Chapter 37

   The single shot that killed Lenny Fargarson was fired from a 30.06 hunting rifle. The killer could have been as far as two hundred yards away from the front porch where Lenny died. Thick woods began just beyond the wide lawn around the house, and there was a good chance whoever pulled the trigger had climbed a tree and had a perfectly concealed view of poor Lenny.
   No one heard the shot. Lenny was sitting on the porch, in his wheelchair, reading one of the many books he borrowed each week from the Clanton library. His father was delivering mail. His mother was shopping at Bargain City. In all likelihood, Lenny felt no pain and died instantly. The bullet entered the right side of his head, just over the jaw, and created a massive exit wound above his left ear.
   When his mother found him, he’d been dead for some time. She somehow managed to control herself and refrain from touching his body or the scene. Blood was all over the porch, even dripping onto the front steps.
   Wiley heard the report on his police scanner. He called me with the chilling announcement, “It has begun. Fargarson, the crippled boy, is dead.”
   Wiley swung by the office, I jumped in his pickup, and we were off to the crime scene. Neither of us said a word, but we were thinking the same thing.
   Lenny was still on the porch. The shot had knocked him out of his wheelchair and he lay on his side, with his face toward the house. Sheriff McNatt asked us not to take photos, and we readily complied. The paper would not have used them anyway.
   Friends and relatives were flocking over, and they were directed by the deputies to a side door. McNatt used his men to shield the body on the front porch. I backed away and tried to take in that horrible scene—cops hovering over Lenny while those who loved him tried to get a glimpse of him as they hurried inside to console his parents.
   When the body was finally loaded onto a gurney and placed in an ambulance, Sheriff McNatt came over and leaned on the pickup next to me.
   “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” he said.
   “Yep.”
   “Can you find me a list of the jurors?”
   Though we had never printed the names of the jurors, I had the information in an old file. “Sure,” I said.
   “How long will it take you?” he asked.
   “Give me an hour. What’s your plan?”
   “We gotta notify those folks.”
   As we were leaving, the deputies were beginning to comb the thick woods around the Fargarson home.


* * *

   I took the list to the Sheriff’s office, and we looked over it together. In 1977, I had written the obituary for juror number five, Mr. Fred Bilroy, a retired forest ranger who died suddenly of pneumonia. As far as I knew, the other ten were still alive.
   McNatt gave the list to three of his deputies. They dispersed to deliver news that no one wanted to hear. I volunteered to tell Callie Ruffin.
   She was on the porch watching Esau and Sam wage war over a game of checkers. They were delighted to see me, but the mood quickly changed. “I have some disturbing news, Miss Callie,” I said somberly. They waited.
   “Lenny Fargarson, that crippled boy on the jury with you, was murdered this afternoon.”
   She covered her mouth and fell into her rocker. Sam steadied her, then patted her shoulder. I gave a brief description of what happened.
   “He was such a good Christian boy,” Miss Callie said. “We prayed together before we began deliberating.” She wasn’t crying, but she was on the verge. Esau went to fetch her a blood pressure pill. He and Sam sat beside her rocker while I sat in the swing. We were all bunched together on the small porch, and for a long time little was said. Miss Callie lapsed into a long, brooding spell.
   It was a warm spring night, under a half-moon, and Lowtown was busy with kids on bikes, neighbors talking across fences, a rowdy basketball game under way down the street. A gang of ten-year-olds became infatuated with my Spitfire, and Sam finally ran them off. It was only the second time I had been there after dark. “Is it like this every night?” I finally asked.
   “Yes, when the weather’s nice,” Sam said, anxious to talk. “It was a wonderful place to grow up. Everybody knows everybody. When I was nine years old I broke a car windshield with a baseball. I turned tail and ran, ran straight home, and when I got here Momma was waiting on the front porch. She knew all about it. I had to walk back to the scene of the crime, confess, and promise to make full restitution.”
   “And you did,” Esau said.
   “Took me six months to work and save a hundred and twenty bucks.”
   Miss Callie almost smiled at the memory, but she was too preoccupied with Lenny Fargarson. Though she hadn’t seen him in nine years, she had fond memories of him. His death truly saddened her, but it was also terrifying.
   Esau fixed sweet tea with lemon, and when he returned from the inside of the house he quietly slid a double-barrel shotgun behind the rocker, within his reach but out of her sight.
   As the hours passed, the foot traffic thinned and the neighbors withdrew. I decided that if Miss Callie stayed at home she would be a very difficult target. There were houses next door and across the street. There were no hills or towers or vacant lots within sight.
   I didn’t mention this, but I’m sure Sam and Esau were having the same thoughts. When she was ready for bed, I said my good nights and drove back to the jail. It was crawling with deputies, and had the carnival-like atmosphere that only a good murder could bring. I couldn’t help but flash back nine years to the night Danny Padgitt was arrested and hauled in with blood on his shirt.
   Only two of the jurors had not been found. Both had moved, and Sheriff McNatt was trying to track them down. He asked about Miss Callie and I said she was safe. I did not tell him Sam was home.
   He closed the door to his office and said he had a favor to ask. “Tomorrow, can you go talk to Lucien Wilbanks?”
   “Why me?”
   “Well, I could, but, personally, I can’t stand the bastard, and he feels the same way about me.”
   “Everybody hates Lucien,” I said.
   “Except…”
   “Except… Harry Rex?”
   “Harry Rex. What if you and Harry Rex go talk to Lucien? See if he will act as go-between to the Padgitts. I mean, at some point I gotta talk to Danny, right?”
   “I guess. You’re the Sheriff.”
   ‘Just have a chat with Lucien Wilbanks, that’s all. Feel him out. If it goes well, then maybe I’ll talk to him. It’s different if the Sheriff goes bargin’ in at first.”
   “I’d rather be lashed with a bullwhip,” I said, and I wasn’t joking.
   “But you’ll do it?”
   “I’ll sleep on it.”


* * *

   Harry Rex wasn’t too thrilled with the idea either. Why should both of us get involved? We kicked it around over an early breakfast at the coffee shop, an unusual meal for us but then we didn’t want to miss the first tidal wave of downtown gossip. Not surprisingly, the place was packed with anxious experts who were repeating all sorts of details and theories about the Fargarson murder. We listened more than we talked, and left around eight-thirty.
   Two doors down from the coffee shop was the Wilbanks Building. As we walked by, I said, “Let’s do it.”
   Pre-Lucien, the Wilbanks family had been a cornerstone of Clan-ton society, commerce, and law. In the golden years of the last century, they owned land and banks, and all of the men in the family had studied law, some at real Ivy League schools. But they had been in decline for many years. Lucien was the last male Wilbanks of any consequence, and there was an excellent chance he was about to be disbarred.
   Ethel Twitty, the longtime secretary, greeted us rudely, almost sneering at Harry Rex, who mumbled to me under his breath, “Meanest bitch in town.” I think she heard him. It was obvious they had been catfighting for many years. Her boss was in. What did we want?
   “We want to see Lucien,” Harry Rex said. “Why else would we be here?” She rang him up as we waited. “I don’t have all day!” Harry Rex snapped at her at one point.
   “Go ahead,” she said, more to get rid of us than anything else. We climbed the steps. Lucien’s office was huge, at least thirty feet wide and long with ten-foot ceilings and a row of French doors overlooking the square. It was on the north side, directly across from the Times, with the courthouse in between. Thankfully, I couldn’t see Lucien’s balcony from my porch.
   He greeted us indifferently, as if we had interrupted a long serious meditation. Though it was early, his cluttered desk gave the impression of a man who’d worked all night. He had long grayish hair that ran down his neck, and an unfashionable goatee, and the tired red eyes of a serious drinker. “What’s the occasion?” he asked, very slowly. We glared at each other, both conveying as much contempt as possible.
   “Had a murder yesterday, Lucien,” Harry Rex said. “Lenny Fargarson, that crippled boy on the jury.”
   “I’m assuming this is off the record,” he said in my direction.
   “It is,” I said. “Completely. Sheriff McNatt asked me to stop by and say hello. I invited Harry Rex.”
   “So we’re just socializing?”
   “Maybe. Just having a little gossip about the murder,” I said.
   “I got the details,” he said.
   “Have you talked to Danny Padgitt lately?” Harry Rex asked.
   “Not since he was paroled.”
   “Is he in the county?”
   “He’s in the state, I’m not sure exactly where. If he crosses the state line without permission he violates the conditions of his parole.”
   Why couldn’t they parole him to, say, Wyoming? It seemed odd that he would be required to stay close to where he committed his crimes. Get rid of him!
   “Sheriff McNatt would like to talk to him,” I said.
   “Oh does he? Why should that concern you and me? Tell the Sheriff to go talk to him.”
   “It’s not that simple, Lucien, and you know it,” Harry Rex said.
   “Does the Sheriff have any proof against my client? Any evidence? Ever hear of probable cause, Harry Rex? You can’t just round up the usual suspects, you know? Takes a little more than that.”
   “There was a direct threat against the jurors,” I said.
   “Nine years ago.”
   “It was still a threat, and we all remember it. Now, two weeks after he’s paroled, one of his jurors is dead.”
   “That’s not enough, fellas. Show me more and I might consult with my client. Right now there’s nothing but naked speculation. Plenty of it, but this town’s always good for a flood of gossip.”
   “You don’t know where he is, do you, Lucien?” Harry Rex said.
   “I assume he’s on the island, with the rest of them.” He used the word “them” as if they were a bunch of rats.
   “What happens if another juror gets shot?” Harry Rex pressed on.
   Lucien dropped a legal pad on his desk and rested there on his elbows. “What am I supposed to do, Harry Rex? Call the boy up, say ‘Hey, Danny, I’m sure you’re not killin’ your jurors, but, if by chance you are, then, hey, be a good boy and stop it.’ You think he’ll listen to me? This wouldn’t have happened if the idiot had followed my advice. I insisted that he not take the stand in his own defense. He’s an idiot, okay, Harry Rex! You’re a lawyer, God knows you’ve had idiot clients. You can’t do a damned thing to control them.”
   “What happens if another juror gets shot?” Harry Rex repeated.
   “Then I guess another juror will die.”
   I jumped to my feet and headed for the door. “You’re a sick bastard,” I said.
   “Not a word of this in print,” he snarled behind me.
   “Go to hell,” I yelled as I slammed his door.


* * *

   Late in the afternoon Mr. Magargel called from the funeral home and asked if I could hustle over. Mr. and Mrs. Fargarson were there, picking out a casket and making the final arrangements. As I had done many times, I met them in Parlor C, the smallest viewing room. It was seldom used.
   Pastor J. B. Cooper of the Maranatha Primitive Baptist Church was with them, and he was a saint. They leaned on him for every decision.
   At least twice a year, I met with a family after the tragic death of a loved one. It was almost always a car wreck or some gruesome farm injury, something unexpected. The surviving members were too shocked to think clearly, too wounded to make decisions. The strong ones simply sleepwalked through the ordeal. The weak ones were often too numb to do anything but cry. Mrs. Fargarson was the stronger of the two, but the horror of finding her son with half his head blown off had reduced her to a shuddering ghost. Mr. Fargarson just stared at the floor.
   Pastor Cooper gently extracted the basics, many of which he already knew. Since his spinal injury fifteen years earlier, Lenny had dreamed of going to heaven, of having his body restored, of walking every day hand in hand with his Savior. We worked on some language to this effect, and Mrs. Fargarson was deeply appreciative. She handed me a photo, one of Lenny sitting by a pond with a fishing pole. I promised to put it on the front page.
   As always with grieving parents, they thanked me profusely and insisted on hugging me tightly as I tried to leave. Mourners cling to people like that, especially at the funeral home.
   I stopped by Pepe’s and bought an array of Mexican carryout, then drove to Lowtown, where I found Sam playing basketball, Miss Callie asleep inside, and Esau guarding the house with his shotgun. Eventually, we ate on the porch, though she only nibbled at the foreign food. She wasn’t hungry. Esau said she’d eaten little during the day.
   I brought my backgammon board and taught Sam the game. Esau preferred checkers. Miss Callie was certain any activity that involved the rolling of dice was patently sinful, but she wasn’t up to a lecture. We sat for hours, deep into the night, and watched the rituals of Lowtown. School had just turned out for the summer, the days were longer and hotter.
   Buster, my part-time pit bull, drove by every half hour. He would slow in front of the Ruffins, I’d wave as if things were fine, he’d ease away and return to the driveway of the Hocutt House. A patrol car parked two doors down from the Ruffin house and sat for a long time. Sheriff McNatt had hired three black deputies, and two of them had been assigned to keep an eye on the home.
   Others were watching as well. After Miss Callie went to bed, Esau pointed across to the street to the darkened screened porch where the Braxtons lived. “Tully’s over there,” he said. “Watchin’ everythin’.”
   “He told me he’d stay up all night,” Sam said. Lowtown would be a dangerous place to start a gunfight.
   I left after eleven, crossed the tracks, and drove the empty streets of Clanton. The town pulsed with tension, with anticipation, because whatever had been started was far from over.

Chapter 38

   Miss Callie insisted on attending the funeral of Lenny Fargarson. Sam and Esau objected strenuously, but, as always, once she made up her mind, then all conversations were over. I discussed this with Sheriff McNatt, who summed things up by saying, “She’s a grown lady.” He knew of no other jurors who planned to attend, but then it was difficult to monitor such things.
   I also called Pastor Cooper to forewarn him. His response was, “She will be very welcome in our little church. But get here early.”
   With rare exceptions blacks and whites did not worship together in Ford County. They fervently believed in the same Lord, but chose very different styles of worshiping him. The majority of whites expected to be outside the church building at five past noon on Sunday, and seated for lunch by twelve-thirty. Blacks really didn’t care what time the service broke up, or what time it began for that matter. On my church tour I visited twenty-seven black congregations and never saw a benediction before 1:30—3 P.M. was the norm. Several simply went all day, with a short break for lunch in the fellowship hall, then back to the sanctuary for another round.
   Such zealotry would have killed a white Christian.
   But funerals were very different. When Miss Callie, along with Sam and Esau, walked into the Maranatha Primitive Baptist Church, there were a few quick stares but nothing more. Had they walked in on a Sunday morning for regular worship, there would have been resentment.
   We arrived forty-five minutes early, and the lovely little sanctuary was almost filled. I watched through the tall open windows as the cars kept coming. A loudspeaker had been hung from one of the ancient oaks, and a large crowd gathered around it after the building was full. The choir started with “The Old Rugged Cross,” and the tears began flowing. Pastor Cooper’s soothing message was a gentle warning for us not to question why bad things happen to good people. God is always in control, and though we are too small to understand His infinite wisdom and majesty, He will one day reveal Himself to us. Lenny was with Him now, and that was where Lenny longed to be.
   They buried him behind the church, in an immaculate little cemetery inside a wrought-iron fence. Miss Callie clutched my hand and prayed fervently when the casket was lowered into the ground. A soloist sang “Amazing Grace,” then Pastor Cooper thanked us for coming. There was punch and cookies in the fellowship hall behind the sanctuary, and most of the crowd hung around for a few minutes to visit, or to have one last word with Mr. and Mrs. Fargarson.
   Sheriff McNatt caught my attention and nodded as if he wanted to talk. We walked to the front of the church where no one could hear us. He was in uniform with his standard toothpick in his mouth. “Any luck with Wilbanks?” he asked.
   “No, just the one meeting,” I said. “Harry Rex went back yesterday and got nowhere.”
   “I guess I’ll talk to him,” he said.
   “You can, but you won’t get anywhere.”
   The toothpick shifted from one side of his mouth to the other, in much the same way Harry Rex could slide his cigar over without missing a word. “We got nothin’ else. We’ve combed the woods around the house, not a track or a trace of anything. You’re not printin’ this, are you?”
   “No.”
   “There are a bunch of ol’ loggin’ trails deep in the woods around the Fargarson place. We’ve tiptoed everyone of ‘em, found absolutely nothin’.”
   “So your only evidence is a single bullet.”
   “That and a dead body.”
   “Has anybody seen Danny Padgitt?”
   “Not yet. I keep two cars up on 401, where it turns to go into the island. They can’t see everything, but at least the Padgitts know we’re there. There are a hundred ways off and on the island, but only the Padgitts know them all.”
   The Ruffins were slowly moving toward us, talking to one of the black deputies.
   “She’s probably the safest one,” McNatt said.
   “Is anybody safe?”
   “We’ll find out. He’ll try again, Willie, you mark my word. I’m convinced of it.”
   “Me too.”


* * *

   Ned Ray Zook owned four thousand acres in the eastern part of the county. He farmed cotton and soybeans, and his operations were large enough to maintain sufficient profits. He was rumored to be one of the few remaining farmers who made good money from the soil. It was on his property, deep in a wooded area, in a converted cattle barn, that Harry Rex had taken me nine years earlier to watch my first and last cockfight.
   Sometime during the early hours of June 14, a vandal entered Zook’s vast equipment shed and partially drained the oil from the engines of two of his big tractors. The oil was collected in cans and hidden among the supplies, so when the operators arrived around 6 A.M. for the day’s work there was no sign of foul play. One operator checked the oil as he was supposed to do, saw the shortage, thought it odd, said nothing, and added four quarts. The other operator had checked his the afternoon before, as was his habit. The second tractor ground to a sudden halt an hour later, as its engine locked up. Its operator hiked half a mile back to the shed and reported the breakdown to the farm manager.
   Two hours later, a green-and-yellow service truck bounced along the field road and maneuvered itself close to the disabled tractor. Two servicemen slowly got out, inspected the hot sun and cloudless sky, then walked around the tractor for an initial look. They reluctantly opened up the panels of the service truck and began removing tools and wrenches. The sun baked them and they were soon sweating.
   To make their day somewhat more pleasant, they turned on the radio in their truck and cranked up the volume. Merle Haggard could be heard wafting across the soybean field.
   The music muffled the crack of a distant rifle shot. It hit Mo Teale directly in the upper back, ripped through his lungs, and tore a hole in his chest as it exited. Teale’s partner, Red, said over and over that the only thing he heard was a fierce grunt just a second or two before Mo fell under the front axle. He thought at first that something from the tractor had snapped loose in a violent way and injured Mo. Red dragged him to the truck and raced away, much more concerned about his buddy than what might have injured him. At the equipment shed, the farm manager called an ambulance, but it was too late. Mo Teale died there, on the concrete floor of a small, dusty office. “Mr. John Deere” we’d called him during the trial. Middle of the front row, bad body language.
   At the time of his death he was wearing the same type of bright yellow uniform shirt he’d worn every day of the trial. It made for an easy target.
   I saw him at a distance, through the open door. Sheriff McNatt allowed us inside the shed with the now standard prohibition against taking photos. Wiley had left his cameras in his pickup.
   Once again Wiley had been monitoring the police scanner when the report came across—»Got a shooting at Ned Ray Zook’s farm!” Wiley was always near his scanner, and in those days he wasn’t alone. Given the high state of anxiety in the county, every scanner was being listened to and every possible shooting was reason to hop in the pickup and go for a look.
   McNatt soon asked us to leave. His men found the cans of oil that had been drained by the vandal, and they found a window that had been pried open for entry into the shed. They would dust for fingerprints and find none. They would look for footprints on the gravel flooring, and find none. They would scour the woods around the soybean field and find no sign of the killer. In the dirt beside the tractor they did find the 30.06 shell, and it was quickly matched with the one that killed Lenny Fargarson.


* * *

   I hung around the Sheriff’s office until well after dark. As expected it was a busy place, with deputies and constables loitering about, comparing stories, creating new details. The phones rang nonstop. And there was a new wrinkle. Random townsfolk, unable to control their curiosity, began stopping by and asking anyone who would listen if there was anything new.
   There was not. McNatt barricaded himself in his office with his top boys and tried to decide what to do next. His priority was the protection of the surviving eight jurors. Three were already dead—Mr. Fred Bilroy (of pneumonia), and now Lenny Fargarson and Mo Teale. One juror had moved to Florida two years after the trial. At that moment, each of the eight had a patrol car parked very near their front doors.
   I left and went to the office to work on the story about the murder of Mo Teale, but I was sidetracked by the lights at Harry Rex’s. He was in his conference room, knee-deep in depositions and files and all sorts of lawyerly debris, the sight of which always gave me an instant headache. We grabbed two beers out of his small office refrigerator and went for a drive.
   In a working-class section of town known as Coventry we drove along a narrow street and passed a house with cars parked like fallen dominoes in the front yard. “That’s where Maxine Root lives,” he said. “She was on the jury.”
   I vaguely remembered Mrs. Root. Her small red-brick house had no front porch to speak of, so her neighbors were scattered around the carport in folding lawn chairs. Rifles were visible. Every light in the house was on. A patrol car was parked by the mailbox, two deputies leaning on its hood, smoking cigarettes and watching us very closely as we drove by. Harry Rex stopped and said, “Evenin’, Troy,” to one of the deputies.
   “Hey, Harry Rex,” Troy said, taking a step toward us.
   “Quite a party they got goin’, huh?”
   “It’d take a fool to start trouble around here.”
   “We’re just passin’ by,” Harry Rex said.
   “Better keep movin’,” Troy said. “They got itchy fingers.”
   “Take care.” We eased away and swung around behind the livestock barn north of town where a long shady lane dead-ended near the water tower. Halfway down, the street was lined on both sides with cars. “Who lives here?” I asked.
   “Mr. Earl Youry. He sat on the back row, farthest from the spectators.”
   A crowd was huddled on the front porch. Some sat on the steps. Others were in lawn chairs out on the grass. Somewhere in that pack Mr. Earl Youry was hidden and very well protected by his friends and neighbors.
   Miss Callie was no less defended. The street in front of her house was packed with cars and barely passable. Groups of men sat on the cars, some smoking, some holding rifles. Next door and across the street the porches and yards were filled with people. Half of Lowtown had gathered there to make sure she felt secure. There was a festival atmosphere, the feeling of a unique event.
   With white faces, Harry Rex and I received closer scrutiny. We didn’t stop until he could speak with the deputies, and once they approved our presence the pack relaxed. We parked and I walked to the house where Sam met me at the front steps. Harry Rex stayed behind, chatting with the deputies.
   She was inside, in her bedroom, reading her Bible with a friend from church. Several deacons were on the porch with Sam and Esau, and they were anxious for details of the Teale murder. I filled them in with as much as I could tell, which wasn’t much at all.
   Around midnight, the crowd began to slowly break up. Sam and the deputies had organized a rotation of all-night sentries, armed guards on both the front and back porches. There was no shortage of volunteers. Miss Callie never dreamed her pleasant and God-fearing little home would become such an armed fortress, but under the circumstances she could not be disappointed.
   We drove the anxious streets to the Hocutt House, where we found Buster asleep in his car in the driveway. We found some bourbon and sat on a front porch, swatting an occasional mosquito and trying to appreciate the situation.
   “He’s very patient,” Harry Rex said. “Wait a few days when all these neighbors get tired of porch sittin’, when everybody relaxes a little. The jurors can’t live long locked inside their homes. He’ll wait.”
   One chilling little fact that had not been released was a service call received by the tractor dealership a week earlier. At the Anderson farm south of town a tractor had been disabled under similar circumstances. Mo Teale, who was one of four chief mechanics, had not been sent to repair it. Someone else’s yellow shirt had been watched through the scope of a hunting rifle.
   “He’s patient and meticulous,” I agreed. Eleven days had passed between the two murders, and no clues had been left behind. If it was indeed Danny Padgitt, there was a stark contrast between his first murder—Rhoda Kassellaw—and his last two. He’d advanced from a brutal crime of passion to cold-blooded executions. Perhaps that’s what nine years in prison had taught him. He’d had plenty of time to remember the faces of the twelve people who’d sent him away, and to plan his revenge.
   “He’s not finished,” Harry Rex said.
   One murder might be considered a random act. Two meant there was a pattern. The third would send a small army of cops and vigilantes onto Padgitt Island for an all-out war.
   “He’ll wait,” Harry Rex said. “Probably for a long time.”
   “I’m thinking about selling the paper, Harry Rex,” I said.
   He took a long drink of bourbon, then said, “Why would you do that?”
   “Money. This company in Georgia is making a serious offer.”
   “How much?”
   “A lot. More than I ever dreamed of. I wouldn’t work for a long time. Maybe never.”
   The idea of not working hit him hard. His daily routine was ten hours of nonstop chaos with some very emotional and high-strung divorce clients. He often worked nights, when the office was quiet and he could think. He made a comfortable living, but he certainly scraped for every penny. “How long have you had the paper?” he asked.
   “Nine years.”
   “Kinda hard to imagine the paper without you.”
   “Maybe that’s a reason to sell it. I don’t want to be another Wilson Caudle.”
   “What will you do?”
   “Take a break, travel, see the world, find a nice lady, marry her, get her pregnant, have some kids. This is a big house.”
   “So you wouldn’t move away?”
   “To where? This is home.”
   Another long sip, then, “I don’t know. Let me sleep on it.” With that, he walked off the porch and drove away.

Chapter 39

   With the bodies piling up, it was inevitable the story would attract more attention than the Times could give it. The next morning, a reporter I knew from the Memphis paper arrived in my office, and about twenty minutes later one from the Jackson paper joined us. Both covered northern Mississippi, where the hottest news was usually a factory explosion or another indicted county official.
   I gave them the background on both murders, the Padgitt parole, and the fear that had gripped the county. We were not competitors—they wrote for large dailies that barely overlapped. Most of my subscribers also took either the Memphis or Jackson papers. The Tupelo daily was also popular.
   And, frankly, I was losing interest; not in the current crisis, but in journalism as a vocation. The world was calling me. As I sat there drinking coffee and trading stories with those two veterans, both of whom were older than me, each of whom earned about $40,000 a year, I found it hard to believe that I could walk away right then with a million bucks. It was difficult to stay focused.
   They eventually left to pursue their own angles. A few minutes later Sam called with a rather urgent, “You need to come over.”
   A ragtag little unit was still guarding the Ruffin porch. All four were bleary-eyed and in need of sleep. Sam cleared me through the bivouac and we went to the kitchen table where Miss Callie was shelling butter beans, a task she always performed on the rear porch. She gave me a warm smile and the standard bear hug, but she was a troubled woman. “In here,” she said. Sam nodded and we followed her into her small bedroom. She closed the door behind us as if intruders were lurking, then she disappeared into a narrow closet. We waited awkwardly while she rattled around in there.
   She finally emerged with an old spiral notebook, one that had obviously been well hidden. “Something doesn’t make sense,” she said as she sat on the edge of the bed. Sam sat beside her and I backed into an old rocker. She was flipping through the pages of her handwritten notes. “Here it is,” she said.
   “We gave our solemn promises that we would never talk about what happened in the jury room,” she said, “but this is too important not to tell. When we found Mr. Padgitt guilty, the vote was quick and unanimous. But when we came to the issue of the death penalty, there was some opposition to it. I certainly didn’t want to send anyone to die, but I had promised to follow the law. Things got very heated, there were sharp words, even some accusations and threats. Not a pleasant thing to sit through. When the battle lines became clear, there were three people opposed to the death penalty, and they were not about to change their minds.”
   She showed me a page in her notebook. In her clear and distinctive handwriting there were two columns—one had nine names, the other had only three—L. Fargarson, Mo Teale, and Maxine Root. I gawked at the names, thinking that maybe I was looking at the killer’s list.
   “When did you write this?” I asked.
   “I kept notes during the trial,” she said.
   Why would Danny Padgitt be killing the jurors who refused to give him the death penalty? The ones who had effectively saved his life?
   “He’s killing the wrong ones, isn’t he?” Sam asked. “I mean, it’s all wrong, but if you’re out for revenge why go after the folks who tried to save you?”
   “As I said, it doesn’t make sense,” Miss Callie said.
   “You’re assuming too much,” I said. “You’re assuming he knows how each juror voted. As far as I know, and I snooped around for a long time, the jurors never told anyone how the vote went. The trial was overshadowed rather quickly by the desegregation order. Padgitt was shipped off to Parchman the same day he was found guilty. There’s a good chance he’s picking off the easy ones first, and Mr. Fargarson and Mr. Teale just happened to be more accessible.”
   “That’s very coincidental,” Sam said.
   We pondered that for a long time. I wasn’t sure if it was plausible; I wasn’t sure of anything. Then I had another thought: “Keep in mind, all twelve jurors voted guilty, and that was just after he made his threat.”
   “I suppose,” Miss Callie said, unconvinced. We were trying to make sense of something that was completely incomprehensible.
   “Anyway, I need to give this information to the Sheriff,” I said.
   “We promised we’d never tell.”
   “That was nine years ago, Mother,” Sam said. “And no one could have predicted what’s happening now.”
   “It’s especially important for Maxine Root,” I said.
   “Don’t you think some of the other jurors have come forward with this same information?” Sam said.
   “Maybe, but it was a long time ago. And I doubt if they kept notes.”
   There was a commotion at the front door. Bobby, Leon, and Al had arrived. They had met in St. Louis, then driven all night to Clanton. We had coffee around the kitchen table, and I filled them in on the most recent developments. Miss Callie suddenly sprang to life and was pondering meals and making a list of vegetables for Esau to pick.


* * *

   Sheriff McNatt was out making the rounds, visiting each juror. I had to unload on someone, so I barged into Harry Rex’s office and waited impatiently while he finished a deposition. When we were alone, I told him about Miss Callie’s list and the division of the jurors. He’d been haggling with a room full of lawyers for the past two hours, so he was in a feisty mood.
   As usual, he had a different, far more cynical theory.
   “Those three were supposed to hang the jury on guilt,” he said after a quick analysis. “They caved for some reason, probably thought they were doin’ the right thing by keepin’ him out of the gas chamber, but of course Padgitt ain’t thinkin’ that way. For nine years he’s been pissed because his three stooges didn’t hang the jury. He figures he’ll get them first, then go after the rest.”
   “There’s no way Lenny Fargarson was a stooge for Danny Padgitt,” I argued.
   “Just because he’s crippled?”
   ‘Just because he was a very devout Christian.”
   “He was unemployed, Willie. He was once able to work, but he knew his condition would only deteriorate over the years. Maybe he needed money. Hell, everybody needs money. The Padgitts have trucks full of cash.”
   “I don’t buy it.”
   “It makes more sense than any of your screwball theories. What are you sayin’—somebody else is pickin’ off the jurors?”
   “I didn’t say that.”
   “Good, because I was about to call you a flamin’ dumb-ass.”
   “You’ve called me worse.”
   “Not this morning.”
   “And under your theory, Mo Teale and Maxine Root also took cash from the Padgitts, then double-crossed Danny on the issue of guilt, then reversed themselves on the issue of death, and will now pay the ultimate price because they didn’t hang the jury to begin with? Is that what you’re saying, Harry Rex?”
   “Damned right!”
   “You’re a flaming dumb-ass, you know that? Why would an honest, hardworking, crime-hating, churchgoing man like Mo Teale agree to take money from the Padgitts?”
   “Maybe they threatened him.”
   “Maybe! Maybe they didn’t!”
   “So what’s your best theory?”
   “It’s Padgitt, and it just so happens that the first two he picked off happened to be two of the three who voted no to the death penalty. He doesn’t know how the vote went. He was in Parchman twelve hours after the verdict. He’s made his list. Fargarson was first because he was such an easy target. Teale was second because Padgitt could choose the setting.”
   “Who’s third?”
   “I don’t know, but these folks won’t stay locked in their homes forever. He’ll bide his time, let things die down, then secretly start making plans again.”
   “He could have some help, you know.”
   “Exactly.”
   Harry Rex’s phone had never stopped ringing. He glared at it during a pause, then said, “I got work to do.”
   “I guess I’ll go see the Sheriff. See you later.” I was out of his office when he yelled, “Say, Willie. One other thing.”
   I turned to face him.
   “Sell it, take the money, go play for a while. You’ve earned it.”
   “Thanks.”
   “But don’t leave Clanton, you hear?”
   “I won’t.”


* * *

   Mr. Earl Youry ran a road grader for the county. He graded the rural roads that ran into very remote places, out from Possum Ridge and far beyond Shady Grove. Since he worked alone, it was decided that he should hang around the county barn for a few days where he had many friends, all of whom had rifles in their trucks and were on high alert. Sheriff McNatt huddled with Mr. Youry and his supervisor and worked out a plan to keep him safe.
   Mr. Youry called the Sheriff and said he had important information. He admitted his recollection was less than thorough, but he was certain that the crippled boy and Mo Teale had been adamant in their refusal to impose the death penalty. He remembered that they had a third vote, maybe it was one of the women, maybe the colored lady. He just couldn’t recall exactly, and, after all, it had been nine years. He posed the same question to McNatt—»Why would Danny Padgitt be killing the jurors who refused to give him the death penalty?”
   When I walked into the Sheriff’s office, he had just finished his conversation with Mr. Youry, and he was as bewildered as he should have been. I closed the door and relayed my conversation with Miss Callie. “I saw her notes, Sheriff,” I said. “The third vote was Maxine Root.”
   For an hour we rehashed the same arguments I’d had with Sam and Harry Rex, and again it made no sense. He did not believe that the Padgitts had bought or intimidated either Lenny or Mo Teale; he wasn’t so sure about Maxine Root since she came from a rougher family. He more or less agreed with me that the first two killings had been coincidental, and that Padgitt, in all likelihood, did not know how the jurors had voted. Interestingly, he claimed that he found out about a year after the verdict that it had been a 9—3 split on the issue of death, and that Mo Teale had become almost violently opposed to such a sentence.
   But, both of us conceded, with Lucien Wilbanks involved it was entirely possible Padgitt knew more about the deliberations than we did. Anything was possible.
   And nothing made sense.
   While I was sitting in his office, he called Maxine Root. She worked as a bookkeeper at the shoe factory north of town, and had insisted on going to work. McNatt had been in her office that morning, inspecting the place, talking with her boss and coworkers, making sure everyone felt safe. Two of his deputies were outside the building, watching for trouble and waiting to haul Maxine back home at quitting time.
   They chatted on the phone like old friends for a few minutes, then McNatt said, “Say, Maxine, I know that you and Mo Teale and the Fargarson boy were the only three who voted against the death penalty for Danny Padgitt…” He paused as she interrupted.
   “Well, it’s not important how I found out. What’s important here is that makes me real nervous about your safety. Extra nervous.”
   He listened to her for a few minutes. As she rambled on he interrupted occasionally with such things as: “Well, Maxine, I can’t just charge out there and arrest the boy.”
   And, “You tell your brothers to keep those guns in their trucks.”
   And, “I’m workin’ on the case, Maxine, and when I get enough evidence I’ll get a warrant for his arrest.”
   And, “It’s too late to give him the death penalty, Maxine. You did what you thought was right at the time.”
   She was crying when the conversation ended. “Poor thing,” McNatt said, “her nerves are shot to hell.”
   “Can’t really blame her,” I said. “I’m ducking under windows myself.”

Chapter 40

   The funeral for Mo Teale was held at the Willow Road Methodist Church, number thirty-six on my list and one of my favorites. It was barely in the city limits of Clanton, south of the square. Because I had never met Mr. Teale, I did not go to his funeral. However, there were many in attendance who had never met him.
   Had he died of a heart attack at the age of fifty-one, it would have been sudden and tragic and his final service would have drawn an impressive crowd. But being gunned down in a revenge killing by a freshly paroled murderer was simply too much for the curious to resist. The mob included long-forgotten high school acquaintances of Mr. Teale’s four adult children, and meddling old widows who seldom missed a good funeral, and out-of-town reporters, and several gentlemen whose only contact with Mo was the fact that they owned John Deere tractors.
   I stayed away and worked on his obituary. His oldest son had been kind enough to stop by the office and give me the details. He was thirty-three—Mo and his wife jump-started their family—and he sold new Fords over in Tupelo. He stayed for almost two hours and desperately wanted me to assure him that Danny Padgitt was about to be hauled in and stoned.
   Interment was at the Clanton cemetery. The funeral procession stretched for blocks and, for good measure, swung by the square and proceeded down Jackson Avenue, just outside the Times. It did not disrupt traffic at all—everyone was at the funeral.


* * *

   Using Harry Rex as an intermediary, Lucien Wilbanks arranged a meeting with Sheriff McNatt. I was specifically mentioned by Lucien, and specifically not invited. Didn’t matter; Harry Rex took notes and told me everything, with the understanding that nothing would get printed.
   Also present in Lucien’s office was Rufus Buckley, the District Attorney who had succeeded Ernie Gaddis in 1975. Buckley was a publicity hog who, though reluctant to meddle in Padgitt’s parole, was now anxious to lead the mob to lynch him. Harry Rex despised Buckley, and the feelings were mutual. Lucien despised him too, but then Lucien disliked virtually everyone because everyone certainly disliked him. Sheriff McNatt hated Lucien, tolerated Harry Rex, and was forced to work the same side of the street with Buckley, though he loathed him in private.
   Given those conflicting sentiments, I was quite pleased not be invited to the meeting.
   Lucien began by saying that he had talked with both Danny Padgitt and his father, Gill. They had met somewhere outside of Clanton and away from the island. Danny was doing fine, working each day in the office of the family’s highway contracting firm, that office being conveniently located within the safe harbor of Padgitt Island.
   Not surprisingly, Danny denied any involvement in the murders of Lenny Fargarson and Mo Teale. He was shocked by what was happening and angry that he was widely considered to be the chief suspect. Lucien emphasized that he grilled Danny at length, even to the point of irritating him, and he never showed the slightest hint of dishonesty.
   Lenny Fargarson was shot on the afternoon of May 23. At that time, Danny was in his office, and there were four people who could vouch for his presence there. The Fargarson home was at least a thirty-minute drive from Padgitt Island, and the four witnesses were certain that Danny was either in his office or very close to it throughout the afternoon.
   “How many of these witnesses are named Padgitt?” McNatt asked.
   “We’re not giving names, yet,” Lucien said, stonewalling as any good lawyer should.
   Eleven days later, on June 3, Mo Teale was shot at approximately nine-fifteen in the morning. At that precise moment, Danny was standing beside a newly paved highway in Tippah County, getting documents signed by one of the Padgitt construction foremen. The foreman, along with two laborers, was willing to testify as to exactly where Danny was at that moment. The highway job was at least two hours away from Ned Ray Zook’s farm in eastern Ford County.
   Lucien presented airtight alibis for both murders, though his small audience was very skeptical. Of course the Padgitts would deny everything. And given their capacity to lie, break legs, and bribe with serious cash, they could find witnesses for anything.
   Sheriff McNatt voiced his skepticism. He explained to Lucien that his investigation was continuing, and if and when he had probable cause, he would get his arrest warrant and descend upon the island. He had spoken several times with the state police, and if a hundred troopers were necessary to flush out Danny, then so be it.
   Lucien said that would not be necessary. If a valid arrest warrant was obtained, he would do his best to bring the boy in himself.
   “And if there’s another killing,” McNatt said, “this place will erupt. You’ll have a thousand rednecks crossin’ the bridge and shootin’ every Padgitt they can find.”
   Buckley said that he and Judge Omar Noose had spoken twice about the killings, and he was reasonably confident that Noose was “almost ready” to issue a warrant for Danny’s arrest. Lucien attacked him with a barrage of questions about probable cause and sufficient evidence. Buckley argued that the threat by Padgitt during his trial was ample reason to suspect him of the murders.
   The meeting deteriorated as the two argued heatedly over nitpicking legalities. The Sheriff finally broke it up by announcing he’d heard enough and walked out of Lucien’s office. Buckley followed. Harry Rex hung around and chatted with Lucien in a much more relaxed setting.


* * *

   “You got liars protectin’ liars,” Harry Rex growled as he paced around my office an hour later. “Lucien tells the truth only when it sounds good, which, for him and his clientele, is not very often. The Padgitts have no concept of what the truth really is.”
   “Remember Lydia Vince?” I asked.
   “Who?”
   “The slut at the trial, the one Wilbanks put on the stand, under oath. She told the jury Danny was in her bed when Rhoda was murdered. The Padgitts found her, bought her testimony, and handed her to Lucien. They’re all a bunch of lying thieves.”
   “Then her ex got shot, right?”
   “Just after the trial. Probably got hit by one of the Padgitt goons. No evidence other than the bullets. No suspects. Nothing. Sounds familiar.”
   “McNatt didn’t buy anything Lucien said. Neither did Buckley.”
   “And you?”
   “Naw. I’ve seen Lucien cry before in front of juries. He can be very persuasive at times, not often, but occasionally. I got the impression he was working way too hard to convince us. It’s Danny, and he’s got some help.”
   “Does McNatt believe that?”
   “Yep, but he has no proof. An arrest is a waste of time.”
   “It’ll keep him off the streets.”
   “It’s temporary. With no proof you can’t keep him in jail forever. He’s patient. He’s been waiting for nine years.”


* * *

   Though the pranksters were never identified, and they had enough sense to take their secret to their graves, there was considerable speculation in the months that followed that they were the two teenaged sons of our Mayor. Two youngsters were seen sprinting away from the scene, much too fast to be caught. The Mayor’s boys had a long and colorful track record as creative and brazen jokesters.
   Under the cover of darkness, they boldly sneaked through a thick hedgerow and came to a stop less than fifty feet from the corner of the front porch of Mr. Earl Youry’s house. There they watched and listened to the crowd of friends and neighbors camped out on the front lawn, protecting Mr. Youry. They waited patiently for just the right moment to launch their attack.
   A few minutes after eleven, a long strand of eighty-four Black Cat firecrackers was tossed in the general direction of the porch, and when they began popping Clanton almost erupted into an all-out war. Men yelled, ladies screamed, Mr. Youry hit the planks and scurried into his house on all-fours. His sentries out front rolled over in their lawn chairs, clawed around for their guns, and hid low in the grass as the Blacks Cats bounced and popped in a smoky frenzy. It took thirty seconds for all eighty-four to finish exploding, and during that time a dozen heavily armed men were darting behind trees, pointing their guns in every direction, ready to shoot anything that moved.
   A part-time deputy named Travis was jolted from his sleep on the hood of his patrol car. He yanked out his.44 Magnum and dashed low and hard in the general direction of the Black Cats. Armed neighbors were scampering everywhere in Mr. Youry’s front yard. For some reason, and neither Travis nor his supervisor ever revealed the official explanation, if in fact there was one, he fired a shot into the air. A very loud shot. A shot heard well above the firecrackers. It caused another itchy finger, someone who never admitted to pulling the trigger, to unload a.12-gauge shotgun shell into the trees. No doubt many others would have commenced firing and who knows how many might have been slaughtered had not the other part-time deputy, Jimmy, screamed loudly, “Hold your fire, you idiots!”
   At which point the gunfire ceased immediately, but the Black Cats had a few rounds left. When the last one popped the entire gang of vigilantes walked over to the smoldering patch of grass and inspected things. Word spread that it was just fireworks. Mr. Earl Youry pecked through the front door and eventually eased outside.
   Down the street, Mrs. Alice Wood heard the assault and was running to the rear of her house to lock the door when the two youngsters blew by her back entrance, sprinting and laughing furiously. She would report that they were about fifteen and white.
   A mile away, in Lowtown, I had just walked down the steps of Miss Callie’s front porch when I heard the distant explosions. The late shift—Sam, Leon, and two deacons—jumped to their feet and gazed into the distance. The forty-four sounded like a howitzer. We waited and waited, and when all was still again Leon said, “Sounds like firecrackers.”
   Sam had sneaked inside to check on his mother. He came back and said, “She’s asleep.”
   “I’ll go check it out,” I said. “And I’ll call if it’s anything important.”
   Mr. Youry’s street was alive with the red and blue lights of a dozen police cars. Traffic was heavy as the other curious fought to get near the scene. I saw Buster’s car parked in a shallow ditch, and when I found him a few minutes later he told me the story. “Coupla kids,” he said.
   I found it funny, but I was in the distinct minority.

Chapter 41

   In the nine years since I’d bought the Times, I had never left it for more than four days. It went to press every Tuesday, was published every Wednesday, and by every Thursday of my life I was facing a formidable deadline.
   One reason for its success was the fact that I wrote so much about so many in a town where so little happened. Each edition had thirty-six pages. Subtracting five for classifieds, three for legals, and about six for advertisements, I was faced each week with the task of filling approximately twenty-two pages with local news.
   The obits consumed at least one page, with me in charge of every word. Davey Bigmouth Bass took two pages for sports, though I often had to help with a summary of a junior high football game or an urgent story about a trophy buck shot by some twelve-year-old. Margaret put together one page for Religion and one page for Weddings and another for classifieds. Baggy, whose production nine years earlier had been feeble at best, had succumbed almost completely to booze and was now good for only one story each week, which, of course, he always wanted on the front page. Staff reporters came and went with frustrating regularity. We usually had one on board, sometimes two, and they were often more trouble than they were worth. I had to proofread and edit their work to the point of wishing I had simply done it myself.
   And so I wrote. Though I’d studied journalism, I had not noticed a propensity to produce vast amounts of words in short periods of time. But once I suddenly owned the paper, and it was time to sink or swim, I discovered an amazing ability to crank out windy and colorful stories about almost everything, and nothing. A moderately severe car wreck with no fatalities was front page news with breathless quotes from eyewitnesses and ambulance drivers. A small factory expansion sounded like a boon to the nation’s Gross National Product. A bake sale at the Baptist Ladies’ WMU could run for eight hundred words. A drug arrest sounded as if the Colombians were advancing unchecked upon the innocent children of Clanton. A blood drive by the Civitan Club carried the urgency of a wartime shortage. Three stolen pickups in one week had the feel of organized crime.
   I wrote about the people of Ford County. Miss Callie’s was my first human interest story, and over the years I tried to run at least one a month. There was a survivor of the Bataan death march, the last local veteran of World War I, a sailor who had been at Pearl Harbor, a retiring minister who’d served one small country congregation for forty-five years, an old missionary who’d lived for thirty-one years in the Congo, a recent graduate who was dancing in a musical on Broadway, a lady who’d lived in twenty-two states, a man who’d been married seven times and was anxious to share his advice with future newlyweds, Mr. Mitlo—our token immigrant, a retiring basketball coach, the short-order cook at the Tea Shoppe who’d been frying eggs forever. And on and on. These stories were immensely popular.
   However, after nine years the list of interesting people in Ford County had very few names on it.
   I was tired of writing. Twenty pages a week, fifty-two weeks a year.
   I woke up each morning thinking of either a new story or a new angle for an old one. Any bit of news or any unusual event was inspiration to puff up a piece and stick it somewhere in the paper. I wrote about dogs, antique trucks, a legendary tornado, a haunted house, a missing pony, Civil War treasure, the legend of a headless slave, a rabid skunk. And all the usual stuff—court proceedings, elections, crime, new businesses, bankrupt businesses, new characters in town. I was tired of writing.
   And I was tired of Clanton. With some reluctance the town had come to accept me, especially when it became obvious I wasn’t leaving. But it was a very small place, and at times I felt suffocated. I spent so many weekends at home, with little to do but read and write, that I became accustomed to it. And that frustrated me greatly. I tried the poker nights with Bubba Crocket and the Foxhole gang, and the redneck cook-outs with Harry Rex and company. But I never felt as though I belonged.
   Clanton was changing, and I was not happy with its direction. Like most small towns in the South, it was sprawling in all directions with no plan for its growth. Bargain City was booming, and the area around it was attracting every fast-food franchise imaginable. Downtown was declining, though the courthouse and the county government would always draw people. Strong political leaders were needed, folks with vision, and they were in short supply.
   On the other hand, I suspected the town was weary of me. Because of my preachy opposition to the war in Vietnam, I would always be considered a radical liberal. And I did little to diminish this reputation. As the paper grew and the profits increased, and as a direct result my skin got thicker, I editorialized more and more. I railed against closed meetings held by the city council and the county Board of Supervisors. I sued to get access to public records. I spent one year bitching about the almost complete lack of zoning and land-use management in the county, and when Bargain City came to town I said way too much. I ridiculed the state’s campaign finance laws, which were designed to allow rich people to elect their favorites. And when Danny Padgitt was set free, I unloaded on the parole system.
   Throughout the seventies, I was always on a soapbox. And while this made for interesting reading and sold papers, it also transformed me into something of an oddity. I was viewed as a malcontent, one with a pulpit. I don’t think I was ever a bully, I tried hard not to be. But looking back, there were fights I started not only out of conviction but also out of boredom.
   As I grew older, I wanted to be a regular citizen. I would always be an outsider, but that didn’t bother me anymore. I wanted to come and go, to live in Clanton as I saw fit, then leave for long periods of time when I got bored. Amazing how the prospect of money can change your future.
   I became consumed with the dream of walking away, of taking a sabbatical to some place I’d never been, of seeing the world.
   The next meeting with Gary McGrew was at a restaurant in Tupelo. He’d been to my office several times. One more visit and the staff would start whispering. Over lunch we again looked at my books, talked about his client’s plans, negotiated this point and that one. If I sold, I wanted the owner to honor the new five-year contracts I’d given to Davey Bigmouth Bass, Hardy, and Margaret. Baggy would either retire soon or die of liver poisoning. Wiley had always been a part-timer, and his interest in chasing subjects for photos was waning. He was the only employee I’d told about the negotiations, and he had encouraged me to take the money and run.
   McGrew’s client wanted me to stay on for at least a year, at a very high salary, and train the new editor. I would not agree to this. If I walked away, then I walked away. I didn’t want a boss, and I didn’t want the local heat that would come for selling the county’s paper to a large firm from outside the state.
   Their offer was at $1.3 million. A consultant I’d hired in Knoxville had valued the Times at $1.35 million.
   “Confidentially, we’ve bought the papers in Tyler and Van Buren Counties,” McGrew said, late in a very long lunch. “Things are falling into place.”
   He was being almost completely honest. The owner of the paper in Tyler County had agreed in principle, but the documents had not been signed.
   “But there’s a new wrinkle,” he said. “The paper in Polk County might be for sale. Frankly, we’re taking a look at it if you pass. It’s quite a bit cheaper.”
   “Ah, more pressure,” I said.
   The Polk County Herald had four thousand readers and lousy management. I saw it every week.
   “I’m not trying to pressure you. I’m just putting everything on the table.”
   “I really want a million and a half bucks,” I said.
   “That’s over the top, Willie.”
   “It’s high, but you’ll earn it back. Might take a little longer, but look ten years down the road.”
   “I’m not sure we can go that high.”
   “You’ll have to if you want the paper.”
   A sense of urgency had arisen. McGrew hinted at a deadline, then finally said, “We’ve been talking for months now, and my client is anxious to reach a conclusion. He wants to close the deal by the first of next month, or he’ll go elsewhere.”
   The tactic didn’t bother me. I was tired of talking too. Either I sold, or I didn’t. It was time to make a decision.
   “That’s twenty-three days from now,” I said.
   “It is.”
   “Fair enough.”


* * *

   The long days of summer arrived, and the insufferable heat and humidity settled in for their annual three-month stay. I made my usual rounds—to the churches on my list, to the softball fields, to the local golf tournament, to the watermelon cuttings. But Clanton was waiting, and the wait was all we talked about.
   Inevitably, the noose around the neck of each remaining juror was loosened somewhat. They quite naturally got tired of being prisoners in their homes, of altering their lifelong routines, of having packs of neighbors guard their homes at night. They began to venture out, to try and resume normal lives.
   The patience of the killer was unnerving. He had the advantage of time, and he knew his victims would grow weary of all that protection. He knew they would drop their guard, make a mistake. We knew it too.
   After missing three consecutive Sundays, for the first time in her life, Miss Callie insisted on going to church. Escorted by Sam, Esau, and Leon, she marched into the sanctuary on Sunday morning and worshiped the Lord as if she’d been gone a year. Her brothers and sisters embraced her, and prayed for her fervently. Reverend Small revised his sermon on the spot and preached on God’s protection of his followers. Sam said he went on for almost three hours.
   Two days later, Miss Callie slid into the backseat of my Mercedes. With Esau beside her and Sam riding shotgun, we hurried out of Clan-ton with a deputy behind us. He stopped at the county line, and an hour later we were in Memphis. There was a new shopping mall east of town that was all the rage, and Miss Callie dreamed of seeing it. Over a hundred stores under one roof! For the first time in her life, she ate a pizza; she saw an ice rink, two men holding hands, and a mixed-race family. She approved only of the ice rink.
   After a full hour of Sam’s atrocious navigating, we finally found the cemetery in south Memphis. Using a map from the guardhouse, we eventually located the grave of Nicola Rossetti DeJarnette. Miss Callie placed a bouquet of flowers she’d brought from home on the grave, and when it became apparent she planned to spend some time there, we walked away and left her in peace.
   In memory of Nicola, Miss Callie wanted Italian food. I had reserved a table at Grisanti’s, a Memphis landmark, and we had a long, delightful dinner of lasagna and ravioli stuffed with goat cheese. She managed to overcome her bias against bought food, and, to protect her from sin, I insisted on paying for it.
   We didn’t want to leave Memphis. For a few hours we had escaped the fear of the unknown and the anxiety of the waiting. Clanton seemed athousand miles away, and that was too close. Going back late that night, I found myself driving slower and slower.
   Though we didn’t discuss it, and the conversation grew quieter the closer we got to home, there was a killer loose in Ford County. Miss Callie’s name was on his list. If not for the two dead bodies, that would have been impossible to believe.
   According to Baggy, and verified by research in the Times archives, there had been no unsolved murders that century. Almost every killing had been some impulsive act where the smoking gun had been seen by witnesses. Arrests, trials, and convictions had been prompt. Now, there was a very smart and very deliberate killer out there, and every one knew his intended victims. For such a law-abiding, God-fearing community, it was inconceivable.
   Bobby, Al, Max, and Leon had, at various times, argued strenuously for Miss Callie to go stay with any of them for a month or so. Sam and I, and even Esau, had joined in these rather vigorous requests, but she would not budge. She was in close contact with God, and he would protect her.
   In nine years, the only time I lost my temper with Miss Callie, and the only time she rebuked me, was during an argument about spending a month in Milwaukee with Bobby. “Those big cities are dangerous,” she had said.
   “No place is as dangerous as Clanton right now,” I had replied.
   Later, when I raised my voice, she told me she did not appreciate my lack of respect, and I quickly shut up.
   As we crossed into Ford County late that night, I began watching my rearview mirror. It was silly, but then it wasn’t. In Lowtown, the Ruffin home was guarded by a deputy parked in the street, and a friend of Esau’s on the porch.
   “It’s been a quiet night,” the friend said. In other words, no one had been shot or shot at.
   Sam and I played checkers for an hour on the porch while she went to sleep.
   The waiting continued.

Chapter 42

   Nineteen seventy-nine was a year for local elections in Mississippi, my third as a registered voter. It was much quieter than the first two. The Sheriff’s race was uncontested, something that was unheard of. There had been a rumor that the Padgitts had bought a new candidate, but after the parole debacle they backed off. Senator Theo Morton drew an opponent who brought me an ad that screamed the question—WHY DID SENATOR MORTON GET DANNY PADGITT PAROLED? CASH! THAT’S WHY! As much as I wanted to run the ad, I had neither the time nor the energy for a libel suit.
   There was a constable’s race out in Beat Four with thirteen candidates, but other than that the races were fairly lethargic. The county was fixated on the murders of Fargarson and Teale, and, more important, on who might be next. Sheriff McNatt and the investigators from the state police and state crime lab had exhausted every possible clue and lead. All we could do was wait.
   As July Fourth approached, there was a noticeable lack of excitement about the annual celebration. Though almost everyone felt safe, there was a dark cloud hanging over the county. Oddly, rumors persisted that something bad would happen when we all gathered around the courthouse on the Fourth. Rumors, though, had never been born with such creativity, nor spread as rapidly, as in the month of June.


* * *

   On June 25, in a fancy law office in Tupelo, I signed a pile of documents that transferred ownership of the Times to a media company owned in part by Mr. Ray Noble of Atlanta. Mr. Noble handed me a check for $1.5 million, and I quickly, and somewhat anxiously, walked it down the street, where my newest friend, Stu Holland, was waiting in his rather spacious office in the Merchants Bank. News of such a deposit in Clanton would leak overnight, so I buried the money with Stu, then drove home.
   It was the longest one-hour drive of my life. It was exhilarating because I had cashed in at the market’s peak. I had squeezed top dollar out of a well-heeled and honorable buyer who planned to make few changes to my newspaper. Adventure was calling me, and I now had the means to answer.
   And it was a sad drive because I was giving up such a large and rewarding part of my life. The paper and I had grown and matured together; me as an adult, it as a prosperous entity. It had become what any small-town paper should be—a lively observer of current events, a recorder of history, an occasional commentator on politics and social issues. As for me, I was a young man who had blindly and doggedly built something from scratch. I suppose I should’ve felt my age, but all I wanted to do was find a beach. Then a girl.
   When I returned to Clanton, I walked into Margaret’s office, closed the door, and told her about the sale. She burst into tears, and before long my eyes were moist as well. Her fierce loyalty had always amazed me, and though she, like Miss Callie, worried way too much about my soul, she had grown to love me nonetheless. I explained that the new owners were wonderful people, planned no drastic changes, and had approved her new five-year contract at an increased salary. This made her cry even more.
   Hardy did not cry. By then he had been printing the Times for almost thirty years. He was moody, cantankerous, drank too much like most pressmen, and if the new owners didn’t like him then he’d simply quit and go fishing. He did appreciate the new contract though.
   As did Davey Bigmouth Bass. He was shocked at the news, but rallied nicely at the idea of earning more money.
   Baggy was on vacation somewhere out West, with his brother, not his wife. Mr. Ray Noble had been reluctant to agree to another five years’ of Baggy’s sluggish reporting, and I could not, in good conscience, make him a part of the deal. Baggy was on his own.
   We had five other employees, and I personally broke the news to each of them. It took all of one afternoon, and when if it was finally over I was drained. I met Harry Rex in the back room at Pepe’s and we celebrated with margaritas.
   I was anxious to leave town and go somewhere, but it would be impossible until the killings stopped.


* * *

   For most of June, the Ruffin professors scrambled back and forth to Clanton. They juggled assignments and vacations, trying their best to make sure at least two or three of them were always with Miss Callie. Sam seldom left the house. He stayed in Lowtown to protect his mother, but also to keep his own profile low. Trooper Durant was still around, though he was married again and his two renegade sons had left the area.
   Sam spent hours on the porch, reading voraciously, playing checkers with Esau or whoever stopped by to help guard things for a while. He played backgammon with me until he figured out the strategy, then he insisted that we bet a dollar per game. Before long I owed him $50. Such blatant gambling was a deadly secret on Miss Callie’s porch.
   A hasty reunion was put together for the week before July Fourth. Because my house had five empty bedrooms and a woeful lack of human activity, I insisted that it be filled with Ruffins. The family had grown considerably since I first met them in 1970. All but Sam were married, and there were twenty-one grandchildren. The total came to thirty-five Ruffins, not counting Sam, Callie, and Esau, and thirty-four made it to Clanton. Leon’s wife had a sick father in Chicago.
   Of the thirty-four, twenty-three moved into the Hocutt House for a few days. They drifted in from different parts of the country, mostly up North, coming in shifts at all hours of the day, with each new arrival greeted with great ceremony. When Carlota and her husband and two small children arrived at 3 A.M. from Los Angeles, every light in the house came on and Bobby’s wife, Bonnie, began cooking pancakes.
   Bonnie took over my kitchen, and three times a day I was sent to the grocery store with a list of things she urgently needed. I bought ice cream by the ton and the kids soon learned I would fetch it for them at any hour of the day.
   Since my porches were long and wide and seldom used, the Ruffins gravitated toward them. Sam brought Miss Callie and Esau over late in the afternoons for serious visiting. She was desperate to get out of Low-town. Her warm little house had become a prison.
   At various times, I heard her children talk with great concern about their mother. The obvious threat of somehow getting shot was discussed less than her health. Over the years she had managed to lose somewhere around eighty pounds, depending on whose version you heard. Now it was back, and her blood pressure had the doctors concerned. The stress was taking its toll. Esau said she slept fitfully, something she blamed on medications. She was not as spry, didn’t smile as much, and had noticeably less energy.
   It was all blamed on the “Padgitt mess.” As soon as he got caught and the killings stopped, then Miss Callie would bounce back.
   That was the optimistic view, the one generally shared by most of her children.
   On July 2, a Monday, Bonnie and company prepared a light lunch of salads and pizzas. All available Ruffins were there, and we ate on a side porch under slow-moving and practically useless wicker fans. There was a slight breeze, however, and with the temperature in the nineties we were able to enjoy a long lazy meal.
   I had yet to find the right moment to tell Miss Callie that I was leaving the paper. I knew she would be shocked, and very disappointed. But I could think of no reason why we couldn’t continue our Thursday lunches. It might even be more fun counting the typos and mistakes made by someone else.
   In nine years we had missed only seven, all due to illness or dental work.
   The lazy postmeal chatter suddenly came to a halt. There were sirens in the distance, somewhere across town.


* * *

   The box was twelve inches square, five inches deep, white in color with red and blue stars and stripes. It was gift package from the Bolan Pecan Farm in Hazelhurst, Mississippi, sent to Mrs. Maxine Root by her sister in Concord, California. An Independence Day gift of real American pecans. It came by mail, delivered by the postman around noon, placed in the mailbox of Maxine Root, then hauled inside, past the lone sentry sitting under a tree in the front yard, and into the kitchen where Maxine first saw it.
   It had been almost a month since Sheriff McNatt had quizzed her about her vote on the jury. She had reluctantly admitted that she had not been in favor of the death penalty for Danny Padgitt, and she recalled that the two men who stuck with her were Lenny Fargarson and Mo Teale. Since they were now dead, McNatt had delivered the grave news that she might be the next victim.
   For years after the trial, Maxine had wrestled with the verdict. The town was bitter over it and she felt the hostility. Thankfully, the jurors kept their vows of silence, and she and Lenny and Mo avoided any additional abuse. With the soothing passage of time, she had been able to distance herself from the aftermath.
   Now the world knew how she’d voted. Now a crazy man was stalking her. She was on leave from her job as a bookkeeper. Her nerves were shot; she couldn’t sleep; she was sick of hiding in her own home; sick of a yard full of neighbors gathering every night as if it was time for a social event; sick of ducking under every window. She was taking so many different pills that they were all counteracting each other to the point that nothing worked.
   She saw the box of pecans and started crying. Someone out there loved her. Her precious sister Jane was thinking about her. Oh how she’d love to be in California with Jane at that very moment.
   Maxine started to open the package, then had a thought. She went to the phone and dialed Jane’s number. They had not talked in a week.
   Jane was at work, thrilled to hear from her. They chatted about this and that, then about the horrible situation in Clanton. “You’re a dear to send the pecans,” Maxine said.
   “What pecans?” Jane asked.
   A pause. “The gift box from Bolan Pecans down in Hazelhurst. A big one, three pounds.”
   Another pause. “Not me, sis. Must’ve been someone else.”
   Maxine hung up moments later and examined the box. A sticker on the front said—A Gift from Jane Parham. Of course she knew of no other Jane Parhams.
   Very gently, she picked it up. It seemed a bit heavy for a three-pound tin of pecans.
   Travis, the part-time deputy, happened by the house. He was accompanied by one Teddy Ray, a pimple-faced boy with an oversized uniform and a service revolver that he had never fired. Maxine hustled them into the kitchen where the red, white, and blue box sat benignly on the counter. The lone sentry was also tagging along, and for a long minute or so the four of them just stared at the package. Maxine recounted verbatim her conversation with Jane.
   With great hesitation, Travis picked up the box and shook it slightly. “Seems a might heavy for pecans,” he observed. He looked at Teddy Ray, who’d already gone pale, and at the neighbor with a rifle, who seemed ready to duck at anything.
   “You think it’s a bomb?” the neighbor asked.
   “Oh my God,” Maxine mumbled and appeared ready to collapse.
   “Could be,” Travis said, then gawked down in horror at what he was holding.
   “Get it outside,” Maxine said.
   “Shouldn’t we call the Sheriff?” Teddy Ray managed to ask.
   “I guess so,” Travis said.
   “What if it’s got a timer or something?” asked the neighbor.
   Travis hesitated for a moment, then with the voice of absolutely no experience, said, “I know what to do.”
   They stepped through the kitchen door onto a narrow porch that ran the length of the rear of the house. Travis carefully placed the box at the very edge, three feet or so above the ground. When he removed his.44 Magnum, Maxine said, “What are you doing?”
   “We’re gonna see if it’s a bomb,” Travis said. Teddy Ray and the neighbor scurried off the porch and took up a safe position in the grass about fifty feet away.
   “You’re gonna shoot my pecans?” Maxine asked.
   “You got a better idea?” Travis snapped back.
   “I guess not.”
   With most of his body inside the kitchen, Travis leaned out through the screen door with his thick right arm, and his rather large head, and took aim. Maxine was right behind him, crouching low and peeking around his waist.
   The first shot missed the porch entirely, though it took the breath out of Maxine. Teddy Ray shouted, “Nice shot,” and he and the neighbor had a quick laugh.
   Travis aimed and fired again.
   The explosion ripped the porch completely from the house, tore a gaping hole in the back wall behind the kitchen, and sprayed shrapnel for a hundred yards. It shattered windows, peeled up planks, and it wounded the four observers. Teddy Ray and the neighbor both took bits of metal in their chests and legs. Travis’s right arm and his firing hand were mangled. Maxine was hit twice in the head—one piece of glass ripped off the lobe of her right ear, and a small nail penetrated her right jaw.
   For a moment, they were all unconscious, knocked silly by three pounds of plastic explosives packed with nails, glass, and ball bearings.


* * *

   As the sirens continued to wail across town, I went to the phone and called Wiley Meek. He was just about to call me. “They tried to blow up Maxine Root,” he said.
   I told the Ruffins there’d been an accident and left them on the porch. When I got near the subdivision where the Roots lived, the main roads were blocked and traffic was being turned away. I hustled over to the hospital and found a young doctor I knew. He said that there were four injured, none of whom appeared to be in grave danger.


* * *

   Judge Omar Noose was holding court in Clanton that afternoon. In fact, he later said that he heard the explosion. Rufus Buckley and Sheriff McNatt met with him for over an hour in chambers, and what they discussed was never revealed. As we waited in the courtroom, Harry Rex and most of the other lawyers loitering there were certain that they were debating how to handle an arrest warrant for Danny Padgitt when there was so little proof that he’d done anything wrong.
   But something had to be done. Someone had to be arrested. The Sheriff had a population to protect; he had to take action, even if it wasn’t entirely proper.
   We got a report that Travis and Teddy Ray had been transported to one of the hospitals in Memphis for surgery. Maxine and her neighbor were under the knife at that very moment. Again, it was the opinion of the doctors that no life was in jeopardy. Travis might lose his right arm, though.
   How many people in Ford County knew how to make package bombs? Who had access to explosives? Who had motive? As we argued these questions in the courtroom, they were evidently being argued back in chambers as well. Noose, Buckley, and McNatt were all elected officials. The good people of Ford County needed their protection. Since Danny Padgitt was the only conceivable suspect, Judge Noose finally issued a warrant for his arrest.
   Lucien was notified, and he took the news without objection. At that moment, not even Padgitt’s lawyer could argue with the strategy of bringing him in for processing. He could always be released later.
   A few minutes after 5 P.M… a convoy of police cars blew out of Clan-ton and headed for Padgitt Island. Harry Rex now owned a police scanner (there were quite a few new ones in town) and we sat in his office, sipping beer, listening to it squawk with unchecked fury. It had to be the most exciting arrest in the history of our county, and many of us wanted to be there. Would the Padgitts block the road and thwart the arrest? Would there be gunfire? A small war?
   From the chatter, we were able to follow most of what was happening. At Highway 42, McNatt and his men were met by ten “units” of the state highway patrol. We assumed a “unit” meant nothing more than a car, but it sounded far more serious. They proceeded to Highway 401, turned onto the county road that led to the island, and at the bridge where everyone expected some dramatic showdown, there sat Danny Padgitt in the car with his lawyer.
   The voices on the scanner were quick and anxious:
   “He’s with his lawyer!”
   “Wilbanks?”
   “Yep.”
   “Let’s shoot both of them.”
   “They’re gettin’ out of the car.”
   “Wilbanks is holdin’ up his hands. Smart-ass!”
   “It’s Danny Padgitt, all right. Hands held high.”
   “I’d like to knock that smile off his face.”
   “They got the cuffs on him.”
   “Dammit!” Harry Rex yelled across his desk. “I wanted some gunfire. Just like in the old days.”


* * *

   We were at the jail an hour later when the parade of red and blue lights came swarming in. Sheriff McNatt had wisely placed Padgitt in the patrol car of a state trooper; otherwise his deputies might have roughed him up during the ride. Two of their colleagues were in surgery in Memphis, and feelings were pretty raw.
   A mob had gathered outside the jail. Padgitt was jeered and cursed as he was rushed inside, then the Sheriff angrily told the hotheads to go home.
   Seeing him in handcuffs brought a great sense of relief. And the news that he was in custody was like a balm for the entire county. The heavy cloud had been lifted. Clanton came to life that night.
   When I returned to the Hocutt House after dark, the Ruffin clan was in a festive mood. Miss Callie was as relaxed as I’d seen her in a long time. We sat on the porch for a long time, telling stories, laughing, listening to Aretha Franklin and the Temptations, even listening to an occasional burst of fireworks.

Chapter 43

   Unknown to anyone, Lucien Wilbanks and Judge Noose struck a deal in the hectic hours before the arrest. The Judge was worried about what might happen if Danny Padgitt chose to retreat into the safety of the island, or, worse, resist the arrest with force. The county was a powder keg waiting for a match. The cops were ready for blood because of Teddy Ray and Travis, whose gunslinging stupidity was being temporarily ignored while they recovered from their wounds. And Maxine Root came from a notoriously rough family of loggers, a large fierce clan known to hunt year round, live off their land, and leave no grudge unchallenged.
   Lucien appreciated the situation. He agreed to deliver his client on one condition—he wanted an immediate bail hearing. He had at least a dozen witnesses who were willing to provide “airtight” alibis for Danny, and Lucien wanted the folks in Clanton to hear their testimony. He truly believed that someone else was behind the killings, and it was important to convince the town.
   Lucien was also one month away from being disbarred in an unrelated mess. He knew the end was coming, and the bail hearing would be his last performance.
   Noose agreed to a hearing and set it for 10 a.m. the next day, July 3. In a scene eerily reminiscent of one nine years earlier, Danny Padgitt once again packed the Ford County Courthouse. It was a hostile crowd, anxious to get a look at him, hopeful that he might be strung up on the spot. Maxine Root’s family arrived early and sat near the front. They were angry, thick-chested, bearded men in overalls. They frightened me, and we were ostensibly on the same side. Maxine was reported to be resting well and expected home in a few days.
   The Ruffins had little to do that morning, so the excitement at the courthouse could not be missed. Miss Callie herself insisted on arriving early and getting a good seat. She was happy to be downtown again. She wore a Sunday dress and delighted in sitting in such a public gathering surrounded by her family.
   The reports from the hospital in Memphis were mixed. Teddy Ray had been sewn together and was recuperating. Travis had had a rough night, and there was much concern about saving his arm. Their comrades were in the courtroom in full force, waiting for another chance to scowl at the bomb maker.
   I saw Mr. and Mrs. Fargarson sitting in the rear, two rows from the back, and I couldn’t begin to comprehend what they were thinking.
   There were no Padgitts present; they had enough sense to stay clear of the courtroom. The sight of one of them would’ve touched off a riot. Harry Rex whispered that they were huddled together upstairs in the jury room, with the door locked. We never saw them.
   Rufus Buckley arrived with his entourage to represent the State of Mississippi. One advantage in selling the Times was that I would never be forced to spend time with him. He was arrogant and pompous, and everything he did was designed to get him to the Governor’s office.
   As I waited and watched the courtroom fill up, I realized it was the last time I would cover such a proceeding for the Times. I found no sadness in that. I had mentally checked out, mentally spent some of the money. And now that Danny was in custody, I was even more anxious to escape Clanton and go see the world.
   There would be a trial in a few months. Another Danny Padgitt circus, but I doubted seriously if it would be held in Ford County. I didn’t care. It would be a story for someone else.
   At 10 A.M… all seats were filled and a thick row of spectators lined the walls. Fifteen minutes later, there was a shuffle behind the bench, a door opened, and Lucien Wilbanks emerged. It had the feel of a sporting event; he was a player; we all wanted to boo. Two bailiffs quickly followed him, and one announced, “All rise for the Court!”
   Judge Noose ambled forth in his black robe and sat on his throne. “Please be seated,” he said into the microphone. He surveyed the crowd and seemed astonished at the number of us out there.
   He nodded, a side door opened, and Danny Padgitt, handcuffed, shackled at the ankles, and sporting the orange jail jumpsuit he’d worn before, was led in by three deputies. It took a few minutes to unlock him from his various restraints, and when he was finally free he leaned over and whispered something to Lucien.
   “This is a bail hearing,” Noose announced, and the courtroom was still and quiet. “There’s no reason why it cannot be handled judiciously and briefly.”
   It would be much briefer than anyone anticipated.


* * *

   A cannon exploded somewhere above us, and for a split second I thought we’d all been shot. Something cracked sharply through the heavy air of the courtroom, and for a town so jittery to begin with we all froze in one horrible snapshot of disbelief. Then Danny Padgitt grunted in a delayed reaction, and all hell broke loose. Women screamed. Men screamed. Someone yelled, “Get down!” as half the spectators ducked low, some hitting the floor. Someone shouted, “He’s been shot!”
   I lowered my head a few inches, but I didn’t want to miss anything. Every deputy yanked out a service revolver and looked in a different direction for someone to shoot. They pointed up and down, front and back, here and there.
   Though we argued about it for years, the second shot was no more than three seconds behind the first. It hit Danny in the ribs, but it had not been necessary. The first had gone through his head. The second shot drew the attention of a deputy in the front of the courtroom. I was ducking even lower, but I saw him pointing to the balcony.
   The double doors to the courtroom flew open, and the stampede was on. In the hysteria that followed, I stayed in my seat and tried to take in everything. I remember seeing Lucien Wilbanks hovering over his client. And Rufus Buckley on his hands and knees, scurrying in front of the jury box in an effort to escape. And I’ll never forget Judge Noose, sitting calmly at the bench, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose, watching the chaos as if he saw it every week.
   Each second seemed to last a minute.
   The shots that hit Danny were fired from the ceiling above the balcony. And, though the balcony was filled with people, no one saw the rifle drop down a few inches ten feet above their heads. Like the rest of us, they were preoccupied with getting a first glance at Danny Padgitt.
   The county had patched and renovated the courtroom at various times over the decades, whenever a few spare bucks could be squeezed from the coffers. Back in the late sixties, in an effort to improve the lighting, a dropped ceiling had been installed. The sniper found the perfect spot on a heating duct just above a panel in the ceiling. There, in the dark crawl space, he waited patiently, watching the courtroom below through a five-inch slit he’d created by lifting one of the water-stained panels.
   When I thought the shooting was over, I crept closer to the bar. The cops were yelling for everybody to get out of the courtroom. They were shoving people and barking all sorts of contradictory instructions. Danny was under the table, attended to by Lucien and several deputies. I could see his feet, and they were not moving. A minute or two passed, and the confusion was subsiding. Suddenly, there was more gunfire; thankfully, now it was outside. I looked out a courtroom window and saw people scampering into the stores around the square. I saw an old man point upward, sort of above my head, to something on the top of the courthouse.
   Sheriff McNatt had just found the crawl space when he heard shots above him. He and two deputies climbed the stairs to the third floor, then slowly took the cramped circular stairway through the dome. The door to the cupola was jammed shut, but just above it they could hear the anxious footsteps of the sniper. And they could hear shell casings hit the floor.
   His only target was the law offices of Lucien Wilbanks, specifically the upstairs windows. With great deliberation he was blowing them out, one by one. Downstairs, Ethel Twitty was under her desk, bawling and screaming at the same time.
   I finally left the courtroom and hustled downstairs to the main floor, where the crowd was waiting, uncertain what to do. The police chief was telling everyone to stay inside. Between bursts of gunfire, the chatter was fast and nervous. When the shooting started, we gawked at one another. Each one of us was thinking, “How long will this go on?”
   I huddled with the Ruffin family. Miss Callie had fainted when the first shot jolted the courtroom. Max and Bobby were clutching her, anxious to get her home.


* * *

   After holding the town hostage for an hour, the sniper ran out of ammunition. He saved the last bullet for himself, and when he pulled the trigger he fell hard on the small passage door in the floor of the cupola. Sheriff McNatt waited a few minutes, then managed to shove the door up and open. The body of Hank Hooten was naked again. And as dead as fresh roadkill.
   A deputy ran down the stairs and yelled, “It’s over! He’s dead! It’s Hank Hooten!”
   The bewildered expressions were almost amusing. Hank Hooten? Everyone said the name but no words came out. Hank Hooten?
   “That lawyer who went crazy.”
   “I thought he got sent away.”
   “Isn’t he in Whitfield?”
   “Thought he was dead.”
   “Who’s Hank Hooten?” Carlota asked me, but I was too confused to give an answer. We spilled outside under the shade trees and lingered for a while, not certain whether we should stay in case there was another incredible event, or go home and try to comprehend the one we’d just lived through. The Ruffin clan left quickly; Miss Callie was not feeling well.
   Eventually, an ambulance carrying Danny Padgitt pulled away from the courthouse and left in no hurry whatsoever. The removal of Hank Hooten was a bit more demanding, but with time they wrestled down his corpse, then rolled it out of the courthouse on a gurney, covered from head to toe with a white sheet.
   I walked to my office, where Margaret and Wiley were sipping fresh coffee and waiting for me. We were too stunned to engage in intelligent conversation. The entire town was muted.
   I eventually made some phone calls, found who I wanted, and around noon left the office. As I drove around the square, I saw Mr. Dex Pratt, who owned the local glass company and ran an ad in the Times every week, on the balcony at Lucien’s, already removing the French doors and replacing panes. I was sure Lucien was home by then, already hitting the sauce on his porch, from where he could see the dome and the cupola of the courthouse.
   Whitfield was three hours to the south. I wasn’t sure if I would make it that far, because at any moment I was likely to turn right, head west, cross the river at Greenville or Vicksburg, and be somewhere deep in Texas by dusk. Or take a left, head east, and find a very late dinner somewhere close to Atlanta.
   What madness. How did such a pleasant little town end up in such a nightmare? I just wanted out.
   I was near Jackson before I came out of my trance.


* * *

   The state mental hospital was twenty miles east of Jackson on an interstate highway. I bluffed my way through the guardhouse, using the name of a doctor I’d located fishing around with the phone.
   Dr. Vero was very busy, and I read magazines for an hour outside his office. When I informed the girl at the desk that I was not leaving, and that I would follow him home if necessary, he somehow found the time to squeeze me in.
   Vero had long hair and a grayish beard. His accent was clearly upper midwest. Two diplomas on his wall tracked him through Northwestern and Johns Hopkins, though in the dingy light of his debris-strewn office I couldn’t read the details.
   I told him what had happened that morning in Clanton. After my narrative he said, “I can’t talk about Mr. Hooten. As I explained on the phone, we have a doctor-patient privilege.”
   “Had. Not have.”
   “It survives, Mr. Traynor. It’s still alive, and I’m afraid I can’t discuss this patient.”
   I’d been around Harry Rex long enough to know that you never took no for an answer. I launched into a long and detailed account of the Padgitt case, from the trial to the parole to the last month and the tension in Clanton. I told the story of seeing Hank Hooten late one Sunday night in the Calico Ridge Independent Church, and how no one seemed to know anything about him during the last years of his life.
   My angle was that the town needed to know what made him snap. How sick was he? Why was he released? There were many questions, and before “we” could put the tragic episode behind “us,” then “we” needed the truth. I caught myself pleading for information.
   “How much will you print?” he asked, breaking the ice.
   “I’ll print what you tell me to print. And if something’s off-limits, just say so.”
   “Let’s take a walk.”
   On a concrete bench, in a small shaded courtyard, we sipped coffee from paper cups. “This is what you can print,” Vero began. “Mr. Hooten was admitted here in January 1971. He was diagnosed as schizophrenic, confined here, treated here, and released in October 1976.”
   “Who diagnosed him?” I asked.
   “We now go off the record. Agreed?”
   “Agreed.”
   “This must be confidential, Mr. Traynor. I must have your word on this.”
   I put away my pen and notepad and said, “I swear on the Bible that this will not be printed.”
   He hesitated for a long time, took several sips of his coffee, and for a moment I thought he might clam up and ask me to leave. Then he relaxed a little, and said, “I treated Mr. Hooten initially. His family had a history of schizophrenia. His mother and possibly his grandmother suffered from it. Quite often genetics play a role in the disease. He was institutionalized while he was in college, and remarkably, managed to finish law school. After his second divorce, he moved to Clanton in the mid-sixties, looking for a place to start over. Another divorce followed. He adored women, but could not survive in a relationship. He was quite enamored with Rhoda Kassellaw and claimed he asked her to marry him repeatedly. I’m sure the young lady was somewhat wary of him. Her murder was very traumatic. And when the jury refused to send her killer to death, he, shall I say, slipped over the edge.”
   “Thank you for using layman’s terms,” I said. I remembered the diagnosis around town—»slap-ass crazy.”
   “He heard voices, the principal one being that of Miss Kassellaw. Her two small children also talked to him. They begged him to protect her, to save her. They described the horror of watching their mother get raped and murdered in her own bed, and they blamed Mr. Hooten for not saving her. Her killer, Mr. Padgitt, also tormented him with taunts from prison. On many occasions I watched by closed circuit as Mr. Hooten screamed at Danny Padgitt from his room here.”
   “Did he mention the jurors?”
   “Oh yes, all the time. He knew that three of them—Mr. Fargarson, Mr. Teale, and Mrs. Root—had refused to bring back a death penalty. He would scream their names in the middle of the night.”
   “That’s amazing. The jurors vowed to never discuss their deliberations. We didn’t know how they voted until a month ago.”
   “Well, he was the assistant prosecutor.”
   “Yes, he was.” I vividly remembered Hank Hooten sitting beside Ernie Gaddis at the trial, never saying a word, looking bored and detached from the proceedings. “Did he express a desire to seek revenge?”
   A sip of coffee, another pause as he debated whether to answer. “Yes. He hated them. He wanted them dead, along with Mr. Padgitt.”
   “Then why was he released?”
   “I can’t talk about his release, Mr. Traynor. I wasn’t here at the time, and there might be some liability on the part of this institution.”
   “You weren’t here?”
   “I left for two years to teach in Chicago. When I returned eighteen months ago, Mr. Hooten was gone.”
   “But you’ve reviewed his file.”
   “Yes, and his condition improved dramatically while I was away. The doctors found the right mix of antipsychotic drugs and his symptoms diminished substantially. He was released to a community treatment program in Tupelo, and from there he sort of fell off our radar. Needless to say, Mr. Traynor, the treatment of the mentally ill is not a priority in this state, nor in many others. We are grossly understaffed and underfunded.”
   “Would you have released him?”
   “I cannot answer that. At this point, Mr. Traynor, I think I’ve said enough.”
   I thanked him for his time, for his candor, and once again promised to protect his confidence. He asked for a copy of whatever I printed.
   I stopped at a fast-food place in Jackson for a cheeseburger. At a pay phone I called the office, half-wondering if I’d missed more shootings. Margaret was relieved to hear my voice.
   “You must come home, Willie, and quickly,” she said.
   “Why?”
   “Callie Ruffin has had a stroke. She’s in the hospital.”
   “Is it serious?”
   “I’m afraid so.”

Chapter 44

   A county bond issue in 1977 had paid for a handsome renovation to our hospital. At one end of the main floor there was a modern, though quite dark, chapel where I’d once sat with Margaret and her family as her mother passed away. It was there that I found the Ruffins, all eight children, all twenty-one grandchildren, and every spouse but Leon’s wife. Reverend Thurston Small was there, along with a sizable contingent from the church. Esau was upstairs in the intensive care unit, waiting outside Miss Callie’s room.
   Sam told me that she had awakened from a nap with a sharp pain in her left arm, then numbness in her leg, and before long she was mumbling incoherently. An ambulance rushed her to the hospital. The doctor was certain it was initially a stroke, one that precipitated a mild heart attack. She was being heavily medicated and monitored. The last report from the doctor had been around 8 P.M.; her condition was described as “serious but stable.”
   Visitors were not allowed, so there was little to do but wait and pray and greet friends as they came and went. After an hour in the chapel, I was ready for bed. Max, third in the birth order but the undeniable leader, organized a schedule for the night. At least two of Miss Gallic’s children would be somewhere in the hospital at all times.
   We checked with the doctor again around eleven, and he sounded reasonably optimistic that she was still stable. She was “asleep” as he put it, but upon further questioning admitted that they had her knocked out to prevent another stroke. “Go home and rest,” he said. “Tomorrow could be a long day.” We left Mario and Gloria in the chapel, and moved en masse to the Hocutt House where we ate ice cream on a side porch. Sam had taken Esau home to Lowtown. I was delighted that the rest of the family preferred staying at my place.
   Of the thirteen adults there, only Leon and Carlota’s husband, Sterling, would touch alcohol. I opened a bottle of wine, and the three of us passed on the ice cream.
   Everyone was exhausted, especially the children. The day had begun with an adventure to the courthouse for a peek at the man who’d been terrorizing our community. That seemed like a week ago. Around midnight, Al gathered the family together in my den for one last word of prayer. A “chain prayer” as he called it, in which every adult and child gave thanks for something and asked for God’s protection of Miss Callie. Sitting there on my sofa, fervently holding hands with Bonnie and with Mario’s wife, I felt the presence of the Lord. I knew my beloved friend, their mother and grandmother, would be fine.
   Two hours later I was lying in bed, wide awake, still hearing the sharp crack of the rifle in the courtroom, the thud of the bullet as it hit Danny, the panic that followed. I rewound and replayed every word of Dr. Vero’s, and wondered in what manner of hell poor Hank Hooten had been living for the past few years. Why had he been set loose on society again?
   And I worried about Miss Callie, though her condition seemed to be under control and she was in good hands.
   I eventually slept for two hours, then eased downstairs where I found Mario and Leon drinking coffee at the kitchen table. Mario had left the hospital an hour earlier; there’d been no change. They were already plotting the stringent weight reduction plan the family would impose on Miss Callie when she was back home. And she would begin an exercise program that would include long walks each day around Low-town. Regular checkups, vitamins, lean foods.
   They were serious about this new health regimen, though everyone knew that Miss Callie would do exactly as she wished.


* * *

   A few hours later, I began the chore of boxing up the things and junk I’d collected in nine years, and cleaning out my office. The new editor was a pleasant lady from Meridian, Mississippi, and she wanted to get started by the weekend. Margaret offered to help, but I wanted to go slowly and reminisce as I emptied drawers and files. It was a personal moment, and I preferred to be alone.
   Mr. Caudle’s books were finally removed from the dusty shelves where they had been placed long before I arrived. I planned to store them somewhere at home, in case an ancestor of his showed up and asked questions.
   My emotions were mixed. Everything I touched brought back a story, a deadline, a trip deep into the county to chase a lead, interview a witness, or meet someone I hoped would be interesting enough for a profile. And the sooner I finished the packing, the closer I would be to walking out of the building and catching an airplane.
   Bobby Ruffin called at nine-thirty. Miss Callie was awake, sitting up, sipping some tea, and they were allowing visitors for a few minutes. I hurried to the hospital. Sam met me in the hall and led me through the maze of rooms and cubicles in ICU. “Don’t talk about anything that happened yesterday, okay?” he said as we walked.
   “Sure.”
   “Nothing exciting. They won’t even allow the grandkids in; afraid that would make her heart rate go crazy. Everything is real quiet.”
   She was awake, but barely. I had expected to see the bright eyes and brilliant smile, but Miss Callie was barely conscious. She recognized me, we hugged, I patted her right hand. The left one had an IV Sam, Esau, and Gloria were in the room.
   I wanted a few minutes alone so I could finally tell her I was selling the paper, but she was in no condition for such news. She’d been awake for almost two hours, and she obviously needed more sleep. Perhaps in a day or so we could have a lively chat about it.
   After fifteen minutes, the doctor showed up and asked us to leave. We left, we came back, and the vigil continued throughout the Fourth of July, though we were not allowed inside the ICU again.


* * *

   The Mayor decided there would be no fireworks for the Fourth. We’d heard enough explosions, suffered enough from gunpowder. Given the town’s lingering jumpiness, there was no organized objection. The bands marched, the parade went on, the political speeches were the same as before, though with fewer candidates. Senator Theo Morton was a conspicuous no-show. There was ice cream, lemonade, barbecue, cotton candy—the usual food and snacks on the courthouse lawn.
   But the town was subdued. Or maybe it was just me. Maybe I was just so tired of the place that nothing seemed right about it. I certainly had the remedy.
   After the speeches, I left the square and drove back to the hospital, a little detour that was becoming monotonous. I spoke to Fuzzy, who swept the hospital parking lot, and to Ralph, who washed the windows of the lobby. I stopped by the canteen and bought another lemonade from Hazel, then spoke to Mrs. Esther Ellen Trussel, who was manning the front information desk on behalf of the Pink Ladies, the hospital’s auxiliary. In the waiting room on the second floor I found Bobby with Al’s wife; they were watching television like two zombies. I had just opened a magazine when Sam came running in.
   “She’s had another heart attack!” he said.
   The three of us jumped to our feet as if we had somewhere to go.
   “It just happened! They got the red team in there!”
   “I’ll call the house,” I said, and stepped to the pay phone in the hall. Max answered the phone, and fifteen minutes later the Ruffins were streaming into the chapel.
   The doctors took forever before giving us an update. It was almost eight P.M. before her treating physician entered the chapel. Doctors are notoriously hard to read, but his heavy eyes and wrinkled brow conveyed an unmistakable message. As he described a “significant cardiac arrest” the eight children of Miss Callie deflated as a group. She was on a respirator, no longer able to breathe by herself.
   Within an hour, the chapel was full of her friends. Reverend Thurston Small led a nonstop prayer group near the altar, and people joined it and left it as they wished. Poor Esau sat on the back row, slumped over, thoroughly drained. His grandchildren surrounded him, all very quiet and respectful.
   For hours, we waited. And though we tried to smile and be optimistic, there was a feeling of doom. It was as if the funeral had already begun.
   Margaret stopped by and we chatted in the hallway. Later, Mr. and Mrs. Fargarson found me and asked to speak to Esau. I led them into the chapel, where they were welcomed warmly by the Ruffins, all of whom expressed great sympathy for the loss of their son.
   By midnight we were numb and rapidly losing track of time. Minutes dragged by, then I would look at the clock on the wall and wonder where the past hour went. I wanted to leave, if only to walk outside and breathe fresh air. The doctor, however, had warned us to stay close.
   The horror of the ordeal hit when he gathered us around and gravely said it was time for a “final moment with the family.” There were gasps, then tears. I’ll never forget hearing Sam say out loud, “A final moment?”
   “This is it?” Gloria asked in absolute terror.
   Frightened and bewildered, we followed the doctor out of the chapel, down the hall, up a flight of stairs, all of us moving with the heavy feet of someone marching to his own execution. The nurses helped herd us through the maze in ICU, their faces telling us what we dreaded the most.
   As the family filed into the cramped little room, the doctor touched my arm and said, “This should be just for the family.”
   “Right,” I said, stopping.
   “It’s okay,” Sam said. “He’s with us.”
   We packed around Miss Callie and her machines, most of which had been disconnected. The two smallest grandchildren were placed at the foot of her bed. Esau stood closest to her, gently patting her face. Her eyes were closed; she did not appear to be breathing.
   She was very much at peace. Her husband and children touched some part of her, and the crying was heartbreaking. I was in a corner, wedged behind Gloria’s husband and Al’s wife, and I simply could not believe where I was or what I was doing.
   When Max got his emotions under control, he touched Miss Callie’s arm and said, “Let us pray.” We bowed our heads and most of the crying stopped, for a moment anyway. “Dear Lord, not our will but yours. Into thine hands we commend the spirit of this faithful child of God. Prepare a place for her now in your heavenly kingdom. Amen.”


* * *

   At sunrise, I was sitting on the porch outside my office. I wanted to be alone, to have a good cry in private. The crying around my house was more than I could bear.
   As I had dreamed of traveling the world, I had the recurring vision of returning to Clanton with gifts for Miss Callie. I’d bring her a silver vase from England, linens from the Italy she would never see, perfumes from Paris, chocolates from Belgium, an urn from Egypt, a small diamond from the mines of South Africa. I would present these to her on her porch, before we had lunch, then we would talk about the places they came from. I would send her postcards at every stop. We would review my photographs in great detail. Through me, she would vicariously see the world. She would always be there, waiting eagerly for my return, anxious to see what I’d brought her. She would fill her home with little pieces of the world, and own things that no one, black or white, had ever owned in Clanton.
   I ached with the loss of my dear friend. Its suddenness was cruel, as it always is. Its depth was so immense that I could not, at that time, imagine a recovery.
   As the town slowly came to life below me, I walked to my desk, shoved some boxes out of the way, and sat down. I took my pen, and for a long time stared at a blank notepad. Eventually, slowly, with great agony, I began the last obituary.

Author’s Note

   Very few laws remain the same. Once enacted, they are likely to be studied, modified, amended, then often repealed altogether. This constant tinkering by judges and lawmakers is usually a good thing. Bad laws are weeded out. Weak laws are improved. Good laws are fine tuned.
   I took great liberty with a few of the laws that existed in Mississippi in the 1970s. The ones I mistreated in this book have now been amended and improved. I misused them to move my story along. I do this all the time and never feel guilty about it, since I can always disclaim things on this page.
   If you spot these mistakes, please don’t write me a letter. I acknowledge my mistakes. They were intentional.
   Thanks to Grady Tollison and Ed Perry of Oxford, Mississippi, for their recollections of old laws and procedures. And to Don Whitten and Mr. Jessie Phillips of TheOxford Eagle. And to Gary Greene for technical advice.

The Pelican Brief

John Grisham

John Grisham
The Pelican Brief

   He seemed incapable of creating such chaos, but much of what he saw below could be blamed on him. And that was fine. He was ninety-one, paralyzed, strapped in a wheelchair and hooked to oxygen. His second stroke seven years ago had almost finished him off, but Abraham Rosenberg was still alive and even with tubes in his nose his legal stick was bigger than the other eight. He was the only legend remaining on the Court, and the fact that he was still breathing irritated most of the mob below.
   He sat in a small wheelchair in an office on the main floor of the Supreme Court Building. His feet touched the edge of the window, and he strained forward as the noise increased. He hated cops, but the sight of them standing in thick, neat lines was somewhat comforting. They stood straight and held ground as the mob of at least fifty thousand screamed for blood.
   “Biggest crowd ever!” Rosenberg yelled at the window. He was almost deaf. Jason Kline, his senior law clerk, stood behind him. It was the first Monday in October, the opening day of the new term, and this had become a traditional celebration of the First Amendment. A glorious celebration. Rosenberg was thrilled. To him, freedom of speech meant freedom to riot.
   “Are the Indians out there?” he asked loudly.
   Jason Kline leaned closer to his right ear. “Yes!”
   “With war paint?”
   “Yes! In full battle dress.”
   “Are they dancing?”
   “Yes!”
   The Indians, the blacks, whites, browns, women, gays, tree lovers, Christians, abortion activists, Aryans, Nazis, atheists, hunters, animal lovers, white supremacists, black supremacists, tax protestors, loggers, farmers—it was a massive sea of protest. And the riot police gripped their black sticks.
   “The Indians should love me!”
   “I’m sure they do.” Kline nodded and smiled at the frail little man with clenched fists. His ideology was simple—government over business, the individual over government, the environment over everything. And the Indians, give them whatever they want.
   The heckling, praying, singing, chanting, and screaming grew louder, and the riot police inched closer together. The crowd was larger and rowdier than in recent years. Things were more tense.
   Violence had become common. Abortion clinics had been bombed. Doctors had been attacked and beaten. One was killed in Pensacola, gagged and bound into the fetal position and burned with acid.
   Street fights were weekly events. Churches and priests had been abused by militant gays. White supremacists operated from a dozen known, shadowy, paramilitary organizations, and had become bolder in their attacks on blacks, Hispanics, and Asians. Hatred was now America’s favorite pastime.
   And the Court, of course, was an easy target. Threats, serious ones, against the justices had increased tenfold since 1990. The Supreme Court police had tripled in size. At least two FBI agents were assigned to guard each justice, and another fifty were kept busy investigating threats.
   “They hate me, don’t they?” he said loudly, staring out the window.
   “Yes, some of them do,” Kline answered with amusement.
   Rosenberg liked to hear that. He smiled and inhaled deeply. Eighty percent of the death threats were aimed at him.
   “See any of those signs?” he asked. He was nearly blind.
   “Quite a few.”
   “What do they say?”
   “The usual. Death to Rosenberg. Retire Rosenberg. Cut Off the Oxygen.”
   “They’ve been waving those same damned signs for years. Why don’t they get some new ones?”
   The clerk did not answer. Abe should’ve retired years ago, but they would carry him out one day on a stretcher. His three law clerks did most of the research, but Rosenberg insisted on writing his own opinions. He did so with a heavy felt-tip marker and his words were scrawled across a white legal pad, much like a first-grader learning to write. Slow work, but with a lifetime appointment, who cared about time? The clerks proofed his opinions, and rarely found mistakes.
   Rosenberg chuckled. “We oughta feed Runyan to the Indians.” The Chief Justice was John Runyan, a tough conservative appointed by a Republican and hated by the Indians and most other minorities. Seven of the nine had been appointed by Republican Presidents. For fifteen years Rosenberg had been waiting for a Democrat in the White House. He wanted to quit, needed to quit, but he could not stomach the idea of a right-wing Runyan type taking his beloved seat.
   He could wait. He could sit here in his wheelchair and breathe oxygen and protect the Indians, the blacks, the women, the poor, the handicapped, and the environment until he was a hundred and five. And not a single person in the world could do a damned thing about it, unless they killed him. And that wouldn’t be such a bad idea either.
   The great man’s head nodded, then wobbled and rested on his shoulder. He was asleep again. Kline quietly stepped away, and returned to his research in the library. He would return in half an hour to check the oxygen and give Abe his pills.


   The office of the Chief Justice is on the main floor, and is larger and more ornate than the other eight. The outer office is used for small receptions and formal gatherings, and the inner office is where the Chief works.
   The door to the inner office was closed, and the room was filled with the Chief, his three law clerks, the captain of the Supreme Court police, three FBI agents, and K. O. Lewis, deputy director, FBI. The mood was serious, and a serious effort was under way to ignore the noise from the streets below. It was difficult. The Chief and Lewis discussed the latest series of death threats, and everyone else just listened. The clerks took notes.
   In the past sixty days, the Bureau had logged over two hundred threats, a new record. There was the usual assortment of “Bomb the Court!” threats, but many came with specificslike names, cases, and issues.
   Runyan made no effort to hide his anxiety. Working from a confidential FBI summary, he read the names of individuals and groups suspected of threats. The Klan, the Aryans, the Nazis, the Palestinians, the black separatists, the pro-lifers, the homophobics. Even the IRA. Everyone, it seemed, but the Rotarians and the Boy Scouts. A Middle East group backed by the Iranians had threatened blood on American soil in retaliation for the deaths of two justice ministers in Tehran. There was absolutely no evidence the murders were linked to the U.S. A new domestic terrorist unit of recent fame known as the Underground Army had killed a federal trial judge in Texas with a car bomb. No arrests had been made, but the UA claimed responsibility. It was also the prime suspect in a dozen bombings of ACLU offices, but its work was very clean.
   “What about these Puerto Rican terrorists?” Runyan asked without looking up.
   “Lightweights. We’re not worried,” K. O. Lewis answered casually. “They’ve been threatening for twenty years.”
   “Well, maybe it’s time they did something. The climate is right, don’t you think?”
   “Forget the Puerto Ricans, Chief.” Runyan liked to be called Chief. Not Chief Justice, nor Mr. Chief Justice. Just Chief. “They’re just threatening because everyone else is.”
   “Very funny,” the Chief said without smiling. “Very funny. I’d hate for some group to be left out.” Runyan threw the summary on his desk and rubbed his temples. “Let’s talk about security.” He closed his eyes.
   K. O. Lewis laid his copy of the summary on the Chief’s desk.
   “Well, the Director thinks we should place four agents with each Justice, at least for the next ninety days. We’ll use limousines with escorts to and from work, and the Supreme Court police will provide backup and secure this building.”
   “What about travel?”
   “It’s not a good idea, at least for now. The Director thinks the justices should remain in the D.C. area until the end of the year.”
   “Are you crazy? Is he crazy? If I asked my brethren to follow that request they would all leave town tonight and travel for the next month. That’s absurd.” Runyan frowned at his law clerks, who shook their heads in disgust. Truly absurd.
   Lewis was unmoved. This was expected. “As you wish. Just a suggestion.”
   “A foolish suggestion.”
   “The Director did not expect your cooperation on that one. He would, however, expect to be notified in advance of all travel plans so that we can arrange security.”
   “You mean, you plan to escort each Justice each time he leaves the city?”
   “Yes, Chief. That’s our plan.”
   “Won’t work. These people are not accustomed to being baby-sat.”
   “Yes, sir. And they’re not accustomed to being stalked either. We’re just trying to protect you and your honorable brethren, sir. Of course, no one says we have to do anything. I think, sir, that you called us. We can leave, if you wish.”
   Runyan rocked forward in his chair and attacked a paper clip, prying the curves out of it and trying to make it perfectly straight. “What about around here?”
   Lewis sighed and almost smiled. “We’re not worried about this building, Chief. It’s an easy place to secure. We don’t expect trouble here.”
   “Then where?”
   Lewis nodded at a window. The noise was louder. “Out there somewhere. The streets are full of idiots and maniacs and zealots.”
   “And they all hate us.”
   “Evidently. Listen, Chief, we’re very concerned about Justice Rosenberg. He still refuses to allow our men inside his home—makes them sit in a car in the street all night. He will allow his favorite Supreme Court officer what’s his name? Ferguson to sit by the back door, outside, but only from 10 P.M. to 6 A.M. No one gets in the house but Justice Rosenberg and his male nurse. The place is not secure.”
   Runyan picked his fingernails with the paper clip and smiled slightly to himself. Rosenberg’s death, by any means or method, would be a relief. No, it would be a glorious occasion. The Chief would have to wear black and give a eulogy, but behind locked doors he would chuckle with his law clerks. Runyan liked this thought.
   “What do you suggest?” he asked.
   “Can you talk to him?”
   “I’ve tried. I’ve explained to him that he is probably the most hated man in America, that millions of people curse him every day, that most folks would like to see him dead, that he receives four times the hate mail as the rest of us combined, and that he would be a perfect and easy target for assassination.”
   Lewis waited. “And?”
   “Told me to kiss his ass, then fell asleep.”
   The law clerks giggled properly, then the FBI agents realized humor was permitted and joined in for a quick laugh.
   “So what do we do?” asked Lewis, unamused.
   “You protect him as best you can, put it in writing, and don’t worry about it. He fears nothing, including death, and if he’s not sweating it, why should you?”
   “The Director is sweating, so I’m sweating, Chief. It’s very simple. If one of you guys gets hurt, the Bureau looks bad.”
   The Chief rocked quickly in his chair. The racket from outside was unnerving. This meeting had dragged on long enough. “Forget Rosenberg. Maybe he’ll die in his sleep. I’m more concerned over Jensen.”
   “Jensen’s a problem,” Lewis said, flipping pages.
   “I know he’s a problem,” Runyan said slowly. “He’s an embarrassment. Now he thinks he’s a liberal. Votes like Rosenberg half the time. Next month, he’ll be a white supremacist and support segregated schools. Then he’ll fall in love with the Indians and want to give them Montana. It’s like having a retarded child.”
   “He’s being treated for depression, you know.”
   “I know, I know. He tells me about it. I’m his father figure. What drug?”
   “Prozac.”
   The Chief dug under his fingernails. “What about that aerobics instructor he was seeing? She still around?”
   “Not really, Chief. I don’t think he cares for women.” Lewis was smug. He knew more. He glanced at one of his agents and confirmed this juicy little tidbit.
   Runyan ignored it, didn’t want to hear it. “Is he cooperating?”
   “Of course not. In many ways he’s worse than Rosenberg. He allows us to escort him to his apartment building, then makes us sit in the parking lot all night. He’s seven floors up, remember. We can’t even sit in the lobby. Might upset his neighbors, he says. So we sit in the car. There are ten ways in and out of the building, and it’s impossible to protect him. He likes to play hide-and-seek with us. He sneaks around all the time, so we never know if he’s in the building or not. At least with Rosenberg we know where he is all night. Jensen’s impossible.”
   “Great. If you can’t follow him, how could an assassin?”
   Lewis hadn’t thought of this. He missed the humor. “The Director is very concerned with Justice Jensen’s safety.”
   “He doesn’t receive that many threats.”
   “Number six on the list, just a few less than you, your honor.”
   “Oh. So I’m in fifth place.”
   “Yes. Just behind Justice Manning. He’s cooperating, by the way. Fully.”
   “He’s afraid of his shadow,” the Chief said, then hesitated. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
   Lewis ignored it. “In fact, the cooperation has been reasonably good, except for Rosenberg and Jensen. Justice Stone bitches a lot, but he listens to us.”
   “He bitches at everyone, so don’t take it personally. Where do you suppose Jensen sneaks off to?”
   Lewis glanced at one of his agents. “We have no idea.” A large section of the mob suddenly came together in one unrestrained chorus, and everyone on the streets seemed to join in. The Chief could not ignore it. The windows vibrated. He stood and called an end to this meeting.


   Justice Glenn Jensen’s office was on the second floor, away from the streets and the noise. It was a spacious room, yet the smallest of the nine. Jensen was the youngest of the nine, and he was lucky to have an office. When nominated six years earlier at the age of forty-two, he was thought to be a strict constructionist with deep conservative beliefs, much like the man who nominated him. His Senate confirmation had been a slugfest. Before the Judiciary Committee, Jensen performed poorly. On sensitive issues he straddled the fence, and got kicked from both sides. The Republicans were embarrassed. The Democrats smelled blood. The President twisted arms until they broke, and Jensen was confirmed by one very reluctant vote.