“Yes, I’ll call him.”
   “Don’t bother.”
   Jake and Harry Rex retreated into the big office and waited for the law clerk. She entered carrying a large briefcase.
   “Good morning, Row Ark,” Jake said. “I want you to meet a good friend, Harry Rex Vonner.”
   Harry Rex shook her hand and stared at her shirt. “Nice to meet you. What was your first name?”
   “Ellen.”
   “Just call her Row Ark,” Jake said. “She’ll clerk here until Hailey’s over.”
   “That’s nice,” said Harry Rex, still staring.
   “Harry Rex is a local lawyer, Row Ark, and one of the many you cannot trust.”
   “What’d you hire a female law clerk for, Jake?” he asked bluntly.
   “Row Ark’s a genius in criminal law, like most third-year law students. And she works very cheap.”
   “You have something against females, sir?” Ellen asked.
   “No ma’am. I love females. I’ve married four of them.”
   “Harry Rex is the meanest divorce lawyer in Ford County,” Jake explained. “In fact, he’s the meanest lawyer, period. Come to think of it, he’s the meanest man I know.”
   “Thanks,” said Harry Rex. He had stopped staring at her.
   She looked at his huge, dirty, scuffed, worn wirigtips, his ribbed nylon socks that had drooped into thick wads around his ankles, his soiled and battered khaki pants, his frayed navy blazer, his brilliant pink wool tie that fell eight inches above his belt, and she said, “I think he’s cute.”
   “I might make you wife number five,” Harry Rex said.
   “The attraction is purely physical,” she said.
   “Watch it,” Jake said. “There’s been no sex in this office since Lucien left.”
   “—,-.”,eu iwxi mm jucien,” said Harry Rex.
   “Who’s Lucien?”
   Jake and Harry Rex looked at each other. “You’ll meet him soon enough,” Jake explained.
   “Your secretary is very sweet,” Ellen said.
   “I knew y’all would hit it off. She’s really a doll once you get to know her.”
   “How long does that take?”
   “I’ve known her for twenty years,” said Harry Rex, “and I’m still waiting.”
   “How’s the research coming?” Jake asked.
   “Slow. There are dozens of M’Naghten cases, and they are all very long. I’m about half through. I planned to work on it all day here; that is, if that pit bull downstairs doesn’t attack me.”
   “I’ll take care of her,” Jake said.
   Harry Rex headed for the door. “Nice meetin’ you, Row Ark. I’ll see you around.”
   “Thanks, Harry Rex,” said Jake. “See you Wednesday night.”
   The dirt and gravel parking lot of Tank’s Tonk was full when Jake finally found it after dark. There had been no reason to visit Tank’s before, and he was not thrilled about seeing the place now. It was well hidden off a dirt road, six miles out of Clanton. He parked far away from the small cinderblock building and toyed with the idea of leaving the engine running in case Tank was not there and a quick escape became necessary. But he quickly dismissed the stupid idea because he liked his car, and theft was not only likely but highly probable. He locked it, then double-checked it, almost certain that all or part of it would be missing when he returned.
   The juke box blasted from the open windows, and he thought he heard a bottle crash on the floor, or across a table or someone’s head. He hesitated beside his car and decided to leave. No, it was important. He sucked in his stomach, held his breath, and opened the ragged wooden door.
   Forty sets of black eyes immediately focused on this poor lost white boy with a coat and tie who was squinting and trying to focus inside the vast blackness of their tonk. He stood there awkwardly, desperately searching for a friend. There were none. Michael Jackson conveniently finished his song on the juke box, and for an eternity the tonk was silent. Jake stayed close to the door. He nodded and smiled and tried to act like one of the gang. There were no other smiles.
   Suddenly, there was movement at the bar and Jake’s knees began vibrating. “Jake! Jake!” someone shouted. It was the sweetest two words he had ever heard. From behind the bar he saw his friend Tank removing his apron and heading for him. They shook hands warmly.
   “What brings you here?”
   “I need to talk to you for a minute. Can we step outside?”
   “Sure. What’s up?”
   “Just business.”
   Tank flipped on a light switch by the front door. “Say, everbody, this here is Carl Lee Hailey’s lawyer, Jake Bri-gance. A good friend of mine. Let’s hear it for him.”
   The small room exploded in applause and bravos. Several of the boys at the bar grabbed Jake and shook his hand. Tank reached in a drawer under the bar and pulled out a handful of Jake’s cards, which he passed out like candy. Jake was breathing again and the color returned to his face.
   Outside, they leaned on the hood of Tank’s yellow Cadillac. Lionel Richie echoed through the windows and the crowd returned to normal. Jake handed Tank a copy of the list.
   “Look at each name. See how many of these folks you know. Ask around and find out what you can.”
   Tank held the list near his eyes. The light from the Michelob sign in the window glowed over his shoulder. “How many are black?”
   “You tell me. That’s one reason I want you to look at it. Circle the black ones. If you’re not sure, find out. If you know any of the white folks, make a note.”
   “I’ll be glad to, Jake. This ain’t illegal, is it?”
   “Naw, but don’t tell anybody. I need it back by Wednesday morning.”
   “You’re the boss.”
   –(tm)*, u..u JUK. C ncaciea tor the office. It was almost ten. Ethel had retyped the list from the initial one provided by Harry Rex, and a dozen copies had been hand-delivered to selected, trusted friends. Lucien, Stan At-cavage, Tank, Dell at the Coffee Shop, a lawyer in Karaway named Roland Isom, and a few others. Even Ozzie got a list.
   Less than three miles from the tonk was a small, neat white-framed country house where Ethel and Bud Iwitty had lived for almost forty years. It was a pleasant house with pleasant memories of raising children who were now scattered up North. The retarded son, the one who greatly resembled Lucien, lived in Miami for some reason. The house was quieter now. Bud hadn’t worked in years, not since his first stroke in ‘75. Then a heart attack, followed by two more major strokes and several small ones. His days were numbered, and he had long since accepted the fact that he would most likely catch the big one and die on his front porch shelling butterbeans. That’s what he hoped for, anyway.
   Monday night he sat on the porch shelling butterbeans and listening to the Cardinals on the radio. Ethel was working in the kitchen. In the bottom of the eighth with the Cards at bat and two on, he heard a noise from the side of the house. He turned the volume down. Probably just a dog. Then another noise. He stood and walked to the end of the porch. Suddenly, a huge figure dressed in solid black with red, white, and black war paint smeared wickedly across his face jumped from the bushes, grabbed Bud and yanked him off the porch. Bud’s anguished cry was not heard in the kitchen. Another warrior joined in and they dragged the old man to the foot of the steps leading up to the front porch. One maneuvered him into a half-nelson while the other pounded his soft belly and bloodied his face. Within seconds, he was unconscious.
   Ethel heard noises and scurried through the front door. She was grabbed by a third member of the gang, who twisted her arm tightly behind her and wrapped a huge arm around her throat. She couldn’t scream or talk or move, and was held there on the porch, terrified, watching below as the two thugs took turns with her husband. On the front sidewalk ten feet behind the violence stood three figures, each garbed in a full, flowing, white robe with red garnishment, each with a tall, white, pointed headdress from which fell a red and white mask that loosely covered each face. They emerged from the darkness and watched over the scene as though they were the three wise men attending the manger.
   After a long, agonizing minute, the beating grew monotonous. “Enough,” said the ruler in the middle. The three terrorists in black ran. Ethel rushed down the steps and slumped over her battered husband. The three in white disappeared.
   Jake left the hospital after midnight with Bud still alive but everyone pessimistic. Along with the broken bones he had suffered another major heart attack. Ethel had made a scene and blamed it all on Jake.
   “You said there was no danger!” she screamed. “Tell that to my husband! It’s all your fault!”
   He had listened to her rant and rave, and the embarrassment turned to anger. He glanced around the small waiting room at the friends and relatives. All eyes were on him. Yes, they seemed to say, it was all his fault.
   Gwen called the office early Tuesday morning and the new secretary, Ellen Roark, answered the phone. She fumbled with the intercom until she broke it, then walked to the stairs and yelled: “Jake, it’s Mr. Hailey’s wife.”
   He slammed a book shut and angrily picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
   “Jake, are you busy?”
   “Very. What’s on your mind?”
   She started crying. “Jake, we need money. We’re broke, and the bills are past due. I haven’t paid the house note in two months and the mortgage company is callin’. I don’t know who else to turn to.”
   “What about your family?”
   “They’re poor folks, Jake, you know that. They’ll feed us and do what they can, but they can’t make our house notes and pay the utilities.”
   “Have you talked to Carl Lee?”
   “Not about money. Not lately. There’s not much he can do except worry, and Lord knows he’s got enough to worry about.”
   “What about the churches?”
   “Ain’t seen a dime.”
   “How much do you need?”
   “At least five hundred, just to catch up. I don’t know ‘bout next month. I’ll guess I’ll worry then.”
   Nine hundred minus five hundred left Jake with four hundred dollars for a capital murder defense. That had to be a record. Four hundred dollars! He had an idea.
   “Can you be at my office at two this afternoon?”
   “I’ll have to bring the kids.”
   “That’s okay. Just be here.”
   “I’ll be there.”
   He hung up and quickly searched the phone book for Reverend Ollie Agee. He found him at the church. Jake fed him a line about meeting to discuss the Hailey trial and covering Agee’s testimony. Said the reverend would be an important witness. Agee said he would be there at two.
   The Hailey clan arrived first, and Jake seated them around the conference table. The kids remembered the room from the press conference and were awed by the long table, thick swivel chairs, and impressive rows of books. When the reverend arrived he hugged Gwen and made a fuss over the kids, especially Tonya.
   “I’ll be very brief, Reverend,” started Jake. “There are some things we need to discuss. For several weeks now, you and the other black ministers in this county have been raising money for the Haileys. And you’ve done a real good job. Over six thousand, I believe. I don’t know where the money is, and it’s none of my business. You offered the money to the NAACP lawyers to represent Carl Lee, but as you and I know, those lawyers won’t be involved in this case. I’m the lawyer, the only lawyer, and so far none of the money has been offered to me. I don’t expect any of it. Evidently you don’t care about what kind of defense he gets if you can’t pick his lawyer. That’s fine. I can live with that. What really bothers me, Reverend, is the fact that none, and I repeat none, of the money has been given to the Haileys. Right, Gwen?”
   The empty look on her face had turned to one of amazement, then disbelief, then anger as she glared at the reverend.
   “Six thousand dollars,” she repeated.
   “Over six thousand, at last reported count,” said Jake. “And the money is lying in some bank while Carl Lee sits in jail, Gwen’s not working, the bills are past due, the only food comes from friends, and foreclosure is a few days away. Now, tell us, Reverend, what’re your plans with the money?”
   Agee smiled and said with an oily voice, “That’s none of your business.”
   “But it’s my business!” Gwen said loudly. “You used my name and my family’s name when you raised that money, didn’t you, Reverend. I heard it myself. Told all the church folk that the love offerin’, as you called it, was for my family. I figured you had done spent the money on lawyers’ fee or somethin’ like that. And now, today, I find out you’ve got it stuck in the bank. I guess you plan to keep it.”
   Agee was unmoved. “Now wait a minute, Gwen. We thought the money could best be spent on Carl Lee. He declined the money when he refused to hire the NAACP lawyers. So I asked Mr. Reinfeld, the head lawyer, what to do with the money. He told me to save it because Carl Lee will need it for his appeal.”
   Jake cocked his head sideways and clenched his teeth. He started to rebuke this ignorant fool, but realized Agee did not understand what he was saying. Jake bit his lip.
   “I don’t understand,” said Gwen.
   “It’s simple,” said the reverend with an accommodating smile. “Mr. Reinfeld said that Carl Lee would be convicted because he didn’t hire him. So then we’ve got to appeal, right? And after Jake here loses the trial, you and Carl Lee will of course be lookin’ for another lawyer who can save his life. That’s when we’ll need Reinfeld and that’s when we’ll need the money. So you see, it’s all for Carl Lee.”
   Jake shook his head and silently cursed. He cursed Reinfeld more than Agee.
   Gwen’s eyes flooded and she clenched her fists. “I don’t understand all that, and I don’t want to understand it. All I know is that I’m tired of beggin’ for food, tired of dependin’ on others, and tired of worryin’ about losin’ my house.”
   Agee looked at her sadly. “I understand, Gwen, but—”
   “And if you got six thousand dollars of our money in the bank, you’re wrong not to give it to us. We’ve got enough sense to spend it right.”
   Carl Lee, Jr., and Jarvis stood next to their mother and comforted her. They stared at Agee.
   “But it’s for Carl Lee,” the reverend said.
   “Good,” Jake said. “Have you asked Carl Lee how he wants his money spent?”
   The dirty little grin left Agee’s face and he squirmed in his chair. “Carl Lee understands what we’re doin’,” he said without much conviction.
   “Thank you. That’s not what I asked. Listen to me carefully. Have you asked Carl Lee how he wants his money spent?”
   “I think it’s been discussed with him,” Agee lied.
   “Let’s see,” Jake said. He stood and walked to the door leading to the small office next to the conference room. The reverend watched nervously, almost in panic. Jake opened the door and nodded to someone. Carl Lee and Ozzie casually walked in. The kids yelled and ran to their father. Agee looked devastated.
   After a few awkward minutes of hugs and kisses, Jake moved in for the kill. “Now, Reverend, why don’t you ask Carl Lee how he wants to spend his six thousand dollars.”
   “It ain’t exactly his,” said Agee.
   “And it ain’t exactly yours,” shot Ozzie.

  Carl Lee removed Tonya from his knee and walked to the chair where Agee was sitting. He sat on the edge of the table, above the reverend, poised and ready to strike if necessary. “Let me make it real simple, preacher, so you won’t have trouble understandin’ it. You raised that money in my name, for the benefit of my family. You took it from the black folk of this county, and you took it with the promise that it’d go to help me and my family. You lied. You raised it so you could impress the NAACP, not to help my family. You lied in church, you lied in the newspapers, you lied everwhere.”
   Agee looked around the room and noticed that everyone, including the kids, was staring at him and nodding slowly.
   Carl Lee put his foot in Agee’s chair and leaned closer. “If you don’t give us that money, I’ll tell ever nigger I know that you’re a lyin’ crook. I’ll call ever member of your church, and I’m one too, remember, and tell them we ain’t • got a dime from you, and when I get through you won’t be able to raise two dollars on Sunday mornin’. You’ll lose your fancy Cadillacs and your fancy suits. You may even lose your church, ‘cause I’ll ask everbody to leave.”
   “You finished?” Agee asked. “If you are, I just wanna say that I’m hurt. Hurt real bad that you and Gwen feel this way.”
   “That’s the way we feel, and I don’t care how hurt you are.”
   Ozzie stepped forward. “I agree with them, Reverend Agee, you ain’t done right, and you know it.”
   “That hurts, Ozzie, comin’ from you. It really hurts.”
   “Lemme tell you what’s gonna hurt a whole lot worse than that. Next Sunday me and Carl Lee will be in your church. I’ll sneak him outta the jail early Sunday and we’ll take a little drive. Just about the time you get ready to preach, we’ll walk in the front door, down the aisle and up to the pulpit. If you get in my way, I’ll put handcuffs on you. Carl Lee will do the preachin’. He’ll tell all your people that the money they’ve given so generously has so far not left your pocket, that Gwen and the kids are about to lose their house ‘cause you’re tryin’ to big-shot with the NAACP. He’ll tell them that you lied to them. He may preach for an hour or so. And when he gets through, I’ll say a few words. I’ll tell them what a lyin’, sleazy nigger you are. I’ll tell them about the time you bought that stolen Lincoln in Memphis for a hundred dollars and almost got indicted. I’ll tell them about the kickbacks from the funeral home. I’ll tell them about the DUI charge in Jackson I got dismissed for you two years ago. And, Reverend, I’ll tell—”
   “Don’t say it, Ozzie,” Agee begged.
   “I’ll tell them a dirty little secret that only you and me and a certain woman of ill repute know about.”
   “When do y’all want the money?”
   “How soon can you get it?” Carl Lee demanded.
   “Awfully damned quick.”
   Jake and Ozzie left the Haileys to themselves and went upstairs to the big office, where Ellen was buried in law books. Jake introduced Ozzie to his law clerk, and the three sat around the big desk.
   “How are my buddies?” Jake asked.
   “The dynamite boys? They’re recuperatin’ nicely. We’ll keep them in the hospital until the trial’s over. We fixed a lock on the door, and I keep a deputy in the hall. They ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
   “Who’s the main man?”
   “We still don’t know. Fingerprint tests haven’t come back yet. There may be no prints to match. He ain’t talkin’.”
   “The other is a local boy, isn’t he?” asked Ellen.
   “Yeah. Terrell Grist. He wants to sue because he got hurt during the arrest. Can you imagine?”
   “I can’t believe it’s been kept quiet so far,” Jake said.
   “Me neither. Of course, Grist and Mr. X ain’t talkin’. My men are quiet. That leaves you and your clerk here.”
   “And Lucien, but I didn’t tell him.”
   “Figures.”
   “When will you process them?”
   “After the trial we’ll move them to the jail and start the paperwork. It’s up to us.”
   “How’s Bud?” Jake asked.
   “I stopped by this mornin’ to check on the other two, and I went downstairs to see Ethel. He’s still critical. No changes.”
   “Any suspects?”
   “Gotta be the Klan. With the white robes and all. It all adds up. First there was the burnin’ cross in your yard, then the dynamite, and now Bud. Plus all the death threats. I figure it’s them. And we got an informant.”
   “You what!”
   “You heard me. Calls himself Mickey Mouse. He called me at home Sunday and told me that he saved your life. ‘That nigger’s lawyer’ is what he called you. Said the Klan has officially arrived in Ford County. They’ve set up a klavern, whatever that is.”
   “Who’s in it?”
   “He ain’t much on details. He promised to call me only if someone is about to get hurt.”
   “How nice. Can you trust him?”
   “He saved your life.”
   “Good point. Is he a member?”
   “Didn’t say. They’ve got a big march planned Thursday.”
   “The Klan?”
   “Yep. NAACP has a rally tomorrow in front of the courthouse. Then they’re gonna march for a while. The Klan’s supposed to show up for a peaceful march on Thursday.”
   “How many?”
   “The Mouse didn’t say. Like I said, he ain’t much on details.”
   “The Klan, marching in Clanton. I can’t believe it.”
   “This is heavy stuff,” Ellen said.
   “It’ll get heavier,” Ozzie replied. “I’ve asked the gover—nor to keep the highway patrol on standby. It could be a rough week.”
   “Can you believe Noose is willing to try this case in this town?” asked Jake.
   “It’s too big to move, Jake. It would draw marches, and protests, and Klansmen anywhere you tried it.”
   “Maybe you’re right. How about your jury list?”
   “I’ll have it tomorrow.”
   After supper Tuesday Joe Frank Ferryman sat on his front porch with the evening paper and a fresh chew of Red Man, and spat carefully, neatly through a small hand-carved hole in the porch. This was the evening ritual. Lela would finish the dishes and fix them a tall glass of iced tea, and they would sit on the porch until dark and talk about the crops, the grandchildren, the humidity. They lived out from Karaway on eighty acres of neatly trimmed and cultivated farmland that Joe Frank’s father had stolen during the Depression. They were quiet, hardworking Christian folks.
   After a few discharges through the hole, a pickup slowed out on the highway and turned into the Perrymans’ long gravel driveway. It parked next to the front lawn, and a familiar face emerged. It was Will Tierce, former president of the Ford County Board of Supervisors. Will had served his district for twenty-four years, six consecutive terms, but had lost the last election in ‘83 by seven votes. The Perrymans had always supported Tierce because he took care of them with an occasional load of gravel or a culvert for the driveway.
   “Evenin’, Will,” said Joe Frank as the ex-supervisor walked across the lawn and up the steps.
   “Evenin’, Joe Frank.” They shook hands and relaxed on the porch.
   “Gimme a chew,” Tierce said.
   “Sure. What brings you around here?”
   “Just passin’ by. Thought about Lela’s iced tea and got real thirsty. Hadn’t seen you folks in a while.”
   They sat and talked, chewed and spat, and drank iced tea until it was dark and time for the mosquitoes. The drought required most of their time and Joe Frank talked at length of the dry spell and how it was the worst in ten years. Hadn’t had a drop of rain since the third week of June. And if it didn’t let up, he could forget the cotton crop. The beans might make it, but he was worried about the cotton.
   “Say, Joe Frank, I hear you got one of those jury summons for the trial next week.”
   “Yeah, afraid so. Who told you?”
   “I don’t know. I just heard it around.” tf “I didn’t know it was public knowledge.”
   “Well, I guess I must’ve heard it in Clanton today. I had business at the courthouse. That’s where I heard it. It’s that nigger’s trial, you know.”
   “That’s what I figured.”
   “How do you feel about that nigger shootin’ them boys like he did?”
   “I don’t blame him,” inserted Lela.
   “Yeah, but you can’t take the law into your own hands,” explained Joe Frank to his wife. “That’s what the court system is for.”
   “I’ll tell you what bothers me,” said Tierce, “is this insanity crap. They’re gonna say the nigger was crazy and try to get him off by insanity. Like that nut who shot Reagan. It’s a crooked way to get off. Plus it’s a lie. That nigger planned to kill them boys, and just sat there and waited on them. It was cold-blooded murder.”
   “What if it was your daughter, Will?” asked Lela.
   “I’d let the courts handle it. When we catch a rapist around here, especially a nigger, we generally lock him up. Parchman’s full of rapists who’ll never get out. This ain’t New York or California or some crazy place where criminals go free. We’ve got a good system, and old Judge Noose hands down tough sentences. You gotta let the courts handle it. Our system won’t survive if we allow people, especially niggers, to take the law into their own hands. That’s what really scares me. Suppose this nigger gets off, walks out of the courthouse a free man. Everbody in the country will know it, and the niggers will go crazy. Evertime somebody crosses a nigger, he’ll just kill him, then say he was insane, and try to get off. That’s what’s dangerous about this trial.”
   “You gotta keep the niggers under control,” agreed Joe Frank.
   “You better believe it. And if Hailey gets off, none of us will be safe. Ever nigger in this county’ll carry a gun and just look for trouble.”
   “I hadn’t really thought about that,” admitted Joe Frank.
   “I hope you do the right thing, Joe Frank. I just hope they put you in that jury box. We need some people with some sense.”
   “Wonder why they picked me?”
   “I heard they fixed up a hundred and fifty summonses. They’re expectin’ about a hundred to show up.”
   “What’re my chances of gettin’ picked?”
   “One in a hundred,” said Lela.
   “I feel better then. I really ain’t got time to serve, what with my farmin’ and all.”
   “We sure need you on that jury,” said Tierce.
   The conversation drifted to local politics and the new supervisor and what a sorry job he was doing with the roads. Darkness meant bedtime for the Perrymans. Tierce said good night and drove home. He sat at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee and reviewed the jury list. His friend Rufus would be proud. Six names had been circled on Will’s list, and he had talked to all six. He put an okay by each name. They would be good jurors, people Rufus could count on to keep law and order in Ford County. A couple had been noncommittal at first, but their good and trusted friend Will Tierce had explained justice to them and they were now ready to convict.
   Rufus would be real proud. And he had promised that young Jason Tierce, a nephew, would never be tried on those dope charges.
   Jake picked at the greasy pork chops and butterbeans, and watched Ellen across the table do the same thing. Lucien sat at the head of the table, ignored his food, fondled his drink, and flipped through the jury list offering comments on every name he recognized. He was drunker than normal. Most of the names he didn’t recognize, but he commented on them anyway. Ellen was amused and winked repeatedly at her boss.
   He dropped the list, and knocked his fork off the table.
   “Sallie!” he yelled.
   “Do you know how many ACLU members are in Ford County?” he asked Ellen.
   “At least eighty percent of the population,” she said.
   “One. Me. I was the first in history and evidently the last. These people are fools around here, Row Ark. They don’t appreciate civil liberties. They’re a bunch of right-wing knee-jerk conservative Republican fanatics, like our friend Jake here.”
   “That’s not true. I eat at Claude’s at least once a week,” Jake said.
   “So that makes you progressive?” asked Lucien.
   “It makes me a radical.”
   “I still think you’re a Republican.”
   “Look, Lucien, you can talk about my wife, or my mother, or my ancestors, but don’t call me a Republican.”
   “You look like a Republican,” said Ellen.
   “Does he look like a Democrat?” Jake asked, pointing at Lucien.
   “Of course. I knew he was a Democrat the moment I saw him.”
   “Then I’m a Republican.”
   “See! See!” yelled Lucien. He dropped his glass on the floor and it shattered.
   “Sallie!”
   “Row Ark, guess who was the third white man in Mississippi to join the NAACP?”
   “Rufus Buckley,” said Jake.
   “Me. Lucien Wilbanks. Joined in 1967. White people thought I was crazy.”
   “Can you imagine,” Jake said.
   “Of course, black folks, or Negroes as we called them back then, thought I was crazy too. Hell, everybody thought I was crazy back then.”
   “Have they ever changed their minds?” Jake asked.
   “Shut up, Republican. Row Ark, why don’t you move to Clanton and we’ll start us a law firm handling nothing but ACLU cases. Hell, bring your old man down from Boston and we’ll make him a partner.”
   “Why don’t you just go to Boston?” Jake asked.
   “Why don’t you just go to hell?”
   “What will we call it?” asked Ellen.
   “The nut house,” said Jake.
   “Wilbanks, Row and Ark. Attorneys at law.”
   “None of whom have licenses,” said Jake.
   Lucien’s eyelids weighed several pounds each. His head nodded forward involuntarily. He slapped Sallie on the rear as she cleaned up his mess.
   “That was a cheap shot, Jake,” he said seriously.
   “Row Ark,” Jake said, imitating Lucien, “guess who was the last lawyer permanently disbarred by the Mississippi Supreme Court?”
   Ellen gracefully smiled at both men and said nothing.
   “Row Ark,” Lucien said loudly, “guess who will be the next lawyer in this county to be evicted from his office?” He roared with laughter, screaming and shaking. Jake winked at her.
   When he settled down, he asked, “What’s this meeting tomorrow night?”
   “I want to cover the jury list with you and a few others.”
   “Who?”
   “Harry Rex, Stan Atcavage, maybe one other.”
   “Where?”
   “Eight o’clock. My office. No alcohol.”
   “It’s my office, and I’ll bring a case of whiskey if I want to. My grandfather built the building, remember?”
   “How could I forget.”
   “Row Ark, let’s get drunk.”

  “No thanks, Lucien. I’ve enjoyed dinner, and the conversation, but I need to get back to Oxford.”
   They stood and left Lucien at the table. Jake declined the usual invitation to sit on the porch. Ellen left, and he went to his temporary room upstairs. He had promised Carla he would not sleep at home. He called her. She and Hanna were fine. Worried, but fine. He didn’t mention Bud Twitty.
   A convoy of converted school buses, each with an original paint job of white and red or green and black or a hundred other combinations and the name of a church emblazoned along the sides under the windows, rolled slowly around the Clanton square after lunch Wednesday. There were thirty-one in all, each packed tightly with elderly black people who waved paper fans and handkerchiefs in a futile effort to overcome the stifling heat. After three trips around the courthouse, the lead bus stopped by the post office and thirty-one doors flew open. The buses emptied in a frenzy. The people were directed to a gazebo on the courthouse lawn, where Reverend Ollie Agee was shouting orders and handing out blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards.
   The side streets leading into the square became congested as cars from all directions inched toward the courthouse and finally parked when they could move no closer. Hundreds of blacks left their vehicles in the streets and walked solemnly toward the square. They mingled around the gazebo and waited for their placards, then wandered through the oaks and magnolias looking for shade and greeting friends. More church buses arrived and were unable to circle the square because of the traffic. They unloaded next to the Coffee Shop.
   For the first time that year the temperature hit a hundred and promised to go higher. The sky produced no clouds for protection, and there were no winds or breezes to weaken the burning rays or to blow away the humidity. A man’s shirt would soak and stick to his back in fifteen minutes under a shade tree; five minutes without shade. Some of the weaker old folks found refuge inside the courthouse.
   The crowd continued to grow. It was predominantly elderly, but there were many younger, militant, angry-looking blacks who had missed the great civil rights marches and demonstrations of the sixties and now realized that this might be a rare opportunity to shout and protest and sing “We Shall Overcome,” and in general celebrate being black and oppressed in a white world. They meandered about waiting for someone to take charge. Finally, three students marched to the front steps of the courthouse, lifted their placards, and shouted, “Free Carl Lee. Free Carl Lee.”
   Instantly, the mob repeated the war cry: “Free Carl Lee!”
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   They left the shade trees and courthouse and moved closer together near the steps where a makeshift podium and PA system had been set up. They yelled in unison at no one or no place or nothing in particular, just howled the newly established battle cry in a perfect chorus: “Free Carl Lee!”
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   The windows of the courthouse flew open as the clerks and secretaries gawked at the happening below. The roar could be heard for blocks and the small shops and offices around the square emptied. The owners and customers filled the sidewalks and watched in astonishment. The demonstrators noticed their spectators, and the attention fueled the chanting, which increased in tempo and volume. The vultures had loitered about waiting and watching, and the noise excited them. They descended upon the front lawn of the courthouse with cameras and microphones.
   Ozzie and his men directed traffic until the highway and the streets were hopelessly gridlocked. They maintained a presence, although there was no hint they would be needed.
   Agee and every full-time, part-time, retired, and prospective black preacher in three counties paraded through the dense mass of black screaming faces and made their way to the podium. The sight of the ministers pumped up the celebrants, and their unified chants reverberated around the square, down the side streets into the sleepy residential districts and out into the countryside. Thousands of blacks waved their placards and yelled their lungs out. Agee swayed with the crowd. He danced across the small podium. He slapped hands with the other ministers. He led the rhythmic noise like a choir director. He was a sight.
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   For fifteen minutes, Agee whipped the crowd into a frenzied, coalescent mob. Then, when with his finely trained ear he detected the first hint of fatigue, he walked to the microphones and asked for quiet. The panting, sweating faces yelled on but with less volume. The chants of freedom died quickly. Agee asked for room near the front so the press could congregate and do its job. He asked for stillness so they could go to the Lord in prayer. Reverend Roosevelt offered a marathon to the Lord, an eloquent, alliterative oratorical fiesta that brought tears to the eyes of many.
   When he finally said “Amen,” an enormous black woman with a sparkling red wig stepped to the microphones and opened her vast mouth. The opening stanza of “We Shall Overcome” flowed forth in a deep, rich, mellow river of glorious a cappella. The ministers behind her immediately clasped hands and began to sway. Spontaneity swept the crowd and two thousand voices joined her in surprising harmony. The mournful, promising anthem rose above the small town.
   When they finished, someone shouted “Free Carl Lee!” and ignited another round of chanting. Agee quieted them again, and stepped to the microphones. He pulled an index card from his pocket, and began his sermon.
   As expected, Lucien arrived late and half loaded. He brought a bottle and offered a drink to Jake, Atcavage, and Harry Rex, and each declined.
   “It’s a quarter till nine, Lucien,” Jake said. “We’ve been waiting for almost an hour.”
   “I’m being paid for this, am I?” he asked.
   “No, but I asked you to be here at eight sharp.”
   “And you also told me not to bring a bottle. And I informed you this was my building, built by my grandfather, leased to you as my tenant, for a very reasonable rent I might add, and I will come and go as I please, with or without a bottle.”
   “Forget it. Did you—”
   “What’re those blacks doing across the street walking around the courthouse in the dark?”
   “It’s called a vigil,” explained Harry Rex. “They’ve vowed to walk around the courthouse with candles, keeping a vigil until their man is free.”
   “That could be an awfully long vigil. I mean, those poor people could be walking until they die. I mean, this could be a twelve-, fifteen-year vigil. They might set a record. They might have candle wax up to their asses. Evenin’, Row Ark.”
   Ellen sat at the rolltop desk under William Faulkner. She looked at a well-marked copy of the jury list. She nodded and smiled at Lucien.
   “Row Ark,” Lucien said, “I have all the respect in the world for you. I view you as an equal. I believe in your right to equal pay for equal work. I believe in your right to choose whether to have a child or abort. I believe in all that crap. You are a woman and entitled to no special privileges because of your gender. You should be treated just like a man.” Lucien reached in his pocket and pulled out a clip of cash. “And since you are a law clerk, genderless in my eyes, I think you should be the one to go buy a case of cold Coors.”
   “No, Lucien,” Jake said.
   “Shut up, Jake.”
   Ellen stood and stared at Lucien. “Sure, Lucien. But I’ll pay for the beer.”
   She left the office.
   Jake shook his head and fumed at Lucien. “This could be a long night.”
   Harry Rex changed his mind and poured a shot of whiskey into his coffee cup.
   “Please don’t get drunk,” Jake begged. “We’ve got work to do.”
   “I work better when I’m drunk,” said Lucien.
   “Me too,” said Harry Rex.
   “This could be interesting,” said Atcavage.
   Jake laid his feet on his desk and puffed on a cigar. “Okay, the first thing I want to do is decide on a model juror.”
   “Black,” said Lucien.
   “Black as old Coaly’s ass,” said Harry Rex.
   “I agree,” said Jake. “But we won’t get a chance. Buck-ley will save his peremptory challenges for the blacks. We know that. We’ve got to concentrate on white people.”
   “Women,” said Lucien. “Always pick women for crimi—nal trials. They have bigger hearts, bleeding hearts, and they’re much more sympathetic. Always go for women.”
   “Naw,” said Harry Rex. “Not in this case. Women don’t understand things like taking a gun and blowing people away. You need fathers, young fathers who would want to do the same thing Hailey did. Daddies with little girls.”
   “Since when did you get to be such an expert on picking juries?” asked Lucien. “I thought you were a sleazy divorce lawyer.”
   “I am a sleazy divorce lawyer, but I know how to pick juries.”
   “And listen to them through the wall.”
   “Cheap shot.”
   Jake raised his arms. “Fellas, please. How about Victor Onzell? You know him, Stan?”
   “Yeah, he banks with us. He’s about forty, married, three or four kids. White. From somewhere up North. Runs the truck stop on the highway north of town. He’s been here about five years.”
   “I wouldn’t take him,” Lucien said. “If he’s from up North, he doesn’t think like we do. Probably in favor of gun control and all that crap. Yankees always scare me in criminal cases. I’ve always thought we should have a law in Mississippi that no certified yankee could sit on a jury down here regardless of how long he’s lived here.”
   “Thank you so much,” said Jake.
   “I’d take him,” said Harry Rex.
   “Why?”
   “He’s got kids, probably a daughter. If he’s from the North he’s probably not as prejudiced. Sounds good to me.”
   “John Tate Aston.”
   “He’s dead,” said Lucien.

   “What?”
   “I said he’s dead. Been dead for three years.”
   “Why’s he on the list?” asked Atcavage, the non-lawyer.
   “They don’t purge the voter registration list,” explained Harry Rex, between drinks. “Some die and some move away, and it’s impossible to keep the list up to date. They’ve issued a hundred and fifty summons, and you can expect a hundred to a hundred and twenty to show up. The rest have died or moved away.”
   “Caroline Baxter. Ozzie says she’s black,” Jake said flipping through his notes. “Works at the carburetor plant in Karaway.”
   “Take her,” said Lucien.
   “I wish,” said Jake.
   Ellen returned with the beer. She dropped it in Lucien’s lap and—tore a sixteen-ounce can out of a six-pack. She popped the top and returned to the rolltop desk. Jake declined, but Atcavage decided he was thirsty. Jake remained the non-drinker.
   “Jpe Kitt Shepherd.”
   “Sounds like a redneck,” said Lucien.
   “Why do you say that?” asked Harry Rex.
   “The double first name,” Lucien explained. “Most rednecks have double first names. Like Billy Ray, Johnny Ray, Bobby Lee, Harry Lee, Jesse Earl, Billy Wayne, Jerry Wayne, Eddie Mack. Even their women have double first names. Bobbie Sue, Betty Pearl, Mary Belle, Thelma Lou, Sally Faye.”
   “What about Harry Rex?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Never heard of a woman named Harry Rex.”
   “I mean for a male redneck.”
   “I guess it’ll do.”
   Jake interrupted. “Dell Perry said he used to own a bait shop down by the lake. I take it no one knows him.”
   “No, but I bet he’s a redneck,” said Lucien. “Because of. his name. I’d scratch him.”
   “Aren’t you given their addresses, ages, occupations, basic information like that?” asked Atcavage.
   “Not until the day of trial. On Monday each prospective juror fills out a questionnaire in the courtroom. But until then we have only the names.”
   “What kind of juror are we looking for, Jake?” Ellen asked.
   “Young to middle-aged men with families. I would prefer to have no one over fifty.”
   “Why?” Lucien asked belligerently.
   “Younger whites are more tolerant of blacks.”
   “Like Cobb and Willard,” Lucien said.
   “Most of the older folks will always dislike blacks, but the younger generation has accepted an integrated society. Less bigotry, as a rule, with youth.”
   “I agree,” said Harry Rex, “and I would stay away from women and rednecks.”
   “That’s my plan.”
   “I think you’re wrong,” said Lucien. “Women are more sympathetic. Just look at Row Ark. She’s sympathetic toward everyone. Right, Row Ark?”
   “Right, Lucien.”
   “She has sympathy for criminals, child pornographers, atheists, illegal immigrants, gays. Don’t you, Row Ark?”
   “Right, Lucien.”
   “She and I hold the only two ACLU cards existing at this very moment in Ford County, Mississippi.”
   “That’s sick,” said Atcavage, the banker.
   “Clyde Sisco,” Jake said loudly, trying to minimize controversy.
   “He can be bought,” Lucien said smugly.
   “What do you mean ‘He can be bought’?” Jake asked.
   “Just what I said. He can be bought.”
   “How do you know?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Are you kidding? He’s a Sisco. Biggest bunch of crooks in the eastern part of the county. They all live around the Mays community. They’re professional thieves and insurance defrauders. They burn their houses every three years. You’ve never heard of them?” He was shouting at Harry Rex.
   “No. How do you know he can be bought?”
   “Because I bought him once. In a civil case, ten years ago. He was on the jury list, and I got word to him that I’d give him ten percent of the jury verdict. He’s very persuasive.”
   Jake dropped the jury lists and rubbed his eyes. He knew this was probably true, but didn’t want to believe it.
   “And?” asked Harry Rex.
   “And he was selected for the jury, and I got the largest verdict in the history of Ford County. It’s still the record.”
   “Stubblefield?” Jake asked in disbelief.
   “That’s it, my boy. Stubblefield versus North Texas Pipeline. September 1974. Eight hundred thousand dollars. Appealed and affirmed by the Supreme Court.”
   “Did you pay him?” asked Harry Rex.
   Lucien finished a long drink and smacked his lips. “Eighty thousand cash, in one-hundred-dollar bills,” he said proudly. “He built a new house, then burned it down.”
   “What was your cut?” asked Atcavage.
   “Forty percent, minus eighty thousand.”
   The room was silent as everybody but Lucien made the calculation.
   “Wow,” Atcavage mumbled.
   “You’re kidding, aren’t you, Lucien?” Jake asked halfheartedly.
   “You know I’m serious, Jake. You know I lie compulsively, but never about things like this. I’m telling the truth, and I’m telling you this guy can be bought.”
   “How much?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Forget it!” said Jake.
   “Five thousand cash, just guessing.”
   “Forget it!”
   There was a pause as each one looked at Jake to make sure he was not interested in Clyde Sisco, and when it was obvious he was not interested, they took a drink and waited for the next name. Around ten-thirty Jake had his first beer, and an hour later the case was gone and forty names remained. Lucien staggered to the balcony and watched the blacks carry their candles along the sidewalks next to the streets around the courthouse.
   “Jake, why is this deputy sitting in his car in front of my office?” he asked.
   “That’s my bodyguard.”
   “What’s his name?”
   “Nesbit.”
   “Is he awake?”
   “Probably not.”
   Lucien leaned dangerously over the railing. “Hey, Nesbit,” he yelled.
   Nesbit opened the door of his patrol car. “Yeah, what is it?”.
   “Jake here wants you to go to the store and get us some more beer. He’s very thirsty. Here’s a twenty. He’d like a case of Coors.”
   “I can’t buy it when I’m on duty,” Nesbit protested.
   “Since when?” Lucien laughed at himself..
   “I can’t do it.”
   “It’s not for you, Nesbit. It’s for Mr. Brigance, and he really needs it. He’s already called the sheriff, and it’s okay.”
   “Who called the sheriff?”

   “Mr. Brigance,” lied Lucien. “Sheriff said he didn’t care what you did as long as you didn’t drink any.”
   Nesbit shrugged and appeared satisfied. Lucien dropped a twenty from the balcony. Within minutes Nesbit was back with a case minus one which had been opened and was sitting on his radar gun. Lucien ordered Atcavage to fetch the beer from below and distribute the first six-pack.
   An hour later the list was finished and the party was over. Nesbit loaded Harry Rex, Lucien, and Atcavage into his patrol car and took them home. Jake and’his clerk sat on the balcony, sipping and watching the candles flicker and move slowly around the courthouse. Several cars were parked on the west side of the square, and a small group of blacks sat nearby in lawn chairs waiting to take their turns with the candles.
   “We didn’t do bad,” Jake said quietly, staring at the vigil. “We made notes on all but twenty of the hundred and fifty.”
   “What’s next?”
   “I’ll try to find something on the other twenty, then we’ll make an index card for each juror. We’ll know them like family by Monday.”
   Nesbit returned to the square and circled twice, watching the blacks. He parked between the Saab and the BMW.
   “The M’Naghten brief is a masterpiece. Our psychiatrist, Dr. Bass, will be here tomorrow, and I want you to review M’Naghten with him. You need to outline in detail the necessary questions to ask him at trial, and cover these with him. He worries me. I don’t know him, and I’m relying on Lucien. Get his resume and investigate his background. Make whatever phone calls are necessary. Check with the state medical association to make sure he has no history of disciplinary problems. He is very important to our case, and I don’t want any surprises.”
   “Okay, boss.”
   Jake finished his last beer. “Look, Row Ark, this is a very small town. My wife left five days ago, and I’m sure people will know it soon. You look suspicious. People love to talk, so be discreet. Stay in the office and do your research and tell anyone who asks that you’re Ethel’s replacement.”
   “That’s a big bra to fill.”
   “You could do it if you wanted to.”
   “I hope you know that I’m not nearly as sweet as I’m being forced to act.”
   “I know that.”
   They watched the blacks change shifts and a new crew take up the candles. Nesbit threw an empty beer can onto the sidewalk.
   “You’re not driving home are you?” Jake asked.
   “It would not be a good idea. I’d register at least. 20.”
   “You can sleep on the couch in my office.”
   “Thanks. I will.”
   Jake said good night, locked the office, and spoke briefly to Nesbit. Then he placed himself carefully behind the wheel of the Saab.. Nesbit followed him to his home on Adams. He parked under the carport, next to Carla’s car, and Nesbit parked in the driveway. It was 1:00 A. M., Thursday, July 18.
   They arrived in groups of two and three and came from all over the state. They parked along the gravel road by the cabin deep in the woods. They entered the cabin dressed as normal working men, but once inside they slowly and meticulously changed into their neatly pressed and neatly folded robes and headdresses. They admired one another’s uniforms and helped each other into the bulky outfits. Most of them knew each other, but a few introductions were necessary. They were forty in number; a good turnout.
   Stump Sisson was pleased. He sipped whiskey and moved around the room like a head coach reassuring his team before the kickoff. He inspected the uniforms and made adjustments. He was proud of his men, and told them so. It was the biggest meeting of its kind in years, he said. He admired them and their sacrifices in being there. He knew they had jobs and families, but this was important. He talked about the glory days when they were feared in Mississippi and had clout. Those days must return, and it was up to this very group of dedicated men to take a stand for white people. The march could be dangerous, he explained. Niggers could march and demonstrate all day long and no one cared. But let white folks try and march and it was dangerous. The city had issued a permit, and the nigger sheriff promised order, but most Klan marches nowadays were disrupted by roving bands of young wild nigger punks. So be careful, and keep ranks. He, Stump, would do the talking.
   They listened intently to Stump’srep talk, and when he finished they loaded into a dozen cars and followed him to town.
   Few if any people in Clanton had ever seen the Klan march, and as 2:00 P. M. approached a great wave of excitement rippled around the square. The merchants and their customers found excuses to inspect the sidewalks. They milled about importantly and watched the side streets. The vultures were out in full force and had congregated near the gazebo on the front lawn. A group of young blacks gathered nearby under a massive oak. Ozzie smelled trouble. They assured him they had only come to watch and listen. He threatened them with jail if trouble started. He stationed his men at various points around the courthouse.
   “Here they come!” someone yelled, and the spectators strained to get a glimpse of the marching Klansmen as they strutted importantly from a small street onto Washington Avenue, the north border of the square. They walked cautiously, but arrogantly, their faces hidden by the sinister red and white masks hanging from the royal headdresses. The spectators gawked at the faceless figures as the procession moved slowly along Washington, then south along Caffey Street, then east along Jackson Street. Stump waddled proudly in front of his men. When he neared the front of the courthouse, he made a sharp left turn and led his troops down the long sidewalk in the center of the front lawn. They closed ranks in a loose semicircle around the podium on the courthouse steps.
   The vultures had scrambled and fallen over themselves following the march, and when Stump stopped his men the podium was quickly adorned with a dozen microphones trailing wires in all directions to the cameras and recorders. Under the tree the group of blacks had grown larger, much larger, and some of them walked to within a few feet of the semicircle. The sidewalks emptied as the merchants and shopkeepers, their customers, and the other curious streamed across the streets onto the lawn to hear what the leader, the short fat one, was about to say. The deputies walked slowly through the crowd, paying particular attention to the group of blacks. Ozzie placed himself under the oak, in the midst of his people.
   Jake watched intently from the window in Jean Gilles-pie’s second floor office. The sight of the Klansmen, in full regalia, their cowardly faces hidden behind the ominous masks, gave him a sick feeling. The white hood, for decades a symbol of hatred and violence in the South, was back. Which one of those men had burned the cross in his yard? Were they all active in planning the bombing of his home? Which one would try something next? From the second floor, he could see the blacks inch closer.
   “You niggers were not invited to this rally!” Stump screamed into the microphone, pointing at the blacks. “This is a Klan meetin’, not a meetin’ for a buncha niggers!”
   From the side streets and small alleys behind the rows of red brick buildings, a steady stream of blacks moved toward the courthouse. They joined the others, and in seconds Stump and. his boys were outnumbered ten to one. Ozzie radioed for backup.
   “My name’s Stump Sisson,” he said as he removed his mask. “And I’m proud to say I’m the Mississippi Imperial Wizard for the Invisible Empire of the Ku Klux Klan. I’m here to say that the law-abidin’ white folks of Mississippi are sick and tired of niggers stealin’, rapin’, killin’, and gettin’ by with it. We demand justice, and we demand that this Hailey nigger be convicted and his black ass sent to the gas chamber!”
   “Free Carl Lee!” screamed one of the blacks.
   “Free Carl Lee!” they repeated in unison.
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   “Shut up, you wild niggers!” Stump shrieked back. “Shut up, you animals!” His troops stood facing him, frozen, with their backs to the screaming crowd. Ozzie and six deputies moved between the groups.
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   Stump’s naturally colorful face had turned an even deeper red. His teeth nearly touched the microphones. “Shut up, you wild niggers! You had your rally yesterday and we didn’t disturb you. We have a right to assemble in peace, just like you do! Now, shut up!”
   The chanting intensified. “Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!”
   “Where’s the sheriff? He’s supposed to keep law and order. Sheriff, do your job. Shut those niggers up so we can assemble in peace. Can’t you do your job, Sheriff? Can’t you control your own people? See, folks, that’s what you get when you elect niggers to public office.”
   The shouting continued and Stump stepped back from the microphones and watched the blacks. The photographers and TV crews spun in circles trying to record it all. No one noticed a small window on the third floor of the courthouse. It opened slowly, and from the darkness within a wuuc mcuumo was tnrown onto the podium below. It landed perfectly at Stump’s feet and exploded, engulfing the wizard in dames.
   The riot was on. Stump screamed and rolled wildly down the front steps. Three of his men shed their heavy robes and masks and attempted to cover him and smother the flames. The wooden podium and platform burned with the thick, unmistakable smell of gasoline. The blacks charged, wielding sticks and knives and hacking at anything with a white face or white robe. Under each white robe was a short black nightstick, and the Klansmen proved ready for the assault. Within seconds of the explosion, the front lawn of the Ford County Courthouse was a battlefield as men screamed and cursed and howled in pain through thick, heavy smoke. The air was filled with rocks and stones and nightsticks as the two groups brawled in hand-to-hand combat.
   Bodies began falling on the lush, green grass. Ozzie fell first; the victim of a wicked smash to the base of his skull with a wrecking bar. Nesbit, Prather, Hastings, Pirtle, Tatum, and other deputies ran here and there attempting unsuccessfully to separate various combatants before they killed each other. Instead of running for cover, the vultures darted cra-zily through the midst of the smoke and violence valiantly trying to capture yet a better shot of the blood and gore. They were sitting ducks. One cameraman, his right eye buried deep in his camera, caught a jagged piece of brick with his left eye. He and his camera dropped quickly to the sidewalk, where, after a few seconds, another cameraman appeared and filmed his fallen comrade. A fearless, busy female reporter from a Memphis station charged into the melee with her microphone in hand and her cameraman at her heels. She dodged a brick, then maneuvered too close to a large Klansman who was just finishing off a couple of black teenagers, when, with a loud piercing scream, he slapped her pretty head with his nightstick, kicked her as she fell, then brutally attacked her cameraman.
   Fresh troops from the Clanton City Police arrived. In the center of the battle, Nesbit, Prather, and Hastings came together, stood with their backs to each other, and began firing their Smith & Wesson. 357 magnum service revolvers into the air. The sound of the gunfire quelled the riot. The warriors froze and searched for the gunfire, then quickly separated and glared at each other. They retreated slowly to their own groups. The officers formed a dividing line between the blacks and the Klansmen, all of whom were thankful for the truce.
   A dozen wounded bodies were unable to retreat. Ozzie sat dazed, rubbing his neck. The lady from Memphis was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the head. Several Klansmen, their white robes soiled and bloody, lay sprawled near the sidewalk. The fire continued to burn.
   The sirens drew closer and finally the fire trucks and ambulances arrived and drove onto the battlefield. Firemen and medics attended the wounded. None were dead. Stump Sisson was taken away first. Ozzie was half dragged and half carried to a patrol car. More police arrived and broke up the crowd.
   Jake, Harry Rex, and Ellen ate a lukewarm pizza and watched intently as the small television in the conference room broadcasted the day’s events in Clanton, Mississippi. CBS ran the story halfway through the news. The reporter had apparently escaped the riot unscathed, and he narrated the video with a play by play of the march, the shouting, the firebomb, and the melee. “As of late this afternoon,” he reported, “the exact number of casualties is unknown. The most serious injuries are believed to be the extensive burns suffered by a Mr. Sisson, who identified himself as an imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. He is listed in serious condition at the Mid South Burn Hospital in Memphis.”
   The video showed a closeup of Stump burning while all hell broke loose. He continued: “The trial of Carl Lee Hai-ley is scheduled to start Monday here in Clanton. It is unknown at this time what effect, if any, today’s riot will have on this trial. There is some speculation the trial will be postponed and/or moved to another county.”
   “That’s news to me,” said Jake.
   “You haven’t heard anything?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Not a word. And I presume I would be notified before CBS.”
   The reporter disappeared and Dan Rather said he would return in a moment.
   “What does this mean?” asked Ellen.
   “It means Noose is stupid for not changing venue.”
   “Be glad he didn’t,” said Harry Rex. “It’ll give you something to argue on appeal.”
   “Thanks, Harry Rex. I appreciate your confidence in my ability as a trial lawyer.”
   The phone rang. Harry Rex grabbed it and said hello to Carla. He handed it to Jake. “It’s your wife. Can we listen?”
   “No! Go get another pizza. Hello dear.”
   “Jake, are you all right?”
   “Of course I’m all right.”
   “I just saw it on the news. It’s awful. Where were you?”
   “I was wearing one of those white robes.”
   “Jake, please. This is not funny.”
   “I was in Jean Gillespie’s office on the second floor. We had wonderful seats. Saw the whole thing. It was very exciting.”
   “Who are those people?”
   “Same ones who burned the cross in our front yard and tried to blow up the house.”
   “Where are they from?”
   “Everywhere. Five are in the hospital and their addresses are scattered all over the state. One is a local boy. How’s Hanna?”
   “She’s fine. She wants to come home. Will the trial be postponed?”
   “I doubt it.”
   “Are you safe?”
   “Sure. I’ve got a full-time bodyguard and I carry a. 38 in my briefcase. Don’t worry.”
   “But I’m worried, Jake. I need to be home with you.”
   “No.”
   “Hanna can stay here until it’s over, but I want to come home.”
   “No, Carla. I know you’re safe out there. You won’t be safe if you’re here.”
   “Then you’re not safe either.”
   “I’m as safe as I can get. But I’m not taking chances with you and Hanna. It’s out of the question. That’s final. How are your parents?”
   “I didn’t call to talk about my parents. I called because I’m scared and I want to be with you.”
   “And I want to be with you, but not now. Please understand.”
   She hesitated. “Where are you staying?”
   “At Lucien’s most of the time. Occasionally at home, with my bodyguard in the driveway.”
   “How’s my house?”
   “It’s still there. Dirty, but still there.”

   “I miss it.”
   “Believe me, it misses you.”
   “I love you, Jake, and I’m scared.”
   “I love you, and I’m not scared. Just relax and take care of Hanna.”
   “Goodbye.”
   “Goodbye.”
   Jake handed the receiver to Ellen. “Where is she?”
   “Wilmington, North Carolina. Her parents spend the summers there.”
   Harry Rex had left for another pizza.
   “You miss her, don’t you?” asked Elleri.
   “In more ways than you can imagine.”
   “Oh, I can imagine.”
   At midnight they were in the cabin drinking whiskey, cussing niggers, and comparing wounds. Several had returned from the hospital in Memphis where they had visited briefly with Stump Sisson. He told them to proceed as planned. Eleven had been released from the Ford County Hospital with various cuts and bruises, and the others admired their wounds as each took his turn describing to the last detail how he had gallantly battled multiple niggers before being wounded, usually from the rear or blind side. They were the heroes, the ones with the bandages. Then the others told their stories and the whiskey flowed. They heaped praise upon the largest one when he told of his attack on the pretty television reporter and her nigger cameraman.
   After a couple of hours of drinking and storytelling the talk turned to the task at hand. A map of the county was produced, and one of the locals pinpointed the targets. There were twenty homes this night-twenty names taken from the list of prospective jurors someone had furnished.
   Five teams of four each left the cabin in pickups and headed into the darkness to further their mischief. In each pickup were four wooden crosses, the smaller models, nine feet by four feet, each soaked with kerosene. They avoided Clanton and the small towns in the county and instead kept to the dark countryside. The targets were in isolated areas, away from traffic and neighbors, out in the country where things go unnoticed and people go to bed early and sleep soundly.
   The plan of attack was simple: a truck would stop a few hundred feet down the road, out of sight, no headlights, and the driver remained with engine running while the other three carried the cross to the front yard, stuck it in the ground, and threw a torch on it. The pickup then met them in front of the house for a quiet getaway and joyride to the next target.
   The plan worked simply and with no complications at nineteen of the twenty targets. But at Luther Pickett’s residence a strange noise earlier in the night had aroused Luther, and he sat in the darkness of his front porch waiting for nothing in particular when he saw a strange pickup move suspiciously along the gravel road out beyond his pecan tree. He grabbed his shotgun and listened as the truck turned around and stopped down the road. He heard voices, and then saw three figures carrying a pole or something into his front yard, next to the gravel road. Luther crouched behind a shrub next to the porch, and aimed.
   The driver took a slug of cold beer and watched to see the cross go up in flames. He heard a shotgun instead. His buddies abandoned the cross and the torch and the front yard, and jumped into a small ditch next to the road. Another shotgun blast. The driver could hear the screams and obscenities. They had to be rescued! He threw down his beer and stepped on the gas, Old Luther fired again as he came off the porch, and again as the truck appeared and stopped by the shallow ditch. The three scrambled desperately from the mud, stum—bling and sliding, cussing and yelling as they attacked the truck and furiously fought to jump into the bed.
   “Hang on!” yelled the driver just as old Luther fired again, this time spraying the pickup. He watched with a smile as the truck sped away, spinning gravel and fishtailing from ditch to ditch. Just a bunch of drunk kids, he thought.
   From a pay phone, a Kluxer held the list of twenty names and twenty phone numbers. He called them all, simply to ask them to take a look in their front yards.
   Friday morning Jake phoned the Noose home and was informed by Mrs. Ichabod that His Honor was presiding over a civil trial in Polk County. Jake gave instructions to Ellen and left for Smithfield, an hour away. He nodded at His Honor as he entered the empty courtroom and sat on the front row. Except for the jurors, there were no other spectators. Noose was bored, the jurors were bored, the lawyers were bored, and after two minutes Jake was bored. After the witness finished Noose called for a short recess, and Jake went to his chambers.
   “Hello, Jake. Why’re you here?”
   “You heard what happened yesterday.”
   “I saw it on the news last night.”
   “Have you heard what happened this morning?”
   “No.”
   “Evidently someone gave the Klan a list of the prospective jurors. Last night they burned crosses in the yards of twenty of the jurors.”
   Noose was shocked. “Our jurors!”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Did they catch anybody?”
   “Of course not. They were too busy putting out fires. Besides, you don’t catch these people.”
   “Twenty of our jurors,” Noose repeated.
   “Yes, sir.”
   Noose pawed at his mangled mass of brilliant gray hair and walked slowly around the small room, shaking his head and occasionally scratching his crotch.
   “Sounds like intimidation to me,” he muttered.
   What a mind, thought Jake. A real genius. “I would say so.”
   “So what am I supposed to do?” he asked with a touch of frustration.
   “Change venue.”
   “To where?”
   “Southern part of the state.”
   “I see. Perhaps Carey County. I believe it’s sixty percent black. That would generate at least a hung jury, wouldn’t it? Or maybe you would like Brower County. I think it’s even blacker. You’d probably get an acquittal there, wouldn’t you?”
   “I don’t care where you move it. It’s not fair to try him in Ford County. Things were bad enough before the war yesterday. Now the white folks are really in a lynching mood, and my man’s got the nearest available neck. The situation was terrible before the Klan started decorating the county with Christmas trees. Who knows what else they’ll try before Monday. There’s no way to pick a fair and impartial jury in Ford County.”
   “You mean black jury?”
   “No, sir! I mean a jury that hasn’t prejudged this case. Carl Lee Hailey is entitled to twelve people who haven’t already decided his guilt or innocence.”
   Noose lumbered toward his chair and fell into it. He removed those glasses from that nose and picked at the end of it.
   “We could excuse the twenty,” he wondered aloud.
   “That won’t help. The entire county knows about it or will know about it within a few hours. You know how fast word travels. The entire panel will feel threatened.”
   “Then we could disqualify the entire panel and summon a new one.”
   “Won’t work,” Jake answered sharply, frustrated by Noose’s stubbornness. “All jurors must come from Ford County, and everybody in the county knows about it. And how do you keep the Klan from harassing the next panel? It won’t work.”
   “What makes you so confident the Klan won’t follow the case if I move it to another county?” The sarcasm dripped from every word.
   “I think they will follow it,” Jake admitted. “But we don’t know that for sure. What we do know is that the Klan is already in Ford County, that it’s quite active now, and that it has already intimidated some potential jurors. That’s the issue. The question is, what will you do about it?”
   “Nothing,” Noose said bluntly.
   “Sir?”
   “Nothing. I will do nothing but dismiss the twenty. I will carefully interrogate the panel next Monday, when the trial starts in Clanton.”
   Jake stared in disbelief. Noose had a reason, a motive, a fear, something he was not telling. Lucien was right-someone had gotten to him. ‘ “May I ask why?”
   “I don’t think it matters where we try Carl Lee Hailey. I don’t think it matters who we put in the jury box. I don’t think it matters what color they are. Their minds are made up. All of them, wherever and whoever they are. They’ve already made up their minds, Jake, and it’s your job to pick those who think your man is a hero.”
   That’s probably true, thought Jake, but he wouldn’t admit it. He continued staring at the trees outside. “Why are you afraid to move it?”
   Ichabod’s eyes narrowed, and he glared at Jake. “Afraid? I’m not afraid of any ruling I make. Why are you afraid to try it in Ford County?”
   “I thought I just explained it.”
   “Mr. Hailey will be tried in Ford County starting Monday. That’s three days from today. And he will be tried there not because I’m afraid to move it, but because it wouldn’t do any good to move it. I’ve considered all this very carefully, Mr. Brigance, many times, and I feel comfortable with the trial in Clanton. It will not be moved. Anything further?”
   “No, sir.”
   “Good. See you Monday.”
   Jake entered his office through the rear door. The front door had been locked for a week now, and there was always someone banging on it and yelling at it. Most of them were reporters, but many were friends just stopping by to gossip and find out what they could about the big trial. Clients were a thing of the past. The phone rang constantly. Jake never touched it and Ellen grabbed it if she was nearby.
   He found her in the conference room up to her elbows in law books. The M’Naghten brief was a masterpiece. He had requested no more than twenty pages. She gave him seventy-five perfectly typed and plainly worded pages, and explained there was no way to cover the Mississippi version of M’Naghten in fewer words. Her research was painstaking and detailed. She had started with the original M’Naghten case in England in the 1800’s and worked through a hundred and fifty years of insanity law in Mississippi. She discarded insignificant or confusing cases, and explained in wonderful simplicity the complicated, major cases. The brief concluded with a summary of current law, and applied it to the trial of Carl Lee Hailey

   In a smaller brief, only fourteen pages, she had reached the unmistakable conclusion that the jury would see the sickening pictures of Cobb and Willard with their brains splattered about the stairway. Mississippi admitted such inflammatory evidence, and she had found no way around it.
   She had typed thirty-one pages of research on the defense of justifiable homicide, something Jake had considered briefly after the killings. She reached the same conclusion Jake had reached-it wouldn’t work. She had found an old Mississippi case where a man had caught and killed an escaped convict who was armed. He had been acquitted, but the differences in that case and Carl Lee’s case were enormous. Jake had not asked for the brief, and was irritated that so much energy had been spent on it. He said nothing, however, since she had produced everything he had asked for.
   The most pleasant surprise had been her work with Dr. W. T. Bass. She had met with him twice during the week, and they had covered M’Naghten in great detail. She prepared a twenty-five-page script of the questions to be asked by Jake and the answers to be given by Bass. It was a skillfully crafted dialogue, and he marveled at her seasoning. When he was her age, he was an average student more concerned with romance than research. She, on the other hand, as a third-year law student was writing briefs that read like treatises.
   “How’d it go?” she asked.
   “As expected. He did not budge. The trial will start here Monday with the same panel, minus the twenty who received their subtle warnings.”
   “He’s crazy.”
   “What’re you working on?”
   “I’m finishing the brief to support our position that the details of the rape should be discussed before the jury. It looks good, at this point.”
   “When will you finish it?”
   “Is there some hurry?”
   “By Sunday, if possible. I’ve got another chore, something a little different.”
   She slid her legal pad away and listened.
   “The State’s psychiatrist will be Dr. Wilbert Rode-heaver, head of staff at Whitfield. He’s been there forever, and has testifed in hundreds of cases. I want you to dig a little and see how often his name appears in court decisions.”
   “Fve already run across his name.”
   “Good. As you know, the only cases we read about from the Supreme Court are the ones where the defendant at trial was convicted and has appealed. The acquittals are not reported. I’m more interested in these.”
   “Where are you coming from?”
   “I have a hunch Rodeheaver is very reluctant to give an opinion that a defendant was legally insane. There’s a chance he’s never done it. Even in cases where the defendant was clearly crazy and did not know what he was doing. I’d like to ask Rodeheaver, on cross-examination, about some of the cases in which he’s said there’s nothing wrong with an obviously sick man, and the jury acquitted him.”
   “Those cases will be very hard to find.”
   “I know, but you can do it, Row Ark. I’ve watched you work for a week now, and I know you can do it.”
   “I’m flattered, boss.”
   “You may have to make phone calls to attorneys around the state who’ve crossed Rodeheaver before. It’ll be hard, Row Ark, but get it done.”
   “Yes, boss. I’m sure you wanted it yesterday.”
   “Not really. I doubt if we’ll get to Rodeheaver next week, so you have some time.”
   “I don’t know how to act. You mean it’s not urgent?”
   “No, but that rape brief is.”
   “Yes, boss.”
   “Have you had lunch?”
   “I’m not hungry.”
   “Good. Don’t make any plans for dinner.”
   “What does that mean?”
   “It means I’ve got an idea.”
   “Sort of like a date?”
   “No, sort of like a business lunch with two professionals.”
   Jake packed two briefcases and left. “I’ll be at Lu-cien’s,” he told her, “but don’t call unless it’s a dire emergency. Don’t tell anyone where I am.”
   “What are you working on?”
   “The jury.”
   Lucien had passed out drunk in the swing on the porch, and Sallie was not around. Jake helped himself to the spacious study upstairs. Lucien had more law books in his home than most lawyers had in their offices. He unpacked his mess in a chair, and on the desk he placed an alphabetical list of the jurors, a stack of three-by-five notecards, and several Magic Markers.
   The first name was Acker, Barry Acker. The last name was written in large print across the top of a notecard with a blue Magic Marker. Blue for men, red for women, black for blacks, regardless of gender. Under Acker’s name he made notes with a pencil. Age, about forty. Married to his second wife, three children, two daughters. Runs a small unprofitable hardware store on the highway in Clanton. Wife, secretary at a bank. Drives a pickup. Likes to hunt. Wears cowboy boots. Pretty nice guy. Atcavage had gone to the hardware store Thursday to get a look at Barry Acker. Said he looked okay, talked like he had. some education. Jake wrote the number nine by the name Acker.
   Jake was impressed with his research. Surely Buckley would not be as thorough.
   The next name was Bill Andrews. What a name. There were six of them in the phonebook. Jake knew one, Harry Rex knew another one, and Ozzie knew a black one, but nobody knew which one got the summons. He pvut a question mark by the name.
   Gerald Ault. Jake smiled when he wrote the name on the notecard. Ault had passed through his office a few years back when the bank foreclosed on his house in Clanton. His wife was stricken with kidney disease, and the medical bills broke them. He was an intellectual, educated at Princeton, where he met his wife. She was from Ford County, the only child of a once prominent family of fools who had invested all their money in railroads. He arrived in Ford County just in time for his in-laws to go under, and the easy life he had married dissolved into one of struggle. He taught school for a while, then ran the library, then worked as a clerk in the courthouse. He developed an aversion to hard work. Then his wife got sick, and they lost their modest house. He now worked in a convenience store.
   Jake knew something about Gerald Ault that no one else knew. As a child in Pennsylvania, his family lived in a farmhouse near the highway. One night while they slept, the house caught fire. A passing motorist stopped, kicked in the front door and began rescuing the Aults. The fire spread quickly, and when Gerald and his brother awoke they were trapped in their upstairs bedroom. They ran to the window and screamed. Their parents and siblings yelled helplessly from the front lawn. Flames poured from every window in the house except for their bedroom. Suddenly, the rescuer soaked himself with water from the garden hose, dashed into the burning house, fought the flames and smoke as he raced upstairs, then bolted through the bedroom door. He kicked out the window, grabbed Gerald and his brother, and jumped to the ground. Miraculously, they were not hurt. They thanked him, through tears and embraces. They thanked this stranger, whose skin was black. He was the first Negro the children had ever seen.
   Gerald Ault was one of the few white people in Ford County who truly loved black people. Jake put a ten by his name.
   For six hours he went through the jury list, making note-cards, concentrating on each name, envisioning each juror in the box and in deliberation, talking to each one. He rated them. Every black got an automatic ten; the whites were not so easy. The men rated higher than the women; the young men higher than the old men; the educated slightly higher than the uneducated; the liberals, both of them, received the highest ratings.
   He eliminated the twenty Noose planned to exclude. He knew something about one hundred and eleven of the prospective jurors. Surely, Buckley could not know so much.
   Ellen was typing on Ethel’s machine when Jake returned from Lucien’s. She turned it off, closed the law books she was typing from, and watched him.
   “Where’s dinner?” she asked with a wicked smile.
   “We’re taking a road trip.”
   “All right! Where to?”
   “Have you ever been to Robinsonville, Mississippi?”
   “No, but I’m ready. What’s there?”
   “Nothing but cotton, soybeans, and a great little restaurant.”
   “What’s the dress code?”
   Jake inspected her. She wore the usual-jeans, neatly starched and faded, no socks, a navy button-down that was four sizes too big but tucked in nicely above her slender hips.
   “You look fine,” he said.
   They turned off the copier and the lights and left Clanton in the Saab. Jake stopped at a liquor store in the black section of town and bought a six-pack of Coors and a tall, cold bottle of Chablis.
   “You have to bring your own bottle to this place,” he explained as they left town. The sun was setting into the highway ahead, and Jake flipped down the sun visors. Ellen played bartender and opened two cans.
   “How far is this place?” she asked.
   “Hour and a half.”
   “Hour and a half! I’m starving.”
   “Then fill up on beer. Believe me it’s worth it.”
   “What’s on the menu?”
   “Barbecued, sauteed shrimp, frog legs, and charbroiled catfish.”
   She sipped on the beer. “We’ll see.”
   Jake stepped on the gas, and they raced across bridges over the countless tributaries of Lake Chatulla. They climbed steep hills covered with layers of dark green kudzu. They flew around corners and dodged pulpwood trucks making their last runs of the day. Jake opened the sunroof, lowered the windows and let the wind blow. Ellen leaned back in the seat and dosed her eyes. Her thick, wavy hair swirled around her face.
   “Look, Row Ark, this dinner is strictly business—”
   “Sure, sure.”
   “I mean it. I’m the employer, you’re the employee, and this is a business meal. Nothing more or less. So don’t get any lustful ideas in your ERA, sexually liberated brain.”
   “Sounds like you’re the one with the ideas.”
   “Nope. I just know what you’re thinking.”
   “How do you know what I’m thinking? Why do you assume you’re so irresistible and that I’m planning a big seduction scene?”
   “Just keep your hands to yourself. I’m a wonderfully happily married man with a gorgeous wife who’d kill if she thought I was fooling around.”
   “Okay, let’s pretend to be friends. Just two friends having dinner.”
   “That doesn’t work in the South. A male friend cannot have dinner with a female friend if the male friend has a wife. It just doesn’t work down here.”
   “Why not?”
   “Because men don’t have female friends. No way. I don’t know of a single man in the entire South who is married and has a female friend. I think it goes back to the Civil War.”
   “I think it goes back to the Dark Ages. Why are Southern women so jealous?”
   “Because that’s the way we’ve trained them. They learned from us. If my wife met a male friend for lunch or dinner, I’d tear his head off and file for divorce. She learned it from me.”
   “That makes absolutely no sense.”
   “Of course it doesn’t.”
   “Your wife has no male friends?”
   “None that I know of. If you learn of any, let me know.”
   “And you have no female friends?”
   “Why would I want female friends? They can’t talk about football, or duck hunting, or politics, or lawsuits, or anything that I want to talk about. They talk about kids, clothes, recipes, coupons, furniture, stuff I know nothing about. No, I don’t have any female friends. Don’t want any.”
   “That’s what I love about the South. The people are so tolerant.”
   “Thank you.”
   “Do you have any Jewish friends?”
   “I don’t know of any in Ford County. I had a real good friend in law school, Ira Tauber, from New Jersey. We were very close. I love Jews. Jesus was a Jew, you know. I’ve never understood anti-Semitism.”
   “My God, you are a liberal. How about, uh, homosexuals?”
   “I feel sorry for them. They don’t know what they’re missing. But that’s their problem.”
   “Could you have a homosexual friend?”
   “I guess, as long as he didn’t tell me.”
   “Nope, you’re a Republican.”
   She took his empty can and threw it in the back seat. She opened two more. The sun was gone, and the heavy, humid air felt cool at ninety miles an hour.
   “So we can’t be friends?” she said.
   “Nope.”
   “Nor lovers.”
   “Please. I’m trying to drive.”
   “So what are we?”
   “I’m the lawyer, you’re the law clerk. I’m the employer, you’re the employee. I’m the boss, you’re the gofer.”
   “You’re the male, I’m the female.”
   Jake admired her jeans and bulky shirt. “There’s not much doubt about that.”
   Ellen shook her head and stared at the mountains of kudzu flying by. Jake smiled, drove faster, and sipped his beer. He negotiated a series of intersections on the rural, deserted highways and, suddenly, the hills disappeared and the land became flat.
   “What’s the name of the restaurant?” she asked.
   “The Hollywood.”

   “The what?”
   “The Hollywood.”
   “Why is it called that?”
   “It was once located in a small town a few miles away by the name of Hollywood, Mississippi. It burned, and they moved it to Robinsonville. They still call it the Hollywood.”
   “What’s so great about it?”
   “Great food, great music, great atmosphere, and it’s a thousand miles from Clanton and no one will see me having dinner with a strange and beautiful woman.”
   “I’m not a woman, I’m a gofer.”
   “A strange and beautiful gofer.”
   Ellen smiled to herself and ran her fingers through her hair. At another intersection, he turned left and headed west until they found a settlement near a railroad. A row of wooden buildings sat empty on one side of the road, and across the street, all by itself, was an old dry goods store with a dozen cars parked around it and music rolling softly out the windows. Jake grabbed the bottle of Chablis and escorted his law clerk up the steps, onto the front porch, and inside the building.
   Next to the door was a small stage, where a beautiful old black lady, Merle, sat at her piano and sang “Rainy Night in Georgia.” Three long rows of tables ran to the front and stopped next to the stage. The tables were half full, anda waitress in the back poured beer from a pitcher and motioned for them to come on in. She seated them in the rear, at a small table with a red-checkered tablecloth.
   “Y’all want some fried dill pickles, honey?” she asked Jake.
   “Yes! Two orders.”
   Ellen frowned and looked at Jake. “Fried dill pickles?”
   “Yes, of course. They don’t serve them in Boston?”
   “Do you people fry everything?”
   “Everything that’s worth eating. If you don’t like them, I’ll eat them.”
   A yell went up from the table across the aisle. Four couples toasted something or somebody, then broke into riotous laughing. The restaurant maintained a constant roar of yelling and talking.
   “The good thing about the Hollywood,” Jake explained, “is that you can make all the noise you want and stay as long as you want, and nobody cares. When you get a table here, it’s yours for the night. They’ll start singing and dancing in a minute.”
   Jake ordered sauteed shrimp and charbroiled catfish for both of them. Ellen passed on the frog legs. The waitress hurried back with the Chablis and two chilled glasses. They toasted Carl Lee Hailey and his insane mind.
   “Whatta you think of Bass?” Jake asked.
   “He’s the perfect witness. He’ll say anything we want him to say.”
   “Does that bother you?”
   “It would if he was a fact witness. But he’s an expert, and he can get by with his opinions. Who will challenge him?”
   “Is he believable?”
   “When he’s sober. We talked twice this week. On lues-day he was lucid and helpful. On Wednesday, he was drunk and indifferent. I think he’ll be as helpful as any psychiatrist we could find. He doesn’t care what the truth is, and he’ll tell us what we want to hear.”
   “Does he think Carl Lee was legally insane?”
   “No. Do you?”
   “No. Row Ark, Carl Lee told me five days before the ‘killings that he would do it. He showed me the exact place where he would ambush them, although at the time I didn’t realize it. Our client knew exactly what he was doing.”
   “Why didn’t you stop him?”
   “Because I didn’t believe him. His daughter had just been raped and was fighting for her life.”
   “Would you have stopped him if you could?”
   “I did tell Ozzie. But at the time neither of us dreamed it could happen. No, I would not have stopped him if I knew for certain. I would have done the same thing.”
   “How?”
   “Exactly as he did it. It was very easy.”
   Ellen approached a fried dill pickle with her fork and played with it suspiciously. She cut it in half, pierced it with the fork, and sniffed it carefully. She put it in her mouth and chewed slowly. She swallowed, then pushed her pile of pickles across the table toward Jake.
   “Typical yankee,” he said. “I don’t understand you, Row Ark. You don’t like fried dill pickles, you’re attractive, very bright, you could go to work with any blue-chip law firm in the country for megabucks, yet you want to spend your career losing sleep over cutthroat murderers who are on death row and about to get their just rewards. What makes you tick, Row Ark?”
   “You lose sleep over the same people. Now it’s Carl Lee Hailey. Next year it’ll be some other murderer who everybody hates but you’ll lose sleep over him because he happens to be your client. One of these days, Brigance, you’ll have a client on death row, and you’ll learn how terrible it is. When they strap him in the chair and he looks at you for the last time, you’ll be a changed man. You’ll know how barbaric the system is, and you’ll remember Row Ark.”
   “Then I’ll grow a beard and join the ACLU.”
   “Probably, if they would accept you.”
   The sauteed shrimp arrived in a small black skillet. It simmered in butter and garlic and barbeque sauce. Ellen dipped spoonfuls onto her plate and ate like a refugee. Merle lit into a stirring rendition of “Dixie,” and the crowd sang and clapped along.
   The waitress ran by and threw a platter of battered and crunchy frog legs on the table. Jake finished a glass of wine and grabbed a handful of the frog legs. Ellen tried to ignore them. When they were full of appetizers, the catfish was served. The grease popped and fizzed and they did not touch the china. It was charbroiled to a deep brown crisp with black squares from the grill burned on each side. They ate and drank slowly, watching each other and savoring the delicious entree.
   At midnight, the bottle was empty and the lights were dimmed. They said good night to the waitress and to Merle. They walked carefully down the steps and to the car. Jake buckled his seat belt.
   “I’m too drunk to drive,” he said.
   “So am I. I saw a little motel not far down the road.”
   “I saw it too, and there were no vacancies. Nice try, Row Ark. Get me drunk and try to take advantage of me.”
   “I would if I could, mister.”
   For a moment their eyes met. Ellen’s face reflected the red light cast by the neon sign that flashed HOLLYWOOD atop the restaurant.
   The moment grew longer and then the sign was turned off. The restaurant had closed.
   Jake started the Saab, let it warm, and raced away into the darkness.
   Mickey Mouse called Ozzie early Saturday morning at his home and promised more trouble from the Klan. ‘file riot on Thursday had not been their fault, he explained, yet they were being blamed for it. They had marched in peace, and now their leader lay near death with seventy percent of his body covered with third-degree burns. There would be retaliation; it had been ordered from above. Reinforcements were on the way from other states, and there would be violence. No specifics now, but he would call later when he knew more.
   Ozzie sat on the side of his bed, rubbed the swollen hump on the back of his neck and called the mayor. And he called Jake. An hour later they met in Ozzie’s office.
   “The situation is about to get outta hand,” Ozzie said, holding an ice pack to his neck and grimacing with every word. “I’ve got it from a reliable informant that the Klan plans to retaliate for what happened Thursday. They’re supposed to bring fresh troops from other states.”
   “Do you believe it?” asked the mayor.
   “I’m afraid not to believe it.”
   “Same informant?” asked Jake.
   “Yep.”
   “Then I believe it.”
   “Somebody said there was talk of movin’ or postponin’ the trial,” Ozzie said. “Any chance of it?”
   “No. I met with Judge Noose yesterday. It won’t be moved and it’ll start Monday.”
   “Did you tell him about the burnin’ crosses?”
   “I told him everything.”
   “Is he crazy?” asked the mayor.
   “Yes, and stupid. But don’t quote me on that.”
   “Is he on solid legal ground?” asked Ozzie.
   Jake shook his head. “More like quicksand.”
   “What have you got in mind?” asked the mayor.
   Ozzie changed ice packs and carefully rubbed his neck. He spoke with pain. “I have a strong desire to prevent another riot. Our hospital is not big enough to allow this crap to continue. We must do something. The blacks are angry and volatile, and it wouldn’t take much to ignite them. Some blacks are just lookin’ for a reason to start shootin’, and those white robes are good targets. I’ve got a hunch the Klan may do somethin’ really stupid, like try to kill somebody. They’re gettin’ more national exposure off this than they’ve had in ten years. The informant told me that after Thursday they’ve had calls from all over the country from volunteers wantin’ to come down here and join the fun.”
   He slowly rolled his head around his shoulders and changed ice packs again. “I hate to say it, Mayor, but I think you should call the governor and ask for the National Guard. I know it’s a drastic step, but I’d hate to get someone killed.”
   “The National Guard!” the mayor repeated in disbelief.
   “That’s what I said.”
   “Occupying Clanton?”.
   “Yep. Protectin’ your people.”
   “Patrolling the streets?”
   “Yep. With guns and everthing.”
   “Oh my, this is drastic. Aren’t you overreacting a bit?”
   “No. It’s evident I don’t have enough men to keep peace around here. We couldn’t even stop a riot that happened right in front of us. The Klan’s burnin’ crosses all over the county, and we can’t do anything about it. What will we do when the blacks decide to start some trouble? I don’t have enough men, Mayor. I need some help.”
   Jake thought it was a marvelous idea. How could a fair and impartial jury be chosen when the National Guard had the courthouse surrounded? He thought of the jurors arriving for court Monday and walking past the soldiers with guns and jeeps and maybe even a tank or two parked in front of the courthouse. How could they be fair and impartial? How could Noose insist on trying the case in Clanton? How could the Supreme Court refuse to reverse if, heaven forbid, there was a conviction? It was a great idea.
   “Whatta you think, Jake?” asked the mayor, looking for help.
   “I don’t think you have a choice, Mayor. We can’t stand another riot. It could hurt you politically.”
   “I’m not worried about politics,” the mayor replied angrily, knowing Jake and O/zie knew better. The mayor had been reelected last time by less than fifty votes and did not make a move without weighing the political fallout. Ozzie caught a grin from Jake as the mayor squirmed with the thought of having his quiet little town occupied by the army.
   After dark Saturday, Ozzie and Hastings led Carl Lee out the rear door of the jail and into the sheriff’s patrol car. They talked and laughed as Hastings drove in slow motion out into the country, past Bates Grocery and onto Craft Road. The Haileys’ front yard was covered with cars when they arrived, so he parked in the road. Carl Lee walked through his front door like a free man and was immediately embraced by a mob of kinfolks, friends, and his children. They had not been told he was coming. He hugged them desperately, all four at the same time in one long bear hug as if there might be no more for a long time. The crowd watched in silence as this huge man knelt on the floor and buried his head among his weeping children. Most of those in the crowd wept too.
   The kitchen was covered with food, and the guest of honor was seated in his usual chair at the head of the table with his wife and children seated around him. Reverend Agee returned thanks with a short prayer of hope and home-coming. A hundred friends waited on the family. Ozzie and Hastings filled their plates and retreated to the front porch, where they swatted mosquitoes and planned strategy for the trial. Ozzie was deeply concerned about Carl Lee’s safety while they moved him from the jail to court and back each day. The defendant himself had proven clearly that such journeys are not always safe.
   After supper the crowd spilled out into the front yard. The children played while the adults stayed on the porch, as close as possible to Carl Lee. He was their hero, the most famous man most of them would ever see, and they knew him personally. To his people he was on trial for one reason only. Sure he killed those boys, but that wasn’t the issue. If he was white, he would receive civic awards for what he did. They would half-heartedly prosecute him, but with a white jury the trial would be a joke. Carl Lee was on trial because he was black. And if they convicted him, it would be because he was black. No other reason. They believed that. They listened carefully as he talked about the trial. He wanted their prayers and support, and wanted them all to be there and watch it and to protect his family.
   They sat for hours in the sweltering humidity; Carl Lee and Gwen in the swing rocking slowly, surrounded by admirers all wanting to be near this great man. When they began to leave they all embraced him and promised to be there Monday. They wondered if they would see him again sitting on his front porch.
   At midnight Ozzie said it was time to go. Carl Lee hugged Gwen and the kids one last time, then took his seat in Ozzie’s car.
   Bud Twitty died during the night. The dispatcher called Nes-bit, who told Jake. He made a note to send flowers.
   Sunday. One day before trial. Jake awoke at 5:00 A. M. with a knot in his stomach that he attributed to the trial, and a headache that he attributed to the trial and a late Saturday night session on Lu-cien’s porch with his law clerk and former boss. Ellen had decided to sleep in a guest room at Lucien’s, so Jake spent the night on his couch in the office.
   He lay on the couch and heard voices from the street below. He staggered in the dark to the balcony, and stopped in amazement at the scene around the courthouse. D-Day! The war was on! Patton had arrived! The streets around the square were lined with transport trucks, jeeps, and soldiers busy running here and there in an effort to get organized and look military. Radios squawked, and potbellied commanders yelled to their men to hurry and get organized. A command post was set up near the gazebo on the front lawn. Three squads of soldiers hammered on stakes and pulled ropes and strung up three enormous canvas camouflage pavilions. Barricades were set up on the four corners of the square, and sentries took their positions. They smoked cigarettes and leaned on the street lights.
   Nesbit sat on the trunk of his car and watched the fortifying of downtown Clanton. He chatted with a few of the guardsmen. Jake made coffee and took him a cup. He was awake now, safe and secure, and Nesbit could go home and rest until dark. Jake returned to the balcony and watched the activity until dawn. Once the troops were unloaded, the transport trucks were moved to the National Guard armory north of town, where the men would sleep. He estimated their number at two hundred. They piddled around the courthouse and walked in small groups around the square, looking in shops, waiting for daylight and the hope of some excitement.
   Noose would be furious. How dare they call the National Guard without asking him. It was his trial. The mayor had mentioned this, and Jake had explained that it was the mayors responsiomiy 10 Keep laniun saie, iiui me iriai judge’s. Ozzie concurred, and Noose was not called.
   The sheriff and Moss Junior latum arrived and met with the colonel in the gazebo. They walked around the courthouse, inspecting troops and pavilions. Ozzie pointed in various directions and the colonel seemed to agree with whatever he wanted. Moss Junior unlocked the’ courthouse so the troops would have drinking water and toilet facilities. It was after nine before the first of the vultures stumbled onto the occupation of downtown Clanton. Within an hour they were running everywhere with cameras and microphones gathering important words from a sergeant or a corporal.

   “What is your name, sir?”
   “Sergeant Drumwright.”
   “Where are you from?”
   “Booneville.”
   “Where’s that?”
   “ ‘Bout a hundred miles from here.”
   “Why are you here?”
   “Governor called us.”
   “Why did he call you?”
   “Keep things under control.”
   “Are you expecting trouble?”
   “No.”
   “How long will you be here?”
   “Don’t know.”
   “Will you be here until the trial’s over?”
   “Don’t know.”
   “Who knows?”
   “The governor, I reckon.”
   And so on.
   Word of the invasion spread quickly through the quiet Sunday morning, and after church the townfolk streamed to the square to verify for themselves that the army had indeed captured the courthouse. The sentries removed the barricades and allowed the curious to drive around their square and gawk at the real live soldiers with their rifles and jeeps. Jake sat on the balcony, drinking coffee and memorizing the notecards of his jurors.
   He called Carla and explained that the National Guard had been deployed, but he was still sate, in tact, ne naa never felt so safe. As he talked to her, he explained, there were hundreds of heavily armed army militiamen across Washington Street just waiting to protect him. Yes, he still had his bodyguard. Yes, the house was still standing. He doubted if the death of Bud Twitty had been reported yet, so he did not tell her. Maybe she would not hear of it. They were going fishing on her father’s boat, and Hanna wanted her daddy to go. He said goodbye, and missed the two women in his life more than ever.
   Ellen Roark unlocked the rear door of the office and placed a small grocery sack on the table in the kitchen. She pulled a file out of her briefcase and began looking for her boss. He was on the balcony, staring at notecards and watching the courthouse. “Evenin’, Row Ark.”
   “Good evening, boss.” She handed him a brief an inch thick. “It’s the research you requested on the admissibility of the rape. It’s a tough issue, and it got involved. I apologize for the size of it.”
   It was as neat as her other briefs, complete with a table of contents, bibliography, and numbered pages. He flipped through it. “Damn, Row Ark, I didn’t ask for a textbook.”
   “I know you’re intimidated by scholarly work, so I made a conscious effort to use words with fewer than three syllables.”
   “My, aren’t we frisky today. Could you summarize this in a dissertation of, say, thirty pages or so?”
   “Look, it’s a thorough study of the law by a gifted law student with a remarkable ability to think and write clearly. It’s a work of genius, and it’s yours, and it’s absolutely free. So quit bitching.”
   “Yes, ma’am. Does your head hurt?”
   “Yes. It’s been aching since I woke up this morning. I’ve typed on that brief for ten hours, and I need a drink. Do you have a blender?”
   “A what?”
   “Blender. It’s a new invention we have up North. They’re kitchen appliances.”
   . “There’s one in the shelves next to the microwave.”
   she disappeared. It was almost dark, and the traffic had thinned around the square as the Sunday drivers had grown bored with the sight of soldiers guarding their courthouse. After twelve hours of suffocating heat and foglike humidity in downtown Clanton, the troops were weary and homesick. They sat under trees and on folding canvas chairs, and cursed the governor. As it grew darker, they strung wires from inside the courthouse and hung floodlights around—the pavilions. By the post office a carload of blacks arrived with lawn chairs and candles to start the nightly vigil. They began pacing the sidewalk along Jackson Street under the suddenly aroused stares of two hundred heavily armed guardsmen. The lead walker was Miss Rosia Alfie Gatewood, a two-hundred-pound widow who had raised eleven children and sent nine to college. She was the first black known to have sipped cold water from the public fountain on the square and live to tell about it. She glared at the soldiers. They did not speak.
   Ellen returned with two Boston College beer mugs filled with a pale green liquid. She sat them on the table and pulled up a chair.
   “What’s that?”
   “Drink it. It’ll help you relax.”
   “I’ll drink it. But I’d like to know what it is.”
   “Margaritas.”
   Jake studied the top of his mug. “Where’s the salt?”
   “I don’t like salt on mine.”
   “Well, I don’t either then. Why margaritas?”
   “Why not?”
   Jake closed his eyes and took a long drink. And then another. “Row Ark, you are a talented woman.”
   “Gofer.”
   He took another long drink. “I haven’t had a margarita in eight years.”
   “I’m very sorry.” Her twenty-ounce mug was half empty.
   “What kind of rum?”
   “I would call you a dumbass if you weren’t my boss.”
   “Thank you.”
   “It’s not rum. It’s tequila, with lime juice and Coin-treau. I thought every law student knew that.”
   “How can you ever forgive me? I’m sure I knew it when I was a law student.” • She gazed around the square.
   “This is incredible! It looks like a war zone.”
   Jake drained his glass. and licked his lips. Under the pavilions they played cards and laughed. Others sought’refuge from the mosquitoes in the courthouse. The candles turned the corner and made a pass down Washington Street.
   “Yes,” Jake said with a smile. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Think of our fair and impartial jurors as they arrive in the morning and are confronted with that. I’ll renew my motion for a change of venue. It’ll be denied. I’ll ask for a mistrial, and Noose will say no. And then I’ll make sure the court reporter records the fact that this trial is being conducted in the middle of a three-ring circus.”
   “Why are they here?”
   “The sheriff and the mayor called the governor, and convinced him the National Guard was needed to preserve peace in Ford County. They told him our hospital is not large enough for this trial.”
   “Where are they from?”
   “Booneville and Columbus. I counted two hundred and twenty around lunch.”
   “They’ve been here all day?”
   “They woke me at five this morning. I’ve followed their movements all day. They were pinned down a couple of times, but reinforcements arrived. A few minutes ago they met the enemy when Miss Gatewood and her friends arrived with their candles. She stared them down, so now they’re playing cards.”
   Ellen finished her drink and left for more. Jake picked up the stack of notecards for the hundredth time and flashed them on the table. Name, age, occupation, family, race, education-he had read and repeated the information since early morning. Round Two arrived with haste, and she took the cards.
   “Correen Hagan,” she said, sipping.
   He thought a second. “Age, about fifty-five. Secretary for an insurance agent. Divorced, two grown children. Education, probably high school, no more. Native of Florida, for what that’s worth.”
   “Rating?”
   “I think I gave her a six.”
   “Very good. Millard Sills.”
   “Owns a pecan orchard near Mays. About seventy years old. His nephew was shot in the head by two blacks during a robbery in Little Rock several years ago. Hates blacks. He will not be on the jury.”
   “Rating?”
   “Zero, I believe.”
   “Clay Bailey.”
   “Age, about thirty. Six kids. Devout Pentecostal. Works at the furniture plant west of town.”
   “You’ve given him a ten.”
   “Yeah. I’m sure he’s read that part in the Bible about an eye for an eye, etc. Plus, out of six kids, I’d think at least two would be daughters.”
   “Do you have all of them memorized?”
   He nodded and took a drink. “I feel like I’ve known them for years.”
   “How many will you recognize?”
   “Very few. But I’ll know more about them than Buck-ley.”
   “I’m impressed.”
   “What! What did you say! I have impressed you with my intellect!”
   “Among other things.”
   “I feel so honored. I’ve impressed a genius in criminal law. The daughter of Sheldon Roark, whoever he is. A real live summa cum laude. Wait’111 tell Harry Rex.”
   “Where is that elephant? I miss him. I think he’s cute.”
   “Go call him. Ask him to join us for a patio party as we watch the troops prepare for the Third Battle of Bull Run.”
   She headed for the phone on Jake’s desk. “What about Lucien?”
   “No! I’m tired of Lucien.”
   Harry Rex brought a fifth of tequila he found somewhere deep in his liquor cabinet. He and the law clerk argued violently over the proper ingredients of a good margarita. Jake voted with his clerk.
   They sat on the balcony, calling names from index cards, drinking the tangy concoction, yelling at the soldiers, and singing Jimmy Buffet songs. At midnight, Nesbit loaded Ellen in his patrol car and took her to Lucien’s. Harry Rex walked home. Jake slept on the couch.
   Monday, July 22. Not long after the last margarita Jake bolted from the couch and stared at the clock on his desk. He had slept for three hours. A swarm of wild butterflies fought violently in his stomach. A nervous pain shot through his groin. He had no time for a hangover.
   Nesbit slept like an infant behind the wheel. Jake roused him and jumped in the back seat. He waved at the sentries, who watched curiously from across the street. Nesbit drove two blocks to Adams, released his passenger, and waited in the driveway as instructed. He showered and shaved quickly. He chose a charcoal worsted wool suit, a white pinpoint button-down, and a very neutral, noncontro-versial, expressionless burgundy silk tie with a few narrow navy stripes for good measure. The pleated pants hung perfectly from his trim waist. He looked great, much more stylish than the enemy.
   Nesbit was asleep again when Jake released the dog and jumped in the back seat.
   “Everything okay in there?” Nesbit asked, wiping the saliva from his chin.
   “I didn’t find any dynamite, if that’s what you mean.”
   Nesbit laughed at this, with the same irritating, laughing response he made to almost everything. They circled the square and Jake got out in front of his office. Thirty minutes after he left, he turned on the front lights and made the coffee.
   He took four aspirin and drank a quart of grapefruit juice. His eyes burned and his head ached from abuse and fatigue, and the tiring part had not yet begun. On the conference table he spread out his file on Carl Lee Hailey. It had been organized and indexed by his law clerk, but he wanted to break it down and put it back together. If a document or case can’t be found in thirty seconds, it’s no good. He smiled at Jier talent for organization. She had files and sub-files on everything, all ten seconds away at a fingertip. In a one-inch, three-ring notebook she had a summary of Dr. Bass’s qualifi—cations and the outline of his testimony. She had made notes on anticipated objections from Buckley, and provided case authority to fight his objections. Jake took great pride in his trial preparation, but it was humbling to learn from a third-year law student.
   He repacked the file in his trial briefcase, the heavy black leather one with his initials in gold on the side. Nature called, and he sat on the toilet flipping through the index cards. He knew them all. He was ready.
   A few minutes after five, Harry Rex knocked on the door. It was dark and he looked like a burglar.
   “Whatta you doing up so early?” Jake asked.
   “I couldn’t sleep. I’m kinda nervous.” He thrust forward a loaded paper sack with grease spots. “Dell sent these over. They’re fresh and hot. Sausage biscuits, bacon and cheese biscuits, chicken and cheese biscuits, you name it. She’s worried about you.”
   “Thanks, Harry Rex, but I’m not hungry. My system is in revolt.”
   “Nervous?”
   “As a whore in church.”
   “You look pretty haggard.”
   “Thanks.”
   “Nice suit though.”
   “Carla picked it out.”
   Harry Rex reached into the sack and produced a handful of biscuits wrapped in foil. He piled them on the conference table and fixed his coffee. Jake sat across from him and flipped through Ellen’s brief on M’Naghten.
   “She write that?” Harry Rex asked with both cheeks full and his jaws grinding rapidly.
   “Yeah, it’s a seventy-five-page summary of the insanity defense in Mississippi. It took her three days.”
   “She seems very bright.”
   “She’s got the brains, and she writes fluidly. The intellect is there, but she has trouble applying what she knows to the real world.”
   “Whatta you know about her?” Crumbs fell from his mouth and bounced on the table. He brushed them onto the floor with a sleeve.
   “She’s solid. Number two in her class at Ole Miss. I called Nelson Battles, Assistant Dean of the Law School, and she checked out fine. She has a good chance of finishing number one.”
   “I finished ninety-third outta ninety-eight. I would’ve finished ninety-second but they caught me cheating on an exam. I started to protest, but I figured ninety-third was just as good. Hell, I figured, who cares in Clanton. These people were just glad I came back here to practice when I graduated instead of going to Wall Street or some pjace like that.”
   Jake smiled at the story he had heard a hundred times.
   Harry Rex unwrapped a chicken and cheese biscuit. “You look nervous, buddy.”
   “I’m okay. The first day is always the hardest. The preparation has been done. I’m ready.. It’s just a matter of waiting now.”
   “What time does Row Ark make her entrance?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “Lord, I wonder what she’ll wear.”
   “Or not wear. I just hope she’s decent. You know what a prude Noose is.”
   “You’re not gonna let her sit at counsel table are you?”
   “I don’t think so. She’ll stay in the background, sort of like you. She might offend some of the women jurors.”
   “Yeah, keep her there, but outta sight.”
   Harry Rex wiped his mouth with a huge paw. “You sleeping with her?”
   “No! I’m not crazy, Harry Rex.”
   “You’re crazy if you don’t. That woman could be had.”
   “Then have her. I’ve got enough on my mind.”
   “She thinks I’m cute, don’t she?”
   “She says she does.”

   “I think I’ll give it a shot,” he said with a straight face, then he smiled, then he burst into laughter with crumbs spraying the bookshelves.
   The phone rang. Jake shook his head, and Harry Rex picked up the receiver. “He’s not here, but I’ll be glad to give him the message.” He winked at Jake. “Yes sir, yes sir, uh huh, yes sir. It’s a terrible thing, ain’t it. Can you believe a man would do it? Yes sir, yes sir, I agree one hundred percent. Yes sir, and what’s your name, sir? Sir?” Harry Rex smiled at the receiver and laid it down.
   “What’d he want?”
   “Said you was a shame to the white race for being that nigger’s lawyer, and that he didn’t see how any lawyer could represent a nigger such as Hailey. And that he hoped the Klan got ahold of you, and if they didn’t he hoped the bar association looked into it and took away your license for helping niggers. Said he knew you were no ‘count because you were trained by Lucien Wilbanks who lives with a nigger woman.”
   “And you agreed with him!”
   “Why not? He was really sincere, not hateful, and he feels better now that it’s off his chest.”
   The phone rang again. Harry Rex snatched the receiver. “Jake Brigance, Attorney, Counselor, Consultant, Adviser, and Guru at Law.”
   Jake left for the restroom. “Jake, it’s a reporter!” Harry Rex yelled.
   “I’m on the potty.”
   “He’s got the runs!” Harry Rex told the reporter.
   At six-seven in Wilmington-Jake called Carla. She was awake, reading the paper, drinking coffee. He told her about Bud Twitty, and Mickey Mouse’, and the promise of more violence. No, he wasn’t afraid of that. It did not bother him. He was afraid of the jury, of the twelve who would be chosen, and their reaction to him and his client. His only fear, at the moment, was of what the jury might do to his client. Everything else was irrelevant. For the first time, she did not mention coming home. He promised to call that night.
   When he hung up, he heard a commotion downstairs. Ellen had arrived, and Harry Rex was talking loudly. She’s wearing a see-through blouse with a miniskirt, thought Jake as he walked downstairs. She was not. Harry Rex was congratulating her on dressing like a Southern woman with all the accessories. She was wearing a gray glen plaid suit with a V-necked jacket and short slim skirt. The silk blouse was black, and apparently the necessary garment was underneath. Her hair was pulled back and braided in some fashion. Incredibly, traces of mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick were visible. In the words of Harry Rex, she looked as much like a lawyer as a woman could look.
   “Thanks, Harry Rex,” she said. “I wish I had your taste in clothes.”
   “You look nice, Row Ark,” Jake said.
   “So do you,” she said. She looked at Harry Rex, but said nothing.
   “Please forgive us, Row Ark,” Harry Rex said. “We’re impressed because we had no idea you owned so many types of garments. We apologize for admiring you and we know how much this infuriates your little liberated heart. Yes, we’re sexist pigs, but you chose to come to the South. And in the South we, as a rule, drool over well-dressed attractive females, liberated or not.”
   “What’s in the sack?” she said.
   “Breakfast.”
   She tore it open and unwrapped a sausage and biscuit. “No bagels?” she asked.
   “What’s that?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Forget it.”
   Jake rubbed his hands together and tried to sound enthusiastic. “Well, now that we’ve gathered here three hours before trial, what would y’all like to do?”
   “Let’s make some margaritas,” said Harry Rex.
   “No!” said Jake.
   “It’ll take the edge off.”
   “Not me,” said Ellen. “This is business.”
   Harry Rex unwrapped a biscuit, the last of the sack. “What happens first today?”
   “After the sun comes up, we start the trial. At nine, Noose will say a few words to the jurors and we start the selection process.”
   “How long will it take?” asked Ellen.
   “Two or three days. In Mississippi, we have the right to interrogate each juror individually in chambers. That takes time.”
   “Where do I sit and what do I do?”
   “She certainly sounds experienced,” Harry Rex said to Jake. “Does she know where the courthouse is?”
   “You do not sit at counsel table,” said Jake. “Just me and Carl Lee.”
   She wiped her mouth. “I see. Just you and the defen—dant sitting alone, surrounded by the forces of evil, facing death alone.”
   “Something like that.”
   “My father uses that tactic occasionally.”
   “I’m glad you approve. You’ll sit behind me, next to the railing. I’ll ask Noose to allow you into chambers for the private discussions.”
   “What about me?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Noose doesn’t like you, Harry Rex. He never has. He’d have a stroke if I asked if you could go in chambers. It’d be best if you pretended we’d never met.”
   “Thanks.”
   “But we do appreciate your assistance,” Ellen said.
   “Up yours, Ellie Mae.”
   “And you can still drink with us,” she said.
   “And furnish the tequila.”
   “There will be no more alcohol in this office,” Jake said.
   “Until the noon recess,” said Harry Rex.
   “I want you to stand behind the clerk’s table, just loiter about like you always do, and take notes on the jury. Try to match them with the notecards. There’ll probably be a hundred and twenty.”
   “Whatever you say.”
   Daybreak brought the army out in force. The barricades were reinstalled, and on each corner of the square soldiers clustered around the orange and white barrels blocking the street. They were poised and anxious, watching every car intently, waiting for the enemy to attack, wanting some excitement. Things stirred a little when a few of the vultures in their compact wagons and minivans with fancy logos on the doors appeared at seven-thirty. The troops surrounded the vehicles and informed everyone there would be no parking around the courthouse during the trial. The vultures disappeared down the side streets, then moments later reappeared on foot with their bulky cameras and equipment. Some set up camp on the front steps of the courthouse, others by the back door, and another group in the rotunda outside the main door of the courtroom on the second floor.
   Murphy, the janitor and only real eyewitness to the killings of Cobb and Willard, informed the press, as best he could, that the courtroom would be opened at eight, and not a minute before. A line formed and soon circled the rotunda.
   The church buses parked somewhere off the square, and the marchers were led slowly down Jackson Street by the ministers. They carried FREE CARL LEE signs and sang “We Shall Overcome” in a perfect chorus. As they neared the square, the soldiers heard them and the radios began squawking. Ozzie and the colonel conferred quickly, and the soldiers relaxed. The marchers were led by Ozzie to a section of the front lawn where they milled about and waited under the watchful eyes of the Mississippi National Guard.
   At eight, a metal detector was moved to the front doors of the courtroom, and a trio of heavily armed deputies began slowly searching and admitting the crowd of spectators that now filled the rotunda and trailed off into the halls. Inside the courtroom, Prather directed traffic, seating people on the long pews on one side of the aisle while reserving the other side for the jurors. The front pew was reserved for the family, and the second row was filled with courtroom artists who immediately began sketching the bench and the bar and the portraits of Confederate heroes.
   The Klan felt obligated to make its presence known on opening day, especially to the prospective jurors as they arrived. Two dozen Kluxers in full parade dress walked quietly onto Washington Street. They were immediately stopped and surrounded by soldiers. The potbellied colonel swaggered across the street and for the first time in his life came face to face with a white-robed and white-hooded Ku Klux Klansman, who happened to be a foot taller. He then noticed the cameras, which had gravitated to this confrontation, and the bully in him vanished. His usual bark and growl was instantly replaced by a high-pitched, nervous, trembling stutter that was incomprehensible even to himself.
   Ozzie arrived and saved him. “Good mornin’, fellas,” he said coolly as he stepped beside the faltering colonel. “We’ve got you surrounded, and we’ve got you outnumbered. We also know we can’t keep you from being here.”
   “That’s right,” said the leader.
   “If you’ll just follow me and do as I say, we won’t have any trouble.”
   They followed Ozzie and the colonel to a small area on the front lawn, where it was explained that this was their turf for the trial. Stay there and stay quiet, and the colonel would personally keep the troops off them. They agreed.
   As expected, the sight of the white robes aroused the blacks who were some two hundred feet away. They began shouting: “Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!”
   The Klansmen shook their fists and shouted back: “Fry Carl Lee!”
   “Fry Carl Lee!”
   “Fry Carl Lee!”
   Two rows of troops lined the main sidewalk that divided the lawn and led to the front steps. Another row stood between the sidewalk and the Klansmen, and one between the sidewalk and the blacks.
   As the jurors began arriving, they walked briskly through the rows of soldiers. They clutched their summonses and listened in disbelief as the two groups screamed at each other.
   The Honorable Rufus Buckley arrived in Clanton and politely informed the guardsmen of who he was and what that meant, and he was allowed to park in his spot marked RESERVED FOR D. A. next to the courthouse. The reporters went wild. This must be important, someone had broken through the barricade. Buckley sat in his well-used Cadillac for a moment to allow the reporters to catch him. They surrounded him as he slammed the door. He smiled and smiled and made his way ever so slowly to the front door of the courthouse. The rapid fire of questions proved irresistible, and Buckley violated the gag order at least eight times, each time smiling and explaining that he could not answer the question he had just answered. Musgrove trailed behind carrying the great man’s briefcase.
   Jake paced nervously in his office. The door was locked. Ellen was downstairs working on another brief. Harry Rex was at,the Coffee Shop eating another breakfast and gossiping. The notecards were scattered on his desk, and he was tired of them. He flipped through a brief, then walked to the French doors. The shouting echoed through the open windows. He returned to the desk and studied the outline of his opening comments to the prospective jurors. The first impression was critical.
   He lay on the couch, closed his eyes, and thought of a thousand things he’d rather be doing. For the most part, he enjoyed his work. But there were moments, frightening moments like this one, when he wished he’d become an insurance agent or a stockbroker. Or maybe even a tax lawyer. Surely those guys didn’t regularly suffer from nausea and diarrhea at critical moments in their careers.
   Lucien had taught him that fear was good; fear was an ally; that every lawyer was afraid when he stood before a new jury and presented his case. It was okay to be afraidjust don’t show it. Jurors would not follow the lawyer with the quickest tongue or prettiest words. They would not follow the sharpest dresser. They would not follow a clown or court jester. They would not follow the lawyer who preached the loudest or fought the hardest. Lucien had convinced him that jurors followed the lawyer who told the truth, regardless of his looks, words, or superficial abilities. A lawyer had to be himself in the courtroom, and if he was afraid, so be it. The jurors were afraid too.
   Make friends with fear, Lucien always said, because it will not go away, and it will destroy you if left uncontrolled.
   The fear hit deep in his bowels, and he walked carefully downstairs to the rest room.
   “How are you, boss?” Ellen asked when. he checked on her.
   “Ready, I guess. We’ll leave in a minute.”
   “There are some reporters waiting outside. I told them you had withdrawn from the case and left town.”
   “At this moment, I wish I had.”
   “Have you heard of Wendall Solomon?”
   “Not right off hand.”
   “He’s with the Southern Prisoner Defense Fund. I worked under him last summer. He’s tried over a hundred capital cases all over the South. He gets so nervous before a trial he can neither eat nor sleep. His doctor gives him seda—tives, but he’s still so jumpy no one speaks to him on opening day. And that’s after a hundred of these trials.”
   “How does your father handle it?”
   “He has a couple of martinis with a Valium. Then he lies on his desk with the door locked and the lights off until it’s time for court. His nerves are ragged and he’s ill-tempered. Of course, a lot of that is natural.”
   “So you know the feeling?”
   “I know it well.”
   “Do I look nervous?”
   “You look tired. But you’ll do.”
   Jake checked his watch. “Let’s go.”
   The reporters on the sidewalk pounced on their prey. “No comment” he insisted as he moved slowly across the street toward the courthouse. The barrage continued.
   “Is it true you plan to ask for a mistrial?”
   “I can’t do that until the trial starts.”
   “Is it true the Klan has threatened you?”
   “No comment.”
   “Is it true you sent your family out of town until after the trial?”
   Jake hesitated and glanced at the reporter. “No comment.”
   “What do you think of the National Guard?”
   “I’m proud of them.”
   “Can your client get a fair trial in Ford County?”
   Jake shook his head, then added, “No comment.”
   A deputy stood guard a few feet from where the bodies had come to rest. He pointed at Ellen. “Who’s she, Jake?”
   “She’s harmless. She’s with me.”
   They ran up the rear stairs. Carl Lee sat alone at the defense table, his back to the packed courtroom. Jean Gil-lespie was busy checking in jurors while deputies roamed the aisles looking for anything suspicious. Jake greeted his client warmly, taking special care to shake his hand, smile broadly at him, and put his hand on his shoulder. Ellen unpacked the briefcases and neatly arranged the files on the table.