“Look, Ozzie, whatever we say here is said in confidence. I don’t want anyone to know about this conversation.”
   “You sound serious, Jake.”
   “I am serious. I talked to Carl Lee Wednesday after the hearing. He’s out of his mind, and I understand that. I would be too. He was talking about killing the boys, and he sounded serious. I just think you ought to know.”
   “They’re safe, Jake. He couldn’t get to them if he wanted to. We’ve had some phone calls, anonymous of course, with all kinds of threats. Black folks are bad upset. But the boys’re safe. They’re in a cell by themselves, and we’re real careful.”
   “That’s good. I haven’t been hired by Carl Lee, but I’ve represented all the Haileys at one time or another and I’m sure he considers me to be his lawyer, for whatever reason. I feel a responsibility to let you know.”
   “I’m not worried, Jake.”
   “Good. Let me ask you something. I’ve got a daughter, and you’ve got a daughter, right?”
   “Got two of them.”
   “What’s Carl Lee thinking? I mean, as a black father?”
   “Same thing you’d be thinkin’.”
   “And what’s that?”
   Ozzie reared back in his chair and crossed his arms. He thought for a moment. “He’s wonderin’ if she’s okay, physically, I mean. Is she gonna live, and if she does, how bad is she hurt. Can she ever have kids? Then he’s wonderin’ if she’s okay mentally and emotionally, and how will this affect her for the rest of her life. Thirdly, he wants to kill the bastards.”
   “Would you?”
   “It’s easy to say I would, but a man don’t know what he’d do. I think my kids need me at home a whole lot more than Parchman needs me. What would you be thinkin’, Jake?”
   “About the same, I guess. I don’t know what I’d do. Probably go crazy.” He paused and stared at the desk. “But I might seriously plan to kill whoever did it. It’d be mighty hard to lie down at night knowing he was still alive.”
   “What would a jury do?”
   “Depends on who’s on the jury. You pick the right jury and you walk. If the D. A. picks the right jury you get the gas. It depends strictly on the jury, and in this county you can. me ngrit lolks. People are tired of raping and robbing and killing. I know white folks are.”
   “Everbody is.”
   “My point is that there’d be a lot of sympathy for a father who took matters into his own hands. People don’t trust our judicial system. I think I could at least hang a jury. Just convince one or two that the bastard needed to die.”
   “Like Monroe Bowie.”
   “Exactly. Just like Monroe Bowie. He was a sorry nigger who needed killing and Lester took a walk. By the way, Ozzie, why do you suppose Lester drove from Chicago?”
   “He’s pretty close to his brother. We’re watchin’ him too.”
   The conversation changed and Ozzie finally asked about the leg. They shook hands and Jake left. He drove straight home, where Carla was waiting with her list. She didn’t mind the Saturdays at the office as long as he was home by noon and pretty much followed orders thereafter.
   On Sunday afternoon a crowd gathered at the hospital and followed the little Hailey girl’s wheelchair as it was pushed by her father down the hall, through the doors, and into the parking lot, where he gently raised her and sat her in the front seat. As she sat between her parents, with her three brothers in the back seat, he drove away, followed by a procession of friends and relatives and strangers. The caravan moved slowly, deliberately out of town and into the country.
   She sat up in the front seat like a big girl. Her father was silent, her mother tearful, and her brothers mute and rigid.
   Another throng waited at the house and rushed to the porch as the cars moved up the driveway and parked on the grass on the long front yard. The crowd hushed as he carried her up the steps, through the door, and laid her on the couch. She was glad to be home, but tired of the spectators. Her mother held her feet as cousins, uncles, aunts, neighbors, and everybody walked to her and touched her and smiled, some through tears, and said nothing. Her daddy went outside and talked to Uncle Lester and the men. Her brothers were in the kitchen with the crowd devouring the pile of food.
   Rocky Childers had been the prosecutor for Ford County for more years than he cared to remember. The job paid fifteen thousand a year and required most of his time. It also destroyed any practice he hoped to build. At forty-two he was washed up as a lawyer, stuck in a dead-end part-time, full-time job, elected permanently every four years. Thankfully, he had a wife with a good job so they could drive new Buicks and afford the country club dues and in general put on the necessary airs of educated white people in Ford County. At a younger age he had political ambitions, but the voters dissuaded him, and he was malcontent to exhaust his career prosecuting drunks, shoplifters, and juvenile delinquents, and being abused by Judge Bullard, whom he despised. Excitement crept up occasionally when people like Cobb and Willard screwed up, and Rocky, by statutory authority, handled the preliminary and other hearings before the cases were sent to the grand jury and then to Circuit Court, and then to the real prosecutor, the big prosecutor, the district attorney, Mr. Rufus Buckley, from Polk County. It was Buckley who had disposed of Rocky’s political career.
   Normally, a bail hearing was no big affair for Childers, but this was a bit different. Since Wednesday he had received dozens of phone calls from blacks, all registered voters or claiming to be, who were very concerned about Cobb and Willard being released from jail. They wanted the boys locked up, just like the black ones who got in trouble and could not make bail before trial. Childers promised his best, but explained the bonds would be set by County Judge Percy Bullard, whose number was also in the phone book. On Ben-nington Street. They promised to be in court Monday to watch him and Bullard.
   At twelve-thirty Monday, Childers was summoned to the judge’s chambers, where the sheriff and Bullard were waiting. The judge was so nervous he could not sit.
   “How much bond do you want?” he snapped at Childers.
   “I dunno, Judge. I haven’t thought much about it.”
   “Don’t you think it’s about time you thought about it?” He paced rapidly back and forth behind his desk, then to the window, then back to his desk. Ozzie was amused and silent.
   “Not really,” Childers answered softly. “It’s your decision. You’re the judge.”
   “Thanks! Thanks! Thanks! How much will you ask for?”
   “I always ask for more than I expect,” replied Childers coolly, thoroughly enjoying the judge’s neurosis.
   “How much is that?”
   “I dunno. I hadn’t thought much about it.”
   Dullard’s neck turned dark red and he glared at Ozzie. “Whatta you think, Sheriff?”
   “Well,” Ozzie drawled, “I would suggest pretty stiff bonds. These boys need to be in jail for their own safety. Black folk are restless out there. They might get hurt if they bond out. Better go high.”
   “How much money they got?”
   “Willard’s broke. Can’t tell about Cobb. Drug money’s hard to trace. He might could find twenty, thirty thousand. I hear he’s hired some big-shot Memphis lawyer. Supposed to be here today. He must have some money.”
   “Damn, why don’t I know these things. Who’d he hire?”
   “Bernard. Peter K. Bernard,” answered Childers. “He called me this morning.”
   “Never heard of him,” retorted Bullard with an air of superiority, as though he memorized some kind of judicial rap sheet on all lawyers.
   Bullard studied the trees outside the window as the sheriff and prosecutor exchanged winks. The bonds would be exorbitant, as always. The bail bondsmen loved Bullard for his outrageous bonds. They watched with delight as desperate families scraped and mortgaged to collect the ten percent premiums they charged to write the bonds. Bullard would be high, and he didn’t care. It was politically safe to set them high and keep the criminals in jail. The blacks would appreciate it and that was important even if the county was seventy-four percent white. He owed the blacks a few favors.
   “Let’s go a hundred thousand on Willard and two hundred on Cobb. That oughtta satisfy them.”
   “Satisfy who?” asked Ozzie.
   “Er, uh, the people, the people out there. Sound okay to you?”
   “Fine with me,” said Childers. “But what about the hearing?” he asked with a grin.
   “We’ll give them a hearing, a fair hearing, then I’ll set the bonds at a hundred and two hundred.”
   “And I suppose you want me to ask for three hundred apiece so you can look fair?” asked Childers.
   “I don’t care what you ask for!” yelled the judge.
   “Sounds fair to me,” said Ozzie as he headed for the door. “Will you call me to testify?” he asked Childers.
   “Naw, we don’t need you. I don’t guess the State will call anybody since we’re having such a fair hearing.”
   They left the chambers and Bullard stewed. He locked the door behind them and pulled a half pint of vodka from his briefcase, and gulped it furiously. Mr. Pate waited outside the door. Five minutes later Bullard barged into the packed courtroom.
   “All rise for the court!” Mr. Pate shouted.
   “Be seated!” screamed the judge before anyone could stand. “Where are the defendants? Where?”
   Cobb and Willard were escorted from the holding room and seated at the defense table. Cobb’s new lawyer smiled at his client as the handcuffs were removed. Willard’s lawyer, Tyndale, the public defender, ignored him.
   The same crowd of blacks had returned from last Wednesday, and had brought some friends. They closely followed the movements of the two white boys. Lester saw them for the first time. Carl Lee was not in the courtroom.
   From the bench Bullard counted deputies-nine in all. That had to be a record. Then he counted blacks-hundreds of them all bunched together, all glaring at the two rapists, who sat at the same table between their lawyers. The vodka felt good. He took a sip of what appeared to be ice water from a Styrofoam cup and managed a slight grin. It burned slowly downward and his cheeks flushed. What he ought to do was order the deputies out of the courtroom and throw Cobb and Willard to the niggers. That would be fun to watch, and justice would be served. He could just see the fat nigger women stomping up and down while their men carved on the boys with switchblades and machetes. Then, when they were finished, they would collect themselves and all march quietly from the courtroom. He smiled to himself.
   He motioned for Mr. Pate, who approached the bench. “I’ve got a half pint of ice water in my desk drawer,” he whispered. “Pour me some in a Styrofoam cup.”
   Mr. Pate nodded and disappeared.
   “This is a bail hearing,” he declared loudly, “and I don’t intend for it to last long. Are the defendants ready?”
   “Yes, sir,” said Tyndale.
   “Yes, Your Honor,” said Mr. Bernard.
   “The State ready?”
   “Yes, sir,” answered Childers without standing.
   “Good. Call your first witness.”
   Childers addressed the judge. “Your Honor, the State will call no witnesses. His Honor is well aware of the charges against these two defendants, since His Honor held the preliminary hearing last Wednesday. It is my understanding the victim is now home, so we do not anticipate further charges. The grand jury will be asked next Monday to indict the two defendants for rape, kidnapping, and aggravated assault. Because of the violent nature of these crimes, because of the age of the victim, and because Mr. Cobb is a convicted felon, the State would ask for the maximum bonds, and not a penny less.”
   Bullard almost choked on his ice water. What maximum? There’s no such thing as a maximum bond.
   “What do you suggest, Mr. Childers?”
   “Half a million apiece!” Childers announced proudly and sat down.
   Half a million! Out of the question, thought Bullard. He sipped furiously and glared at the prosecutor. Half a million! Double-crossed in open court. He sent Mr. Pate after more ice water.
   “The defense may proceed.”
   Cobb’s new lawyer stood purposefully. He cleared his throat and removed his horn-rimmed, academic, go-to-hell reading glasses. “May it please the court, Your Honor, my name is Peter K. Bernard. 1 am irom jviempms, aim i uavt been retained by Mr. Cobb to represent him—”
   “Do you have a license to practice in Mississippi?” interrupted Bullard.
   Bernard was caught off-guard. “Well, uh, not exactly, Your Honor.”
   “I see. When you say ‘not exactly,’ do you mean something other than no?”
   Several lawyers in the jury box snickered. Bullard was famous for this. He hated Memphis lawyers, and required them to associate local counsel before appearing in his court. Years before when he was practicing, a Memphis judge had kicked him out of court because he was not licensed in Tennessee. He had enjoyed revenge since the day he was elected.
   “Your Honor, I am not licensed in Mississippi, but I am licensed in Tennessee.”
   “I would hope so,” came the retort from the bench. More suppressed laughter from the jury box. “Are you familiar with our local rules here in Ford County?” His Honor asked.
   “Er, uh, yes, sir.”
   “Do you have a copy of these rules?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “And you read them carefully before you ventured into my courtroom?”
   “Uh, yes, sir, most of them.”
   “Did you understand Rule 14 when you read it?”
   Cobb glanced up suspiciously at his new lawyer.
   “Uh, I don’t recall that one,” Bernard admitted.
   “I didn’t think so. Rule 14 requires out-of-state unlicensed attorneys to associate local counsel when appearing in my courtroom.”
   “Yes, sir.”

   From his looks and mannerisms, Bernard was a polished attorney, at least he was known as such in Memphis. He was, however, in the process of being totally degraded and humbled before a small-town, redneck judge with a quick tongue.
   “Yes, sir, what?” snapped Bullard.
   “Yes, sir, I think I’ve heard of that rule.”
   “There is none, but I planned—”
   “Then you drove down here from Memphis, carefully read my rules, and deliberately ignored them. Right?”
   Bernard lowered his head and stared at a blank yellow legal pad on the table.
   Tyndale rose slowly. “Your Honor, for the record, I show myself as associated counsel for Mr. Bernard for purposes of this hearing and for no other purpose.”
   Bullard smiled. Slick move, Tyndale, slick move. The ice water warmed him and he relaxed. “Very well. Call your first witness.”
   Bernard stood straight again. He cocked his head. “Your Honor, on behalf of Mr. Cobb, I would like to call his brother, Mr. Fred Cobb, to the stand.”
   “Make it brief,” Bullard mumbled.
   CobB’s brother was sworn and seated in the witness chair. Bernard assumed the podium and began a long, detailed direct examination. He was well prepared. He elicited proof that Billy Ray Cobb was gainfully employed, owned real estate in Ford County, grew up there, had most of his family there, and friends, and had no reason to leave. A solid citizen with deep roots with much to lose if he fled. A man who could be trusted to show up for court. A man worthy of a low bond.
   Bullard sipped, tapped his pen, and searched the black faces in the audience.
   Childers had no questions. Bernard called Cobb’s mother, Cora, who repeated what her son Fred said about her son Billy Ray. She managed a couple of tears at an awkward moment, and Bullard shook his head.
   Tyndale was next. He went through the same motions with Willard’s family.
   Half a million dollars bond! Anything less would be too little, and the blacks wouldn’t like it. The judge had new reason to hate Childers. But he liked the blacks because they elected him last time. He received fifty-one percent of the vote countywide, but he got all the nigger vote.
   “Anything else?” he asked when Tyndale finished.
   The three lawyers looked blankly at each other, then at the judge. Bernard stood. “Your Honor, I would like to summarize my client’s position in regard to a reasonable bond—”
   “Forget it, pal. I’ve heard enough from you and your client. Sit down.”
   Bullard hesitated, then rapidly announced: “Bond is hereby set at one hundred thousand for Pete Willard, and two hundred thousand for Billy Ray Cobb. Defendants will remain in the custody of the sheriff until they are able to make bail. Court’s adjourned.” He rapped the gavel and disappeared into his chambers, where he finished the half pint and opened another one.
   Lester was pleased with the bonds. His had been fifty thousand for the murder of Monroe Bowie. Of course, Bowie was black, and bonds were generally lower for those cases.
   The crowd inched toward the rear door, but Lester did not move. He watched closely as the two white boys were handcuffed and taken through the door into the holding room. When they were out of sight, he placed his head in his hands and said a short prayer. Then he listened.
   At least ten times a day Jake walked through the French doors and onto the balcony to inspect downtown Clanton. He sometimes puffed a cheap cigar and blew smoke over Washington Street. Even in the summer he left the windows open in the big office. The sounds of the busy small town made good company as he worked quietly. At times he was amazed at the volume of noise generated on the streets around the courthouse, and at other times he walked to the balcony to see why things were so quiet.
   Just before 2:00 P. M., Monday, May 20, he walked to the balcony and lit a cigar. A heavy silence engulfed downtown Clanton, Mississippi.
   Cobb went first down the stairs, cautiously, with his hands cuffed behind him, then Willard, then Deputy Looney. Ten steps down, then the landing, turn right, then ten steps to the first floor. Three other deputies waited outside by the patrol cars smoking cigarettes and watching reporters.
   When Cobb reached the second step from the floor, and Willard was three steps behind, and Looney was one step off the landing, the small, dirty, neglected, unnoticed door to the janitor’s closet burst open and Mr. Carl Lee Hailey sprung from the darkness with an M-16. At point-blank range he opened fire. The loud, rapid, clapping, popping gunfire shook the courthouse and exploded the silence. The rapists froze, then screamed as they were hit-Cobb first, in the stomach and chest, then Willard in the face, neck, and throat. They twisted vainly up the stairs, handcuffed and helpless, stumbling over each other as their skin and blood splashed together.
   Looney was hit in the leg but managed to scramble up the stairs into the holding room, where he crouched and listened as Cobb and Willard screamed and moaned and the crazy nigger laughed. Bullets ricocheted between the walls of the narrow stairway, and Looney could see, looking down toward the landing, blood and flesh splashing on the walls and dripping down.
   In short, sudden bursts of seven or eight rounds each, the enormous booming sound of the M-16 echoed through the courthouse for an eternity. Through the gunfire and the sounds of the bullets rattling around the walls of the stairway, the high-pitched, shrill, laughing voice of Carl Lee could be plainly heard.
   When he stopped, he threw the rifle at the two corpses and ran. Into the restroom, he jammed the door with a chair, crawled out a window into the bushes, then onto the sidewalk. Nonchalantly, he walked to his pickup and drove home.
   Lester froze when the shooting started. The gunfire was heard loudly in the courtroom. Willard’s mother screamed and Cobb’s mother screamed, and the deputies raced into the holding room, but did not venture down the stairs. Lester listened intently for the sounds of handguns, and hearing none, he left the courtroom.
   With the first shot, Bullard grabbed the half pint and crawled under his desk while Mr. Pate locked the door.
   Cobb, or what was left of him, came to rest on Willard. Their blood mixed and puddled on each step, then it overflowed and dripped to the next step, where it puddled before overflowing and dripping to the next. Soon the foot of the stairway was flooded with the mixture.
   Jake sprinted across the street to the rear door of the courthouse. Deputy Prather crouched in front of the door, gun drawn, and cursed the reporters who pressed forward. The other deputies knelt fearfully on the doorsteps next to the patrol cars. Jake ran to the front of the courthouse, where more deputies were guarding the door and evacuating the county employees and courtroom spectators. A mass of bodies poured onto the front steps. Jake fought through the stampede and into the rotunda and found Ozzie directing people and yelling in all directions. He motioned for Jake, and they walked down the hall to the rear doors, where a half dozen deputies stood, guns in hand, gazing silently at the stairway. Jake felt nauseated. Willard had almost made it to the landing. The front of his head was missing, and his brains rolled out like jelly covering his face. Cobb had been able to twist over and absorb the bullets with his back. His face was buried in Willard’s stomach, and his feet touched the fourth step from the floor. The blood continued from the lifeless bodies, and it covered completely the bottom six steps. The crimson pool on the floor inched quickly toward the deputies, who slowly backed away. The weapon was between Cobb’s legs on the fifth step, and it too was covered with blood.
   The group stood silently, mesmerized by the two bodies, which, though dead, continued to spew blood. The thick smell of gunfire hung over the stairway and drifted toward the hall into the rotunda, where the deputies continued to move people toward the front door.
   “Jake, you’d better leave,” Ozzie said without looking from the bodies.
   “Why?”
   “Just leave.”
   “Why?”
   “ ‘Cause we gotta take pictures and collect evidence and stuff, and you don’t need to be here.”
   cui you aon t interrogate him out ot my presence. Understand?” Ozzie nodded.
   The photographs were taken, the mess cleaned, the evidence gathered, the bodies removed, and two hours later Ozzie left town followed by five patrol cars. Hastings drove and led the convoy into the country, toward the lake, past Bates Grocery, onto Craft Road. The Hailey driveway was empty except for Owen’s car, Carl Lee’s pickup, and the red Cadillac from Illinois.
   Ozzie expected no trouble as the patrol cars parked in a row across the front yard, and the deputies crouched behind the open doors, watching as the sheriff walked alone to the house. He stopped. The front door opened slowly and the Hailey family emerged. Carl Lee walked to the edge of the porch with Tonya in his arms. He looked down at his friend the sheriff, and behind him at the row of cars and deputies. To his right was Gwen, and to his left were his three sons, the smallest one crying softly but the older ones brave and proud. Behind them stood Lester.
   The two groups watched each other, each waiting for the other to say or do something, each wanting to avoid what was about to happen. The only sounds were the soft sniffles of the little girl, her mother, and the youngest boy.
   The children had tried to understand. Their daddy had explained to them what he had just done, and why. They understood that, but they could not comprehend why he had to be arrested and taken to jail.
   Ozzie kicked at a clod of dirt, occasionally glancing at the family, then at his men.
   Finally, he said, “You better come with me.”
   Carl Lee nodded slightly, but did not move. Gwen and the boy cried louder as Lester took the girl from her daddy. Then Carl Lee knelt before the three boys and whispered to them again that he must leave but wouldn’t be gone long. He hugged them, and they all cried and clutched him. He turned, and kissed his wife, then walked down the steps to the sner-iff.
   “You wanna handcuff me, Ozzie?”
   “Naw, Carl Lee, just get in the car.”
   Moss Junior Tatum, the chief deputy, and Jake talked quietly in Ozzie’s office while deputies, reserves, trusties, and other jailhouse regulars gathered in the large, cluttered workroom next to the office and waited anxiously for the arrival of the new prisoner. Two of the deputies peered through the blinds at the reporters and cameramen waiting in the parking lot between the jail and the highway. The television vans were from Memphis, Jackson, and Tupelo, and they were parked in various directions throughout the crowded lot. Moss did not like this, so he walked slowly down the sidewalk and ordered the press to regroup in a certain area, and to move the vans.
   “Will you make a statement?” yelled a reporter.
   “Yeah, move the vans.”
   “Can you say anything about the murders?”
   “Yeah, two people got killed.”
   “How about the details?”
   “Nope. I wasn’t there.”
   “Do you have a suspect?”
   “Yep.”
   “Who is it?”
   “I’ll tell you when the vans are moved.”
   The vans were immediately moved and the cameras and microphones were bunched together near the sidewalk. Moss pointed and directed until he was satisfied, then stepped to the crowd. He calmly chewed on a toothpick and stuck both thumbs in the front belt loops, just under the overlapping belly.
   “Who did it?”
   “Is he under arrest?”

   “Was the girl’s family involved?”
   “Are both dead?”
   Moss smiled and shook his head. “One at a time. Yes we have a suspect. He’s under arrest and will be here in a minute. Keep the vans outta the way. That’s all I have.”
   Moss walked back to the jail as they continued to can at mm. He ignored them and entered the crowded workroom.
   “How’s Looney?” he asked.
   “Prather’s with him at the hospital. He’s fine-slight wound to the leg.”
   “Yeah, that and a slight heart attack,” Moss said with a smile. The others laughed.
   “Here they come!” a trusty shouted, and everyone inside moved to the windows as the line of blue lights rolled slowly into the parking lot. Ozzie drove the first car with Carl Lee seated, unhandcuffed, in the front. Hastings reclined in the back and waved at the cameras as the car passed them and continued through the crowd, past the vans and around to the rear of the jail, where Ozzie parked and the three walked casually inside. Carl Lee was given to the jailer, and Ozzie walked down the hall to his office where Jake was waiting.
   “You can see him in a minute, Jake,” he said.
   “Thanks. You sure he did it?”
   “Yeah, I’m sure.”
   “He didn’t confess, did he?”
   “No, he didn’t say much of nothin’. I guess Lester coached him.”
   Moss walked in. “Ozzie, them reporters wanna talk to you. I said you’d be out in a minute.”
   “Thanks, Moss,” Ozzie sighed.
   “Anybody see it?” Jake asked.
   Ozzie wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief. “Yeah, Looney can I. D. him. You know Murphy, the little crippled man who sweeps floors in the courthouse?”
   “Sure. Stutters real bad.”
   “He saw the whole thing. He was sittin’ on the east stairs, directly across from where it happened. Eatin’ his lunch. Scared him so bad he couldn’t talk for an hour.” Ozzie paused and eyed Jake. “Why am I tellin’ you all this?”
   “What difference does it make? I’ll find out sooner or later. Where’s my man?”
   “Down the hall in the jail. They gotta take his picture and all that. Be ‘bout thirty minutes.”
   Ozzie left and Jake used his phone to call Carla and remind her to watch the news and record it.
   \/z. zav iciwu me iiiiu ujjuuiica aiiu utimuiiuv i am i an—swerin’ no questions. We have a suspect in custody. Name of Carl Lee Hailey from Ford County. Arrested for two counts of murder.”
   “Is he the girl’s father?”
   “Yes, he is.”
   “How do you know he did it?”
   “We’re very smart.”
   “Any eyewitnesses?”
   “None that we know of.”
   “Has he confessed?”
   “No.”
   “Where’d you find him?”
   “At his house.”
   “Was a deputy shot?”
   “Yes.”
   “How is he?”
   “He’s fine. He’s in the hospital, but he’s okay.”
   “What’s his name?”
   “Looney. DeWayne Looney.”
   “When’s the preliminary hearing?”
   “I’m not the judge.”
   “Any idea?”
   “Maybe tomorrow, maybe Wednesday. No more questions, please. I have no further information to release at this time.”
   The jailer took Carl Lee’s wallet, money, watch, keys, ring, and pocketknife and listed the items on an inventory form that Carl Lee signed and dated. In a small room next to the jailer’s station, he was photographed and fingerprinted, just as Lester said. Ozzie waited outside the door and led him down the hall to a small room where the drunks were taken to blow into the Intoxilyzer. Jake sat at a small table next to the machine. Ozzie excused himself.
   The lawyer and client sat across the table and analyzed each other carefully. They grinned admiringly but neither spoke. They had last talked five days before, on Wednesday after the preliminary hearing, the day after the rape.
   Carl Lee was not as troubled now. His face was relaxed and his eyes were clear. Finally he said: “You didn’t think I’d do it, Jake.”
   “Not really. You did do it?”
   “You know I did.”
   Jake smiled, nodded, and crossed his arms. “How do you feel?”
   Carl Lee relaxed and sat back in the folding chair. “Well, I feel better. I don’t feel good ‘bout the whole thing. I wish it didn’t happen. But I wish my girl was okay too, you know. I didn’t have nothin’ against them boys till they messed with her. Now they got what they started. I feel sorry for their mommas and daddies, if they got daddies, which I doubt.”
   “Are you scared?”
   “Of what?”
   “How about the gas chamber?”
   “Naw, Jake, that’s why I got you. I don’t plan to go to no gas chamber. I saw you get Lester off, now just get me off. You can do it, Jake.”
   “It’s not quite that easy, Carl Lee.”
   “Say what?”
   “You just don’t shoot a person, or persons, in cold blood, and then tell the jury they needed killing, and expect to walk out of the courtroom.”
   “You did with Lester.”
   “But every case is different. And the big difference here is that you killed two white boys and Lester killed a nigger. Big difference.”
   “You scared, Jake?”
   “Why should I be scared? I’m not facing the gas chamber.”
   “You don’t sound too confident.”
   You big stupid idiot, thought Jake. How could he be confident at a time like this. The bodies were still warm. Sure, he was confident before the killings, but now it was different. His client was facing the gas for a crime which he admits he committed.
   “Where’d you get the gun?”
   “A friend in Memphis.”
   “Okay. Did Lester help?”
   “Nope. He knew ‘bout what Fs gonna do, and he wanted to help, but I wouldn’t let him.”
   “How’s Gwen?”
   “She’s pretty crazy right now, but tester’s with her. She didn’t know a thing about it.”
   “The kids?”
   “You know how kids are. They don’t want their daddy in jail. They upset, but they’ll make it. Lester’ll take care of them.”
   “Is he going back to Chicago?”
   “Not for a while. Jake, when do we go to court?”
   “The preliminary should be tomorrow or Wednesday, depends on Bullard.”
   “Is he the judge?”
   “He will be for the preliminary hearing. But he won’t hear the trial. That’ll be in Circuit Court.”
   “Who’s the judge there?”
   “Omar Noose from Van Buren County; same judge who tried Lester.”
   “Good. He’s okay, ain’t he?”
   “Yeah, he’s a good judge.”
   “When will the trial be?”
   “Late summer or early fall. Buckley will push for a quick trial.”
   “Who’s Buckley?”
   “Rufus Buckley. District attorney. Same D. A. who prosecuted Lester. You remember him. Big, loud guy—”
   “Yeah, yeah, I remember. Big bad Rufus Buckley. I’d forgot all about him. He’s pretty mean, ain’t he?”
   “He’s good, very good. He’s corrupt and ambitious, and he’ll eat this up because of the publicity.”
   “You’ve beat him, ain’t you?”
   “Yeah, and he’s beat me.”
   Jake opened his briefcase and removed a file. Inside was a contract for legal services, which he studied although he had it memorized. His fees were based on the ability to pay, and the blacks generally could pay little unless there was a close and generous relative in St. Louis or Chicago with a good-paying job. Those were rare. In Lester’s trial there had been a brother in California who worked for the post office but he’d been unwilling or unable to help. There were some sisters scattered around but they had their own problems and had offered only moral support for Lester. Gwen had a big family, and they stayed out of trouble, but they were not prosperous. Carl Lee owned a few acres around his house and had mortgaged it to help Lester pay Jake before.
   He had charged Lester five thousand for his murder trial; half was paid before trial and the rest in installments over three years.
   Jake hated to discuss fees. It was the most difficult part of practicing law. Clients wanted to know up front, immediately, how much he would cost, and they all reacted differently. Some were shocked, some just swallowed hard, a few had stormed out of his office. Some negotiated, but most paid or promised to pay.
   He studied the file and the contract and thought desperately of a fair fee. There were other lawyers out there who would take such a case for almost nothing. Nothing but publicity. He thought about the acreage, and the job at the paper mill, and the family, and finally said, “My fee is ten thousand.”
   Carl Lee was not moved. “You charged Lester five thousand.”
   Jake anticipated this. “You have three counts; Lester had one.”
   “How many times can I go to the gas chamber?”
   “Good point. How much can you pay?”
   “I can pay a thousand now,” he said proudly. “And I’ll borrow as much as I can on my land and give it all to you.”
   Jake thought a minute. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s agree on a fee. You pay a thousand now and sign a note for the rest. Borrow on your land and pay against the note.”
   “How much you want?” asked Carl Lee.

   “Ten thousand.”
   “I’ll pay five.”
   “You can pay more than that.”
   “And you can do it for less than ten.”
   “Okay, I can do it for nine.”
   “Then I can pay six.”
   “Eight?”
   “Seven.”
   “Can we agree on seventy-five hundred?”
   “Yeah, I think I can pay that much. Depends on how much they’ll loan me on my land. You want me to pay a thousand now and sign a note for sixty-five hundred?”
   “That’s right.”
   “Okay, you got a deal.”
   Jake filled in the blanks in the contract and promissory note, and Carl Lee signed both.
   “Jake, how much would you charge a man with plenty of money?”
   “Fifty thousand.”
   “Fifty thousand! You serious?”
   “Yep.”
   “Man, that’s a lotta money. You ever get that much?”
   “No, but I haven’t seen too many people on trial for murder with that kind of money.”
   Carl Lee wanted to know about his bond, the grand jury, the trial, the witnesses, who would be on the jury, when could he get out of jail, could Jake speed up the trial, when could he tell his version, and a thousand other questions. Jake said they would have plenty of time to talk. He promised to call Gwen and his boss at the paper mill.
   He left and Carl Lee was placed in his cell, the one next to the cell for state prisoners.
   The Saab was blocked by a television van. Jake inquired as to who owned it. Most of the reporters had left but a few loitered about, expecting something. It was almost dark.
   “Are you with the sheriffs department?” asked a reporter.
   “No, I’m a lawyer,” Jake answered nonchalantly, attempting to seem disinterested.
   “Are you Mr. Hailey’s attorney?”
   Jake turned and stared at the reporter as the others listened. “Matter of fact, I am.”
   “Will you answer some questions?”
   “You can ask some. I won’t promise any answers.”
   “Will you step over here?”
   Jake walked to the microphones and cameras and tried to act annoyed by the inconvenience. Ozzie and the deputies watched from inside. “Jake loves cameras,” he said.
   “All lawyers do,” added Moss.
   “What is your name, sir?”
   “Jake Brigance,”
   “You’re Mr. Hailey’s attorney.”
   “Correct,” Jake answered coolly.
   “Mr. Hailey is the father of the young girl raped by the two men who were killed today?”
   “Correct.”
   “Who killed the two men?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “Was it Mr. Hailey?”
   “I said I don’t know.”
   “What’s your client been charged with?”
   “He’s been arrested for the murders of Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard. He hasn’t formally been charged with anything.”
   “Do you expect Mr. Hailey to be indicted for the two murders?”
   “No comment.”
   “Why no comment?”
   “Have you talked with Mr. Hailey?” asked another reporter.
   “Yes, just a moment ago.”
   “How is he?”
   “What do you mean?”
   “Well, uh, how is he?”
   “You mean, how does he like jail?” Jake asked with a slight grin.
   “Uh, yeah.”
   “No comment.”
   “When will he be in court?”
   “Probably tomorrow or Wednesday.”
   “Will he plead guilty?”
   Jake smiled and replied, “Of course not.”
   After a cold supper, they sat in the swing on the front porch and watched the lawn sprinkler and talked about the case. The killings were big news across the country, and Carla recorded as many television reports as possible. Two of the networks covered the story live through their Memphis affiliates, and the Memphis, Jackson, and Tupelo stations re—U4UYWU ivyvyvti&w v/A V-AJUru/ O. JL1U YVllldlU l/Vlllg ll/Ll 111LU LJ. 1G JUl l~ house surrounded by deputies, and seconds later, being carried from the courthouse under white sheets. One of the stations played the actual audio of the gunfire over film of the deputies scrambling for cover.
   Jake’s interview was too late for the evening news, so he and Carla waited, with the recorder, for the ten o’clock, and there he was, briefcase in hand, looking trim, fit, handsome, and arrogant, and very disgusted with the reporters for the inconvenience. Jake thought he looked great on TV, and he was excited to be there. There had been one other brief appearance, after Lester’s acquittal, and the regulars at the Coffee Shop had kidded him for months.
   He felt good. He relished the publicity and anticipated much more. He could not think of another case, another set of facts, another setting which could generate as much publicity as the trial of Carl Lee Hailey. And the acquittal of Carl Lee Hailey, for the murder of the two white men who raped his daughter, before an all-white jury in rural Mississippi “What’re you smiling about?” Carla interrupted.
   “Nothing.”
   “Sure. You’re thinking about the trial, and the cameras, the reporters, the acquittal, and walking out of the courthouse, arm around Carl Lee, reporters chasing you with the cameras rolling, people slapping you on the back, congratulations everywhere. I know exactly what you’re thinking about.”
   “Then why’d you ask?”
   “To see if you’d admit it.”
   “Okay, I admit it. This case could make me famous and make us a million bucks, in the long run.”
   “If you win.”
   “Yes, if I win.”
   “And if you lose?”
   “I’ll win.”
   “But if you don’t?”
   “Think positive.”
   The phone rang and Jake spent ten minutes with the editor, owner, and only reporter of The Clanton Chronicle. It rang again, and Jake talked with a reporter with the Mem—phis morning paper. He hung up and called Lester ana Gwen, then the foreman at the paper mill.
   At eleven-fifteen it rang again, and Jake received his first death threat, anonymous of course. He was called a nigger-loving son of a bitch, one who would not live if the nigger walked.
   Dell Perkins served more coffee and grits than usual Tuesday morning after the killings. All the regulars and some extras had gathered early to read the papers and talk about the killings, which had taken place less than three hundred feet from the front door of the Coffee Shop. Claude’s and the Tea Shoppe were also crowded earlier than usual. Jake’s picture made the front page of the Tupelo paper, and the Memphis and Jackson papers had front-page photos of Cobb and Willard, both before the shootings and afterward as the bodies were loaded into the ambulance. There were no pictures of Carl Lee. All three papers ran detailed accounts of the past six days in Clanton.
   It was widely accepted around town that Carl Lee had done the killing, but rumors of additional gunmen surfaced and flourished until one table at the Tea Shoppe had a whole band of wild niggers in on the attack. However, the deputies in the Coffee Shop, though not talkative, throttled the gossip and kept it pretty much under control. Deputy Looney was a regular, and there was concern for his wounds, which appeared to be more serious than originally reported. He remained in the hospital, and he had identified the gunman as Lester Hailey’s brother.
   Jake entered at six and sat near the front with some farmers. He nodded at Prather and the other deputy, but they pretended not to see him. They’ll be okay once Looney is released, he thought. There were some remarks about the front-page picture, but no one questioned Jake about his new client or the killings. He detected a certain coolness among some of the regulars. He ate quickly and left.
   At nine Ethel called Jake. Bullard was holding.
   “Hello, Judge. How are you?”
   “Terrible. You represent Carl Lee Hailey?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “When do you want the preliminary?”
   “Why are you asking me, Judge?”
   “Good question. Look, the funerals are tomorrow morning sometime, and I think it would be best to wait till they bury those bastards, don’t you?”
   “Yeah, Judge, good idea.”
   “How ‘bout tomorrow afternoon at two?”
   “Fine.”

   Bullard hesitated. “Jake, would you consider waiving the preliminary and letting me send the case straight to the grand jury?”
   “Judge, I never waive a preliminary, you know that.”
   “Yeah, I know. Just thought I’d ask a favor. I won’t hear this trial, and I have no desire to get near it. See you tomorrow.”
   An hour later Ethel squawked through the intercom again: “Mr. Brigance, there are some reporters here to see you.”
   Jake was ecstatic. “From where?”
   “Memphis and Jackson, I believe.”
   “Seat them in the conference room. I’ll be down in a minute.”
   He straightened his tie and brushed his hair, and checked the street below for television vans. He decided to make them wait, and after a couple of meaningless phone calls he walked down the stairs, ignored Ethel, and entered the conference room. They asked him to sit at one end of the long table, because of the lighting. He declined, told himself he would control things, and sat at one side with his back to the rows of thick, expensive law books.
   The microphones were placed before him and the camera lights adjusted, and finally an attractive lady from Memphis with streaks of bright orange across her forehead and under her eyes cleared her throat and asserted herself. “Mr. Brigance, you represent Carl Lee Hailey?”
   “Yes, I do.”
   “And he’s been charged with the murders of Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?”
   “That’s correct.”
   “And Cobb and Willard were charged with raping Mr. Hailey’s daughter?”
   “Yes, that’s correct.”
   “Does Mr. Hailey deny killing Cobb and Willard?”
   “He will plead not guilty to the charges.”
   “Will he be charged for the shooting of the deputy, Mr. Looney?”
   “Yes. We anticipate a third charge of aggravated assault against the officer.”
   “Do you anticipate a defense of insanity?”
   “I’m not willing to discuss the defense at this time because he has not been indicted.”
   “Are you saying there’s a chance he may not be indicted?”
   A fat pitch, one Jake was hoping for. The grand jury would either indict him or not, and the grand jurors would not be selected until Circuit Court convened on Monday, May 27. So the future members of the grand jury were walking the streets of Clanton, tending their shops, working in the factories, cleaning house, reading newspapers, watching TV, and discussing whether or not he should be indicted.
   “Yes, I think there’s a chance he may not be indicted. It’s up to the grand jury, or will be after the preliminary hearing.”
   “When’s the preliminary hearing?”
   “Tomorrow. Two P. M.”
   “You’re assuming Judge Bullard will bind him over to the grand jury?”
   “That’s a pretty safe assumption,” replied Jake, knowing Bullard would be thrilled with the answer.
   “When will the grand jury meet?”
   “A new grand jury will be sworn in Monday morning. It could look at the case by Monday afternoon.”
   “When do you anticipate a trial?”
   “Assuming he’s indicted, the case could be tried in late summer or early fall.”
   “Which court?”
   “Circuit Court of Ford County.”
   “Who would be the judge?”
   “Honorable Omar Noose.”
   “Where’s he from?”
   “Chester, Mississippi. Van Buren County.”
   “You mean the case will be tried here in Clanton?”
   “Yes, unless venue is changed.”
   “Will you request a change of venue?”
   “Very good question, and one I’m not prepared to answer at this time. It’s a bit premature to talk defense strat—egy.”
   “Why would you want a change of venue?”
   To find a blacker county, Jake thought. He answered thoughtfully, “The usual reasons. Pretrial publicity, etc.”
   “Who makes the decision to change venue?”
   “Judge Noose. The decision is within his sole discretion.”
   “Has bond been set?”
   “No, and it probably won’t be until after the indictments come down. He’s entitled to a reasonable bond now, but as a matter of practice in this county bonds are not set in capital murder cases until after the indictment and arraignment in Circuit Court. At that point the bond will be set by Judge Noose.”
   “What can you tell us about Mr. Hailey?”
   Jake relaxed and reflected a minute while the cameras continued. Another fat pitch, with a golden chance to plant some seeds. “He’s thirty-seven years old. Married to the same woman for twenty years. Four kids-three boys and a girl. Nice guy with a clean record. Never been in trouble before. Decorated in Vietnam. Works fifty hours a week at the paper mill in Coleman. Pays his bills and owns a little land, does to church every Sunday with his family. Minds his own business and expects to be left alone.”
   “Will you allow us to talk to him?”
   “Of course not.”
   “Wasn’t his brother tried for murder several years ago?”
   “He was, and he was acquitted.”
   “You were his attorney?”
   “Yes, I was.”
   “You’ve handled several murder trials in Ford County, haven’t you?”
   “Three.”
   “How many acquittals?”
   “All of them,” he answered slowly.
   “Doesn’t the jury have several options in Mississippi?” asked the lady from Memphis.
   “That’s right. With a capital murder indictment, the jury at trial can find the defendant guilty of manslaughter, which carries twenty years, or capital murder, which carries life or death as determined by the jury. And the jury can find the defendant not guilty.” Jake smiled at the cameras. “Again, you’re assuming he’ll be indicted.”
   “How’s the Hailey girl?”
   “She’s at home. Went home Sunday. She’s expected to be fine.”
   The reporters looked at each other and searched for other questions. Jake knew this was the dangerous part, when they ran out of things to ask and began serving up screwball questions.
   He stood and buttoned his coat. “Look, I appreciate you folks stopping by. I’m usually available, just give a little more notice, and I’ll be glad to talk to you anytime.”
   They thanked him and left.
   At ten Wednesday morning, in a no-frills double service at the funeral home, the rednecks buried their dead. The minister, a freshly ordained Pentecostal, struggled desperately for comforting and reassuring thoughts to lay upon the small crowd and over the two closed caskets. The service was brief with few tears.
   The pickups and dirty Chevrolets moved slowly behind the single hearse as the procession left town and crawled into the country. They parked behind a small red brick church. The bodies were laid to rest one at a time at opposite ends of the tiny, overgrown cemetery. After a few additional words of inspiration, the crowd dispersed.
   Cobb’s parents had divorced when he was small, and his father drove from Birmingham for the funeral. After the burial he disappeared. Mrs. Cobb lived in a small, clean white frame house near the settlement of Lake Village, ten miles south of Clanton. Her other two sons and their cousins and friends gathered under an oak tree in the backyard while the women made a fuss over Mrs. Cobb. The men talked about niggers in general, and chewed Red Man and sipped whiskey, and reminisced about the other days when niggers knew their place. Now they were just pampered and protected by the government and courts. And there was nothing white people could do. One cousin knew a friend or someone who used to be active in the Klan, and he might give him a call. Cobb’s grandfather had been in the Klan long before his death, the cousin explained, and when he and Billy Ray were kids the old man would tell stories about hanging niggers in Ford and Tyler counties. What they should do was the same thing the nigger had done, but there were no volunteers. Maybe the Klan would be interested. There was a chapter farther down south near Jackson, near Nettles County, and the cousin was authorized to contact them.
   The women prepared lunch. The men ate quietly, then returned to the whiskey under the shade tree. The nigger’s hearing at 2:00 P. M. was mentioned, and they loaded up and drove to Clanton.
   There was a Clanton before the killings, and there was a Clanton after the killings, and it would be months before the two resembled each other. One tragic, bloody event, the duration of which was less than fifteen seconds, transformed the quiet Southern town of eight thousand into a mecca for journalists, reporters, camera crews, photographers, some from neighboring towns, others from the national news organizations. Cameramen and TV reporters bumped into one another on the sidewalks around the square as they asked the man in the street for the hundredth time how he or she felt about the Hailey event and how he or she would vote if he or she was on the jury. There was no clear verdict from the man on the street. Television vans followed small, marked, imported television cars around the square and down the streets chasing leads, stories, and interviews. Ozzie was a favorite at first. He was interviewed a half dozen times the day after the shooting, then found other business and delegated the interviewing to Moss Junior, who enjoyed bantering with the press. He could answer twenty questions and not divulge one new detail. He also lied a lot, and the ignorant foreigners could not tell his lies from his truth.
   “Sir, is there any evidence of additional gunmen?”
   “Yes.”
   “Really! Who?”
   “We have evidence that the shootin’s were authorized and financed by an offshoot of the Black Panthers,” Moss Junior replied with a straight face.
   Half the reporters would either stutter or stare blankly while the other half repeated what he said and scribbled furiously.
   Bullard refused to leave his office or take calls. He called Jake again and begged him to waive the preliminary. Jake refused. Reporters waited in the lobby of Bullard’s office on the first floor of the courthouse, but he was safe with his vodka behind the locked door.
   There was a request to film the funeral. The Cobb boys said yes, for a fee, but Mrs. Willard vetoed the proposal. The reporters waited outside the funeral home and filmed what they could. Then they followed the procession to the grave sites, and filmed the burials, and followed the mourners to Mrs. Cobb’s, where Freddie, the oldest, cursed them and made them leave.
   The Coffee Shop on Wednesday was silent. The regulars, including Jake, eyed the strangers who had invaded their sanctuary. Most of them had beards, spoke with unusual accents, and did not order grits.
   “Aren’t you Mr. Hailey’s attorney?” shouted one from across the room.
   Jake worked on his toast and said nothing.
   “Aren’t you? Sir?”

  “What if I am?” shot Jake.
   “Will he plead guilty?”
   “I’m eating breakfast.”
   “Will he?”
   “No comment.”
   “Why no comment?”
   “No comment.”
   “But why?”
   “I don’t comment during breakfast. No comment.”
   “May I talk to you later?”
   “Yeah, make an appointment. I talk at sixty bucks an hour.”
   The regulars hooted, but the strangers were undaunted.
   Jake consented to an interview, without charge, with a Memphis paper Wednesday, then barricaded himself in the war room and prepared for the preliminary hearing. At noon he visited his famous client at the jail. Carl Lee was rested and relaxed. From his cell he could see the coming and going of the reporters in the parking lot.
   “How’s jail?” Jake asked.
   “Not that bad. Food’s good. I eat with Ozzie in his office.”
   “You what!”
   “Yep. Play cards too.”
   “You’re kidding, Carl Lee.”
   “Nope. Watch TV too. Saw you on the news last night. You looked real good. I’m gonna make you famous, Jake, ain’t I?”
   Jake said nothing.
   “When do I get on TV? I mean, I did the killin’ and you and Ozzie gettin’ famous for it.” The client was grinningthe lawyer was not.
   “Today, 4n about an hour.”
   “Yeah, I heard we’s goin’ to court. What for?”
   “Preliminary hearing. It’s no big deal, at least it’s not supposed to be. This one will be different because of the cameras.”
   “What do I say?”
   “Nothing! You don’t say a word to anyone. Not to the judge, the prosecutor, the reporters, anyone. We just listen. We listen to the prosecutor and see what kind of case he’s got. They’re supposed to have an eyewitness, and he might testify. Ozzie will testify and tell the judge about the gun, the fingerprints, and Looney—”
   “How’s Looney?”
   “Don’t know. Worse than they thought.”
   “Man, I feel bad ‘bout shootin’ Looney. I didn’t even see the man.”
   “Well, they’re going to charge you with aggravated assault for shooting Looney. Anyway, the preliminary is just a formality. Its purpose is to allow the judge to determine if there’s enough evidence to bind you over to the grand jury. Bullard always does that, so it’s just a formality.”
   “Then why do it?”
   “We could waive it,” replied Jake, thinking of all the cameras he would miss. “But I don’t like to. It’s a good chance to see what kind of case the State has.”
   “Well, Jake, I’d say they gotta pretty good case, wouldn’t you?”
   “I would think so. But let’s just listen. That’s the strategy of a preliminary hearing. Okay?”
   “Sounds good to me. You talked to Gwen or Lester today?”
   “No, I called them Monday night.”
   “They were here yesterday in Ozzie’s office. Said they’d be in court today.”
   “I think everyone will be in court today.”
   Jake left. In the parking lot he brushed by some of the reporters who were awaiting Carl Lee’s departure from jail. He had no comments for them and no comments for the reporters waiting outside his office. He was too busy at the moment for questions, but he was very aware of the cameras. At one-thirty he went to the courthouse and hid in the law library on the third floor.
   Ozzie and Moss Junior and the deputies watched the parking lot and quietly cursed the mob of reporters and cameramen. It was one forty-five, time to transport the prisoner to court.
   “Kinda reminds me of a buncha vultures waitin’ for a dead dog beside the highway,” Moss Junior observed as he gazed through the blinds.
   “Rudest buncha folks I ever saw,” added Prather. “Won’t take no for an answer. They expect the whole town to cater to them.”
   “And that’s only half of them-other half s waitin’ at the courthouse.”
   Ozzie hadn’t said much. One newspaper had criticized him for the shooting, implying the security around the courthouse was intentionally relaxed. He was tired of the press. Twice Wednesday he had ordered reporters out of the jail.
   “I got an idea,” he said.
   “What?” asked Moss Junior.
   “Is Curtis Todd still in jail?”
   “Yep. Gets out next week.”
   “He sorta favors Carl Lee, don’t he?”
   “Whatta you mean?”
   “Well, I mean, he’s ‘bout as black as Carl Lee, roughly the same height and weight, ain’t he?”
   “Yeah, well, so what?” asked Prather.
   Moss Junior grinned and looked at Ozzie, whose eyes never left the window. “Ozzie, you wouldn’t.”
   “What?” asked Prather.
   “Let’s go. Get Carl Lee and Curtis Todd,” Ozzie ordered. “Drive my car around back. Bring Todd here for some instructions.”
   Ten minutes later the front door of the jail opened and a squad of deputies escorted the prisoner down the sidewalk. Two deputies walked in front, two behind, and one on each side of the man with the thick sunglasses and handcuffs, which were not fastened. As they approached the reporters, the cameras clicked and rolled. The questions flew: “Sir, will you plead guilty?”
   “Sir, will you plead not guilty?”
   “Sir, how will you plead?”
   “Mr. Hailey, will you plead insanity?”
   The prisoner smiled and continued the slow walk to the waiting patrol cars. The deputies smiled grimly and ignored the mob. The photographers scrambled about trying to get the perfect shot of the most famous vigilante in the country.
   Suddenly, with the nation watching, with deputies all around him, with dozens of reporters recording his every move, the prisoner broke and ran. He jolted, jumped, twisted, and squirmed, running wildly across the parking lot, over a ditch, across the highway, into some trees and out of sight. The reporters shouted and broke ranks and several even chased him for a moment. Curiously, the deputies ran back to the jail and slammed the door, leaving the vultures roaming in circles of disarray. In the woods, the prisoner removed the handcuffs and walked home. Curtis Todd had just been paroled one week early.
   Ozzie, Moss Junior, and Carl Lee quickly left through the rear of the jail and drove down a back street to the courthouse, where more deputies waited to escort him into the courthouse.
   “How many niggers out there?” Bullard screamed at Mr. Pate.
   “A ton.”
   “Wonderful! A ton of niggers. I guess there’s a ton of rednecks too?”
   “Quite a few.”
   “Is the courtroom full?”
   “Packed.”
   “My God-it’s only a preliminary!” Bullard screamed. He finished a half pint of vodka as Mr. Pate handed him another one.
   “Take it easy, Judge.”
   “Brigance. It’s all his fault. He could waive this if he wanted to. I asked him to. Asked him twice. He knows I’ll send it to the grand jury. He knows that. All lawyers know that. But now I gotta make all the niggers mad because I won’t turn him loose, and I’ll make all the rednecks mad because I won’t execute him today in the courtroom. I’ll get Brigance for this. He’s playing for the cameras. I have to get reelected, but he doesn’t, does he?”
   “No, Judge.”
   “How many officers out there?”
   “Plenty. Sheriffs called in the reserves. You’re safe.”
   “How about the press?”
   “They’re lined up on the front rows.”
   “No cameras!”
   “No cameras.”
   “Is Hailey here?”
   “Yes, sir. He’s in the courtroom with Brigance. Ever-body’s ready, just waitin’ on you.”
   His Honor filled a Styrofoam cup with straight vodka. “Okay, let’s go.”
   Just like in the old days before the sixties, the courtroom was neatly segregated with the blacks and whites separated by the center aisle. The officers stood solemnly in the aisle and around the walls of the courtroom. Of particular concern was an assemblage of slightly intoxicated whites sitting together in two rows near the front. A couple were recognized as brothers or cousins of the late Billy Ray Cobb.
   They were watched closely. The two front rows, the one on the right in front of the blacks and the one on the left in front of the whites, were occupied by two dozen journalists of various sorts. Some took notes while some sketched the defendant, his lawyer, and now finally, the judge.
   “They gonna make this nigger a hero,” mumbled one of the rednecks, loud enough for the reporters.
   When Bullard assumed the bench, the deputies locked the rear door.
   “Call your first witness,” he ordered in the direction of Rocky Childers.
   “The State calls Sheriff Ozzie Walls.”
   The sheriff was sworn and took the stand. He relaxed and began a long narrative describing the scene of the shooting, the bodies, the wounds, the gun, the fingerprints on the gun and the fingerprints of the defendant. Childers produced an affidavit signed by Officer Looney and witnessed by the sheriff and Moss Junior. It identified the gunman as Carl Lee. Ozzie verified Looney’s signature and read the affidavit into the record.
   “Sheriff, do you know of any other eyewitness?” asked Childers with no enthusiasm.
   “Yes, Murphy, the janitor.”
   “What’s his first name?”
   “Nobody knows. He’s just Murphy.”
   “Okay. Have you talked to him?”
   “No, but my investigator did.”
   “Who is your investigator?”
   “Officer Rady.”

   Rady was sworn and seated in the witness chair. Mr. Pate fetched the judge another cup of ice water from chambers. Jake took pages of notes. He would call no witnesses, and he chose not to cross-examine the sheriff. Occasionally, the State’s witnesses would get their lies confused in a preliminary, and Jake would ask a few questions on cross-examination to nail down, for the record, the discrepancies. Later at trial when the lying started again, Jake would produce the testimony from the preliminary to further confuse the liars. But not today.
   “Sir, have you had an occasion to talk with Murphy?” Childers asked.
   “Murphy who?”
   “I don’t know-just Murphy, the janitor.”
   “Oh him. Yes, sir.”
   “Good. What did he say?”
   “About what?”
   Childers hung his head. Rady was new, and had not testified much. Ozzie thought this would be good practice.
   “About the shooting! Tell us what he told you about the shooting.”
   Jake stood. “Your Honor. I object. I know hearsay is admissible in a preliminary, but this Murphy fella is available. He works here in the courthouse. Why not let him testify?”
   “Because he stutters,” replied Bullard.
   “What!”
   “He stutters. And I don’t want to hear him stutter for the next thirty minutes. Objection overruled. Continue, Mr. Childers.”
   Jake sat in disbelief. Bullard snickered at Mr. Pate, who left for more ice water.
   “Now, Mr. Rady, what did Murphy tell you about the shooting?”
   “Well, he’s hard to understand because he was so excited, and when he gets excited he stutters real bad. I mean he stutters anyway, but—”
   “Just tell us what he said!” Bullard shouted.
   “Okay. He said he saw a male black shoot the two white boys and the deputy.”
   “Thank you,” said Childers. “Now where was he when this took place?”
   “Who?”
   “Murphy!”
   “He was sittin’ on the stairs directly opposite the stairs where they got shot.”
   “And he saw it all?”
   “Said he did.”
   “Has he identified the gunman?”
   “Yes, we showed him photos of ten male blacks, and he identified the defendant, sittin’ over there.”
   “Good. Thank you. Your Honor, we have nothing further.”
   “Any questions, Mr. Brigance?” asked the judge.
   “No, sir,” Jake said as he stood.
   “Any witnesses?”
   “No, sir.”
   “Any requests, motions, anything?”
   “No, sir.”
   Jake knew better than to request bail. First, it would do no good. Bullard would not set bail for capital murder. Second, it would make the judge look bad.
   “Thank you, Mr. Brigance. The court finds sufficient evidence exists to hold this defendant for action by the Ford County grand jury. Mr. Hailey shall remain in the custody of the sheriff, without bond. Court’s adjourned.”
   Carl Lee was quickly handcuffed and escorted from the courtroom. The area around the rear door downstairs was sealed and guarded. The cameras outside caught a glimpse of the defendant between the door and the waiting patrol car. He was in jail before the spectators cleared the courtroom.
   The deputies directed the whites on one side to leave first, followed by the blacks.
   The reporters requested some of Jake’s time, and they were instructed to meet him in the rotunda in a few minutes. He made them wait by first going to chambers and giving his regards to the judge. Then he walked to the third floor to check on a book. When the courtroom was empty and they had waited long enough, he walked through the rear door, into the rotunda and faced the cameras.
   A microphone with red letters on it was thrust into his face. “Why didn’t you request bond?” a reporter demanded.
   “That comes later.”
   “Will Mr. Hailey plead an insanity defense?”
   “As I’ve stated, it’s too early to answer that question. We must now wait for the grand jury-he may not be indicted. If he is, we’ll start planning his defense.”
   “Mr. Buckley, the D. A., has stated he expects easy convictions. Any comment?”
   “I’m afraid Mr. Buckley often speaks when he shouldn’t. It’s asinine for him to make any comment on this case until it is considered by the grand jury.”
   “He also said he would vigorously oppose any request for a change of venue.”
   “That request hasn’t been made yet. He really doesn’t care where the trial is held. He’d try it in the desert as long as the press showed up.”
   “Can we assume there are hard feelings between you and the D. A.?”
   “If you want to. He’s a good prosecutor and a worthy adversary. He just talks when he shouldn’t.”
   He answered a few other assorted questions and excused himself.
   Late Wednesday night the doctors cut below Looney’s knee and removed the lower third of his leg. They called Ozzie at the jail, and he told Carl Lee.
   Rufus Buckley scanned the Thursday morning papers and read with great interest the accounts of the preliminary hearing in Ford County. He was delighted to see his name mentioned by the reporters and by Mr. Brigance. The disparaging remarks were greatly outweighed by the fact that his name was in print. He didn’t like Brigance, but he was glad Jake mentioned his name before the cameras and reporters. For two days the spotlight had been on Brigance and the defendant; it was about time the D. A. was mentioned. Brigance should not criticize anyone for seeking publicity. Lucien Wilbanks wrote the book on manipulating the press both before and during a trial, and he had taught Jake well. But Buckley held no grudge. He was pleased. He relished the thought of a long, nasty trial with his first opportunity at real, meaningful exposure. He looked forward to Monday, the first day of the May term of court in Ford County.
   He was forty-one, and when he was first elected nine years earlier he had been the youngest D. A. in Mississippi. Now he was one year into his third term and his ambitions were calling. It was time to move on to another public office, say, attorney general, or possibly governor. And then to Congress. He had it all planned, but he was not well known outside the Twenty-second Judicial District (Ford, Tyler, Polk, Van Buren, and Milburn counties). He needed to be seen, and heard. He needed publicity. What Rufus needed more than anything else was a big, nasty, controversial, well-publicized conviction in a murder trial.
   Ford County was directly north of Smithfield, the county seat of Polk County, where Rufus lived. He had grown up in Tyler County, near the Tennessee line, north of Ford County. He had a good base, politically. He was a good prosecutor. During elections he boasted of a ninety percent conviction rate, and of sending more men to death row than any prosecutor in the state. He was loud, abrasive, sanctimonious. His client was the people of the State of Mississippi, by God, and he took that obligation seriously. The people hated crime, and he hated crime, and together they could eliminate it.
   He could talk to a jury; oh, how he could talk to a jury. He could preach, pray, sway, plead, beg. He could inflame a jury to the point it couldn’t wait to get back to that jury room and have a prayer meeting, then vote and return with a rope to hang the defendant. He could talk like the blacks and he could talk like the rednecks, and that was enough to satisfy most of the jurors in the Twenty-second. And the juries were good to him in Ford County. He liked Clanton.
   When he arrived at his office in the Polk County Courthouse, Rufus was delighted to see a camera crew waiting in his reception room. He was very busy, he explained, looking at his watch, but he might have a minute for a few questions.
   He arranged them in his office and sat splendidly in his leather swivel behind the desk. The reporter was from Jackson.
   “Mr. Buckley, do you have any sympathy for Mr. Hai-ley?”
   He smiled seriously, obviously in deep thought. “Yes, I do. I have sympathy for any parent whose child is raped. I certainly do. But what I cannot condone, and what our system cannot tolerate, is this type of vigilante justice.”
   “Are you a parent?”
   “I am. I have one small son and two daughters, one the age of the Hailey girl, and I’d be outraged if one of my daughters were raped. But I would hope our judicial system would deal effectively with the rapist. I have that much confidence in the system.”
   “So you anticipate a conviction?”
   “Certainly. I normally get a conviction when I go after one, and I intend to get a conviction in this case.”
   “Will you ask for the death penalty?”
   “Yes, it looks like a clear case of premeditated murder. I think the gas chamber would be appropriate.”
   “Do you predict a death penalty verdict?”
   “Of course. Ford County jurors have always been willing to apply the death penalty when I ask for it and it’s appropriate. I get very good juries up there.”
   “Mr. Brigance, the defendant’s attorney, has stated the grand jury may not indict his client.”
   BucMey chuckled at this. “Well, Mr. Brigance should not be so foolish. The case will be presented to the grand jury Monday, and we’ll have our indictments Monday afternoon. I promise you that. Really, he knows better.” “You think the case will be tried in Ford County?” “I don’t care where it’s tried. I’ll get a conviction.” “Do you anticipate the insanity defense?” “I anticipate everything. Mr. Brigance is a most capable criminal defense attorney. I don’t know what ploy he will use, but the State of Mississippi will be ready.” “What about a plea bargain?’* “I don’t much believe in plea negotiating. Neither does Brigance. I wouldn’t expect that.”
   “He said he’s never lost a murder case to you.” The smile disappeared instantly. He leaned forward on the desk and looked harshly at the reporter. “True, but I bet he didn’t mention a number of armed robberies and grand larcenies, did he? I’ve won my share. Ninety percent to be exact.”
   The camera was turned off and the reporter thanked him for his time. No problem, said Buckley. Anytime.
   Ethel waddled up the stairs and stood before the big desk. “Mr. Brigance, my husband and I received an obscene phone call last night, and I’ve just taken the second one here at the office. I don’t like this.”
   He motioned to a chair. “Sit down, Ethel. What did these people say?”
   “They weren’t really obscene. They were threatening. They threatened me because I work for you. Said I’d be sorry because I worked for a nigger lover. The ones here threaten to harm you and your family. I’m just scared.”
   Jake was worried too, but shrugged it off for Ethel. He had called Ozzie on Wednesday and reported the calls to his house.
   “Change your number, Ethel. I’ll pay for it.”
   “I don’t want to change my number. I’ve had it for seventeen years.”
   “Good, then don’t. I’ve had my home number changed, and it’s no big deal.”
   “Well, I’ll not do it.”
   “Fine. What else do you want?”
   “Well, I don’t think you should have taken that case. I—”
   “And I don’t care what you think! You’re not paid to think about my cases. If I want to know what you think, I’ll ask. Until I do, keep quiet.”
   She huffed and left. Jake called Ozzie again.
   An hour later Ethel announced through the intercom: “Lucien called this morning. He asked me to copy some recent cases, and he wants you to deliver them this afternoon. Said it had been five weeks since your last visit.”
   “Four weeks. Copy the cases, and I’ll take them this afternoon.”
   Lucien stopped by the office or called once a month. He read cases and kept abreast of current developments in the law. He had little else to do except drink Jack Daniel’s and play the stock market, both of which he did recklessly. He was a drunk, and he spent most of his time on the front porch of his big white house on the hill, eight blocks off the square, overlooking Clanton, sipping Jack in the Black and reading cases.
   He had deteriorated since the disbarment. A full-time maid doubled as a nurse who served drinks on the porch from noon until midnight. He seldom ate or slept, preferring instead to rock away the hours.
   Jake was expected to visit at least once a month. The visits were made out of some sense of duty. Lucien was a bitter, sick old man who cursed lawyers, judges, and especially the State Bar Association. Jake was his only friend, the only audience he could find and keep captive long enough to hear his sermons. Along with the preaching he also freely dispensed unsolicited advice on Jake’s cases, a most annoying habit. He knew about the cases, although Jake never knew how Lucien knew so much. He was seldom seen downtown or anywhere in Clanton except at the package store in the black section.
   The Saab parked behind the dirty, dented Porsche, and Jake handed the cases to Lucien. There were no hellos or other greetings, just the handing of the copies to Lucien, who said nothing. They sat in the wicker rockers on the long porch and looked out over Clanton. The top floor of the courthouse stood above the buildings and houses and trees around the square.
   Finally he offered whiskey, then wine, then beer. Jake declined. Carla frowned on drinking, and Lucien knew it.
   “Congratulations.”
   “For what?” Jake asked.
   “For the Hailey case.”
   “Why am I to be congratulated?”
   “I never had a case that big, and I had some big ones.”
   “Big in terms of what?”
   “Publicity. Exposure, That’s the name of the game for lawyers, Jake. If you’re unknown, you starve. When people get in trouble they call a lawyer, and they call someone they’ve heard of. You must sell yourself to the public, if you’re a street lawyer. Of course it’s different if you’re in a big corporate or insurance firm where you sit on your ass and bill a hundred bucks an hour, ten hours a day, ripping off little people and—”
   “Lucien,” Jake interrupted quietly, “we’ve talked about this many times. Let’s talk about the Hailey case.”
   “All right, all right. I’ll bet Noose refuses to change venue.”
   “Who said I would request it?”
   “You’re stupid if you don’t.”
   “Why?”

   “Simple statistics! This county is twenty-six percent black. Every other county in the Twenty-second is at least thirty percent black. Van Buren County is forty percent. That means more black jurors, potentialjurors.. If you get it moved, you have a better chance for blacks in the jury box. If it’s tried here, you run the risk of an all-white jury, and believe me, I’ve seen enough all-white juries in this county. All you need is one black to hang it and get a mistrial.”
   “But then it’ll be retried.” ‘ ‘ “Then hang it again. They’ll give up after three trials. A hung jury is the same as a loss on Buckley’s scorecard. He’ll quit after the third trial.”
   “So I simply tell Noose I want the trial moved to a blacker county so I can get a blacker jury.”
   “You can if you want to, but I wouldn’t. I’d go through the usual crap about pretrial publicity, a biased community, and on and on.”
   “And you don’t think Noose’11 buy it.”
   “Naw. This case is too big, and it’ll get bigger. The press has intervened and already started the trial. Everyone’s heard of it, and not just in Ford County. You couldn’t find a person in this state without a preconceived notion of guilt or innocence. So why move it to another county?”
   “Then why should I request it?”
   “Because when that poor man is convicted, you’ll need something to argue on appeal. You can claim he was denied a fair trial because venue was not changed.”
   “Thanks for the encouragement. What’re the chances of getting it moved to another district, say somewhere in the delta?”
   “Forget it. You can request a change of venue, but you cannot request a certain location.”
   Jake didn’t know that. He usually learned something during these visits. He nodded confidently and studied the old man with the long, dirty gray beard. There had never been a time when he stumped Lucien on a point of criminal law.
   “Sallie!” Lucien screamed, throwing his ice cubes into the shrubs.
   “Who’s Sallie?”
   “My maid,” he replied as a tall, attractive black lady opened the screen door and smiled at Jake.
   “Yeah, Lucien?” she answered.
   “My glass is empty.”
   She walked elegantly across the porch and took his glass. She was under thirty, shapely, pretty, and very dark. Jake ordered iced tea.
   “Where’d you find her?” he asked.
   Lucien stared at the courthouse.
   “Where’d you find her?”
   “I dunno.”
   “How old is she?”
   Lucien was silent.
   “She live here?”
   No response.
   “How much do you pay her?”
   “Why is it any of your business? More than you pay Ethel. She’s a nurse too, you know.”
   Sure, Jake thought with a grin. “I’ll bet she does a lot of things.”
   “Don’t worry about it.”
   “I take it you’re not thrilled with my chances for an acquittal.”
   Lucien reflected a moment. The maid/nurse returned with the whiskey and tea.
   “Not really. It will be difficult.”
   “Why?”
   “Looks like it was premeditated. From what I gather it was well planned. Right?”
   “Yes.”
   “I’m sure you’ll plead insanity.”
   “I don’t know.”
   “You must plead insanity,” Lucien lectured sternly. “There is no other possible defense. You can’t claim it was an accident. You can’t say he shot those two boys, handcuffed and unarmed, with a machine gun in self-defense, can you?”
   “No.”
   “You won’t create an alibi and tell the jury he was at home with his family?”
   “Of course not.”
   “Then what other defense do you have? You must say he was crazy!”
   “But, Lucien, he was not insane, and there’s no way I can find some bogus psychiatrist to say he was. He planned it meticulously, every detail.”
   Lucien smiled and took a drink. “That’s why you’re in trouble, my boy.”
   Jake sat his tea on the table and rocked slowly. Lucien savored the moment. “That’s why you’re in trouble,” he repeated.
   “What about the jury? You know they’ll be sympathetic.”
   “That’s exactly why you must plead insanity. You must give the jury a way out. You must show them a way to find him not guilty, if they are so inclined. If they’re sympathetic, if they want to acquit, you must provide them with a defense tney can use to do it. It makes no difference if they believe the insanity crap. That’s not important in the jury room. What’s important is that the jury have a legal basis for an acquittal, assuming they want to acquit.”
   “Will they want to acquit?”
   “Some will, but Buckley will make an awfully strong case of premeditated murder. He’s good. He’ll take away their sympathy. Hailey’ll be just another black on trial for killing a white man when Buckley gets through with him.”
   Lucien rattled his ice cubes and stared at the brown liquid. “And what about the deputy? Assault with intent to kill a peace officer carries life, no parole. Talk your way out of that one.”
   “There was no intent.”
   “Great. That’ll be real convincing when the poor guy hobbles to the witness stand and shows the jury his nub.”
   “Nub?”
   “Yes. Nub. They cut his leg off last night.”
   “Looney!”
   “Yes, the one Mr. Hailey shot.”
   “I thought he was okay.”
   “Oh he’s fine. Just minus a leg.”
   “How’d you find out?”
   “I’ve got sources.”
   Jake walked to the edge of the porch and leaned on a column. He felt weak. The confidence was gone, taken away again by Lucien. He was an expert at poking holes in every case Jake tried. It was sport to him, and he was usually right.
   “Look, Jake, I don’t mean to sound so hopeless. The case can be won-it’s a long shot, but it can be won. You can walk him out of there, and you need to believe you can. Just don’t get too cocky. You’ve said enough to the press for a while. Back off, and go to work.”
   Lucien walked to the edge of the porch and spat in the shrubs. “Always keep in mind that Mr. Hailey is guilty, guilty as hell. Most criminal defendants are, but especially this one. He took the law into his own hands, and he murdered two people. Planned it all, very carefully. Our legal system does not permit vigilante justice. Now, you can win the case, and if you do, justice will prevail. But if you lose it, justice will also prevail. Kind of a strange case, I guess. I just wish I had it.”
   “You serious?”
   “Sure I’m serious. It’s a trial lawyer’s dream. Win it and you’re famous. The biggest gun in these parts. It could make you rich.”
   “I’ll need your help.”
   “You’ve got it. I need something to do.”
   After dinner, and after Hanna was asleep, Jake told Carla about the calls at the office. They had received a strange call before during one of the other murder trials, but no threats were made, just some groaning and breathing. But these were different. They mentioned Jake’s name and his family, and promised revenge if Carl Lee was acquitted.
   “Are you worried?” she asked.
   “Not really. It’s probably just some kids, or some of Cobb’s friends. Does it scare you?”
   “I would prefer they didn’t call.”
   “Everybody’s getting calls. Ozzie’s had hundreds. Bul-lard, Childers, everybody. I’m not worried about it.”
   “What if it becomes more serious?”
   “Carla, I would never endanger my family. It’s not worth it. I’ll withdraw from the case if I think the threats are legitimate. I promise.”
   She was not impressed.
   Lester peeled off nine one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them majestically on Jake’s desk.
   “That’s only nine hundred,” Jake said. “Our agreement was a thousand.”
   “Gwen needed groceries.”
   “You sure Lester didn’t need some whiskey?”
   “Come on, Jake, you know I wouldn’t steal from my own brother.”
   “Okay, okay. When’s Gwen going to the bank to borrow the rest?”
   “I’m goin’ right now to see the banker. Atcavage?”
   “Yeah, Stan Atcavage, next door at Security Bank.
   Good friend of mine. He loaned it before on your trial. You got the deed?”
   “In my pocket. How much you reckon he’ll give us?”
   “No idea. Why don’t you go find out.”
   Lester left, and ten minutes later Atcavage was on the phone.
   “Jake, I can’t loan the money to these people. What if he’s convicted-no offense, I know you’re a good lawyermy divorce, remember-but how’s he gonna pay me sitting on death row?”
   “Thanks. Look Stan, if he defaults you own ten acres, right?”
   “Right, with a shack on it. Ten acres of trees and kudzu plus an old house. Just what my new wife wants. Come on, Jake.”.
   “It’s a nice house, and it’s almost paid for.”
   “It’s a shack, a clean shack. But it’s not worth anything, Jake.”
   “It’s gotta be worth something.”
   “Jake, I don’t want it. The bank does not want it.”
   “You loaned it before.”
   “And he wasn’t in jail before; his brother was, remember. He was working at the paper mill. Good job, too. Now he’s headed for Parchman.”
   “Thanks, Stan, for the vote of confidence.”
   “Come on, Jake, I’ve got confidence in your ability, but I can’t loan money on it. If anybody can get him off, you can. And I hope you do. But I can’t make this loan. The auditors would scream.”
   Lester tried the Peoples Bank and Ford National, with the same results. They hoped his brother was acquitted, but what if he wasn’t.
   Wonderful, thought Jake. Nine hundred dollars for a capital murder case.
   Claude had never seen the need for printed menus in his cafe. Years before when he first opened he couldn’t afford menus, and now that he could he didn’t need them because most folks knew what he served. For breakfast he cooked everything but rice and toast, and the prices varied. For Friday lunch he barbecued pork shoulder and spare ribs, and everybody knew it. He had few white customers during the week, but at noon Friday, every Friday, his small cafe was half white. Claude had known for some time that whites enjoyed barbecue as much as blacks; they just didn’t know how to prepare it.
   Jake and Atcavage found a small table near the kitchen. Claude himself delivered two plates of ribs and slaw. He leaned toward Jake and said softly, “Good luck to you. Hope you get him off.”
   “Thanks, Claude. I hope you’re on the jury.”
   Claude laughed and said louder, “Can I volunteer?”
   Jake attacked the ribs and chewed on Atcavage for not making the loan. The banker was steadfast, but did offer to lend five thousand if Jake would cosign. That would be unethical, Jake explained.
   On the sidewalk a line formed and faces squinted through the painted letters on the front windows. Claude was everywhere, taking orders, giving orders, cooking, counting money, shouting, swearing, greeting customers, and asking them to leave. On Friday, the customers were allotted twenty minutes after the food was served, then Claude asked and sometimes demanded that they pay and leave so he could sell more barbecue.
   “Quit talkin’ and eat!” he would yell.
   “I’ve got ten more minutes, Claude.”
   “You got seven.”
   On Wednesday he fried catfish, and allowed thirty minutes because of the bones. The white folks avoided Claude’s on Wednesday, and he knew why. It was the grease, a secret recipe grease handed down by his grandmother, he said. It was heavy and sticky and wreaked havoc with the lower intestines of white people. It didn’t faze the blacks, who piled in by the carloads every Wednesday.
   Two foreigners sat near the cash register and watched Claude fearfully as he directed lunch. Probably reporters, thought Jake. Each time Claude drew nigh and glared, they obediently picked up and gnawed a rib. They had not experienced ribs before, and it was obvious to everyone they were from the North. They had wanted chef salads, but Claude cursed them, and told them to eat barbecue or leave. Then he announced to the crowd these silly fools wanted chef salads.
   “Here’s your food. Hurry up and eat it,” he had demanded when he served them.
   “No steak knives?” one had asked crisply.
   Claude rolled his eyes and staggered away mumbling.
   One noticed Jake, and, after staring for a few minutes, finally walked over and knelt by the table. “Aren’t you Jake Brigarice, Mr. Hailey’s attorney?”
   “Yes, I am. Who are you?”
   “I’m Roger McKittrick, with The New York Times.”
   “Nice to meet you,” Jake said with a mile and a new attitude.
   “I’m covering the Hailey case, and I’d like to talk with you sometime. As soon as possible, really.”
   “Sure. I’m not too busy this afternoon. It’s Friday.”
   “I could do it late.”
   “How about four?”

   “Fine,” said McKittrick, who noticed Claude approaching from the kitchen. “I’ll see you then.”
   “Okay, buddy,” Claude yelled at McKittrick. “Time’s up. Get your check and leave.”
   Jake and Atcavage finished in fifteen minutes, and waited for the verbal assault from Claude. They licked their fingers and mopped their faces and commented on the tenderness of the ribs.
   “This case’ll make you famous, won’t it?” asked Atcavage.
   “I hope. Evidently it won’t make any money.”
   “Seriously, Jake, won’t it help your practice?”
   “If I win, I’ll have more clients than I can handle. Sure it’ll help. I can pick and choose my cases, pick and choose my clients.”
   “Financially, what’ll it mean?”
   “I have no idea. There’s no way to predict who or what it might attract. I’ll have more cases to choose from, so that means more money. I could quit worrying about the overhead.”
   “Surely you don’t worry about the overhead.”
   “Look, Stan, we’re not all filthy rich. A law degree is not worth what it once was-too many of us. Fourteen in this little town. Competition is tough, even in Clanton-not enough good cases and too many lawyers. It’s worse in the big towns, and the law schools graduate more and more, many of whom can’t find jobs. I get ten kids a year knocking on my door looking for work. A big firm in Memphis laid off some lawyers a few months ago. Can you imagine? Just like a factory, they laid them off. I suppose they went down to the unemployment office and stood in line with the ‘dozer operators. Lawyers now, not secretaries or truck drivers, but lawyers.”
   “Sorry I asked.”
   “Sure I worry about the overhead. It runs me four thousand a month, and I practice alone. That’s fifty thousand a year before I clear a dime. Some months are good, others slow. They’re all unpredictable. I wouldn’t dare estimate what I’ll gross next month. That’s why this case is so important. There will never be another one like it. It’s the biggest. I’ll practice the rest of my life and never have another reporter from The New York Times stop me in a cafe and ask for an interview. If I win, I’ll be the top dog in this part of the state. I can forget about the overhead.”
   “And if you lose?”
   Jake paused and glanced around for Claude. “The publicity will be abundant regardless of the outcome. Win or lose, the case will help my practice. But a loss will really hurt. Every lawyer in the county is secretly hoping I blow it. They want him convicted. They’re jealous, afraid I might get too big and take away their clients. Lawyers are extremely jealous.”
   “You too?”
   “Sure. Take the Sullivan firm. I despise every lawyer in that firm, but I’m jealous to an extent. I wish I had some of their clients, some of their retainers, some of their security. They know that every month they’ll get a nice check, it’s guaranteed almost, and every Christmas they’ll get a big bonus. They represent old money, steady money. That would be enjoyable for a change. Me, I represent drunks, thugs, wife beaters, husband beaters, injured people, most of whom have little or no money. And I never know from one month to the next how many of these people will show up at my office.”
   “Look, Jake,” Atcavage interrupted. “I would really like to finish this discussion, but Claude just looked at his watch and then looked at us. I think our twenty minutes are up.”
   Jake’s check was seventy-one cents more than At-cavage’s, and since both orders were identical, Claude was interrogated. No problem, he explained, Jake got an extra rib.
   McKittrick was personable and precise, thorough and pushy. He had arrived in Clanton on Wednesday to investigate and write about what was billed as the most famous murder in the country, at the moment. He talked to Ozzie and Moss Junior, and they suggested he talk to Jake. He talked to Bullard, through the door, and the judge suggested he talk to Jake. He interviewed Gwen and Lester, but was not permitted to meet the girl. He visited with the regulars at the Coffee Shop and the Tea Shoppe, and he visited with the regulars at Huey’s and Ann’s Lounge. He talked to Willard’s ex-wife and mother, but Mrs. Cobb was through with reporters. One of Cobb’s brothers offered to talk for a fee. McKittrick declined. He drove to the paper mill and talked to the co-workers, and he drove to Smithfield to interview the D. A. He would be in town for a few more days, then return for the trial.
   He was from Texas, and retained, when convenient, a slight drawl, which impressed the locals and opened them up. He even said “you all” and “y’all” occasionally, and this distinguished him from most of the other reporters who clung to their crisp, precise, modern American pronunciation.
   “What’s that?” McKittrick pointed to the center of Jake’s desk.
   “That’s a tape recorder,” Jake answered.
   McKittrick sat his own recorder on the desk and looked at Jake’s. “May I ask why?”
   “You may. It’s my office, my interview, and if I want to record it, I will.”
   “Are you expecting trouble?”
   “I’m trying to prevent it. I hate to be misquoted.”
   “I’m not known for misquoting.”
   “Good. Then you won’t mind if both of us record ever-thing.”
   “You don’t trust me, do you, Mr. Brigance?”
   “Hell no. And my name is Jake.”
   “Why don’t you trust me?”
   “Because you’re a reporter, you’re from a New York paper, you’re looking for a sensational story, and if you’re true to form, you’ll write some well-informed, moralistic piece of trash depicting us all as racist, ignorant rednecks.”
   “You’re wrong. First of all, I’m from Texas.”
   “Your paper is from New York.”
   “But I consider myself a Southerner.”
   “How long have you been gone?”
   “About twenty years.”
   Jake smiled and shook his head, as if to say: That’s too long.
   “And I don’t work for a sensational newspaper.”
   “We’ll see. The trial is several months away. We’ll have time to read your stories.”
   “Fair enough.”
   Jake punched the play button on his tape recorder, and McKittrick did likewise.
   “Can Carl Lee Hailey receive a fair trial in Ford County?”
   “Why couldn’t he?” Jake asked.
   “Well, he’s black. He killed two white men, and he will be tried by a white jury.”
   “You mean he will be tried by a bunch of white racists.”
   “No, that’s not what I said, nor what I implied. Why do you automatically assume I think you are all a bunch of racists?”
   “Because you do. We’re stereotyped, and you know it.”
   McKittrick shrugged and wrote something on his steno pad. “Will you answer the question?”
   “Yes. Hecan receive a fair trial in Ford County, if he’s tried here.”
   “Do you want it tried here?”
   “I’m sure we’ll try to move it.”
   “To where?”
   “We won’t suggest a place. That’s up to the judge.”
   “Where did he get the M-16?”
   Jake chuckled and stared at the tape recorder. “I do not know.”
   “Would he be indicted if he were white?”
   “He’s black, and he has not been indicted.”
   “But if he were white, would there be an indictment?”
   “Yes, in my opinion.”
   “Would he be convicted?”
   “Would you like a cigar?” Jake opened a desk drawer and found a Roi-Tan. He unwrapped it; then lit it with a butane lighter.
   “No thanks.”
   “No, he would not be convicted if he were white. In my opinion. Not in Mississippi, not in Texas, not in Wyoming. I’m not sure about New York.”
   “Why not?”
   “Do you have a daughter?”
   “No.”
   “Then you wouldn’t understand.”
   “I think I do. Will Mr. Hailey be convicted?”
   “Probably.”
   “So the system does not work as fairly for blacks?”
   “Have you talked with Raymond Hughes?”
   “No. Who is he?”
   “He ran for sheriff last time, and had the misfortune of making the runoff against Ozzie Walls. He’s white. Ozzie, of course, is not. If I’m not mistaken, he got thirty-one percent of the vote. In a county that’s seventy-four percent white. Why don’t you ask Mr. Hughes if the system treats blacks fairly?”
   “I was referring to the judicial system.”
   “It’s the same system. Who do you think sits in the jury box? The same registered voters who elected Ozzie Walls.”
   “Well, if a white man would not be convicted, and Mr. Hailey will probably be convicted, explain to me how the system treats both fairly.”
   “It doesn’t.”
   “I’m not sure I’m following you.”
   “The system reflects society. It’s not always fair, but it’s as fair as the system in New York, or Massachusetts, or California. It’s as fair as biased, emotional humans can make it.”
   “And you think Mr. Hailey will be treated as fairly here as he would be in New York?”
   “I’m saying there’s as much racism in New York as in Mississippi. Look at our public schools-they’re as desegregated as any.”
   “By court order.”
   “Sure, but what about the courts in New York. For years you pious bastards pointed your fingers and noses at us down here and demanded that we desegregate. It happened, and it has not been the end of the world. But you’ve conveniently ignored your own schools and neighborhoods, your own voting irregularities, your own all-white juries and city councils. We were wrong, and we’ve paid dearly for it. But we learned, and although the change has been slow and painful, at least we’re trying. Y’all are still pointing fingers.”
   “I didn’t intend to refight Gettysburg.”
   “I’m sorry. What defense will we use? I do not know at this point. Honestly, it’s just too early. He hasn’t even been indicted.”
   “Of course he will?”
   “Of course we don’t know yet. More than likely. When will this be printed?”
   “Maybe Sunday.”

   “Makes no difference. No one here takes your paper. Yes, he will be indicted.”
   McKittrick glanced at his watch, and Jake turned off his recorder.
   “Look, I’m not a bad guy,” McKittrick said. “Let’s drink a beer sometime and finish this.”
   “Off the record, I don’t drink. But I accept your invitation.”
   The First Presbyterian Church of Clanton was directly across the street from the First United Methodist Church of Clanton, and both churches were within sight of the much larger First Baptist Church. The Baptists had more members and money, but the Presbyterians and Methodists adjourned earlier on Sunday and outraced the Baptists to the restaurants for Sunday dinner. The Baptists would arrive at twelve-thirty and stand in line while the Presbyterians and Methodists ate slowly and waved at them.
   Jake was content not to be a Baptist. They were a bit too narrow and strict, and they were forever preaching about Sunday night church, a ritual Jake had always struggled with. Carla was raised as a Baptist, Jake a Methodist, and during the courtship a compromise was negotiated, and they became Presbyterians. They were happy with their church and its activities, and seldom missed.
   On Sunday, they sat in their usual pew, with Hanna asleep between them, and ignored the sermon. Jake ignored it by watching the preacher and picturing his confronting Buckley, in court, before twelve good and lawful citizens, as the nation watched and waited, and Carla ignored it by watching the preacher and mentally redecorating the dining room. Jake caught a few inquisitive stares during the worship service, and he figured his fellow church members were somewhat awed to have a celebrity among them. There were some strange faces in the congregation, and they were either long-lost repentant members or reporters. Jake was unsure until one persisted in staring at him-then he knew they were all reporters.
   “Enjoyed your sermon, Reverend,” Jake lied as he shook hands with the minister on the steps outside the sanctuary.
   “Good to see you, Jake,” replied the reverend. “We’ve watched you all week on TV. My kids get excited every time they see you.”
   “Thanks. Just pray for us.”
   They drove to Karaway for Sunday lunch with Jake’s parents. Gene and Eva Brigance lived in the old family house, a sprawling country home on five acres of wooded land in downtown Karaway, three blocks from Main Street and two blocks from the school where Jake and his sister put in twelve years. Both were retired, but young enough to travel the continent in a mobile home each summer. They would leave Monday for Canada and return after Labor Day. Jake was their only son. An older daughter lived in New Orleans.
   Sunday lunch on Eva’s table was a typical Southern feast of fried meats, fresh garden vegetables-boiled, battered, baked, and raw, homemade rolls and biscuits, two gravies, watermelon, cantaloupe, peach cobbler, lemon pie, and strawberry shortcake. Little of it would be eaten, and the leftovers would be neatly packaged by Eva and Carla and sent to Clanton, where it would last for a week.
   “How are your parents, Carla?” Mr. Brigance asked as he passed the rolls.
   “They’re fine. I talked to Mother yesterday.”
   “Are they in Knoxville?”
   “No, sir. They’re already in Wilmington for the summer.”
   “Will y’all be going to visit them?” asked Eva as she poured the tea from a one-gallon ceramic pitcher.
   Carla glanced at Jake, who was dipping butterbeans onto Hanna’s plate. He did not want to discuss Carl Lee Hailey. Every meal since Monday night had centered around the case, and Jake was in no mood to answer the same questions.
   “Yes, ma’am. We plan to. It depends on Jake’s schedule. It could be a busy summer.”
   “So we’ve heard,” Eva said flatly, slowly as if to remind her son he had not called since the killings.
   “Is something wrong with your phone, son?” asked Mr. Brigance.
   “Yes. We’ve had the number changed.”
   The four adults ate slowly, apprehensively, while Hanna looked at the shortcake.
   “Yes, I know. That’s what the operator told us. To an unlisted number.”
   “Sorry. I’ve been very busy. It’s been hectic.”
   “So we’ve read,” said his father.
   Eva stopped eating and cleared her throat. “Jake, do you really think you can get him off?”
   “I’m worried about your family,” said his father. “It could be a very dangerous case.”
   “He shot them in cold blood,” Eva said.
   “They raped his daughter, Mother. What would you do if someone raped Hanna?”
   “What’s rape?” asked Hanna.
   . “Never mind, dear,” Carla said. “Could we please change the subject.” She looked firmly at the three Bri-gances, and they started eating again. The daughter-in-law had spoken, with wisdom, as usual.
   Jake smiled at his mother without looking at Mr. Bri-gance. “I just don’t want to talk about the case, Mother. I’m tired of it.”
   “I guess we’ll have to read about it,” said Mr. Brigance.
   They talked about Canada.
   At about the time the Brigances finished lunch, the sanctuary of the Mt. Zion Chapel CME rocked and swayed as the Right Reverend Ollie Agee whipped the devotees into a glorified frenzy. Deacons danced. Elders chanted. Women fainted. Grown men screamed and raised their arms toward the heavens as the small children looked upward in holy terror. Choir members lurched and lunged and jerked, then broke down and shrieked different stanzas of the same song. The organist played one song, the pianist another, and the choir sang whatever came over it. The reverend hopped around the pulpit in his long white robe with purple trim, yelling, praying, screaming at God, and perspiring.
   The bedlam rose and fell, rising it seemed with each new fainting, and falling with fatigue. Through years of experience Agee knew precisely when the fury reached its peak, when the delirium gave way to weariness, and when the flock needed a break. At that precise moment, he jigged to the pulpit and slapped it with the power of God Almighty. Instantly the music died, the convulsions ceased, the fainters awoke, the children stopped crying, and the multitude settled submissively into the pews. It was time for the sermon.
   As the reverend was about to preach, the rear doors opened and the Haileys entered the sanctuary. Little Tonya walked by herself, limping, holding her mother’s hand. Her brothers marched behind, and Uncle Lester followed. They moved slowly down the aisle and found a seat near the front. The reverend nodded at the organist, who began to play softly, then the choir began to hum and sway. The deacons stood and swayed with the choir. Not to be outdone, the elders stood and began to chant. Then, of all things, Sister Crystal fainted violently. Her fainting was contagious, and the other sisters began dropping like flies. The elders chanted louder than the choir, so the choir got excited. The organist could not be heard, so she increased the volume. The pianist joined in with a clanging rendition of a hymn unlike the hymn being played by the organist. The organist thundered back. Reverend Agee fluttered down from the podium and danced his way toward the Haileys. Everyone followed-the choir, the deacons, the elders, the women, the crying children-everyone followed the reverend to greet the little Hailey girl.
   Jail did not bother Carl Lee. Home was more pleasant, but under the circumstances, he found jail life tolerable. It was a new jail, built with federal money under the mandate of a prisoners’ rights lawsuit. The food was cooked by two huge black women who knew how to cook and write bad checks. They were eligible for early release, but Ozzie had not bothered to tell them. The food was served to forty prisoners, give or take a few, by the trusties. Thirteen of the prisoners belonged at Parchman, but it was full. So they waited, never knowing if the next day would be their day for the dreaded trip to the sprawling, enclosed delta farm where the food was not as good, the beds were not as soft, the air conditioning was nonexistent, the mosquitoes immense, plentiful, and vicious, and where toilets were scarce and clogged.
   Carl Lee’s cell was next to Cell Two, where the state prisoners waited. With two exceptions, they were black, and with no exceptions, they were violent. But they were all afraid of Carl Lee. He shared Cell One with two shoplifters who were not just scared, but downright terrified of their famous cellmate. Each evening he was escorted to Ozzie’s office, where he and the sheriff ate dinner and watched the news. He was a celebrity, and he liked that almost as much as did his lawyer and the D. A. He wanted to explain things to the reporters, tell them about his daughter and why he should not be in jail, but his lawyer said no.
   After Gwen and Lester left late Sunday afternoon, Oz-zie, Moss Junior, and Carl Lee sneaked out the rear of the jail and went to the hospital. It was Carl Lee’s idea, and Ozzie saw no harm. Looney was alone in a private room when the three entered. Carl Lee took one look at the leg, then stared at Looney. They shook hands. With watery eyes and a breaking voice Carl Lee said he was sorry, that he had no intention of hurting anyone but the two boys, that he wished and prayed he could undo what he had done to Looney. Without hesitation, Looney accepted the apology.
   Jake was waiting in Ozzie’s office when they sneaked back into the jail. Ozzie and Moss Junior excused themselves, leaving the defendant with his lawyer.
   “Where have y’all been?” Jake asked suspiciously.
   “Went to the hospital to see Looney.”
   “You what!”
   “Nothin’ wrong, is it?”
   “I wish you would check with me before you make any more visits.”
   “What’s wrong with seein’ Looney?”
   “Looney will be the star witness for the State when they attempt to send you to the gas chamber. That’s all. He ain’t on our side, Carl Lee, and any talking you do with Looney should be with your attorney present. Understand?”
   “Not really.”
   “I can’t believe Ozzie would do that,” Jake mumbled.
   “It was my idea,” Carl Lee admitted.
   “Well, if you get any more ideas, please let me know about them. Okay?”
   “Okay.”
   “You talked to Lester lately?”
   “Yeah, him and Gwen came by today. Brought me goodies. Told me ‘bout the banks.”
   Jake planned to play hardball about his fee; no way he could represent Carl Lee for nine hundred dollars. The case would consume his practice for the next three monms ai least, and nine hundred would be less than minimum wage. It would not be fair to him or his family to work for nothing. Carl Lee would simply have to raise the money. There were plenty of relatives. Gwen had a big family. They would just have to sacrifice, maybe sell a few automobiles, maybe some land, but Jake would get his fee. If not, Carl Lee could find another lawyer.
   “I’ll give you the deed to my place,” Carl Lee offered.
   Jake melted. “I don’t want your place, Carl Lee. I want cash. Sixty-five hundred dollars.”
   “Show me how, and I’ll do it. You the lawyer, you figure out a way. I’m with you.”
   Jake was beat and he knew it. “I can’t do it for nine hundred dollars, Carl Lee. I can’t let this case bankrupt me. I’m a lawyer. I’m supposed to make money.”
   “Jake, I’ll pay you the money. I promise. It may take a long time, but I’ll pay you. Trust me.”
   Not if you’re on death row, thought Jake. He changed the subject. “You know the grand jury meets tomorrow, and it’ll take up your case.”
   “So I go to court?”
   “Naw, it means you’ll be indicted tomorrow. The courthouse will be full of people and reporters. Judge Noose will be here to open the May term of court. Buckley’ll be running around chasing cameras and blowing smoke. It’s a big day. Noose starts an armed robbery trial in the afternoon. If you’re indicted tomorrow, we’ll be in court Wednesday or Thursday for the arraignment.”
   “The what?”
   “The arraignment. In a capital murder case, the judge is required by law to read the indictment to you in open court in front of God and everybody. They’ll make a big deal out of it. We’ll enter a plea of not guilty, and Noose sets the trial date. We ask for a reasonable bond, and he says no. When I mention bond Buckley’ll scream and turn cartwheels. The more I think of him the more I hate him. He’ll be a large pain in the ass.”
   “Why don’t I get a bond?”
   “For capital murder, the judge does not have to set a bond. He can if he wants to, but most don’t. Even if Noose set a bond, you couldn’t pay it, so don’t worry about it. You’ll be in jail until trial.”
   “I lost my job, you know.”