated. “First of all, do you have strong feelings for or against the death penalty?”
   “Oh, yes, sir.” Ault answered eagerly, his voice and face radiating compassion. “I’m very much against it. It’s cruel and unusual. I’m ashamed I live in a society which permits the legal killing of a human being.”
   “I see. Could you, under any circumstances, if you were a juror, vote to impose the death penalty?”
   “Oh, no, sir. Under no circumstances. Regardless of the crime. No, sir.”
   Buckley cleared his throat and somberly announced, “Your Honor, the State would challenge Mr. Ault for cause and move to excuse him under the authority of State vs. Witherspoon.”
   “Motion sustained. Mr. Ault, you are excused from jury duty,” Noose said. “You may leave the courtroom if you wish. If you choose to remain in the courtroom, I ask that you not sit with the other jurors.”
   Ault was puzzled and looked helplessly at his friend Jake, who at the moment was staring at the floor with a tight mouth.
   “May I ask why?” Gerald asked.
   Noose removed his glasses and became the professor. “Under the law, Mr. Ault, the court is required to excuse any potential juror who admits he or she cannot consider, and the key word is consider, the death penalty. You see, whether you like it or not, the death penalty is a legal method of punishment in Mississippi and in most states. Therefore, it is unfair to select jurors who cannot follow the law.”
   The curiosity of the crowd was piqued when Gerald Ault emerged from behind the bench, walked through the small gate in the railing, and left the courtroom. The bailiff fetched number six, Alex Summers, and led him to chambers. He returned moments later and took his seat on the first row. He lied about the death penalty. He opposed it as did most blacks, but he told Noose he had no objections to it. No problem. Later during a recess, he quietly met with other black jurors and explained how the questions in chambers should be answered.
   The slow process continued until mid-afternoon, when the last juror left chambers. Eleven had been excused due to reservations about capital punishment. Noose recessed at three-thirty and gave the lawyers until four to review their notes.
   In the library on the third floor, Jake and his team stared at the jury lists and notecards. It was time to decide. He had dreamed about names written in blue and red and black with numbers beside them. He had watched them in the courtroom for two full days now. He knew them. Ellen wanted women. Harry Rex wanted men.
   Noose stared at his master list, with the jurors renumbered to reflect the dismissals for cause, and looked at his lawyers. “Gentlemen, are you ready? Good. As you know this is a capital case, so each of you have twelve peremptory challenges. Mr. Buckley, you are required to submit a list of twelve jurors to the defense. Please start with juror number one and refer to each juror only by number.”
   “Yes sir. Your Honor, the State will accept jurors number one, two, three, four, use our first challenge on number five, accept numbers six, seven, eight, nine, use our second challenge on number ten, accept numbers eleven, twelve, thirteen, use our third challenge on number fourteen, and accept number fifteen. That’s twelve, I believe.”
   Jake and Ellen circled and made notes on their lists. Noose methodically recounted. “Yes, that’s twelve. Mr. Bri-gance.”
   Buckley submitted twelve white females. Two blacks and a white male had been stricken.
   Jake studied his list and scratched names. “The defense will strike jurors number one, two, three, accept four, six, and seven, strike eight, nine, eleven, twelve, accept thirteen, strike fifteen. I believe that’s eight of our challenges.”
   His Honor drew lines and check marks down his list, calculating slowly as he went. “Both of you have accepted jurors number four, six, seven, and thirteen. Mr. Buckley, it’s back to you. Give us eight more jurors.”
   “The State will accept sixteen, use our fourth challenge on seventeen, accept eighteen, nineteen, twenty, strike twenty-one, accept twenty-two, strike twenty-three, accept twenty-four, strike twenty-five and twenty-six, and accept twenty-seven and twenty-eight. That’s twelve with four challenges remaining.”
   Jake was flabbergasted. Buckley had again stricken all the blacks and all the men. He was reading Jake’s mind.
   “Mr. Brigance, it’s back to you.”
   “May we have a moment to confer, Your Honor?”
   “Five minutes,” Noose replied.
   Jake and his clerk stepped next door to the coffee room, where Harry Rex was waiting. “Look at this,” Jake said as he laid the list on a table and the three huddled around it. “We’re down to twenty-nine. I’ve got four challenges left and so does Buckley. He’s struck every black and every male. It’s an all-white female jury right now. The next two are white females, thirty-one is Clyde Sisco, and thirty-two is Barry Acker.”
   “Then four of the next six are black,” Ellen said.
   “Yeah, but Buckley won’t take it that far. In fact, I’m surprised he’s let us get this close to the fourth row.”
   “I know you want Acker. What about Sisco?” asked Harry Rex.
   “I’m afraid of him. Lucien said he’s a crook who could be bought.”
   “Great! Let’s get him, then go buy him.”
   “Very funny. How do you know Buckley hasn’t already bought him?”
   “I’d take him.”
   Jake studied the list, counting and recounting. Ellen wanted to strike both men-Acker and Sisco.
   They returned to chambers and sat down. The court reporter was ready. “Your Honor, we will strike number twenty-two and number twenty-eight, with two challenges remaining.”
   “Back to you, Mr. Buckley. Twenty-nine and thirty.”
   “The State will take them both. That’s twelve with four challenges left.”
   “Back to you, Mr. Brigance.”
   “We will strike twenty-nine and thirty.”
   “And you’re out of challenges, correct?” Noose asked.
   “Correct.”
   “Very well. Mr. Buckley, thirty-one and thirty-two.”
   “The State will take them both,” Buckley said quickly. looking at the names of the blacks coming after Clyde Sisco.
   “Good. That’s twelve. Let’s select two alternates. You will both have two challenges for the alternates. Mr. Buck-ley, thirty-three and thirty-four.”
   Juror thirty-three was a black male. Thirty-four was a white female Jake wanted. The next two were black males.
   “We’ll strike thirty-three, accept thirty-four and thirty-five.”
   “The defense will accept both,” Jake said.
   Mr. Pate brought the courtroom to order as Noose and the lawyers took their places. His Honor called the names of the twelve and they slowly, nervously made their way to the jury box, where they were seated in order by Jean Gillespie. Ten women, two men, all white. The blacks in the courtroom mumbled and eyed each other in disbelief.
   “Did you pick that jury?” Carl Lee whispered to Jake.
   “I’ll explain later,” Jake said.
   The two alternates were called and seated next to the jury box.
   “What’s the black dude for?” Carl Lee whispered, nodding at the alternate.
   “I’ll explain later,” Jake said.
   Noose cleared his throat and looked down at his new jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have been carefully selected to serve as jurors in this case. You have been sworn to fairly try all issues presented before you and to follow the law as I instruct. Now, according to Mississippi law, you will be sequestered until this trial is over. This means you will be housed in a motel and will not be allowed to return home until it’s over. I realize this is an extreme hardship, but it’s one the law requires. In just a few moments we will recess until in the morning, and you will be given the chance to call home and order your clothes, toiletries, and whatever else you need. Each night you will stay in a motel at an undisclosed location outside of Clanton. Any questions?”
   The twelve appeared dazed, bewildered by the thought of not going home for several days. They thought of families, kids, jobs, laundry. Why them? Out of all those people in the courtroom, why them?

   With no response, Noose banged his gavel and the courtroom began to empty, juror to the judge’s chambers, where she called home and ordered clothes and a toothbrush.
   “Where are we going?” she asked Jean.
   “It’s confidential,” Jean said.
   “It’s confidential,” she repeated over the phone to her husband.
   By seven, the families had responded with a wild assortment of luggage and boxes. The chosen ones loaded a chartered Greyhound bus outside the rear door. Preceded by two patrol cars and an army jeep and followed by three state troopers, the bus circled the square and left Clanton.
   Stump Sisson died Tuesday night at the burn hospital in Memphis. His short, fat body had been neglected over the years and proved itself deficient in resisting the complications bred by the serious burns. His death brought to four the number of fatalities related to the rape of Tonya Hailey. Cobb, Willard, Bud Twitty, and now Sisson.
   Immediately, word of his death reached the cabin deep in the woods where the patriots met, ate, and drank each night after the trial. Revenge, they vowed, an eye for an eye and so on. There were new recruits from Ford County-five in all-making a total of eleven local boys. They were eager and hungry, and wanted some action.
   The trial had been too quiet so far. It was time for excitement.
   Jake paced in front of the couch and delivered his opening statement for the hundredth time. Ellen listened intently. She had listened, interrupted, objected, criticized, and argued for two hours. She was tired now. He had it perfect. The margaritas had calmed him and plated his tongue silver. The words flowed smoothly. He was gifted. Especially after a drink or two.
   When he finished they sat on the balcony and watched the candles inch slowly in the darkness around the square. The laughter from the poker games under the pavilions echoed softly through the night. There was no moon.
   Ellen left for the final round of drinks. She returned with her same beer mugs filled with ice and margaritas. She sat them on the table and stood behind her boss. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began rubbing the lower part of his neck with her thumbs. He relaxed and moved his head from side to side. She massaged his shoulders and upper back, and pressed her body against his.
   “Ellen, it’s ten-thirty, and I’m sleepy. Where are you staying tonight?”
   “Where do you think I should stay?”
   “I think you should stay at your apartment at Ole Miss.”
   “I’m too drunk to drive.”
   “Nesbit will drive you.”
   “Where, may I ask, are you staying?”
   “At the house my wife and I own on Adams Street.”
   She stopped rubbing and grabbed her drink. Jake stood and leaned over the rail and yelled at Nesbit. “Nesbit! Wake up! You’re driving to Oxford!”
   Carla found the story on the second page of the front section. “All White Jury Chosen for Hailey” read the headline. Jake had not called Tuesday night. She read the story and ignored her coffee. The beach house sat by itself in a semisecluded area of the beach. The nearest neighbor was two hundred yards away. Her father owned the land in between and had no plans to sell it. He had built the house ten years earlier when he sold his company in Knoxville and retired wealthy. Carla was the only child, and now Hanna would be the only grandchild. The house-with four bedrooms and four bathrooms scattered over three levels-had room for a dozen grandchildren.
   She finished the article and walked to the bay windows in the breakfast room overlooking the beach, and then the ocean. The brilliant orange mass of the sun had just cleared the horizon. She preferred the warmth of the bed until well after daybreak, but life with Jake had brought new adventure to the first seven hours of each day. Her body was conditioned to at least wake up at five-thirty. He once told her his goal was to go to work in the dark and return from work in the dark. He usually achieved this goal. He took great pride in working more hours each day than any lawyer in Ford County. He was different, but she loved him.
   Forty-eight miles northeast of Clanton, the Milburn county seat of Temple lay peacefully beside the Tippah River. It had three thousand people and two motels. The Temple Inn was deserted, there being no moral reason to be there this time of year. At the end of one secluded wing, eight rooms were occupied and guarded by soldiers and a couple of state troopers. The ten women had paired off nicely, as had Barry Acker and Clyde Sisco. The black alternate, Ben Lester Newton, was awarded a room to himself, as was the other alternate, Francie Pitts. The televisions had been disconnected and no newspapers were allowed. Supper Tuesday night had been delivered to the rooms, and Wednesday’s breakfast arrived promptly at seven-thirty while the Greyhound warmed and blew diesel fumes all over the parking lot. Thirty minutes later the fourteen loaded aboard and the entourage set out for Clanton.
   They talked on the bus about their families and jobs. Two or three had known each other prior to Monday; most were strangers. They awkwardly avoided any mention of why they were all together and the task before them. Judge Noose had been very plain on this point; no discussions about the case. They wanted to talk about many things: the rape, the rapists, Carl Lee, Jake, Buckley, Noose, the Klan, lots of things. Everyone knew of the burning crosses, but they weren’t discussed, at least they weren’t discussed on the bus. There had been many discussions back in the motel rooms.
   The Greyhound arrived at the courthouse five minutes before nine, and the jurors stared through dark windows to see how many blacks and how many Klansmen and how many others were being separated by the guardsmen. It eased past the barricades and parked at the rear of the courthouse, where the deputies were waiting to escort them upstairs as soon as possible. They went up the back stairs to the jury room, where coffee and doughnuts were waiting. The bailiff informed them it was nine, and His Honor was ready to start. He led them into the crowded courtroom and into the jury box, where they sat in their designated seats.
   “All rise for the court,” Mr. Pate yelled.
   “Please be seated,” Noose said as he fell into the tall leather chair behind the bench. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said warmly to the jurors. “I trust you’re all feeling well this morning, and ready to go.”
   They all nodded.
   “Good. I’m going to ask you this question every morning: Did anybody attempt to contact you, talk to you, or influence you in any way last night?”
   They all shook their heads.
   “Good. Did you discuss this case among yourselves?”
   They all lied and shook their heads.
   “Good. If anyone attempts to contact you and discuss me as soon as possible. Do you understand?”
   They nodded.
   “Now at this time we are ready to start the trial. The first order of business is to allow the attorneys to make opening statements. I want to caution you that nothing the attorneys say is testimony and is not to be taken as evidence. Mr. Buckley, do you wish to make an opening statement?”
   Buckley rose and buttoned his shiny polyester coat. “Yes, Your Honor.”
   “I thought so. You may proceed.”
   Buckley lifted the small, wooden podium and moved it squarely in front of the jury box, where he stood behind it and breathed deeply and slowly flipped through some notes on a legal pad. He enjoyed the brief period of quietness with all eyes on him and all ears anxious for his words. He started by thanking the jurors for being there, for their sacrifices, for their citizenship (as if they had a choice, thought Jake). He was proud of them and honored to be associated with them in this most important case. Again, he was their lawyer. His client, the State of Mississippi. He expressed fear at this awesome responsibility that they, the people, had given to him, Rufus Buckley, a simple country lawyer from Smith-field. He rambled on about himself and his thoughts on the trial, and his hopes and prayers that he would do a good job for the people of this state.
   He gave pretty much the same spiel in all of his opening statements, but this was a better performance. It was refined and polished garbage, and objectionable. Jake wanted to burn him, but from experience he knew Ichabod would not sustain an objection during an opening statement unless the offense was flagrant, and Buckley’s rhetoric did not qualify—yet. All this fake sincerity and gushiness irritated Jake to no end, primarily because the jury listened to it and, more often than not, fell for it. The prosecutor was always the good guy, seeking to right an injustice and punish a criminal for some heinous crime; to lock him away forever so he could sin no more. Buckley was master at convincing a jury, right off the mark, during the opening statement, that it was up to them, He and The Twelve Chosen Ones, to search diligently for the truth, together as a team, united against evil. It was the truth they were after, nothing but the truth. Find the truth and justice would win. Follow him, Rufus Buckley, the people’s lawyer, and they would find the truth.
   The rape was a terrible deed. He was a father, in fact had a daughter the same age of Tonya Hailey, and when he first heard of the rape he was sick at his stomach. He grieved for Carl Lee and his wife. Yes, he thought of his own little girls and had thoughts of retribution.
   Jake smiled quickly at Ellen. This was interesting. Buck-ley had chosen to confront the rape instead of keeping it from the jury. Jake was expecting a critical confrontation with him on the admissibility of any testimony regarding the rape. Ellen’s research found the law to be clear that the lurid details were inadmissible, but it wasn’t so clear as to whether it could be mentioned or referred to. Evidently Buckley felt it was better to acknowledge the rape than try to hide it. Good move, thought Jake, since all twelve and the rest of the world knew the details anyway.
   Ellen smiled too. The rape of Tonya Hailey was about to be tried for the first time.
   Buckley explained it would be natural for any parent to want revenge. He would too, he admitted. But, he continued with his voice growing heavier, there is a mighty distinction between wanting revenge and getting revenge.
   He was warming up now as he paced deliberately back and forth, ignoring the podium, getting his rhythm. He launched himself into a twenty-minute discourse on the criminal justice system and how it was practiced in Mississippi, and how many rapists that he, Rufus Buckley, had personally sent to Parchman, for life, most of them. The system worked because Mississippians had enough good common sense to make it work, and it would collapse if people like Carl Lee Hailey were allowed to short-circuit the system and dispense justice according to their own terms. Imagine that. A lawless society where vigilantes roamed at will. No police, no jails, no courts, no trials, no juries. Every man for himself.
   It was sort of ironic, he said, winding down for a moment. Carl Lee Hailey now sat before them asking for due process and a fair trial, yet he did not believe in such things.
   Ask the mothers ot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard. Ask them what kind of fair trials their sons received.
   He paused to allow the jury and the courtroom to absorb and ponder that last thought. It sunk in heavy, and every person in the jury box looked at Carl Lee Hailey. They were not looks of compassion, Jake cleaned his fingernails with a small knife and looked thoroughly bored. Buckley pretended to review his notes at the podium, then checked his watch. He started again, this time in a most confident businesslike tone of voice. The State would prove that Carl Lee Hailey carefully planned the killings. He waited for almost an hour in a small room next to the stairs where he knew the boys would eventually be led as they were taken back to jail. He somehow managed to sneak an M-16 into the courthouse. Buckley walked to a small table by the court reporter and hoisted the M-16. “This is the M-16!” he announced to the jury, waving it wildly about with one hand. He sat it on the podium and talked about how it was carefully selected by Carl Lee Hailey because he had used one before in close combat, and he knew how to kill with it. He had been trained with an M-16. It’s an illegal weapon. You can’t buy one down at the Western Auto. He had to go find it. He planned it.
   The proof would be clear: premeditated, carefully planned, cold-blooded murder.
   And then there was Deputy DeWayne Looney. A fourteen-year veteran of the Sheriffs Department. A family man—one of the finest law enforcement officers he had ever known. Gunned down in the line of duty by Carl Lee Hailey. His leg was partially amputated. What was his sin? Perhaps the defense would say it was accidental, that it shouldn’t count. That’s no defense in Mississippi.
   There’s no excuse, ladies and gentlemen, for any of this violence. The verdict must be guilty.
   They each had an hour for their openings, and the lure of that much time proved irresistible for the D. A., whose remarks were becoming repetitive. He lost himself twice during his condemnation of the insanity ruse. The jurors began to look bored and searched for other points of interest around the courtroom. The artists quit sketching, the reporters quit writing, and Noose cleaned his glasses seven or eight times. It was a known fact that Noose cleaned the glasses to stay awake and fight boredom, and he usually deaned them throughout the trial. Jake had seen him rub them with a handkerchief or tie or shirttail while witnesses broke down and cried and lawyers screamed and flailed their arms at each other. He didn’t miss a word or objection or trick; he was just bored with it all, even a case of this magnitude. He never slept on the bench, although he was sorely tempted at times. Instead he removed his glasses, held them upward in the light, blew on them, rubbed them as though they were caked with grease, then remounted them just north of the wart. No more than five minutes later they would be dirty again. The longer Buckley droned on, the more they were cleaned.
   Finally, after an hour and a half, Buckley shut up and the courtroom sighed.
   “Ten-minute recess,” Noose announced, and lunged off the bench, through the door, past chambers to the men’s room.
   Jake had planned a brief opening, and after Buckley’s marathon, he decided to make it even shorter. Most people don’t like lawyers to begin with, especially long-winded, tall-talking, wordy lawyers who feel that every insignificant point must be repeated at least three times, and the major ones have to be hammered and drilled by constant repetition into whoever happened to be listening. Jurors especially dislike lawyers who waste time, for two very good reasons. First, they can’t tell the lawyers to shut up. They’re captives. Outside the courtroom a person can curse a lawyer and shut him up, but in the jury box they become trapped and forbidden to speak. Thus, they must resort to sleeping, snoring, glaring, squirming, checking their watches, or any one of a dozen signals which boring lawyers never recognize. Second, jurors don’t like long trials. Cut the crap and get it over with. Give us the facts and we’ll give you a verdict.
   He explained this to his client during the recess.
   “I agree. Keep it short,” said Carl Lee.
   He did. Fourteen minutes worth of opening statement, and the jury appreciated every word. He began by talking about daughters and how special they are. How they are different from little boys and need special protection. He told them of his own daughter and trie special oonu mat exists between father and daughter, a bond that could not be explained and should not be tampered with. He admitted admiration for Mr. Buckley and his alleged ability to be so forgiving and compassionate to any drunken pervert who might rape his daughter. He was a big man indeed. But in reality, could they, as jurors, as parents, be so tender and trusting and indulging if their daughter had been raped-by two drunk, stoned, brutal animals who tied her to a tree and—”
   “Objection!” shouted Buckley.
   “Sustained,” Noose shouted back.
   He ignored the shouting and continued softly. He asked them to try to imagine, throughout the trial, how they would feel had it been their daughter. He asked them not to convict Carl Lee but to send him home to his family. He didn’t mention insanity. They knew it was coming.
   He finished shortly after he started, and left the jury with a marked contrast in the two styles.
   “Is that all?” Noose asked in amazement.
   Jake nodded as he sat by his client.
   “Very well. Mr. Buckley, you may call your first witness.”
   “The State calls Cora Cobb.”
   The bailiff went to the witness room and fetched Mrs. Cobb, He led her through the door by the jury box, into the courtroom where she was sworn by Jean Gillespie, and then he seated her in the witness chair.
   “Speak into the microphone,” he instructed.
   “You are Cora Cobb?” Buckley asked with full volume as he situated the podium near the railing.
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Where do you live?”
   “Route 3, Lake Village, Ford County.”
   “You are the mother of Billy Ray Cobb, deceased?”
   “Yes, sir,” she said as her eyes watered. She was a rural woman whose husband had left when the boys were small. They had raised themselves while she worked two shifts at a cheap furniture factory between Karaway and Lake Village. She lost control over them at an early age. She was about fifty, tried to look forty with hair dye and makeup, but could easily pass for early sixties.
   “How old was your son at the time of his death?”
   “Twenty-three.”
   “When did you last see him alive?”
   “Just a few seconds before he was kilt.”
   “Where did you see him?”
   “Here in this courtroom.”
   “Where was he killed?”
   “Downstairs.”
   “Did you hear the shots that killed your son?”
   She began to cry. “Yes, sir.”
   “Where did you last see him?”
   “At the funeral home.”
   “And what was his condition?”
   “He was dead.”
   “Nothing further,” Buckley announced.
   “Cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?”
   She was a harmless witness, called to establish that the victim was indeed dead, and to evoke a little sympathy. Nothing could be gained by cross-examination, and normally she would have been left alone. But Jake saw an opportunity he couldn’t pass. He saw a chance to set the tone for the trial, to wake Noose and Buckley and the jury; to just get everyone aroused. She was not really that pitiful; she was faking some. Buckley had probably instructed her to cry if possible.
   “Just a few questions,” Jake said as he walked behind Buckley and Musgrove to the podium. The D. A. was immediately suspicious.
   “Mrs. Cobb, is it true that your son was convicted of selling marijuana?”
   “Objection!” Buckley roared, springing to his feet. “The criminal record of the victim is inadmissible!”
   “Sustained!”
   “Thank you, Your Honor,” Jake said properly, as if Noose had done him a favor.
   She wiped her eyes and cried harder.
   “You say your son was twenty-three when he died?”
   “Yes.”
   “In his twenty-three years, how many other children am he rape?”
   “Objection! Objection!” yelled Buckley, waving his arms and looking desperately at Noose, who was yelling, “Sustained! Sustained! You’re out of order, Mr. Brigance! You’re out of order!”

   Mrs. Cobb burst into tears and bawled uncontrollably as the shouting erupted. She managed to keep the microphone in her face, and her wailing and carrying on resounded through the stunned courtroom.
   “He should be admonished, Your Honor!” Buckley demanded, his face and eyes glowing with violent anger and his neck a deep purple.
   “I’ll withdraw the question,” Jake replied loudly as he returned to his seat.
   “Cheap shot, Brigance,” Musgrove mumbled.
   “Please admonish him,” Buckley begged, “and instruct the jury to disregard.”
   “Any redirect?” asked Noose.
   “No,” answered Buckley as he dashed to the witness stand with a handkerchief to rescue Mrs. Cobb, who had buried her head in her hands and was sobbing and shaking violently.
   “You are excused, Mrs. Cobb,” Noose said. “Bailiff, please assist the witness.”
   The bailiff lifted her by the arm, with Buckley’s assistance, and led her down from the witness stand, in front of the jury box, through the railing, down the center aisle. She shrieked and whined every step of the way, and her noises increased as she neared the back door until she was roaring at full throttle when she made her exit.
   Noose glared at Jake until she was gone and the courtroom was quiet again. Then he turned to the jury and said: “Please disregard the last question by Mr. Brigance.”
   “What’d you do that for?” Carl Lee whispered to his lawyer.
   “I’ll explain later.”
   “The State calls Earnestine Willard,” Buckley announced in a quieter tone and with much more hesitation.
   Mrs. Willard was brought from the witness room above the courtroom. She was sworn and seated.
   “You are Earnestine Willard?” asked Buckley.
   “Yes, sir,” she said in a fragile voice. Life had been rough on her too, but she had a certain dignity that made her more pitiful and believable than Mrs. Cobb. The clothes were inexpensive, but clean and neatly pressed. The hair was minus the cheap black dye that Mrs. Cobb relied on so heavily. The face was minus the layers of makeup. When she began crying, she cried to herself.
   “And where do you live?”
   “Out from Lake Village.”
   “Pete Willard was your son?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “When did you last see him alive?”
   “Right here in this room, just before he was killed.”
   “Did you hear the gunfire that killed him?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Where did you last see him?”
   “At the funeral home.”
   “And what was his condition?”
   “He was dead,” she said, wiping tears with a Kleenex.
   “I’m very sorry,” Buckley offered. “No further questions,” he added, eyeing Jake carefully.
   “Any cross-examination?” Noose asked, also eyeing Jake suspiciously.
   “Just a couple,” Jake said.
   “Mrs. Willard, I’m Jake Brigance.” He stood behind the podium and looked at her without compassion.
   She nodded.
   “How old was your son when he died?”
   “Twenty-seven.”
   Buckley pushed his chair from the table and sat on its edge, ready to spring. Noose removed his glasses and leaned forward. Carl Lee lowered his head.
   “During his twenty-seven years, how many other children did he rape?”
   Buckley bolted upright. “Objection! Objection! Objection!”
   “Sustained! Sustained! Sustained!”
   The yelling frightened Mrs. Willard, and she cried louder.
   “Admonish him, Judge! He must be admonished!”
   “I’ll withdraw the question,” Jake said on his way back to his seat.
   Buckley pleaded with his hands. “But that’s not good enough, Judge! He must be admonished!”
   “Let’s go into chambers,” Noose ordered. He excused the witness and recessed until one.
   Harry Rex was waiting on the balcony of Jake’s office with sandwiches and a pitcher of margaritas. Jake declined and drank grapefruit juice. Ellen wanted just one, a small one she said to calm her nerves. For the third day, lunch had been prepared by Dell and personally delivered to Jake’s office. Compliments of the Coffee Shop.
   They ate and relaxed on the balcony and watched the carnival around the courthouse. What happened in chambers? Harry Rex demanded. Jake nibbled on a Reuben. He said he wanted to talk about something other than the trial.
   “What happened in chambers, dammit?”
   “Cardinals are three games out, did you know that, Row Ark?”
   “I thought it was four.”
   “What happened in chambers!”
   “Do you really want to know?”
   “Yes! Yes!”
   “Okay. I’ve got to go use the rest room. I’ll tell you when I get back.” Jake left.
   “Row Ark, what happened in chambers?”
   “Not much. Noose rode Jake pretty good, but no permanent damage. Buckley wanted blood, and Jake said he was sure, some was forthcoming if Buckley’s face got any redder. Buckley ranted and screamed and condemned Jake for intentionally inflaming the jury, as he called it. Jake just smiled at him and said he was sorry, Governor. Every time he would say governor, Buckley would scream at Noose, ‘He’s calling me governor, Judge, do something. ‘ And Noose would say, ‘Please, gentlemen, I expect you to act like professionals. ‘ And Jake would say, ‘Thank you, Your Honor. ‘ Then he would wait a few minutes and call him governor again.”
   “Why did he make those two old ladies cry?”
   “It was a brilliant move, Harry Rex. He showed the jury, Noose, Buckley, everybody, that it’s his courtroom and he’s not afraid of a damned person in it. He drew first blood. He’s got Buckley so jumpy right now he’ll never relax. Noose respects him because he’s not intimidated by His Honor. The jurors were shocked, but he woke them up and told them in a not so subtle way that this is war. A brilliant move.”
   “Yeah, I thought so myself.”
   “It didn’t hurt us. Those women were asking for sympathy, but Jake reminded the jury of what their sweet little boys did before they died.”
   “The scumbags.”
   “If there’s any resentment by the jury, they’ll forget by the time the last witness testifies.”
   “Jake’s pretty smooth, ain’t he?”
   “He’s good. Very good. He’s the best I’ve seen for his age.”
   “Wait till his closing argument. I’ve heard a couple. He could get sympathy out of a drill sergeant.”
   Jake returned and poured a small margarita. Just a very small one, for his nerves. Harry Rex drank like a sailor.
   Ozzie was the first State witness after lunch. Buckley produced large, multicolored plats of the first and second floors of the courthouse, and together they traced the precise, last movements of Cobb and Willard.
   Then Buckley produced a set of ten 16 x 24 color photographs of Cobb and Willard lying freshly dead on the stairs. They were gruesome. Jake had seen lots of pictures of dead bodies, and although none were particularly pleasant given their nature, some weren’t so bad. In one of his cases, the victim had been shot in the heart with a. 357 and simply fell over dead on his porch. He was a large, muscular old man, and the bullet never found its way out of the body. So there was no blood, just a small hole in his overalls, and then a small sealed hole in his chest. He looked as though he could have fallen asleep and slumped over, or passed out drunk on the porch, like Lucien. It was not a spectacular scene, and Buckley had not been proud of those photo—graphs. They had not been enlarged. He had just handed the small Polaroids to the jury and looked disgusted because they were so clean.
   But most murder pictures were grisly and sickening, with blood splashed on walls and ceilings, and parts of bodies blown free and scattered everywhere. Those were always enlarged by the D. A. and entered into evidence with great fanfare, then waved around the courtroom by Buckley as he and the witness described the scenes in the pictures. Finally, with the jurors fidgeting with curiosity, Buckley would politely ask the judge for permission to show the photographs to the jury, and the judge would always consent. Then Buck-ley and everybody else would watch their faces intently as they were shocked, horrified, and occasionally nauseated. Jake had actually seen two jurors vomit when handed photos of a badly slashed corpse.
   Such pictures were highly prejudicial and highly inflammatory, and also highly admissible. “Probative” was the word used by the Supreme Court. Such pictures could aid the jury, according to ninety years of decisions from the Court. It was well settled in Mississippi that murder pictures, regardless of their impact on the jury, were always admissible.
   Jake had seen the Cobb and Willard photographs weeks earlier, and had filed the standard objection and received the standard denial.
   These were mounted professionally on heavy pos-terboard, something the D. A. had not done before. He handed the first one into the jury box to Reba Betts. It was the one of Willard’s head and brains taken at close range.
   “My God!” she gasped, and shoved it to the next juror, who gawked in horror, and passed it on. They handed it to one another, then to the alternates. Buckley took it, and gave Reba another one. The ritual continued for thirty minutes until all the pictures were returned to the D. A.
   Then he grabbed the M-16 and thrust it at Ozzie. “Can you identify this?”
   “Yes, it’s the weapon found at the scene.”
   “Who picked it up at the scene?”
   “I did.”
   “And what did you do with it?”
   “Wrapped in a plastic bag and placed in a vault at the jail. Kept it locked up until I handed it to Mr. Laird with the crime lab in Jackson.”
   “Your Honor, the State would offer the weapon, Exhibit S-13, into evidence,” Buckley said, waving it wildly.
   “No objections,” Jake said.
   “We have nothing further of this witness,” Buckley announced.
   “Cross-examination?”
   Jake flipped through his notes as he walked slowly to the podium. He had just a few questions for his friend.
   “Sheriff, did you arrest Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Wil-lard?”
   Buckley pushed his chair back and perched his ample frame on the edge, poised to leap and scream if necessary.
   “Yes I did,” answered the sheriff.
   “For what reason?”
   “For the rape of Tonya Hailey,” he answered perfectly.
   “And how old was she at the time she; was raped by Cobb and Willard?”
   “She was ten.”
   “Is it true, Sheriff, that Pete Willard signed a written confession in—”
   “Objection! Objection! Your Honor! That’s inadmissible and Mr. Brigance knows it.”
   Ozzie nodded affirmatively during the objection.
   “Sustained.”
   Buckley was shaking. “I ask that the question be stricken from the record and the jury be instructed to disregard it.”
   “I’ll withdraw the question,” Jake said to Buckley with a smile.
   “Please disregard the last question from Mr. Brigance,” Noose instructed the jury.
   “No further questions,” said Jake.
   “Any redirect examination, Mr. Buckley?”
   “No, sir.”
   “Very well. Sheriff, you may step down.”
   Buckley’s next witness was a fingerprint man from Washington who spent an hour telling the jurors what they had known for weeks. His dramatic final conclusion unmis—takably linked the prints on M-10 to those of Carl Lee Hailey. Then came the ballistics expert from the state crime lab whose testimony was as boring and uninformative as his predecessor on the stand. Yes, without a doubt, the fragments recovered from the crime scene were fired from the M-16 lying there on the table. That was his final opinion, and with the charts and diagrams, it took Buckley an hour to get it to the jury. Prosecutorial overkill, as Jake called it; a debility suffered by all prosecutors.
   The defense had no questions for either expert, and at five-fifteen Noose said goodbye to the jurors with strict instructions against discussing the case. They nodded politely as they filed from the courtroom. Then he banged his gavel and adjourned until nine in the morning.
   The great civic duty of jury service had grown old rapidly. The second night in the Temple Inn had seen the telephones removed-judge’s orders. Some old magazines donated by the Clanton library were circulated and quickly discarded, there being little interest among the group in The New Yorker, The Smith-sonian, and Architectural Digest.
   “Got any PenthousesT Clyde Sisco had whispered to the bailiff as he made the rounds. He said no, but he’d see what he could do.
   Confined to their rooms with no television, newspapers, or phones, they did little but play cards and talk about the trial. A trip to the end of the hall for ice and a soft drink became a special occasion, something the roommates planned and rotated. The boredom descended heavily.
   At each end of the hall two soldiers guarded the darkness and solitude, the stillness interrupted only by the systematic emergence of the jurors with change for the drink machine.
   Sleep came early, and when the sentries knocked on the doors at 6:00 A. M., all the jurors were awake, some even dressed. They devoured Thursday’s breakfast of pancakes and sausage, and eagerly boarded the Greyhound at eight for the trip back home.
   For the fourth straight day the rotunda was crowded by eight o’clock. The spectators had learned that all seats were taken by eight-thirty. Prather opened the door and the crowd filed slowly through the metal detector, past the careful eyes of the deputies and finally into the courtroom, where the blacks filled the left side and the whites the right. The front row was again reserved by Hastings for Gwen, Lester, the kids, and other relatives. Agee and other council members sat in the second row with the kinfolks who couldn’t fit up front. Agee was in charge of alternating courtroom duty and outside demonstration duty for the ministers. Personally, he preferred the courtroom duty, wnere ne ieu miss the cameras and reporters which were so abundant on the front lawn. To his right, across the aisle, sat the families and friends of the victims. They had behaved so far.
   A few minutes before nine, Carl Lee was escorted from the small holding room. The handcuffs were removed by one of the many officers surrounding him. He flashed a big smile at his family and sat in his chair. The lawyers took their places and the courtroom grew quiet. The bailiff poked his head through the door beside the jury box, and, satisfied with whatever he saw, opened the door and released the jurors to their assigned seats. Mr. Pate was watching all this from the door leading to chambers, and when all was perfect, he stepped forward and yelled: “All rise for the Court!”

   Ichabod, draped in his favorite wrinkled and faded black robe, loped to the bench and instructed everyone to have a seat. He greeted the jury and questioned them about what happened or didn’t happen since yesterday’s adjournment.
   He looked at the lawyers. “Where’s Mr. Musgrove?”
   “He’s running a bit late, Your Honor. We are ready to proceed,” Buckley announced.
   “Call your next witness,” Noose ordered Buckley.
   The pathologist from the state crime lab was located in the rotunda and entered the courtroom. Normally, he would have been much too busy for a simple trial and would have sent one of his underlings to explain to the jury precisely what killed Cobb and Willard. But this was the Hailey case, and he felt compelled to do the job himself. It was actually the simplest case he had seen in a while; the bodies were found as they were dying, the weapon was with the bodies, and there were enough holes in the boys to kill them a dozen times. Everybody in the world knew how those boys died. But the D. A. had insisted on the most thorough pathological workup, so the doctor took the stand Thursday morning laden with photos of the autopsies and multicolored anatomy charts.
   Earlier in chambers, Jake had offered to stipulate to the causes of death, but Buckley would have no part of it. No sir, he wanted the jury to hear and know how they died.
   “We will admit that they died by multiple wounds from bullets fired from the M-16,” Jake had stated precisely.
   “No, sir. I have a right to prove it,” Buckley said stubbornly.
   “But he’s offering to stipulate to the causes of death,” Noose said incredulously.
   “I have the right to prove it,” Buckley hung on.
   So he proved it. In a classic case of prosecutorial overkill, Buckley proved it. For three hours the pathologist talked about how many bullets hit Cobb and how many hit Willard, and what each bullet did upon penetration, and the ghastly damage thereafter. The anatomy charts were placed on easels before the jury, and the expert took a plastic, numbered pellet that represented a bullet, and moved it ever so slowly through the body. Fourteen pellets for Cobb and eleven for Willard. Buckley would ask a question, elicit a response, then interrupt to belabor a point.
   “Your Honor, we would be glad to stipulate as to the causes of death,” Jake announced with great frustration every thirty minutes.
   “We won’t,” Buckley replied tersely, and moved to the next pellet.
   Jake fell into his chair, shook his head, and looked at the jurors, those who were awake.
   The doctor finished at noon and Noose, tired and numb with boredom, awarded a two-hour lunch break. The jurors were awakened by the bailiff and led to the jury room where they dined on barbeque specials on plastic plates, then struck up card games. They were forbidden to leave the courthouse.
   In every small Southern town there’s a kid who was born looking for the quick buck. He was the kid who at the age of five set up the first lemonade stand on his street and charged twenty-five cents a cup for four ounces of artificially flavored water. He knew it tasted awful, but he knew the adults thought he was adorable. He was the first kid on the street to purchase a lawn mower on credit at the Western Auto and knock on doors in February to line upyard work for the summer. He was the first kid to pay for his own bike, which he used for morning and afternoon paper routes. He sent Christmas cards to old ladies in August. He sold fruitcakes door to door in November. On Saturday mornings when his friends were watching cartoons, he was at the flea markets at the courthouse selling roasted peanuts and corn dogs. At the age of twelve he bought his first certificate of deposit. He had his own banker. At fifteen, he paid cash for his new pickup the same day he passed his driver’s license exam. He bought a trailer to follow the truck and filled it with lawn equipment. He sold T-shirts at high school football games. He was a hustler; a millionaire to be.
   In Clanton, his name was Hinky Myrick, age sixteen. He waited nervously in the rotunda until Noose broke for lunch, then moved past the deputies and entered the courtroom. Seating was so precious that almost none of the spectators left for lunch. Some would stand, glare at their neighbors, point at their seats and make sure everybody knew it was theirs for the day, then leave for the rest room. But most of them sat in their highly treasured spaces on the pews, and suffered through lunch.
   Hinky could smell opportunity. He could sense people in need. On Thursday, just as he had on Wednesday, he rolled a shopping cart down the aisle to the front of the courtroom. It was filled with a wide assortment of sandwiches and plate lunches in plastic containers. He began yelling toward the far end of the rows, then passing food down to his customers. He worked his way slowly toward the rear of the courtroom. He was a vicious scalper. A tuna salad on white bread went for two dollars; his cost, eighty cents. A plate lunch of cold chicken with a few peas went for three dollars; his cost, a buck twenty-five. A canned soft drink was one-fifty. But they gladly paid his prices and kept their seats. He sold out before he reached the fourth row from the front, and began taking orders from the rest of the courtroom. Hinky was the man of the hour.
   With a fistful of orders, he raced from the courthouse, across the lawn, through the crowd of blacks, across Caffey Street and into Claude’s. He ran to the kitchen, shoved a twenty-dollar bill at the cook and handed him the orders. He waited and watched his watch. The cook moved slowly. Hinky gave him another twenty.
   The trial ushered a wave of prosperity Claude naa never dreamed of. Breakfast and lunch in his small cafe became happenings as demand greatly exceeded the number of chairs and the hungry lined the sidewalk, waiting in the heat and haze for a table. After the lunch recess on Monday, he had dashed around Clanton buying every folding card table and matching chair set he could find. At lunch the aisles disappeared, forcing his waitresses to maneuver nimbly among and between the rows of people, virtually all of whom were black.
   The trial was the only topic of conversation. On Wednesday, the composition of the jury had been hotly condemned. By Thursday, the talk centered on the growing dislike for the prosecutor.
   “I hear tell he wants to run for governor.”
   “He Democrat or Republican?”
   “Democrat.”
   “He can’t win without the black vote, not in this state.”
   “Yeah, and he ain’t likely to get much after this trial.”
   “I hope he tries.”
   “He acts more like a Republican.”
   In pretrial Clanton, the noon hour began ten minutes before twelve when the young, tanned, pretty, coolly dressed secretaries from the banks, law offices, insurance agencies, and courthouse left their desks and took to the sidewalks. During lunch they ran errands around the square. They went to the post office. They did their banking. They shopped. Most of them bought their food at the Chinese Deli and ate on the park benches under the shade trees around the courthouse. They met friends and gossiped. At noon the gazebo in front of the courthouse attracted more beautiful women than the Miss Mississippi pageant. It was an unwritten rule in Clanton that an office girl on the square got a headstart on lunch and did not have to return until one. The men followed at twelve, and watched the girls.
   But the trial changed things. The shade trees around the courthouse were in a combat zone. The cafes were full from eleven to one with soldiers and strangers who couldn’t get seats in the courtroom. The Chinese Deli was packed with foreigners. The office girls ran their errands and ate at their desks.
   At the Tea Shoppe the bankers and other white collars discussed the trial more in terms of its publicity and how the town was being perceived. Of particular concern was the Klan. Not a single customer knew anyone connected with the Klan, and it had long been forgotten in north Mississippi. But the vultures loved the white robes, and as far as the outside world knew, Clanton, Mississippi, was the home of the Ku Klux Klan. They hated the Klan for being there. They cussed the press for keeping them there.
   For lunch Thursday, the Coffee Shop offered the daily special of country-fried pork chops, turnip greens, and either candied yams, creamed corn, or fried okra. Dell served the specials to a packed house that was evenly divided among locals, foreigners, and soldiers. The unwritten but firmly established rule of not speaking to anyone with a beard or funny accent was strictly enforced, and for a friendly people it was awkward not to smile and carry on with those from the outside. A tight-lipped arrogance had long since replaced the warm reception given to the visitors in the first few days after the shootings. Too many of the press hounds had betrayed their hosts and printed unkind, unflattering, and unfair words about the county and its people. It was amazing how they could arrive in packs from all over and within twenty-four hours become experts on a place they had never heard of and a people they had never met.
   The locals had watched them as they scrambled like idiots around the square chasing the sheriff, the prosecutor, the defense lawyer, or anybody who might know anything. They watched them wait at the rear of the courthouse like hungry wolves to pounce on the defendant, who was invariably surrounded by cops, and who invariably ignored them as they yelled the same ridiculous questions at him. The locals watched with distaste as they kept their cameras on the Kluxers and the rowdier blacks, always searching for the most radical elements, and then making those elements appear to be the norm.
   They watched them, and they hated them.
   “What’s that orange crap all over her face?” Tim Nunley asked, looking at a reporter sitting in a booth by the window. Jack Jones crunched on his okra and studied the orange face.
   “I think it’s something they use for the cameras. Makes her face look white on TV.”
   “But it’s already white.”
   “I know, but it don’t look white on TV unless it’s painted orange.”
   Nunley was not convinced. “Then what do the niggers use on TV?” he asked.
   No one could answer.
   “Did you see her on TV last night?” asked Jack Jones.
   “Nope. Where’s she from?”
   “Channel Four, Memphis. Last night she interviewed Cobb’s mother, and of course she kept on pushing till the old woman broke down. All they showed on TV was the cryin’. It was sickenin’. Night before she had some Klansmen from Ohio talkin’ about what we need here in Mississippi. She’s the worst.”
   The State finished its case against Carl Lee Thursday afternoon. After lunch Buckley put Murphy on the stand. It was gut-wrenching, nerve-wracking testimony as the poor little man stuttered uncontrollably for an hour.
   “Calm down, Mr. Murphy,” Buckley said a hundred times.
   He would nod, and take a drink of water. He nodded affirmatively and shook negatively as much as possible, but the court reporter had an awful time picking up the nods and shakes.
   “I didn’t get that,” she would say, her back to the witness stand. So he would try to answer and get hung, usually on a hard consonant like a “P” or “T.” He would blurt out something, then stutter and spit incoherently.
   “I didn’t get that,” she would say helplessly when he finished. Buckley would sigh. The jurors rocked furiously. Half the spectators chewed their fingernails.
   “Could you repeat that?” Buckley would say with as much. patience as he could find.
   “I’m s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sorry,” he would say frequently. He was pitiful.
   Through it all, it was determined that he had been drinking a Coke on the rear stairs, facing the stairs where the boys were killed. He had noticed a black man peeking out of a small closet some forty feet away. But he didn’t think much about it. Then when the boys came down, the black man just stepped out and opened fire, screaming and laughing. When he stopped shooting, he threw down the. gun and took off. Yes, that was him, sitting right there. The black one.
   Noose rubbed holes in his glasses listening to Murphy. When Buckley sat down, His Honor looked desperately at Jake. “Any cross-examination?” he asked painfully.
   Jake stood with a legal pad. The court reporter glared at him. Harry Rex hissed at him. Ellen closed her eyes. The jurors wrung their hands and watched him carefully.
   “Don’t do it,” Carl Lee whispered firmly.
   “No, Your Honor, we have no questions.”
   “Thank you, Mr. Brigance,” Noose said, breathing again.
   The next witness was Officer Rady, the investigator for the Sheriffs Department. He informed the jury that he found a Royal Crown Cola can in the closet next to the stairs, and the prints on the can matched those of Carl Lee Hailey.
   “Was it empty or full?” Buckley asked dramatically.
   “It was completely empty.”
   Big deal, thought Jake, so he was thirsty. Oswald had a chicken dinner waiting on Kennedy. No, he had no questions for this witness.
   “We have one final witness, Your Honor,” Buckley said with great finality at 4:00 P. M. “Officer DeWayne Looney.”
   Looney limped with a cane into the courtroom and to the witness stand. He removed his gun and handed it to Mr. Pate.
   Buckley watched him proudly. “Would you state your name, please, sir?”
   “DeWayne Looney.”
   “And your address?”
   “Fourteen sixty-eight Bennington Street, Clanton, Mississippi.”
   “How old are you?”
   “Thirty-nine.”
   “Where are you employed?”
   “Ford County Sheriff’s Department.”
   “And what do you do there?”
   “I’m a dispatcher.”
   “Where did you work on Monday, May 20?”
   “I was a deputy.”
   “Were you on duty?”
   “Yes. I was assigned to transport two subjects from the jail to court and back.”
   “Who were those two subjects?”
   “Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard.”
   “What time did you leave court with them?”
   “Around one-thirty, I guess.”
   “Who was on duty with you?”
   “Marshall Prather. He and I were in charge of the two subjects. There were some other deputies in the courtroom helpin’ us, and we had two or three men outside waitin’ on us. But me and Marshall were in charge.”
   “What happened when the hearing was over?”
   “We immediately handcuffed Cobb and Willard and got them outta here. We took them to that little room over there and waited a second or two, and Prather walked on down the stairs.”
   “Then what happened?”
   “We started down the back stairs. Cobb first, then Willard, then me. Like I said, Prather had already gone on down. He was out the door.”
   “Yes, sir. Then what happened?”
   “When Cobb was near ‘bout to the foot of the stairs, the shootin’ started. I was on the landing, fixin’ to go on down. I didn’t see anybody at first for a second, then I seen Mr. Hailey with the machine gun firin’ away. Cobb was blown backward into Willard, and they both screamed and fell in a heap, tryin’ to get back up where I was.”
   “Yes, sir. Describe what you saw.”
   “You could hear the bullets bouncin’ off the walls and hittin’ everywhere. It was the loudest gun I ever heard and seemed like he kept shootin’ forever. The boys just twisted and thrashed about, screamin’ and squealin’. They were handcuffed, you know.”
   “Yes, sir. What happened to you?”
   “Like I said, I never made it past the landing. I think one of the bullets ricocheted off the wall and caught me in the leg. I was tryin’ to get back up the steps when I felt my leg burn.”
   “And what happened to your leg?”
   “They cut it off,” Looney answered matter-of-factly, as if an amputation happened monthly. “Just below the knee.”
   “Did you get a good look at the man with the gun?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Can you identify him for the jury?”
   “Yes, sir. It’s Mr. Hailey, the man sittin’ over there.”
   That answer would have been a logical place to end Looney’s testimony. He was brief, to the point, sympathetic and positive of the identification. The jury had listened to every word so far. But Buckley and Musgrove retrieved the large diagrams of the courthouse and arranged them before the jury so that Looney could limp around for a while. Under Buckley’s direction, he retraced everybody’s exact movements just before the killings.
   Jake rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. Noose cleaned and recleaned his glasses. The jurors fidgeted.
   “Any cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?” Noose asked at last.
   “Just a few questions,” Jake said as Musgrove cleared the debris from the courtroom.
   “Officer Looney, who was Carl Lee looking at when he was shooting?”
   “Them boys, as far as I could tell.”
   “Did he ever look at you?”
   “Well, now, I didn’t spend a lotta time tryin’ to make eye contact with him. In fact, I was movin’ in the other direction.”
   “So he didn’t aim at you?”

   “Oh, no, sir. He just aimed at those boys. Hit them too.”
   “What did he do when he was shooting?”
   “He just screamed and laughed like he was crazy. It was the weirdest thing I ever heard, like he was some kinda madman or something. And you know, what I’ll always remember is that with all the noise, the gun firin’, the bullets whistlin’, the boys screamin’ as they got hit, over all the noise I could hear him laughin’ that crazy laugh.”
   The answer was so perfect Jake had to fight off a smile. He and Looney had worked on it a hundred times, and it was a thing of beauty. Every word was perfect. Jake busily flipped through his legal pad and glanced at the jurors. They all stared at Looney, enthralled by his answer. Jake scribbled something, anything, nothing, just to kill a few more seconds before the most important questions of the trial.
   “Now, Deputy Looney, Carl Lee Hailey shot you in the leg.”
   “Yes, sir, he did.”
   “Do you think it was intentional?”
   “Oh, no, sir. It was an accident.”
   “Do you want to see him punished for shooting you?” • “No, sir. I have no ill will toward the man. He did what I would’ve done.”
   Buckley dropped his pen and slumped in his chair. He looked sadly at his star witness.
   “What do you mean by that?”
   “I mean I don’t blame him for what he did. Those boys raped his little girl. I gotta little girl. Somebody rapes her and he’s a dead dog. I’ll blow him away, just like Carl Lee did. We oughtta give him a trophy.”
   “Do you want the jury to convict Carl Lee?”
   Buckley jumped and roared, “Objection! Objection! Improper question!”
   “No!” Looney yelled. “I don’t want him convicted. He’s a hero. He—”
   “Don’t answer, Mr. Looney!” Noose said loudly. “Don’t answer!”
   “Objection! Objection!” Buckley continued, on his tiptoes.
   “He’s a hero! Turn him loose!” Looney yelled at Buck-ley.
   “Order! Order!” Noose banged his gavel.
   Buckley was silent. Looney was silent. Jake walked to his chair and said, “I’ll withdraw the question.”
   “Please disregard,” Noose instructed the jury.
   Looney smiled at the jury and limped from the courtroom.
   “Call your next witness,” Noose said, removing nis glasses.
   Buckley rose slowly and with a great effort at drama, said, “Your Honor, the State rests.”
   “Good,” Noose replied, looking at Jake. “I assume you have a motion or two, Mr. Brigance.”
   “Yes, Your Honor.”
   “Very well, we’ll take those up in chambers.”
   Noose excused his jury with the same parting instructions and adjourned until nine Friday.
   Jake awoke in the darkness with a slight hangover, a headache due to fatigue and Coors, and the distant but unmistakable sound of his doorbell ringing continually as if held firmly in place by a large and determined thumb. He opened the front door in his nightshirt and tried to focus on the two figures standing on the porch. Ozzie and Nesbit, it was finally determined.
   “Can I help you?” he asked as he opened the door. They followed him into the den.
   “They’re gonna kill you today,” Ozzie said.
   Jake sat on the couch and massaged his temples. “Maybe they’ll succeed.”
   “Jake, this is serious. They plan to kill you.”
   “Who?”
   “The Klan.”
   “Mickey Mouse?”
   “Yeah. He called yesterday and said something was up. He called back two hours ago and said you’re the lucky man. Today is the big day. Time for some excitement. They bury Stump Sisson this morning in Loydsville, and it’s time for the eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth routine.”
   “Why me? Why don’t they kill Buckley or Noose or someone more deserving?”
   “We didn’t get a chance to talk about that.”
   “What method of execution?” Jake asked, suddenly feeling awkward sitting there in his nightshirt.
   “He didn’t say.”
   “Does he know?”
   “He ain’t much on details. He just said they’d try to do it sometime today.”
   “So what am I supposed to do? Surrender?”
   “What time you goin’ to the office?”
   “What time is it?”
   “Almost five.”
   “As soon as I can shower and dress.”
   “We’ll wait.”
   At five-thirty, they rushed him into his office and locked the door. At eight, a platoon of soldiers gathered on the sidewalk under the balcony and waited for the target. Harry Rex and Ellen watched from the second floor of the courthouse. Jake squeezed between Ozzie and Nesbit, and the three of them crouched in the center tight formation. Off they went across Washington Street in the direction of the courthouse. The vultures sniffed something and surrounded the entourage.
   The abandoned feed mill sat near the abandoned railroad tracks halfway down the tallest hill in Clanton, two blocks north and east of the square. Beside it was a neglected asphalt and gravel street that ran downhill and intersected Cedar Street, after which it became much smoother and wider and continued downward until finally it terminated and merged into Quincy Street, the eastern boundary of the Clanton square.
   From his position inside an abandoned silo, the marksman had a clear but distant view of the rear of the courthouse. He crouched in the darkness and aimed through a small opening, confident no one in the world could see him. The whiskey helped the confidence, and the aim, which he practiced a thousand times from seven-thirty until eight, when he noticed activity around the nigger’s lawyer’s office.
   A comrade waited in a pickup hidden in a run-down warehouse next to the silo. The engine was running and the driver chain-smoked Lucky Strikes, waiting anxiously to hear the clapping sounds from the deer rifle.
   As the armored mass stepped its way across Washington, the marksman panicked. Through the scope he could barely see the head of the nigger’s lawyer as it bobbed and weaved awkwardly among the sea of green, which was surrounded and chased by a dozen reporters. Go ahead, the whiskey said, create some excitement. He timed the bobbing and weaving as best he could, and pulled the trigger as the target approached the rear door of the courthouse.
   The rifle shot was clear and unmistakable.
   Half the soldiers hit the ground rolling and the other half grabbed Jake and threw him violently under the veranda/A guardsman screamed in anguish. The reporters and TV people crouched and stumbled to the ground, but valiantly kept the cameras rolling to record the carnage. The soldier clutched his throat and screamed again. Another shot. Then another.
   “He’s hit!” someone yelled. The soldiers scrambled on all fours across the driveway to the fallen one. Jake escaped through the doors to the safety of the courthouse. He fell onto the floor of the rear entrance and buried his head in his hands. Ozzie stood next to him, watching the soldiers through the door.
   The gunman dropped from the silo, threw his gun behind the back seat, and disappeared with his comrade into the countryside. They had a funeral to attend in south Mississippi.
   “He’s hit in the throat!” someone screamed as his buddies waded around the reporters. They lifted him and dragged him to a jeep.
   “Who got hit?” Jake asked without removing his palms from his eyes.
   “One of the guardsmen,” Ozzie said. “You okay?”
   “I guess,” he answered as he clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the floor. “Where’s my briefcase?”
   “It’s out there on the driveway. We’ll get it in a min-ute.” Ozzie removed his radio from his belt and barked orders to the dispatcher, something about all men to the courthouse.
   When it was apparent the shooting was over, Ozzie joined the mass of soldiers outside. Nesbit stood next to Jake. “You okay?” he asked.
   The colonel rounded the corner, yelling and swearing. “What the hell happened?” he demanded. “I heard some shots.”
   “Mackenvale got hit.”
   “Where is he?” the colonel said.—“Off to the hospital,” a sergeant replied, pointing at a jeep flying away in the distance.
   “How bad is he?”
   “Looked pretty bad. Got him in the throat.”
   “Throat! Why did they move him?”
   No one answered.
   “Did anybody see anything?” the colonel demanded.
   Sounded like it came from up, Ozzie said the looking up past Cedar Street. “Why don’t you send a jeep up there to look around.”
   “Good idea.” The colonel addressed his eager men with a string of terse commands, punctuated liberally with obscenities. The soldiers scattered in all directions, guns drawn and ready for combat, in search of an assassin they could not identify, who was, in fact, in the next county when the foot patrol began exploring the abandoned feed mill.
   Ozzie laid the briefcase on the floor next to Jake. “Is Jake okay?” he whispered to Nesbit. Harry Rex and Ellen stood on the stairs where Cobb and Willard had fallen.
   “I don’t know. He ain’t moved in ten minutes,” Nesbit said.
   “Jake, are you all right?” the sheriff asked.
   “Yes,” he said slowly without opening his eyes. The soldier had been on Jake’s left shoulder. “This is kinda silly, ain’t it?” he had just said to Jake when a bullet ripped through his throat. He fell into Jake, grabbing at his neck, gurgling blood and screaming. Jake fell, and was tossed to safety.
   “He’s dead, isn’t he?” Jake asked softly.
   “We don’t know yet,” replied Ozzie. “He’s at the hospital.”
   “He’s dead. I know he’s dead. I heard his neck pop.”
   Ozzie looked at Nesbit, then at Harry Rex. Four or five coin-sized drops of blood were splattered on Jake’s light gray suit. He hadn’t noticed them yet, but they were apparent to everyone else.
   “Jake, you’ve got blood on your suit,” Ozzie finally said. “Let’s go back to your office so you can change clothes.”
   “Why is that important?” Jake mumbled to the floor. They stared at each other.
   Dell and the others from the Coffee Shop stood on the sidewalk and watched as they led Jake from the courthouse, across the street, and into his office, ignoring the absurdities thrown by the reporters. Harry Rex locked the front door, leaving the bodyguards on the sidewalk. Jake went upstairs and removed his coat.
   “Row Ark, why don’t you make some margaritas,” Harry Rex said. “I’ll go upstairs and stay with him.”
   “Judge, we’ve had some excitement,” Ozzie explained as Noose unpacked his briefcase and removed his coat.
   “What is it?” Buckley asked.
   “They tried to kill Jake this mornin’.”
   “What!”
   “When?” asked Buckley.
   “ ‘Bout an hour ago, somebody shot at Jake as he was comin’ into the courthouse. It was a rifle at long range. We have no idea who did it. They missed Jake and hit a guardsman. He’s in surgery now.”
   “Where’s Jake?” asked His Honor.
   “Over in his office. He’s pretty shook up.”
   “I would be too,” Noose said sympathetically.
   “He wanted you to call him when you got here.”
   “Sure.” Ozzie dialed the number and handed the phone to the judge.
   “It’s Noose,” Harry Rex said, handing the phone to Jake.
   “Hello.”
   “Are you okay, Jake?”
   “Not really. I won’t be there today.”
   Noose struggled for a response. “Do what?”
   “I said I won’t be in court today. I’m not up to it.”
   “Well, uh, Jake, where does that leave the rest of us?”
   “I don’t care, really,” Jake said, sipping on his second margarita.
   “Beg your pardon?”

   “I said I don’t care, Judge. I don’t care what you do, I won’t be there.”
   Noose shook his head and looked at the receiver. “Are you hurt?” he asked with feeling.
   “You ever been shot at, Judge?”
   “No, Jake.”
   “You ever seen a man get shot, hear him scream?”
   “No, Jake.”
   “You ever had somebody else’s blood splashed on your suit?”
   “No, Jake.”
   “I won’t be there.”
   Noose paused and thought for a moment. Come on over, Jake, and let’s talk about it.”
   “No. I’m not leaving my office. It’s dangerous out there.”
   “Suppose we stand in recess until one. Will you feel better then?”
   “I’ll be drunk by then.”
   “What!”
   “I said I’ll be drunk by then,”
   Harry Rex covered his eyes. Ellen left for the kitchen.
   “When do you think you might be sober?” Noose asked sternly. Ozzie and Buckley looked at each other.
   “Monday.”
   “What about tomorrow?”
   “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
   “Yes, I know, and I’d planned to hold court tomorrow. We’ve got a jury sequestered, remember?”
   “Okay, I’ll be ready in the morning.”
   “That’s good to hear. What do I tell the jury right now? They’re sitting in the jury room waiting on us. The courtroom is packed. Your client is sitting out there by himself waiting on you. What do I tell these people?”
   “You’ll think of something, Judge. I’ve got faith in you.” Jake hung up. Noose listened to the unbelievable until it was evident that he had in fact been hung up on. He handed the phone to Ozzie.
   His Honor looked out the window and removed his glasses. “He says he ain’t comin’ today.”
   Uncharacteristically, Buckley remained silent.
   Ozzie was defensive. “It really got to him, Judge.”
   “Has he been drinking?”
   “Naw, not Jake,” Ozzie replied. “He’s just tore up over that boy gettin’ shot like he did. He was right next to Jake, and caught the bullet that was aimed for him. It would upset anybody, Judge.”
   “He wants us to remain in recess until tomorrow morning,” Noose said to Buckley, who shrugged and again said nothing.
   As word spread, a regular carnival developed on the sidewalk outside Jake’s office. The press set up camp and pawed at the front window in hopes of seeing someone or something newsworthy inside. Friends stopped by to check on Jake, but were informed by various of the reporters that he was locked away inside and would not come out. Yes, he was unhurt.
   Dr. Bass had been scheduled to testify Friday morning. He and Lucien entered the office through the rear door a few minutes after ten, and Harry Rex left for the liquor store.
   With all the crying, the conversation with Carla had been difficult. He called after three drinks, and things did not go well. He talked to her father, told him he was safe, unhurt, and that half of the Mississippi National Guard had been assigned to protect him. Settle her down, he said, and he would call back later.
   Lucien was furious. He had fought with Bass to keep him sober Thursday night so he could testify Friday. Now that he would testify Saturday, there was no way to keep him sober two days in a row. He thought of all the drinking they had missed Thursday, and was furious.
   Harry Rex returned with a gallon of liquor. He and Ellen mixed drinks and argued over the ingredients. She rinsed the coffeepot, filled it with Bloody Mary mix and a disproportionate helping of Swedish vodka. Harry Rex added a lavish dose of Tabasco. He made the rounds in the conference room and refilled each cup with the delightful mixture.
   Dr. Bass gulped frantically and ordered more. Lucien and Harry Rex debated the likely identity of the gunman. Ellen silently watched Jake, who sat in the corner and stared at the bookshelves.
   The phone rang. Harry Rex grabbed it and listened intently. He hung up and said, “That was Ozzie. The soldier’s outta surgery. Bullet’s lodged in the spine. They think he’ll be paralyzed.”
   They all sipped in unison and said nothing. They made great efforts to ignore Jake as he rubbed his forehead with one hand and sloshed his drink with the other. The faint sound of someone knocking at me rear door interrupted brief memorial.
   “Go see who it is,” Lucien ordered Ellen, who left to see who was knocking.
   “It’s Lester Hailey,” she reported to the conference room.
   “Let him in,” Jake mumbled, almost incoherently.
   Lester was introduced to the parry and offered a Bloody Mary. He declined and asked for something with whiskey in it.
   “Good idea,” said Lucien. “I’m tired of light stuff. Let’s get some Jack Daniel’s.”
   “Sounds good to me,” added Bass as he gulped the remnants in his cup.
   Jake managed a weak smile at Lester, then returned to the study of the bookshelves. Lucien threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and Harry Rex left for the liquor store.
   When she awoke hours later, Ellen was on the couch in Jake’s office. The room was dark and deserted, with an acrid, intoxicating smell to it. She moved cautiously. She found her boss peacefully snoring away in the war room, on the floor, partially under the war desk. There were no lights to extinguish, so she carefully walked down the stairs. The conference room was littered with empty liquor bottles, beer cans, plastic cups and chicken dinner boxes. It was 9:30 P. M. She had slept five hours.
   She could stay at Lucien’s, but needed to change clothes. Her friend Nesbit would drive her to Oxford, but she was sober. Plus, Jake needed all the protection he could get. She locked the front door and walked to her car.
   Ellen almost made it to Oxford when she saw the blue lights behind her. As usual, she was driving seventy-five. She parked on the shoulder and walked to her taillights, where she searched her purse and waited on the trooper.
   Two plainsclothesmen approached from the blue lights.
   “You drunk, ma’am?” one of them asked, spewing tobacco juice.
   “No, sir. I’m trying to find my license.”
   She crouched before the taillights and fished for the license. Suddenly, she was knocked to the ground. A heavy quilt was thrown over her and both men held her down. A rope was wrapped around her chest and waist. She kicked and cursed, but could offer little resistance. The quilt covered her head and trapped her arms underneath. They pulled the rope tightly.
   “Be still, bitch! Be still!”
   One of them removed her keys from the ignition and opened the trunk. They threw her inside and slammed it shut. The blue lights were unplugged in the old Lincoln and it roared away, trailed by the BMW. They found a gravel road and followed it deep into the woods. It turned into a dirt road that led to a small pasture where a large cross was being burned by a handful of Kluxers.
   The two assailants quickly donned their robes and masks and removed her from the trunk. She was thrown to the ground and the quilt removed. They bound and gagged her, and dragged her to a large pole a few feet from the cross where she was tied, her back to the Kluxers, her face to the pole.
   She saw the white robes and pointed hats, and tried desperately to spit out the oily, cotton rag crammed in her mouth. She managed only to gag and cough.
   The flaming cross illuminated the small pasture, discharging a glowing wave of heat that began to roast her as she wrestled with the pole and emitted strange, guttural noises.
   A hooded figure left the others and approached her. She could hear him walking and breathing. “You nigger-loving bitch,” he said in a crisp Midwestern voice. He grabbed the rear of her collar and ripped the white silk blouse until it hung in shreds around her neck and shoulders. Her hands were tied firmly around the pole. He removed a bowie knife from under the robe, and began cutting the remainder of the blouse from her body. “You nigger-loving bitch. You nigger-loving bitch.”
   Ellen cursed him, but her words were muffled groans.
   He unzipped the navy linen skirt on the right side. She tried to kick, but the heavy rope around her ankles held her feet to the pole. He placed the tip of the knife at the bottom of the zipper, and cut downward through the hem. He grabbed around the waist and pulled it off like a magician. The Kluxers stepped forward.
   He slapped her on the butt, and said, “Nice, very nice.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork. She grunted and twisted but could not resist. The slip fell to mid-thigh. With great ceremony, he cut the straps, then sliced it neatly down the back. He yanked it off and threw it at the foot of the burning cross. He cut the bra straps and removed it. She jerked and the moans became louder. The silent semicircle inched forward and stopped ten feet away.
   The fire was hot now. Her bare back and legs were covered with sweat. The light red hair was drenched around her neck and shoulders. He reached under his robe again and brought out a bullwhip. He popped it loudly near her and she flinched. He marched backward, carefully measur ing the distance to the pole.
   He cocked the bullwhip and aimed at the bare back. The tallest one stepped forward with his back to her. He shook his head. Nothing was said, but the whip disappeared.
   He walked to her and grabbed her head. With his knife, he cut her hair. He grabbed handfuls and hacked away until her scalp was gapped and ugly. It piled gently around her feet. She moaned and did not move.
   They headed for their cars. A gallon of gasoline was splashed inside the BMW with Massachusetts tags and somebody threw a match.
   When he was certain they were gone, Mickey Mouse slid from the bushes. He untied her and carried her to a small clearing away from the pasture. He gathered the remains of her clothing and tried to cover her. When her car finished burning beside the dirt road, he left her. He drove to Oxford, to a pay phone, and called the Lafayette County sheriff.
   Saturday court was unusual but not unheard of, especially in capital cases where the jury was locked up. The participants didn’t mind because Saturday brought the end one day nearer.
   The locals didn’t mind either. It was their day off, and for most Ford Countians it was their only chance to watch the trial, or if they couldn’t get a seat, at least hang around the square and see it all first-hand. Who knows, there may even be some more shooting.
   By seven, the cafes downtown were at full capacity serving nonregulars. For every customer who was awarded a seat, two were turned away and left to loiter around the square and the courthouse and wait for a seat in the courtroom. Most of them paused for a moment in front of the lawyer’s office, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one they tried to kill. The braggarts told of being clients of this famous man.
   Upward, a few feet, the target sat at his desk and sipped a bloody concoction left from yesterday’s party. He smoked a Roi-Tan, ate headache powders, and rubbed the cobwebs from his brain. Forget about the soldier, he had told himself for the past three hours. Forget about the Klan, the threats, forget everything but the trial, and specifically Dr. W. T. Bass. He uttered a short prayer, something about Bass being sober on the witness stand. The expert and Lucieh had stayed through the afternoon, drinking and arguing, accusing each other of being a drunk and receiving a dishonorable discharge from their respective professions. Violence flared briefly at Ethel’s desk when they were leaving. Nesbit intervened and escorted them to the patrol car for the ride home. The reporters burned with curiosity as the two blind drunks were led from Jake’s office by the deputy and put in the car, where they continued to rage and cuss at each other, Lucien in the back seat, Bass in the front.
   He reviewed Ellen’s masterpiece on the insanity defense. Her outline of questions for Bass needed only minor changes. He studied his expert’s resume, and though unim—pressive, it would suffice for Ford County. The nearest psychiatrist was eighty miles away.
   Judge Noose glanced at the D. A. and looked sympathetically at Jake, who sat next to the door and watched the faded portrait of some dead judge hanging over Buckley’s shoulder.
   “How do you feel this morning, Jake?” Noose asked warmly.
   “I’m fine.”
   “How’s the soldier?” asked Buckley.
   “Paralyzed.”
   Noose, Buckley, Musgrove, and Mr. Pate looked at the same spot on the carpet and grimly shook their heads in a quiet moment of respect.
   “Where’s your law clerk?” Noose asked, looking at the clock on the wall.
   Jake looked at his watch. “I don’t know. I expected her by now.”
   “Are you ready?”
   “Sure.”
   “Is the courtroom ready, Mr. Pate?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Very well. Let’s proceed.”
   Noose seated the courtroom, and for ten minutes offered a rambling apology to the jurors for yesterday’s delay. They were the only fourteen in the county who did not know what happened Friday morning, and it might be prejudicial to tell them. Noose droned on about emergencies and how sometimes during trials things conspire to cause delays. When he finally finished, the jurors were completely bewildered and praying that somebody would call a witness.
   “You may call your first witness,” Noose said in Jake’s direction.
   “Dr. W. T. Bass,” Jake announced as he moved to the podium. Buckley and Musgrove exchanged winks and silly grins.
   Bass was seated next to Lucien on the second row in the middle of the family. He stood noisily and made his way to the center aisle, stepping on feet and assaulting people with his heavy, leather, empty briefcase. Jake heard the commotion behind him and continued smiling at the jury.
   “I do, I do,” Bass said rapidly at Jean Gillespie during his swearing in.
   Mr. Pate led him to the witness stand and delivered the standard orders to speak up and use the microphone. Though mortified and hung over, the expert looked remarkably arrogant and sober. He wore his most expensive dark gray hand-sewn wool suit, a perfectly starched white button-down, and a cute little red paisley bow tie that made him appear rather cerebral. He looked like an expert, in something. He also wore, over Jake’s objections, a pair of light gray ostrich skin cowboy boots that he had paid over a thousand for and worn less than a dozen times. Lucien had insisted on the boots eleven years earlier in the first insanity case. Bass wore them, and the very sane defendant went to Parchman. He wore them in the second insanity trial, again at Lucien’s behest; again, Parchman. Lucien referred to them as Bass’s good luck charm.
   Jake wanted no part of the damned boots. But the jury could relate to them, Lucien had argued. Not expensive ostrich skin, Jake countered. They’re too dumb to know the difference, replied Lucien. Jake could not be swayed. The rednecks will trust someone with boots, Lucien had explained. Fine, said Jake, let him wear a pair of those camouflage squirrel-hunting boots with a little mud on the heels and soles, some boots they could really identify with. Those wouldn’t complement his suit, Bass had inserted.
   He crossed his legs, laying the right boot on his left knee, flaunting it. He grinned at it, then grinned at the jury. The ostrich would have been proud.
   Jake looked from his notes on the podium and saw the boot, which was plainly visible above the rail of the witness stand. Bass was admiring it, the jurors pondering it. He choked and returned to his notes.
   “State your name, please.”
   “Dr. W. T. Bass,” he replied, his attention suddenly diverted from the boot. He looked grimly, importantly at Jake.
   “What is your address?”
   “Nine-oh-eight West Canterbury, Jackson, Mississippi.”
   “What is your profession?”
   “I am a physician.”
   “Are you licensed to practice in Mississippi?”

   “Yes.”
   “When were you licensed?”
   “February 8, 1963.”
   “Are you licensed to practice medicine in any other state?”
   “Yes.”
   “Where?”
   “Texas.”
   “When did you obtain that license?”
   “November 3, 1962.”
   “Where did you go to college?”
   “I received my bachelor’s degree from Millsaps College in 1956, and received my M. D., or Doctor of Medicine, from the University of Texas Health Science Center in Dallas, Texas, in 1960.”
   “Is that an accredited medical school?”
   “Yes.”
   “By whom?”
   “By the Council of Medical Education and Hospitals of the American Medical Association, the recognized accrediting agency of our profession, and by the educational authority of the State of Texas.”
   Bass relaxed a bit, uncrossed and recrossed his legs, and displayed his left boot. He rocked gently and turned the comfortable swivel chair partially toward the jury.
   “Where did you intern and for how long?”
   “After graduation from medical school, I spent twelve months as an intern at the Rocky Mountain Medical Center in Denver.”
   “What is your medical specialty?”
   “Psychiatry.”
   “Explain to us what that means.”
   “Psychiatry is that branch of medicine concerned with the treatment of disorders of the mind. It usually, but not always, deals with mental malfunction, the organic basis of which is unknown.”
   Jake breathed for the first time since Bass took the stand. His man was sounding good.
   “Now, Doctor,” he said as he casually walked to within a foot of the jury box, “describe to the jury the specialized training you received in the field of psychiatry.”
   “My specialized training in psychiatry consisted of two years as a resident in psychiatry at the Texas State Mental Hospital, an approved training center. I engaged in clinical work with psychoneurotic and psychotic patients. I studied psychology, psychopathology, psychotherapy, and the physiological therapies. This training, supervised by competent psychiatric teachers, included instruction in the psychiatric aspects of general medicine, the behavior aspects of children, adolescents, and adults.”
   It was doubtful if a single person in the courtroom comprehended any of what Bass had just said, but it came from the mouth of a man who suddenly appeared to be a genius, an expert, for he had to be a man of great wisdom and intelligence to pronounce those words. With the bow tie and vocabulary, and in spite of the boots, Bass was gaining credibility with each answer.
   “Are you a diplomate of the American Board of Psychiatry?”
   “Of course,” he answered confidently.
   “In which branch are you certified?”
   “I am certified in psychiatry.”
   “And when were you certified?”
   “April of 1967.”
   “What does it take to become certified by the American Board of Psychiatry?”
   “A candidate must pass oral and practical exams, as well as a written test at the direction of the Board.”
   Jake glanced at his notes and noticed Musgrove winking at Buckley.
   “Doctor, do you belong to any professional groups?”
   “Yes.”
   “Name them please.”
   “I am a member of the American Medical Association, American Psychiatric Association, and the Mississippi Medical Association.”
   “How long have you been engaged in the practice of psychiatry?”
   “Twenty-two years.”
   Jake walked three steps in the direction ot me oencn and eyed Noose, who was watching intently.
   “Your Honor, the defense offers Dr. Bass as an expert in the field of psychiatry.”
   “Very well,” replied Noose. “Do you wish to examine this witness, Mr. Buckley?”
   The D. A. stood with his legal pad. “Yes, Your Honor, just a few questions.”
   Surprised but not worried, Jake took his seat next to Carl Lee. Ellen was still not in the courtroom.
   “Dr. Bass, in your opinion, are you an expert in the field of psychiatry?” asked Buckley.
   “Yes.”
   “Have you ever taught psychiatry?”
   “No.”
   “Have you ever published any articles on psychiatry?”
   “No.”
   “Have you ever published any books on psychiatry?”
   “No.”
   “Now, I believe you testified that you are a member of the A. M. A., M. M. A., and the American Psychiatric Association?”
   “Yes.”
   “Have you ever served as an officer in any of these organizations?”
   “No.”
   “What hospital positions do you currently hold, as of today?”
   “None.”
   “Has your experience in psychiatry included any work under the auspices of the federal government or any state government?”
   “No.”
   The arrogance was beginning to fade from his face, and the confidence from his voice. He shot a glance at Jake, who was digging through a file.
   “Dr. Bass, are you now engaged in the practice of psychiatry full-time?”
   The expert hesitated, and looked briefly at Lucien on the second row. “I see patients on a regular basis.”
   “How many patients and how regular?” Buckley retorted with an enormous air of confidence.
   “I see from five to ten patients per week.”
   “One or two a day?”
   “Something like that.”
   “And you consider that a full-time practice?”
   “I’m as busy as I want to be.”
   Buckley threw his legal pad on the table and looked at Noose. “Your Honor, the State objects to this man testifying as an expert in the field of psychiatry. It’s obvious he’s not qualified.”
   Jake was on his feet with his mouth open.
   “Overruled, Mr. Buckley. You may proceed, Mr. Bri-gance.”
   Jake gathered his legal pads and returned to the podium, well aware of the suspicion the D. A. had just artfully thrown over his star witness. Bass shifted boots.
   “Now, Dr. Bass, have you examined the defendant, Carl Lee-Hailey?”
   “Yes.”
   “How many times?”
   “Three.”
   “When was your first examination?”
   “June 10.”
   “What was the purpose of this examination?”
   “I examined him to determine his current mental condition as well as his condition on May 20, when he allegedly shot Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard.”
   “Where did this examination take place?”
   “Ford County Jail.”
   “Did you conduct this examination alone?”
   “Yes. Just Mr. Hailey and myself.”
   “How long did the examination last?”
   “Three hours.”
   “Did you review his medical history?”
   “In a roundabout way, you could say. We talked at great length about his past.”
   “What did you learn?”
   “Nothing remarkable, except for Vietnam.”
   “What about Vietnam?”
   Bass folded his hands over his slightly overweight stom—ach and frowned intelligently at the defense attorney. Well, Mr. Brigance, like many Vietnam vets I’ve worked with, Mr. Hailey had some rather horrible experiences over there.”
   War is hell, thought Carl Lee. He listened intently. Now, Vietnam was bad. He’d been shot. He’d lost friends. He’d killed people, many people. He’d killed children, Vietnamese children carrying guns and grenades. It was bad. He wished he’d never seen the place. He dreamed about it, had flashbacks and nightmares occasionally. But he didn’t feel warped or insane because of it. He didn’t feel warped or insane because of Cobb and Willard. In fact, he felt quite satisfied because they were dead. Just like those in Vietnam.
   He had explained all this to Bass once at the jail, and Bass had seemed unimpressed by it. And they had talked only twice, and never more than an hour.
   Carl Lee eyed the jury and listened suspiciously to the expert, who talked at length of Carl Lee’s dreadful experiences in the war. Bass’s vocabulary jumped several octaves as he explained to the laymen in nonlaymen terms the ef: fects of Vietnam on Carl Lee. It sounded good. There had been nightmares over the years, dreams Carl Lee had never worried much about, but to hear Bass explain it, were extremely significant events.
   “Did he talk freely of Vietnam?”
   “Not really,” replied Bass, then explaining in great detail the tremendous task he confronted in dragging out the war from this complex, burdened, probably unstable mind. Carl Lee didn’t remember it that way. But he dutifully listened with a pained expression, wondering for the first time in his life if perhaps he could be a little off.
   After an hour, the war had been refought and its effects flogged thoroughly. Jake decided to move on.
   “Now, Dr. Bass,” Jake said, scratching his head. “Other than Vietnam, what other significant events did you note regarding his mental history?”
   “None, except the rape of his daughter.”
   “Did you discuss the rape with Carl Lee?”
   “At great length, during each of the three examinations.”
   “Explain to the jury what the rape did to Carl Lee Hailey.”
   Bass stroked his chin and looked perplexed. “Quite frankly, Mr. Brigance, it would take a great deal of time to explain what the rape did to Mr, Hailey.”
   Jake thought a moment, and seemed to thoroughly analyze this last statement. “Well, could you summarize it for the jury?”
   Bass nodded gravely. “I’ll try.”
   Lucien grew weary of listening to Bass, and began watching the jury in hopes of eyeing Clyde Sisco, who had also lost interest but appeared to be admiring the boots. Lucien watched intently from the corner of his eye, waiting for Sisco to gaze around the courtroom.
   Finally, as Bass rambled on, Sisco left the testimony and looked at Carl Lee, then Buckley, then one of the reporters on the front row. Then his line of vision locked solidly into a wild-eyed, bearded old man who had once handed him eighty thousand cash for performing his civic duty and returning a just verdict. They focused unmistakably on each other, and both managed a slight grin. How much? was the look in Lucien’s eyes. Sisco returned to the testimony, but seconds later he was staring at Lucien. How much? Lucien said, his lips actually moving but with no sound.
   Sisco looked away and watched Bass, thinking of a fair price. He looked in Lucien’s direction, scratched his beard, then suddenly, while staring at Bass, flashed five fingers across his face and coughed. He coughed again and studied the expert.
   Five hundred or five thousand? Lucien asked himself. Knowing Sisco, it was five thousand, maybe fifty thousand. It made no difference; Lucien would pay it. He was worth a ton.
   By ten-thirty, Noose had cleaned his glasses a hundred times and consumed a dozen cups of coffee. His bladder pressed forward toward the spillway. “Time for the morning recess. We’ll adjourn until eleven.” He rapped the gavel and disappeared.
   “How’m I doing?” Bass asked nervously. He followed Jake and Lucien to the law library on the third floor.
   “You’re doing fine,” Jake said. “Just keep those boots outta sight.”
   “The boots are critical,” Lucien protested.”
   “I need a drink,” Bass said desperately.
   “Forget it,” Jake said.
   “So do I,” Lucien added. “Let’s run over to your office for a quick one.”
   “Great idea!” Bass said.
   “Forget it,” Jake repeated. “You’re sober and you’re doing great.”
   “We got thirty minutes,” Bass said as he and Lucien were leaving the library and heading for the stairs.
   “No! Don’t do it, Lucien!” Jake demanded.
   “Just one,” Lucien replied, pointing a finger at Jake. “Just one.”
   “You’ve never had just one.”
   “Come with us, Jake. It’ll settle your nerves.”
   “Just one,” Bass yelled as he disappeared down the steps.
   At eleven, Bass sat himself in the witness chair and looked through glazed eyes at the jury. He smiled, and almost giggled. He was aware of the artists on the front row, so he looked as expert as possible. His nerves were indeed settled. “Dr. Bass, are you familiar with the criminal responsibility test relative to the M’Naghten Rule?” Jake asked.
   “I certainly am!” Bass replied with a sudden air of superiority.
   “Would you explain this rule to the jury?” “Of course. The M’Naghten Rule is the standard for criminal responsibility in Mississippi, as in fifteen other states. It goes back to England, in the year 1843, when a man by the name of Daniel M’Naghten attempted to assassinate the prime minister, Sir Robert Peel. He mistakenly shot and killed the prime minister’s secretary, Edward Drummond. During his trial the evidence plainly showed M’Naghten was suffering from what we would call paranoid schizophrenia. The jury returned a verdict of not guilty, by reason of insanity. From this the M’Naghten Rule was established. It is still followed in England and sixteen states.” “What does the M’Naghten Rule mean?” “The M’Naghten Rule is fairly simple. Every man is presumed to be sane, and to establish a defense on the ground of insanity, it must be clearly proven that when the defendant did what he did he was laboring under such a defect of reason, from a mental disease, that he did not know the nature and quality of the act he was doing, or if he did know what he was doing, he did not know it was wrong.”
   “Could you simplify that?”
   “Yes. If a defendant cannot distinguish right from wrong, he is legally insane.”
   “Define insanity, please.”
   “It has no significance, medically. It is strictly a legal standard for a person’s mental state or condition.”
   Jake breathed deeply and plowed forward. “Now, Doctor, based upon your examination of the defendant, do you have an opinion as to the mental condition of Carl Lee Hai-ley on May 20 of this year, at the time of the shooting?”
   “Yes, I do.”
   “And what is that opinion?”
   “It is my opinion,” Bass said slowly, “that the defendant had a total break with reality when his daughter was raped. When he saw her immediately after the rape he didn’t recognize her, and when someone told him she’d been gang-raped, and beaten, and almost hanged, something just snapped in Carl Lee’s mind. That’s a very elementary way of putting it, but that’s what happened. Something snapped. He broke with reality.
   “They had to be killed. He told me once that when he first saw them in court, he could not understand why the deputies were protecting them. He kept waiting for one of the cops to pull a gun and blow their heads off. A few days went by and nobody killed them, so he figured it. was up to him. I mean, he felt as though someone in the system would execute the two for raping his little girl.
   “What I’m saying, Mr. Brigance, is that, mentally, he left us. He was in another world. He was suffering from delusions. He broke.”
   Bass knew he was sounding good. He was talking to the jury now, not the lawyer.
   “The day after the rape he spoke with his daughter in the hospital. She could barely talk, with the broken jaws and all, but she said she saw him in the woods running to save her, and she asked him why he disappeared. Now, can you imagine what that would do to a father? She later told him she begged for her daddy, and the two men laughed at her and told her she didn’t have a daddy.”
   Jake let those words sink in. He studied Ellen’s outline and saw only two more questions.
   “Now, Dr. Bass, based upon your observations of Carl Lee Hailey, and your diagnosis of his mental condition at the time of the shooting, do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was capable of knowing the difference between right and wrong when he shot these men?”
   “I have.”
   “And what is that opinion?”
   “That due to his mental condition, he was totally incapable of distinguishing right from wrong.”
   “Do you have an opinion, based upon the same factors, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was able to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions?”
   “I do.”
   “And what is that opinion?”

  “In my opinion, as an expert in the field of psychiatry, Mr. Hailey was totally incapable of understanding and appreciating the nature and quality of what he was doing.”
   “Thank you, Doctor. I tender the witness.”
   Jake gathered his legal pad and strolled confidently back to his seat. He glanced at Lucien, who was smiling and nodding. He glanced at the jury. They were watching Bass and thinking about his testimony. Wanda Womack, a young woman with a sympathetic glow about her, looked at Jake and smiled ever so slightly. It was the first positive signal he received from the jury since the trial started.
   “So far so good,” Carl Lee whispered.
   Jake smiled at his client. “You’re a real psycho, big man.”
   “Any cross-examination?” Noose asked Buckley.
   “Just a few questions,” Buckley said as he grabbed the podium.
   Jake could not imagine Buckley arguing psychiatry with an expert, even if it was W. T. Bass.
   But Buckley had no plans to argue psychiatry. “Dr. Bass, what is your full name?”
   Jake froze. The question had an ominous hint to it. Buckley asked it with a great deal of suspicion.
   “William Tyler Bass.”
   “What do you go by?”
   “W. T. Bass.”
   “Have you ever been known as Tyler Bass?”
   The expert hesitated. “No,” he said meekly.
   An immense feeling of anxiety hit Jake and felt like a hot spear tearing into his stomach. The question could only mean trouble.
   “Are you positive?” Buckley asked with raised eyebrows and an enormous amount of distrust in his voice.
   Bass shrugged. “Maybe when I was younger.”
   “I see. Now, I believe you testified that you studied medicine at the University of Texas Health Science Center?”
   “That’s correct.”
   “And where is that?”
   “Dallas.”
   “And when were you a student there?”
   “From 1956 to 1960.”
   “And under what name were you registered?”
   “William T. Bass.”
   Jake was numb with fear. Buckley had something, a dark secret from the past known only to Bass and himself.
   “Did you ever use the name Tyler Bass while you were a medical student?”
   “No.”
   “Are you positive?”
   “I certainly am.”
   “What is your social security number?”
   “410–96–8585.”
   Buckley made a check mark beside something on his legal pad.
   “And what is your date of birth?” he asked carefully.
   “September 14, 1934.”
   “And what was your mother’s name?”
   “Jonnie Elizabeth Bass.”
   “And her maiden name?”
   “Skidmore.”
   Another check mark. Bass looked nervously at Jake.
   “And your place of birth?”
   “Carbondale, Illinois.”
   Another check mark.
   An objection to the relevance of these questions was in order and sustainable, but Jake’s knees were like Jell-O and his bowels were suddenly fluid. He feared he would embarrass himself if he stood and tried to speak.
   Buckley studied his check marks and waited a few seconds. Every ear in the courtroom waited for the next question, knowing it would be brutal. Bass watched the D. A. like a prisoner watching the firing squad, hoping and praying the guns would somehow misfire.
   Finally, Buckley smiled at the expert. “Dr. Bass, have you ever been convicted of a felony?”
   The question echoed throughout the silence and landed from all directions on the trembling shoulders of Tyler Bass. Even a cursory look at his face revealed the answer.
   Carl Lee squinted and looked at his lawyer.
   “Of course not!” Bass answered loudly, desperately.
   Buckley just nodded and walked slowly to the table, where Musgrove, with much ceremony, handed him some important-looking papers.
   “Are you certain?” Buckley thundered.
   “Of course I’m certain,” Bass protested as he eyed the important-looking papers.
   Jake knew he needed to rise and say something or do something to stop the carnage that was seconds away, but his mind was paralyzed.
   “You’re certain?” Buckley asked.
   “Yes,” Bass answered through clenched teeth.
   “You’ve never been convicted of a felony?”
   “Of course not.”
   “Are you as certain of that as you are the rest of your testimony before this jury?”
   That was the trap, the killer, the deadliest question of all; one Jake had used many times, and when he heard it, he knew Bass was finished. And so was Carl Lee.
   “Of course,” Bass answered with feigned arrogance.
   Buckley moved in for the kill. “You’re telling this jury that on October 17, 1956, in Dallas, Texas, you were not convicted of a felony under the name of Tyler Bass?”
   Buckley asked the question while looking at the jury and reading from the important-looking documents.
   “That’s a lie,” Bass said quietly, and unconvincingly.
   “Are you sure it’s a lie?” Buckley asked.
   “A bald-faced lie.”
   “Do you know a lie from the truth, Dr. Bass?”
   “Damn right I do.”
   Noose placed his glasses on his nose and leaned forward. The jurors quit rocking. The reporters quit scribbling. The deputies along the back wall stood still and listened.
   Buckley picked out one of the important-looking documents and studied it. “You’re telling this jury that on October 17, 1956, you were not convicted of statutory rape?”
   Jake knew it was important, in the midst of any great courtroom crisis, even this one, to maintain a straight, poker face. It was important for the jurors, who missed nothing, to see the defendant’s lawyer with a positive look about him. Jake had practiced this positive, everything’s-wonderful, I’m-in-control look through many trials and many surprises, but with the “statutory rape” the positive and confident and certain look was immediately replaced by a sickly, pale, pained expression that was being scrutinized by at least half of those in the jury box.
   The other half scowled at the witness on the stand.
   “Were you convicted of statutory rape, Doctor?” Buck-ley asked again after a lengthy silence.
   No answer.
   Noose uncoiled and leaned downward in the direction of the witness. “Please answer the question, Dr. Bass.”
   Bass ignored His Honor and stared at the D. A., then said, “You’ve got the wrong man.”
   Buckley snorted and walked to Musgrove, who was holding some more important-looking papers. He opened a large white envelope and removed something that resembled an 8 x 10 photograph.
   “Well, Dr. Bass, I’ve got some photographs of you taken by the Dallas Police Department on September 11, 1956. Would you like to see them?”
   No answer.
   Buckley held them out to the witness. “Would you like to see these, Dr. Bass? Perhaps they could refresh your memory.”
   Bass slowly shook his head, then lowered it and stared blankly at his boots.
   “Your Honor, the State would introduce into evidence these copies, certified under the Acts of Congress, of the Final Judgment and Sentencing Order in the case styled State of Texas versus Tyler Bass, said records being obtained by the State from the proper officials in Dallas, Texas, and showing that on October 17, 1956, a one Tyler Bass pled guilty to the charge of statutory rape, a felony under the laws of the State of Texas. We can prove that Tyler Bass and this witness, Dr. W. T. Bass, are one and the same.”
   Musgrove politely handed Jake a copy of everything Buckley was waving.
   “Any objections to this introduction into evidence?” Noose asked in Jake’s direction.
   A speech was needed. A brilliant, emotional explanation that would touch the hearts of the jurors and make them weep with pity for Bass and his patient. But the rules of procedure did not permit one at this point. Of course the evidence was admissible. Unable to stand, Jake waved in the negative. No objections.
   “We have no further questions,” Buckley announced.
   “Any redirect, Mr. Brigance?” Noose asked.
   In the split second available, Jake could not think of a single thing he could ask Bass to improve the situation. The jury had heard enough from the defense expert.
   “No,” Jake said quietly.
   “Very well, Dr. Bass, you are excused.”
   Bass made a quick exit through the small gate in the railing, down the center aisle, and out of the courtroom. Jake watched his departure intently, conveying as much hatred as possible. It was important for the jury to see how shocked the defendant and his lawyer were. The jury had to believe a convicted felon was not knowingly put on the stand.
   When the door closed and Bass was gone, Jake scanned the courtroom in hopes of finding an encouraging face. There were none. Lucien stroked his beard and stared at the floor. Lester sat with his arms folded and a disgusted look on his face. Gwen was crying.
   “Call your next witness,” Noose said.
   Jake continued searching. In the third row, between Reverend Ollie Agee and Reverend Luther Roosevelt, sat Norman Reinfeld. When his eyes met Jake’s, he frowned and shook his head as if to say “I told you so.” On the other, side of the courtroom, most of the whites looked relaxed and a few even grinned at Jake.
   “Mr. Brigance, you may call your next witness.”
   Against his better judgment, Jake attempted to stand. His knees buckled and he leaned forward with his palms flat against the table. “Your Honor,” he said in a high-pitched, shrill, defeated voice, “could we recess till one?”
   “But Mr. Brigance, it’s only eleven-thirty.”
   A lie seemed appropriate. “Yes, Your Honor, but our next witness is not here, and will not arrive until one.”
   “Very well. We’ll stand in recess until one. I need to see the attorneys in chambers.”
   Next to chambers was a coffee room where the lawyers loitered and gossiped by the hour, and next to it was a small rest room. Jake closed and locked the rest room door and removed his coat, throwing it to the floor. He knelt beside the toilet, waited momentarily, then vomited.
   Ozzie stood before the judge and attempted small talk while Musgrove and the D. A. smiled at each other. They waited on Jake. Finally, he entered chambers and apologized.
   “Jake, I have some bad news,” Ozzie said.
   “Let me sit down.”
   “I got a call an hour ago from the sheriff of Lafayette, County. Your law clerk, Ellen Roark, is in the hospital.”
   “What happened!”
   “The Klan got her last night. Somewhere between here and Oxford. They tied her to a tree and beat her.”
   “How is she?” Jake asked.
   “Stable but serious.”
   “What happened?” Buckley asked.
   “We ain’t sure. They stopped her car somehow and took her out in the woods. Cut her clothes off her and cut her hair. She’s got a concussion and cuts on the head, so they figure she was beat.”
   Jake needed to vomit again. He couldn’t speak. He massaged his temples and thought how nice it would be to tie Bass to a tree and beat him.
   Noose studied the defense attorney with compassion. “Mr. Brigance, are you okay?”
   No response.
   “Let’s recess until two. I think we could all use the break,” Noose said.
   Jake walked slowly up the front steps with an empty Coors bottle and for a moment gave serious thought to smashing it against Lucien’s head. He realized the injury would not be felt.
   Lucien rattled his ice cubes and stared off in the distance, in the direction of the square, which had long been deserted except for the soldiers and the regular crowd of teenagers flocking to the theater, for the Saturday night double feature.
   They said nothing. Lucien stared away. Jake glared at him with the empty bottle. Bass was hundreds of miles away.
   After a minute or so, Jake asked, “Where’s Bass?”
   “Gone.”
   “Gone where?”
   “Gone home.”
   “Where’s his home?”
   “Why do you wanna know?”
   “I’d like to see his home. I’d like to see him in his home. I’d like to beat him to death with a baseball bat in his home.”
   Lucien rattled some more. “I don’t blame you.”
   “Did you know?”
   “Know what?”
   “About the conviction?”
   “Hell no. No one knew. The record was expunged.”
   “I don’t understand.”
   “Bass told me the record of the conviction in Texas was expunged three years after it was entered.”
   Jake placed the beer bottle on the porch beside his chair. He grabbed a dirty glass, blew into it, then filled it with ice cubes and Jack Daniel’s.
   “Do you mind explaining, Lucien?”
   “According to Bass, the girl was seventeen, and the daughter of a prominent judge in Dallas. They fell in heat, and the judge caught them screwing on the couch. He pressed charges, and Bass didn’t have a chance. He pled guilty to the statutory rape. But the girl was in love. They kept seeing each other and she comes up pregnant. Bass married her, and gives the judge a perfect baby boy for his first grandchild. The old man has a change of heart, and the record is expunged.”
   Lucien drank and watched the lights from the square.
   “What happened to the girl?”
   “According to Bass, a week before he finished medical school, his wife, who’s pregnant again, and the little boy were killed in a train wreck in Fort Worth. That’s when he started drinking, and quit living.”
   “And he’s never told you this before?”
   “Don’t interrogate me. I told you I knew nothing about it. I put him on the witness stand twice myself, remember. If I had known it, he would never have testified.”
   “Why didn’t he ever tell you?”
   “I guess because he thought the record was erased. I don’t know. Technically, he’s right. There is no record after the expungement. But he was convicted.”
   Jake took a long, bitter drink of whiskey. It was nasty.
   They sat in silence for ten minutes. It was dark and the crickets were in full chorus. Sallie walked to the screen door and asked Jake if he wanted supper. He said no thanks.
   “What happened this afternoon?” Lucien asked.
   “Carl Lee testified, and we adjourned at four. Buckley didn’t have his psychiatrist ready. He’ll testify Monday.”
   “How’d he do?”
   “Fair. He followed Bass, and you could feel the hatred from the jurors. He was stiff and sounded rehearsed. I don’t think he scored too many points.”
   “What’d Buckley do?”
   “Went wild. Screamed at Carl Lee for an hour. Carl Lee kept getting smart with him, and they sniped back and forth. I think they both got hurt. On redirect, I propped him up some and he came across pitiful and sympathetic. Almost cried at the end.”
   “That’s nice.”
   “Yeah, real nice. But they’ll convict him, won’t they?”
   “I would imagine.”
   “After we adjourned, he tried to fire me. Said I’d lost his case and he wanted a new lawyer.”
   Lucien walked to the edge of the porch and unzipped his pants. He leaned on a column and sprayed the shrubs. He was barefoot and looked like a flood victim. Sallie brought him a fresh drink.

   “How’s Row Ark?” he asked.
   “Stable, they say. I called her room and a nurse said she couldn’t talk. I’ll go over tomorrow.”
   “I hope she’s okay. She’s a fine girl.”
   “She’s a radical bitch, but a very smart one. I feel like it’s my fault, Lucien.”
   “It’s not your fault. It’s a crazy world, Jake. Full of crazy people. Right now I think half of them are in Ford County.”
   “Two weeks ago, they planted dynamite outside my bedroom window. They beat to death my secretary’s husband. Yesterday they shot at me and hit a guardsman. Now they grab my law clerk, tie her to a pole, rip her clothes off, cut her hair, and she’s in the hospital with a concussion. I wonder what’s next.”
   “I think you should surrender.”
   “I would. I would march down to the courthouse right now and surrender my briefcase, lay down my arms, give up. But to whom? The enemy is invisible.”
   “You can’t quit, Jake. Your client needs you.”
   “To hell with my client. He tried to fire me today.”
   “He needs you. This thing ain’t over till it’s over.”
   Nesbit’s head hung halfway out the window and the saliva dripped down the left side of his chin, down the door, forming a small puddle over the “O” in the Ford of the Sheriffs Department insignia on the side of the car. An empty beer can moistened his crotch. After two weeks of bodyguard duty he had grown accustomed to sleeping with the mosquitoes in his patrol car while protecting the nigger’s lawyer.
   Moments after Saturday turned into Sunday, the radio violated his rest. He grabbed the mike while wiping his chin on his left sleeve.
   “S. O. 8,” he responded.
   “What’s your 10–20?”
   “Same place it was two hours ago.”
   “The Wilbanks house?”
   “10–4.”
   “Is Brigance still there?”
   “10–4.”
   “Get him and take him to his house on Adams. It’s an emergency.”
   Nesbit walked past the empty bottles on the porch, through the unlocked door, where he found Jake sprawled on the couch in the front room.
   “Get up, Jake! You gotta go home! It’s an emergency!”
   Jake jumped to his feet and followed Nesbit. They stopped on the front steps and looked past the dome of the courthouse. In the distance a boiling funnel of black smoke rose above an orange glow and drifted peacefully toward the half moon.
   Adams Street was blocked with an assortment of volunteer vehicles, mostly pickups. Each had a variety of red and yellow emergency lights, at least a thousand in all. They spun and flashed and streaked through the darkness in a silent chorus, illuminating the street.
   The fire engines were parked haphazardly in front of the house. The firemen and volunteers worked frantically laying lines and getting organized, responding occasionally to the commands of the chief. Ozzie, Prather, and Hastings stood near an engine. Some guardsmen lingered benignly near a jeep.
   The fire was brilliant. Flames roared from every window across the front of the. house, upstairs and down. The carport was completely engulfed. Carla’s Cutlass burned inside and out-the four tires emitting a darker glow of their own. Curiously, another, smaller car, not the Saab, burned next to the Cutlass.
   The thundering, crackling noise of the fire, plus the rumbling of the fire engines, plus the loud voices, attracted neighbors from several blocks. They crowded together in the lawns across the street and watched.
   Jake and Nesbit ran down the street. The chief spotted them and came running.
   “Jake! Is anybody in the house?”
   “No!”
   “Good. I didn’t think so.”
   “Just a dog.”
   “A dog!”
   Jake nodded and watched the house.
   “I’m sorry,” said the chief.
   They gathered at Ozzie’s car in front of Mrs. Pickle’s house. Jake answered questions, “That’s not your Volkswagen under there, is it, Jake?”
   Jake stared in stunned silence at Carla’s landmark. He shook his head.
   “I didn’t think so. Looks like that’s where it started.”
   “I don’t understand,” said Jake.
   “If it ain’t your car, then somebody parked it there, right? Notice how the floor of the carport is burnin’? Concrete don’t normally burn. It’s gasoline. Somebody loaded the VW with gasoline, parked it and ran away. Probably had some kinda device which set the thing off.”
   Prather and two volunteers agreed.
   “How long’s it been burning?” Jake asked.
   “We got here ten minutes ago,” the chief said, “and it was well involved. I’d say thirty minutes. It’s a good fire. Somebody knew what they’s doin’.”
   “I don’t suppose we could get anything out of there, could we?” Jake asked in general, knowing the answer.
   “No way, Jake. It’s too involved. My men couldn’t go in there if people were trapped. It’s a good fire.”
   “Why do you say that?”
   “Well, look at it. It’s burnin’ evenly through the house. You can see flames in every window. Downstairs and up. •That’s very unusual. In just a minute, it’ll burn through the roof.”
   Two squads inched forward with the lines, shooting water in the direction of the windows by the front porch. A smaller line was aimed at a window upstairs. After watching for a minute or two as the water disappeared into the flames with no noticeable effect, the chief spat and said, “It’ll burn to the ground.” With that he disappeared around an engine and began shouting.
   Jake looked at Nesbit. “Will you do me a favor?”
   “Sure, Jake.”
   “Drive over to Harry Rex’s and bring him back. I’d hate for him to miss this.”
   “Sure.”
   For two hours Jake, Ozzie, Harry Rex, and Nesbit sat on the patrol car and watched the fire fulfill the chiefs prediction. From time to time a neighbor would stop by and extend sympathies and ask about the family. Mrs. Pickle, the sweet old woman next door, cried loudly when informed by Jake that Max had been consumed.
   By three, the deputies and other curious had disappeared, and by four the quaint little Victorian had been reduced to smoldering rubble. The last of the firemen smothered any sign of smoke from the ruins. Only the chimney and burnt frames of two cars stood above the remains as the heavy rubber boots kicked and plowed through the waste looking for sparks or hidden flames that might somehow leap from the dead and burn the rest of the wreckage.
   They rolled up the last of the lines as the sun began to appear. Jake thanked them when they left. He and Harry Rex walked through the backyard and surveyed the damage.
   “Oh well,” Harry Rex said. “It’s just a house.”
   “Would you call Carla and tell her that?”
   “No. I think you should.”
   “I think I’ll wait.”
   Harry Rex looked at his watch. “It’s about breakfast time, isn’t it?”
   “It’s Sunday morning, Harry Rex. Nothing’s open.”
   “Ah, Jake, you’re an amateur, and I’m a professional. I can find hot food at any time of any day.”
   “The truck stop?”
   “The truck stop!”
   “Okay. And when we finish we’ll go to Oxford to check on Row Ark.”
   “Great. I can’t wait to see her with a butch haircut.”
   Sallie grabbed the phone and threw it at Lucien, who rumbled with it until it was arranged properly next to his head.
   “Yeah, who is it?” he asked, squinting through the window into the darkness.
   “Is this Lucien Wilbanks?”
   “Yeah, who’s this?”
   “Do you know Clyde Sisco?”
   “Yeah.”
   “It’s fifty thousand.”
   “Call me back in the morning.”
   Sheldon Roark sat in the window with his feet on the back of a chair, reading the Memphis Sunday paper’s version of the Hailey trial. On the bottom of the front page was a picture of his daughter and the story about her encounter with the Klan. She rested comfortably in the bed a few feet away. The left side of her head was shaved and covered with a thick bandage. The left ear was sewn with twenty-eight stitches. The severe concussion had been downgraded to a mild concussion, and the doctors had promised she could leave by Wednesday.
   She had not been raped or whipped. When the doctors called him in Boston they were short on details. He had flown for seven hours not knowing what they had done to her, but expecting the worst. Late Saturday night, the doctors ran more X rays and told him to relax. The scars would fade and the hair would grow back. She had been frightened and roughed up, but it could have been much worse.
   He heard a commotion in the hall. Someone was arguing with a nurse. He laid the paper on her bed and opened the door.
   A nurse had caught Jake and Harry Rex sneaking down the hall. She explained that visiting hours started at 2:00 P. M., and that happened to be six hours away; that only family members were allowed; and that she would call security if they didn’t leave. Harry Rex explained that he didn’t give a damn about visiting hours or any other silly rules of the hospital; that it was his fiancee and that he would see her one last time before she died; and that if the nurse didn’t shut up he would sue her for harassment because he was a lawyer and hadn’t sued anybody in a week and was getting anxious.
   “What’s going on here?” Sheldon said.
   Jake looked at the small man with the red hair and green eyes, and said, “You must be Sheldon Roark.”
   “I am.”
   “I’m Jake Brigance. The one—”
   “Yes, I’ve been reading about you. It’s okay, nurse, they’re with me.”
   “Yeah,” Harry Rex said. “It’s okay. We’re with him. Now would you please leave us alone before I garnishee your check.”
   She vowed to call security, and stormed down the hall.
   “I’m Harry Rex Vonner,” he said, shaking hands with Sheldon Roark.
   “Step inside,” he said. They followed him into the small room and stared at Ellen. She was still asleep.
   “How bad is she?” Jake asked.
   “Mild concussion. Twenty-eight stitches in her ear, and eleven in her head. She’ll be fine. Doctor said she might leave by Wednesday. She was awake last night and we talked for a long time.”
   “Her hair looks awful,” Harry Rex observed..
   “They yanked it and cut it with a dull knife, she said. They also cut her clothes off, and at one time threatened to bullwhip her. The head injuries are self-inflicted. She thought they would either kill her or rape her, or both. So she banged her brains out against the pole she was tied to. Must have scared them.”
   “You mean they didn’t beat her?”
   “No. They didn’t hurt her. Just scared the hell out of her.”
   “What did she see?”
   “Not much. Burning cross, white robes, about a dozen men. Sheriff said it was a pasture eleven miles east of here. Owned by some paper company.”
   “Who found her?” Harry Rex asked.
   “The sheriff received an anonymous phone call from a fella by the name of Mickey Mouse.”
   “Ah yes. My old friend.”
   Ellen moaned softly and stretched.
   “Let’s step outside,” Sheldon said.
   “Does this place have a cafeteria?” Harry Rex asked. “I get hungry when I get near a hospital.”
   “Sure. Let’s have coffee.”
   The cafeteria on the first floor was empty. Jake and Mr. Roark drank black coffee. Harry Rex started with three sweet rolls and a pint of milk.
   “According to the paper, things aren’t going too well,” Sheldon said.
   “The paper is very kind,” Harry Rex said with a mouthful. “Jake here is gettin’ his ass kicked all over the courtroom. And life ain’t so great outside the courtroom, either. When they’re not shooting at him, or kidnapping his law clerk, they’re burning his house.”
   “They burned your house!”
   Jake nodded. “Last night. It’s still smoldering.”
   “I thought I detected the smell of smoke.”
   “We watched it burn to the ground. It took four hours.”
   “I’m sorry to hear that. They’ve threatened me with that before, but the worst I’ve had was slashed tires. I’ve never been shot at either.”
   “I’ve been shot at a couple of times.”
   “Do y’all have the Klan in Boston?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Not’that I know of.”
   “It’s a shame. Those folks add a real dimension to your law practice.”
   “Sounds like it. We saw the television reports of the riot around the courthouse last week. I’ve watched it pretty close since Ellen became involved. It’s a famous case. Even up there. I wish I had it.”
   “It’s all yours,” said Jake. “I think my client is looking for a new lawyer.”
   “How many shrinks will the State call?”
   “Just one. He’ll testify in the morning, and we’ll have closing arguments. The jury should get it by late tomorrow afternoon.”
   “I hate that Ellen will miss it. She called me every day and talked about the case.”
   “Where did Jake go wrong?” Harry Rex asked.
   “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Jake said.
   “I think Jake has done a good job. It’s a lousy set of facts to begin with. Hailey committed the murders, planned them carefully, and is relying on a rather weak plea of insanity. Juries in Boston would not be too sympathetic.”
   “Nor in Ford County,” added Harry Rex.
   “I hope you have a soul-stirring final summation up your sleeve,” Sheldon said.
   “He doesn’t have any sleeves,” said Harry Rex.
   “They’ve all been burned. Along with his pants and underwear.”
   “Why don’t you come over tomorrow and watch?” Jake asked. “I’ll introduce you to the judge and ask that you have privileges of chambers.”
   “He wouldn’t do that for me,” Harry Rex said.
   “I can understand why,” Sheldon said with a smile. “I might just do that. I had planned to stay until Tuesday anyway. Is it safe over there?”
   “Not really.”
   Woody Mackenvale’s wife sat on a plastic bench in the hall next to his room and cried quietly while trying to be brave for her two small sons seated next to her. Each boy squeezed a well-used wad of Kleenexes, occasionally wiping their cheeks and blowing their noses. Jake knelt before her and listened intently as she described what the doctors had said. The bullet had lodged in the spine-the paralysis was severe and permanent. He was a foreman at a plant in Booneville. Good job. Good life. She didn’t work, at least until now. They would make it somehow, but she wasn’t sure how. He coached his sons’ Little League team. He was very active.
   She cried louder and the boys wiped their cheeks.
   “He saved my life,” Jake said to her, and looked at the boys.
   She closed her eyes and nodded. “He was doing his jotx. We’ll make it.”
   Jake took a Kleenex from the box on the bench and wiped his eyes. A group of relatives stood nearby and watched. Harry Rex paced nervously at the end of the hall.
   Jake hugged her and patted the boys on the head. He gave her his phone number-office-and told her to call if he could do anything. He promised to visit Woody when the trial was over.
   The beer stores opened at noon on Sunday, as if the church folks needed it then and would stop on the way home from the Lord’s house to pick up a couple of six-packs, then on to Grandmother’s for Sunday dinner and an afternoon of hell—raising. Oddly, they would close again at six in the afternoon, as if the same folks should then be denied beer as they returned to church for the Sunday night services. On the other six days beer was sold from six in the morning until midnight. But on Sunday, the selling was curtailed in honor of the Almighty.
   Jake bought a six-pack at Bates Grocery and directed his chauffeur toward the lake. Harry Rex’s antique Bronco carried three inches of dried mud across the doors and fenders. The tires were imperceptible. The windshield was cracked and dangerous, with thousands of splattered insects caked around the edges. The inspection sticker was four years old and unseen from the outside. Dozens of empty beer cans and broken bottles littered the floorboard. The air conditioner had not worked in six years. Jake had suggested use of the Saab. Harry Rex had cursed him for his stupidity. The red Saab was an easy target for snipers. No one would suspect the Bronco.
   They drove slowly in the general direction of the lake, to no place in particular. Willie Nelson wailed from the cassette. Harry Rex tapped the steering wheel and sang along. His normal speaking voice was coarse and unrefined. With song, it was heinous. Jake sipped his beer and searched for daylight through the windshield.
   The heat wave was about to be broken. Dark clouds loomed to the southwest, and when they passed Huey’s Lounge the rains fell and showered the parched earth. It cleansed and removed the dust from the kudzu that lined the roadbeds and hung like Spanish moss from the trees. It cooled the scorched pavement and created a sticky fog that rose three feet above the highway. The red baked gullies absorbed the water, and when full began to carry tiny streams downward to the larger field drains and road ditches. The rains drenched the cotton and soybeans, and pounded the crop rows until small puddles formed between the stalks.
   Remarkably, the windshield wipers worked. They slapped back and forth furiously and removed the mud and insect collection. The storm grew. Harry Rex increased the volume of the stereo.