“When?”
   “Gwen drove over Friday and got my paycheck. They told her. Nice, ain’t it. Work there eleven years, miss five days, and they fire me. Guess they think I ain’t comin’ back.”
   “I’m sorry to hear that, Carl Lee. Real sorry.”
   The Honorable Omar Noose had not always been so honorable. Before he became the circuit judge for the Twenty-second Judicial District, he was a lawyer with meager talent and few clients, but he was a politician of formidable skills. Five terms in the Mississippi Legislature had corrupted him and taught him the art of political swindling and manipulation. Senator Noose prospered handsomely as chairman of the Senate Finance Committee, and few people in Van Buren County questioned how he and his family lived so affluently on his legislative salary of seven thousand dollars a year.
   Like most members of the Mississippi Legislature, he ran for reelection one time too many, and in the summer of 1971 he was humiliated by an unknown opponent. A year later, Judge Loopus, his predecessor on the bench, died, and Noose persuaded his friends in the Legislature to persuade the governor to appoint him to serve the unexpired term. That’s how ex-State Senator Noose became Circuit Judge Noose. He was elected in 1975, and reelected in 1979 and 1983.
   Repentant, reformed, and very humbled by his rapid descent from power, Judge Noose applied himself to the study of the law, and after a shaky start, grew to the job. It paid sixty thousand a year, so he could afford to be honest. Now, at sixty-three, he was a wise old judge, well respected by most lawyers and by the state Supreme Court, which seldom reversed his rulings. He was quiet but charming, patient but strict, and he had a huge monument of a nose that was very long and very pointed and served as a throne for his black-rimmed, octagon-shaped reading glasses, which he wore constantly but never used. His nose, plus his tall, gawky frame, plus his wild, untamed, dense gray hair, plus his squeaky voice, had given rise to his secret nickname, whispered among lawyers, of Ichabod. Ichabod Noose. The Honorable Ichabod Noose.
   He assumed the bench, and the crowded courtroom stood as Ozzie mumbled incoherently a statutorily required paragraph to officially open the May term of the Ford County Circuit Court. A long, flowery prayer was offered by a local minister, and the congregation sat down. Prospective jurors filled one side of the courtroom. Criminals and other litigants, their families and friends, the press, and the curious filled the other side. Noose required every lawyer in the county to attend the opening of the term, and the members of the bar sat in the jury box, all decked out in full regalia, all looking important. Buckley and his assistant, D. R. Mus-grove, sat at the prosecution’s table, splendidly representing the State. Jake sat by himself in a wooden chair in front of the railing. The clerks and court reporters stood behind the large red docket books on the workbench, and with everyone else. watched intently as Ichabod situated himself in his chair upon the bench, straightened his robe, adjusted his hideous reading glasses, and peered over them at the assemblage.
   “Good morning,” he squeaked loudly. He pulled the microphone closer and cleared his throat. “It’s always nice to be in Ford County for the May term of court. I see most members of the bar found time to appear for the opening of court, and as usual, I will request Madam Clerk to note those absent attorneys so that I may personally contact them. I see a large number of potential jurors present, and I thank each of you for being here. I realize you had no choice, but your presence is vital to our judicial process. We will empanel a grand jury momentarily, and then we will select several trial juries to serve this week and next. I trust each member of the bar has a copy of the docket, and you will note it looks somewhat crowded. My calendar reveals at least two cases set for trial each day this week and next, but it’s my understanding most of the criminal cases set for trial will go off on negotiated plea bargains. Nonetheless, we have many cases to move, and I request the diligent cooperation of the bar. Once the new grand jury is empaneled and goes to work, and once the indictments start coming down, I will schedule arraignments and first appearances. Let’s quickly call the docket, criminal first, then civil; then the attorneys may be excused as we select a grand jury.
   “State versus Warren Moke. Armed robbery, set for trial this afternoon.”
   Buckley rose slowly, purposefully. “The State of Missis—sippi is ready for trial, Your Honor,” he announced gloriously for the spectators.
   “So’s the defense,” said Tyndale, the court-appointed lawyer.
   “How long do you anticipate for trial?” asked the judge.
   “Day and a half,” answered Buckley. Tyndale nodded in agreement.
   “Good. We’ll select the trial jury this morning and start the trial at one P. M. today. State versus William Daal, forgery, six counts, set for tomorrow.”
   “Your Honor,” answered D. R. Musgrove, “there will be a plea in that case.”
   “Good. State versus Roger Hornton, grand larceny, two counts, set for tomorrow.”
   Noose continued through the docket. Each case drew the same response. Buckley would stand and proclaim the State ready for trial, or Musgrove would quietly inform the court that a plea had been negotiated. The defense attorneys would stand and nod. Jake had no cases in the May term, and although he tried his best to look bored, he enjoyed the call of the docket because he could learn who had the cases and what the competition was doing. It was also a chance to look good before some of the local folks. Half the members of the Sullivan firm were present, and they too looked bored as they sat arrogantly together in the front row of the jury box. The older partners of the Sullivan firm would not dare make an appearance at docket call, and they would lie and tell Noose they were in trial in Federal Court over in Oxford or perhaps before the Supreme Court in Jackson. Dignity prevented their mingling with the ordinary members of the bar, so the firm’s younger lieutenants were sent to satisfy Noose and request that all the firm’s civil cases be continued, postponed, delayed, stalled, or acted upon in such a way that the firm could drag them on forever and continue to bill by the hour. Their clients were insurance companies who generally preferred not to go to trial and would pay by the hour for legal maneuvering designed solely to keep the cases away from the juries. It would be cheaper and fairer to pay a reasonable settlement and avoid both litigation and the parasitic defense firms like Sullivan & O’Hare, but the insurance companies and their adjusters were too stupid and cheap, so street lawyers like Jake Brigance earned their livelihoods suing insurance companies and forcing them to pay more than what they would have paid had they dealt fairly from the beginning. Jake hated insurance companies, and he hated insurance defense attorneys, and he especially hated the Sullivan firm’s younger members, all of whom were his age, and all of whom would gladly cut his throat, their associates’ throats, their partners’ throats, anyone’s throat to make partner and earn two hundred thousand a year and skip docket calls.
   Jake particularly hated Lotterhouse, or L. Winston Lot-terhouse, as the letterhead proclaimed him, a little four-eyed wimp with a Harvard degree and a bad case of haughty self-importance who was next in line to make partner and thus had been especially indiscriminate with his throat cutting during the past year. He sat smugly between two other Sullivan associates and held seven files, each of which was being charged a hundred dollars per hour while he answered the docket call.
   Noose began the civil docket. “Collins versus Royal Consolidated General Mutual Insurance Company.”
   Lotterhouse stood slowly. Seconds meant minutes. Minutes meant hours. Hours meant fees, retainers, bonuses, partnerships.
   “Your Honor, sir, that case is set prime for a week from Wednesday.”
   “I realize that,” Noose said.
   “Yes, sir. Well, sir, I’m afraid I must ask for a continuance. A conflict has developed in my trial calendar for that Wednesday, and I have a pretrial conference in Federal Court in Memphis that the judge has refused to continue. I regret this. I filed a motion this morning asking for a continuance.”
   Gardner, the plaintiffs attorney, was furious. “Your Honor, that case has been set prime for two months. It was set for trial in February, and Mr. Lotterhouse had a death in his wife’s family. It was set for trial last November, and an uncle died. It was set for trial last August, and there was another funeral. I guess we should be thankful that this time no one has died.”
   There were pockets of light laughter in the courtroom. Lotterhouse blushed.
   “Enough is enough, Your Honor,” Gardner continued. “Mr. Lotterhouse would prefer to postpone this trial forever. The case is ripe for trial, and my client is entitled to one. We strenuously oppose any motion for a continuance.”. Lotterhouse smiled at the judge and removed his glasses. “Your Honor, if I may respond—”
   “No, you may not, Mr. Lotterhouse,” interrupted Noose. “No more continuances. The case is set for trial next Wednesday. There will be no more delays.”
   Hallelujah, thought Jake. Noose was generally soft on the Sullivan firm. Jake smiled at Lotterhouse.
   Two of Jake’s civil cases were continued to the August term. When Noose finished the civil docket, he dismissed the attorneys, and turned his attention to the pool of prospective jurors. He explained the role of the grand jury, its importance and procedure. He distinguished it from the trial juries, equally important but not as time consuming. He began asking questions, dozens of questions, most of them required by law, all dealing with ability to serve as jurors, physical and moral fitness, exemptions, and age. A few were useless, but nonetheless required by some ancient statute. “Are any of you common gamblers or habitual drunkards?”
   There were laughs but no volunteers. Those over sixty-five were automatically excused, at their option. Noose granted the usual exemptions for illnesses, emergencies, and hardships, but he excused only a few of the many who requested pardons for economic reasons. It was amusing to watch the jurors stand, one at a time, and meekly explain to the judge how a few days of jury duty would cause irreparable damage to the farm, or the body shop, or the pulpwood cutting. Noose took a hard line and delivered several lectures on civic responsibility to the flimsier excuses.
   From the venire of ninety or so prospects, eighteen would be selected for the grand jury, and the rest would remain available for selection as trial jurors. When Noose completed his questioning, the clerk drew eighteen names from a box and laid them on the bench before His Honor, who began calling names. The jurors, one by one, rose and walked slowly toward the front of the courtroom, through the gate in the railing, and into the cushioned, swivel rocking seats in the jury box. There were fourteen such seats, twelve for the jurors and two for the alternates. When the box was rilled, Noose called four more who joined their colleagues in wooden chairs placed in front of the jury box.
   “Stand and take the oath,” instructed Noose as the clerk stood before them holding and reading from a little black book that contained all the oaths. “Raise your right hands,” she directed. “Do you solemnly swear or affirm that you will faithfully discharge your duties as grand jurors; that you will fairly hear and decide all issues and matters brought before you, so help you God?”
   A chorus of assorted “I do’s” followed, and the grand jury was seated. Of the five blacks, two were women. Of the thirteen whites, eight were women, and most were rural. Jake recognized seven of the eighteen.
   “Ladies and gentlemen,” Noose began his usual speech, “you have been selected and duly sworn as grand jurors for Ford County, and you will serve in that capacity until the next grand jury is empaneled in August. I want to stress that your duties will not be time consuming. You will meet every day this week, then several hours each month until September. You have the responsibility of reviewing criminal cases, listening to law enforcement officials and victims, and determining whether or not reasonable grounds exist to believe the accused has committed the crime. If so, you issue an indictment, which is a formal charge placed against the accused. There are eighteen of you, and when at least twelve believe a person should be indicted, the indictment is issued, or returned, as we say. You have considerable power. By law, you can investigate any criminal act, any citizen suspected of wrongdoing, any public official; really anybody or anything that smells bad. You may convene yourself whenever you choose, but normally you meet whenever the district attorney, Mr. Buckley, wants you. You have the power to subpoena witnesses to testify before you, and you may also subpoena their records. Your deliberations are extremely private, with no one being present but yourselves, the D. A. and his staff, and the witnesses. The accused is not allowed to appear before you. You are expressly forbidden to discuss anything that is said or transpires in the grand jury room.
   “Mr. Buckley, would you please stand. Thank you. This is Mr. Rufus Buckley, the district attorney. He’s from Smith-field, in Polk County. He will sort of act as your supervisor while you deliberate. Thank you, Mr. Buckley. Mr. Mus-grove, will you stand. This is D. R. Musgrove, assistant district attorney, also from Smithfield. He will assist Mr. Buck-ley while you are in session. Thank you, Mr. Musgrove. Now, these gentlemen represent the State of Mississippi, and they will present the cases to the grand jury.
   “One final matter: the last grand jury in Ford County was empaneled in February, and the foreman was a white male. Therefore, in keeping with tradition and following the wishes of the Justice Department, I will appoint a black female as foreman of this grand jury. Let’s see. Laverne Gos-sett. Where are you, Mrs. Gossett? There you are, good. I believe you are a schoolteacher, correct? Good. I’m sure you’ll be able to handle your new duties. Now, it’s time for you to get to work. I understand there are over fifty cases waiting on you. I will ask that you follow Mr. Buckley and Mr. Musgrove down the hall to the small courtroom that we use for a grand jury room. Thank you and good luck.”
   Buckley proudly marched his new grand jury out of the courtroom and down the hall. He waved at reporters and had no comments-for the time being. In the small courtroom they seated themselves around two long, folding tables. A secretary rolled in boxes of files. An ancient half-crippled, half-deaf, long-retired deputy in a faded uniform took his position by the door. The room was secure. Buckley had second thoughts, excused himself, and met with the reporters in the hall. Yes, he said, the Hailey case would be presented that afternoon. In fact, he was calling a press conference for 4:00 P. M. on the front steps of the courthouse, and he would have the indictments at that time.
   After lunch, the chief of the Karaway Police Department sat at one end of the long table and shuffled nervously through his files. He avoided looking at the grand jurors, who anxiously awaited their first case.
   “State your name!” barked the D. A.
   “Chief Nolan Earnhart, Karaway City Police.”
   “How many cases do you have, Chief?”
   “We have five from Karaway.”
   “Let’s hear the first one.”
   “Okay, let’s see, all right,” the chief mumbled and stuttered as he flipped through his paperwork. “Okay, the first case is Fedison Bulow, male black, age twenty-five, got caught red-handed in the rear of Griffin’s Feed Store in Karaway at two o’clock in the mornin’, April 12. Silent alarm went off and we caught him in the store. Cash register had been broken into, and some fertilizer was gone. We found the cash and the goods in a car registered in his name parked behind the store. He gave a three-page confession at the jail, and I’ve got copies here.”
   Buckley walked casually around the room smiling at everyone. “And you want this grand jury to indict Fedison Bulow on one count of breaking and entering a commercial building, and one count of grand larceny?” Buckley asked helpfully.
   “Yes, sir, that’s right.”
   “Now, members of the grand jury, you have the right to ask any questions. This is your hearing. Any questions?”
   “Yes, does he have a record?” asked Mack Loyd Crow-ell, an unemployed truck driver.
   “No,” replied the chief. “This is his first offense.”
   “Good question, always ask that question because if they have prior records we may need to indict them as habitual criminals,” lectured Buckley. “Any more questions? None? Good. Now at this point, someone needs to make a motion that the grand jury return a true bill of indictment against Fedison Bulow.”
   Silence. The eighteen stared at the table and waited for someone else to make a motion. Buckley waited. Silence. This is great, he thought. A soft grand jury. A bunch of timid souls afraid to speak. Liberals. Why couldn’t he have a bloodthirsty grand jury eager to make motions to indict everybody for everything?
   “Mrs. Gossett, would you like to make the first motion, since you’re the foreman?”
   “I so move,” she said.
   “Thank you,” said Buckley. “Now let’s vote. How many vote to indict Fedison Bulow on one count of breaking and entering a commercial building and one count of grand larceny? Raise your hands.”

   Eighteen hands went up, and Buckley was relieved.
   The chief presented the other four cases from Karaway. Each involved defendants equally guilty as Bulow, and each received unanimous true bills. Buckley slowly taught the grand jury how to operate itself. He made them feel important, powerful, and laden with the heavy burden of justice. They became inquisitive: “Does he have a record?”
   “How much time does that carry?”
   “When will he get out?”
   “How many counts can we give him?”
   “When will he be tried?”
   “Is he out of jail now?”
   With five indictments out of the way, with five true bills and no dissension, with the grand jury eager for the next case, whatever it might be, Buckley decided the mood was ripe. He opened the door and motioned for Ozzie, who was standing in the hall talking quietly with a deputy and watching the reporters.
   “Present Hailey first,” Buckley whispered as the two met in the door.
   “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Sheriff Walls. I’m sure most of you know him. He has several cases to present. What’s first, Sheriff?”
   Ozzie scrambled through his files, lost whatever he was looking for, and finally blurted, “Carl Lee Hailey.”
   The jurors became quiet again. Buckley watched them closely to gauge their reactions. Most of them stared at the table again. No one spoke while Ozzie reviewed the file, then excused himself to get another briefcase. He had not planned to present the Hailey case first.
   Buckley prided himself on reading jurors, of watching their faces and knowing precisely their thoughts. He watched the jury constantly during a trial, always predicting to himself what each was thinking. He would cross-examine a witness and never take his eyes off the jury. He would sometimes stand and face the jury box and interrogate a witness and watch the faces react to the answers. After hundreds of trials he was good at reading jurors, and he knew instantly he was in trouble with Hailey. The five blacks grew tense and arrogant as if they welcomed the case and the inevitable argument. The foreman, Mrs. Gossett, looked particularly pious as Ozzie mumbled to himself and flipped papers. Most of the whites looked noncommittal, but Mack Loyd Crowell, a hard-looking middle-aged rural type, appeared as arrogant as the blacks. Crowell pushed back his chair and walked to the window, which looked over the north side of the courtyard. Buckley could not read him precisely, but he knew Crowell was trouble.
   “Sheriff, how many witnesses do you have for the Hailey case?” Buckley asked, somewhat nervously.
   Ozzie stopped shuffling paper and said, “Well, uh, just me. We can get another if we need one.”
   “All right, all right,” replied Buckley. “Just tell us about the case.”
   Ozzie reared back, crossed his legs, and said, “Shoot, Rufus, everbody knows about this case. Been on TV for a week.”
   “Just give us the evidence.”
   “The evidence. Okay, one week ago today, Carl Lee Hailey, male black, age thirty-seven, shot and killed one Billy Ray Cobb and one Pete Willard, and he shot a peace officer, one DeWayne Looney, who’s still in the hospital with his leg cut off. The weapon was an M-16 machine gun, illegal, which we recovered and matched the fingerprints with those of Mr. Hailey. I have an affidavit signed by Deputy Looney, and he states, under oath, that the man who did the shootin’ was Carl Lee Hailey. There was an eyewitness, Murphy, the little crippled man that sweeps the courthouse and stutters real bad. I can get him here if you want.”
   “Any questions?” interrupted Buckley.
   The D. A. nervously watched the jurors, who nervously watched the sheriff. Crowell stood with his back to the others, looking through the window.
   “Any questions?” Buckley repeated.
   “Yeah,” answered Crowell as he turned and glared at the D. A., then at Ozzie. “Those two boys he shot, they raped his little girl, didn’t they, Sheriff?”
   “We’re pretty sure they did,” answered Ozzie.
   “Well, one confessed, didn’t he?”
   “Yep.”
   Crowell walked slowly, boldly, arrogantly across the room, and stood at the other end of the tables. He looked down at Ozzie. “You got kids, Sheriff?”
   “Yep.”
   “You got a little girl?”
   “Yep.”
   “Suppose she got raped and you got your hands on the man who did it. What would you do?”
   Ozzie paused and looked anxiously at Buckley, whose neck had turned a deep red.
   “I don’t have to answer that,” Ozzie replied.
   “Is that so. You came before this grand jury to testify, didn’t you? You’re a witness, ain’t you? Answer the question.”
   “I don’t know what I’d do.”
   “Come on, Sheriff. Give us a straight answer. Tell the truth. What would you do?”
   Ozzie felt embarrassed, confused, and angry at this stranger. He would like to tell the truth, and explain in detail how he would gladly castrate and mutilate and kill any pervert who touched his little girl. But he couldn’t. The grand jury might agree and refuse to indict Carl Lee. Not that he wanted him indicted, but he knew the indictment was necessary. He looked sheepishly at Buckley, who was perspiring and seated now.
   Crowell zeroed in on the sheriff with the zeal and fervor of a lawyer who had just caught a witness in an obvious lie.
   “Come on, Sheriff,” he taunted. “We’re all listenin’. Tell the truth. What would you do to the rapist? Tell us. Come on.”
   Buckley was near panic. The biggest case of his wonderful career was about to be lost, not at trial, but in the grand jury room, in the first round, at the hands of an unemployed truck driver. He stood and struggled for words. “The witness does not have to answer.”
   Crowell turned and shouted at Buckley, “You sit down and shut up! We don’t take orders from you. We can indict you if we want to, can’t we?”
   Buckley sat and looked blankly at Ozzie. Crowell was a ringer. He was too smart to be on a grand jury. Someone must have paid him. He knew too much. Yes, the grand jury could indict anyone.
   Crowell retreated and returned to the window. They watched him until it appeared he was finished.
   “Are you absolutely sure he done it, Ozzie?” asked Le-moyne Frady, an illegitimate distant cousin to Gwen Hailey.
   “Yes, we’re sure,” Ozzie answered slowly, with both eyes on Crowell., “And you want us to indict him for what?” asked Mr. Frady, the admiration for the sheriff obvious.
   “Two counts of capital murder, and one count of assault on a peace officer.”
   “How much time you talkin’ about?” asked Barney Flaggs, another black.
   “Capital murder carries the gas chamber. Assault on a deputy carries life with no parole.”
   “And that’s what you want, Ozzie?” asked Flaggs.
   “Yeah, Barney, I say this grand jury should indict Mr. Hailey. I sure do.”
   “Any more questions?” interrupted Buckley.
   “Not so fast,” replied Crowell as he turned from the window. “I think you’re tryin’ to ram this case down our throats, Mr. Buckley, and I resent it. I wanna talk about it some. You sit down and if we need you, we’ll ask you.”
   Buckley glared fiercely and pointed his finger. “I don’t have to sit, and I don’t have to stay quiet!” he yelled.
   “Yes. Yes, you do,” Crowell answered coolly with a caustic grin. “Because if you don’t, we can make you leave, can’t we, Mr. Buckley? We can ask you to leave this room, and if you refuse, we’ll go ask the judge. He’ll make you leave, won’t he, Mr. Buckley?”
   Rufus stood motionless, speechless, and stunned. His stomach turned flips and his knees were spongy, but he was frozen in place.
   “So, if you would like to hear the rest of our deliberations, sit down and shut up.”
   Buckley sat next to the bailiff, who was now awake.
   “Thank you,” said Crowell. “I wanna ask you folks a question. How many of you would do or wanna do what Mr. Hailey did if someone raped your daughter, or maybe your wife, or what about your motner/ now many: i\. cu”t UUi hands.”
   Seven or eight hands shot up, and Buckley dropped his head. Crowell smiled and continued, “I admire him for what he did. It took guts. I’d hope I’d have the courage to do what he did, ‘cause Lord knows I’d want to. Sometimes a man’s just gotta do what he’s gotta do. This man deserves a trophy, not an indictment.”
   Crowell walked slowly around the tables, enjoying the attention. “Before you vote, I want you to do one thing. I want you to think about that poor little girl. I think she’s ten. Try to picture her layin’ there, hands tied behind her, cryin’, beggin’ for her daddy. And think of those two outlaws, drunk, doped up, takin’ turns rapin’ and beatin’ and kickin’ her. Hell, they even tried to kill her. Think of your own daughter. Put her in the place of the little Hailey girl.
   “Now, wouldn’t you say they got pretty much what they deserved? We should be thankful they’re dead. I feel safer just knowin’ those two bastards are no longer here to rape and kill other children. Mr. Hailey has done us a great service. Let’s don’t indict him. Let’s send him home to his family, where he belongs. He’s a good man who’s done a good thing.”
   Crowell finished and returned to the window. Buckley watched him fearfully, and when he was certain he was finished, he stood. “Sir, are you finished?” There was no response.
   “Good. Ladies and gentlemen of the grand jury. I would like to explain a few things. A grand jury is not supposed to try the case. That’s what a trial jury is for. Mr. Hailey will get a fair trial before twelve fair and impartial jurors, and if he’s innocent, he’ll be acquitted. But his guilt or innocence is not supposed to be determined by the grand jury. You’re supposed to decide, after listening to the State’s version of the evidence, if there is a strong possibility a crime has been committed. Now, I submit to you that a crime has been committed by Carl Lee Hailey. Three crimes actually. He killed two men, and he wounded another. We have eyewitnesses.”
   Buckley was warming as he circled the tables. The confidence was back. “The duty of this grand jury is to indict him, and if he has a valid defense, he’ll have a chance to present it at trial. If he has a legal reason for doing what he did, let him prove it at trial. That’s what trials are for. The State charges him with a crime, and the State must prove at trial he committed the crime. If he has a defense, and if he can convince the trial jury, he will be acquitted, I assure you. Good for him. But it’s not the duty of this grand jury to decide today that Mr. Hailey should go free. There’ll be another day for that, right, Sheriff?”
   Ozzie nodded and said, “That’s right. The grand jury is to indict if the evidence is presented. The trial jury will not convict him if the State can’t prove its case, or if he puts a good defense. But the grand jury don’t worry ‘bout things like that.”
   “Anything further from the grand jury?” Buckley asked anxiously. “Okay, we need a motion.”
   “I make a motion we don’t indict him for anything,” yelled Crowell.
   “Second,” mumbled Barney Flaggs.
   Buckley’s knees quivered. He tried to speak, but nothing came forth. Ozzie suppressed his joy.
   “We have a motion and a second,” announced Mrs. Gossett. “All in favor raise your hands.”
   Five black hands went up, along with Crowell’s. Sk votes. The motion failed.
   “Whatta we do now?” asked Mrs. Gossett.
   Buckley spoke rapidly: “Someone make a motion to indict Mr. Hailey for two counts of capital murder and one count of assault on a peace officer.”
   “So move,” said one of the whites.
   “Second,” said another.
   “All in favor, raise your hands,” said Mrs. Gossett. “I count twelve hands. All opposed—I count five plus mine makes six. Twelve to six. What does that mean?”
   “That means he’s been indicted,” Buckley replied proudly. He breathed normally again, and the color returned to his face. He whispered to a secretary, then addressed the grand jury. “Let’s take a ten-minute recess. We have about forty more cases to work on, so please don’t be gone long. I would like to remind you of something Judge Noose said this morning. These deliberations are extremely confidential.
   You are not to discuss any 01 your work ouisiue room—”
   “What he’s tryin’ to say,” interrupted Crowell, “is that we can’t tell anybody that he came within one vote of not gettin’ the indictments. Ain’t that right, Buckley?”
   The D. A. quickly left the room and slammed the door.
   Surrounded by dozens of cameras and reporters, Buckley stood on the front steps of the courthouse and waved copies of the indictments. He preached, lectured, moralized, praised the grand jury, sermonized against crime and vigilantes, and condemned Carl LeeHailey. Bring on the trial. Put the jury in the box. He guaranteed a conviction. He guaranteed a death penalty. He was obnoxious, offensive, arrogant, self-righteous. He was himself. Vintage Buckley. A few of the reporters left, but he labored on. He extolled himself and his trial skills and his ninety, no, ninety-five percent conviction rate. More reporters left. More cameras were turned off. He praised Judge Noose for his wisdom and fairness. He acclaimed the intelligence and good judgment of Ford County jurors.

   He outlasted them. They grew weary of him and they all left.
   Stump Sisson was the Klan’s Imperial Wizard for Mississippi, and he had called the meeting at the small cabin deep in the pine forests of Nettles County, two hundred and thirty miles south of Ford County. There were no robes, rituals, or speeches. The small group of Klansmen discussed the events in Ford County with a Mr. Freddie Cobb, brother of Billy Ray Cobb, deceased. Freddie had called a friend who called Stump to arrange the meeting.
   Had they indicted the nigger? Cobb was not sure, but he had heard the trial would be in late summer, or early fall. What concerned him most was all the talk about the nigger pleading insanity and getting off. It wasn’t right. The nigger killed his brother in cold blood, planned the shooting. He hid in a closet and waited for his brother. It was coldblooded murder, and now there was talk of the nigger walking free. What could the Klan do about it? The niggers have plenty of protection nowadays-the NAACP, ACLU, a thousand other civil rights groups, plus the courts and the government. Hell, white folks ain’t got a chance, except for the Klan. Who else would march and stand up for white people. All the laws favor the niggers, and the liberal nigger-loving politicians keep making more laws against white people. Somebody’s got to stand up for them. That’s why he called the Klan.
   Is the nigger in jail? Yes, and he’s treated like a king. Got a nigger sheriff up there, Walls, and he likes this nigger. Gives him special privileges and extra protection. The sheriffs another story. Someone said Hailey might get out of jail this week on bond. Just a rumor. They hoped he got out.
   What about your brother? Did he rape her? We’re not sure, probably not. Willard, the other guy, confessed to rape, but Billy Ray never confessed. He had plenty of women. Why would he rape a little nigger girl? And if he did, what was the big deal?
   Who’s the nigger’s lawyer? Brigance, a local boy in Clanton. Young, but pretty good. Does a lot of criminal work and has a good reputation, won several minuet told some reporters the nigger would plead insanity and get off.
   Who’s the judge? Don’t know yet. Bullard was the county judge, but someone said he would not hear the case. There’s talk of moving the case to another county, so who knows who will be the judge.
   Sisson and the Kluxers listened intently to this ignorant redneck. They liked the part about the NAACP and the government and the politicians, but they had also read the papers and watched TV and they knew his brother had received justice. But at the hands of a nigger. It was unthinkable.
   The case had real potential. With the trial several months away, there was time to plan a rebellion. They could march during the day around the courthouse in their white robes and pointed, hooded masks. They could make speeches to a captive audience and parade in front of the cameras. The press would love it-hate them, but love the altercations, the disruptions. And at night they could intimidate with burning crosses and threatening phone calls. The targets would be easy and unsuspecting. Violence would be unavoidable. They knew how to provoke it. They fully appreciated what the sight of marching white robes did to crowds of angry niggers.
   Ford County could be their playground for hide and seek, search and destroy, and hit and run. They had time to organize and call in comrades from other states. What Kluxer would miss this golden moment? And new recruits? Why, this case could fuel the fires of racism and bring nigger haters out of the woods and onto the streets. Membership was down. Hailey would be their new battle cry, the rallying point.
   “Mr. Cobb, can you get us the names and addresses of the nigger, his family, his lawyer, the judge, and the jurors?” asked Sisson.
   Cobb pondered this task. “Everbody but the jurors. They ain’t been picked yet.”
   “When will you know them?”
   “Damned if I know. I guess at trial. What’re y’all thinkin’?”
   “We’re not sure, but the Klan most likely will get involved. We need to flex our muscle a bit, and this could be a good opportunity.”
   “Can I help?” Cobb asked eagerly.
   “Sure, but you need to be a member.”
   “We ain’t got no Klan up there. It folded a long time ago. My granddaddy used to be a member.”
   “You mean the grandfather of the victim was a Klansman?”
   “Yep,” Cobb answered proudly.
   “Well, then, we must get involved.” The Klansmen shook their heads in disbelief and vowed revenge. They explained to Cobb that if he could get five or six friends of similar thinking and motivation to agree to join, they would have a big, secret ceremony deep in the woods of Ford County with a huge burning cross and all sorts of rituals.—They would be inducted as members, full-fledged members, of the Ku Klux Klan. Ford County Klavern. And they would all join in and make a spectacle of the trial of Carl Lee Hailey. They would raise so much hell in Ford County this summer that no juror with any common sense would consider voting to acquit the nigger. Just recruit half a dozen more, and they would make him the leader of the Ford County Klavern.
   Cobb said he had enough cousins to start a klavern. He left the meeting drunk with excitement of being a Klansman, just like his grandfather.
   Buckley’s timing was a little off. His 4:00 P. M. press show was ignored by the evening news. Jake flipped the channels on a small black and white in his office, and laughed out loud when the networks and then Memphis, then Jackson, then Tupelo signed off with no news of the indictments. He could see the Buckley family in their den glued to the set, turning knobs and searching desperately for their hero while he yelled at them all to be quiet. And then at seven, after the Tupelo weather, the last weather, they backed away and left him alone in his recliner. Maybe at ten, he probably said.
   At ten, Jake and Carla laid cross-legged and tangled in the dark on the sofa, waiting on the news. Finally, there he was, on trie iront steps, waving papcis anu awuuiig i*, u street preacher while the Channel 4 man on the scene explained that this was Rufus Buckley, the D. A. who would prosecute Carl Lee Hailey now that he had been indicted. After an awful glimpse of Buckley, the report panned around the square for a wonderful view of downtown Clanton, and then finally back to the reporter for two sentences about a trial in late summer.
   “He’s offensive,” Carla said. “Why would he call a press conference to announce the indictments?”
   “He’s a prosecutor. We defense lawyers hate the press.”
   “I’ve noticed. My scrapbook is rapidly filling up.”
   “Be sure and make copies for Mom.”
   “Will you autograph it for her?”
   “Only for a fee. Yours, I will autograph for free.”
   “Fine. And if you lose, I’ll send you a bill for clipping and pasting.”
   “I remind you, dear, that I have never lost a murder case. Three and oh, as a matter of fact.”
   Carla punched the remote control and the weatherman remained but his volume disappeared. “You know what I dislike most about your murder trials?” She kicked the cushions from her thin, bronze, almost perfect legs.
   “The blood, the carnage, the gruesomeness?”
   “No.” She unfolded her shoulder-length hair and let it fall around her on the arm of the sofa.
   “The loss of life, regardless of how insignificant?”
   “No.” She was wearing one of his old, starched-out, sixteen-by-thirty-four, pinpoint Oxford button-downs, and she began to play with the buttons.
   “The horrible specter of an innocent man facing the gas chamber?”
   “No.” She was unbuttoning it. The bluish gray rays from the television flashed like a strobe in the dark room as the artchorperson smiled and mouthed good night.
   “The fear of a young family as the father walks into the courtroom and faces a jury of his peers?”
   “No.” It was unbuttoned, and under it a thin, fluorescent band of white silk glittered against the brown skin.
   “The latent unfairness of our judicial system?”
   “No.” She slid an almost perfect bronze leg up, up, up to the back of the sofa where it gently came to rest.
   “The unethical and unscrupulous tactics employed by cops and prosecutors to nail innocent defendants?”
   “No.” She unsnapped the band of silk between the two almost perfect breasts.
   “The fervor, the fury, the intensity, the uncontrolled emotions, the struggle of the human spirit, the unbridled passion?”
   “Close enough,” she said. Shirts and shorts ricocheted off the lamps and coffee tables as the bodies meshed deep under the cushions. The old sofa, a gift from her parents, rocked and squeaked on the ancient hardwood floor. It was sturdy, and accustomed to the rocking and squeaking. Max the mix-breed instinctively ran down the hall to stand guard by Hanna’s door.
   Harry Rex Vonner was a huge slob of a lawyer who specialized in nasty divorce cases and perpetually kept some jerk in jail for back child support. He was vile and vicious, and his services were in great demand by divorcing parties in Ford County. He could get the children, the house, the farm, the VCR, and microwave, everything. One wealthy farmer kept him on retainer just so the current wife couldn’t hire him for the next divorce. Harry Rex sent his criminal cases to Jake, and Jake sent his nasty divorces to Harry Rex. They were friends and disliked the other lawyers, especially the Sullivan firm.
   Tuesday morning he barged in and growled at Ethel: “Jake in?” He lumbered toward the stairs, glaring at her and daring her to speak. She nodded, knowing better than to ask if he was expected. He had cursed her before. He had cursed everybody before.
   The stairway shook as he thundered upward. He was gasping for air as he entered the big office.
   “Morning, Harry Rex. You gonna make it?”
   “Why don’t you get an office downstairs?” he demanded between breaths.
   “You need the exercise. If it weren’t for those stairs your weight would be over three hundred.”
   “Thanks. Say, I just came from the courtroom. Noose wants you in chambers at ten-thirty if possible. Wants to talk about Hailey with you and Buckley. Set up arraignment, trial date, all that crap. He asked me to tell you.”
   “Good. I’ll be there.”
   “I guess you heard about the grand jury?”
   “Sure. I’ve got a copy of the indictment right here.”
   Harry Rex smiled. “No. No, I mean the vote on the indictment.”
   Jake froze and looked at him curiously. Harry Rex moved in silent and dark circles like a cloud over the county. He was an endless source of gossip and rumor, and took great pride in spreading only the truth-most of the time. He was the first to know almost everything. The legend of Harry Rex began twenty years earlier with his first jury trial. The railroad he had sued for millions refused to offer a dime, and after three days of trial the jury retired to deliberate. The railroad lawyers became concerned when the jury failed to return with a quick verdict in their favor. They offered Harry Rex twenty-five thousand to settle when the deliberations went into the second day. With nerves of steel, he told them to go to hell. His client wanted the money. He told his client to go to hell. Hours later a weary and fatigued jury returned with a verdict for one hundred fifty thousand. Harry Rex shot the bird at the railroad lawyers, snubbed his clients and went to the bar at the Best Western. He bought drinks for everyone, and during the course of the long evening explained in detail exactly how he had wired the jury room and knew exactly what the jury was up to. Word spread, and Murphy found a series of wires running through the heating ducts to the jury room. The State Bar Association snooped around, but found nothing. For twenty years the judges had ordered the bailiffs to inspect the jury room when Harry Rex was in any way connected with a case.
   “How do you know the vote?” Jake asked, suspicion hanging on every syllable.
   “I got sources.”
   “Okay, what was the vote?”
   “Twelve to six. One fewer vote and you wouldn’t be holding that indictment.”
   “Twelve to six,” Jake repeated.
   “Buckley near ‘bout died. A guy named Crowell, white guy, took charge and almost convinced enough of them not to indict your man.”
   “Do you know Crowell?”
   “I handled his divorce two years ago. He lived in Jackson until his first wife was raped by a nigger. She went crazy and they got a divorce. She took a steak knife and sliced her wrists. Then he moved to Clanton and married some sleazebag out in the county. Lasted about a year. He ate Buckley’s lunch. Told him to shut up and sit down. I wish I could’ve seen it.”
   “Sounds like you did.”
   “Naw. Just got a good source.”
   “Who?”
   “Jake, come on.”
   “You been wiring rooms again?”
   “Nope. I just listen. That’s a good sign, ain’t it?”
   “What?”
   “The close vote. Six outta eighteen voted to let him walk. Five niggers and Crowell. That’s a good sign. Just get a couple of niggers on the jury and hang it. Right?”
   “It’s not that easy. If it’s tried in this county there’s a good chance we’ll have an all-white jury. They’re common here, and as you know, they’re still very constitutional. Plus this guy Crowell sounds like he came outta nowhere.”
   “That’s what Buckley thought.—You should see that ass. He’s in the courtroom strutting around ready to sign autographs over his big TV splash last night. No one wants to talk about it, so he manages to work it into every conversation. He’s like a kid begging for attention.”
   “Be sweet. He may be your next governor.”
   “Not if he loses Hailey. And he’s gonna lose Hailey, Jake. We’ll pick us a good jury, twelve good and faithful citizens, then we’ll buy them.”
   “I didn’t hear that.”
   “Works every time.”
   A few minutes after ten-thirty, Jake entered the judge’s chamber behind the courtroom and coolly shook hands with Buckley, Musgrove, and Ichabod. They had been waiting on him. Noose waved him toward a seat and sat behind the desk.
   “Jake, this will take just a few minutes.” He peered down that nose. “I would like to arraign Carl Lee Hailey in the morning at nine. Any problems with that?”
   “No. That’ll be fine,” replied Jake.
   “We’ll have some other arraignments in the morning, then we start a burglary case at ten. Right, Rufus?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Okay. Now let’s discuss a trial date for Mr. Hailey. As you know, the next term of court here is in late Augustthird Monday-and I’m sure the docket will be just as crowded then. Because of the nature of this case and, frankly, because of the publicity, I think it would be best if we had a trial as soon as practical.”
   “The sooner the better,” inserted Buckley.
   “Jake, how long will you need to prepare for trial?”
   “Sixty days.”
   “Sixty days!” Buckley repeated in disbelief. “Why so long?”
   Jake ignored him and watched Ichabod adjust his reading glasses and study his calendar. “Would it be safe to anticipate a request for a change of venue?” he asked.
   “Yes.”

   “Won’t make any difference,” Buckley said. “We’ll get a conviction anywhere.”
   “Save it for the cameras, Rufus,” Jake said quietly.
   “You shouldn’t talk about cameras,” Buckley shot back. “You seem to enjoy them yourself.”
   “Gentlemen, please,” Noose said. “What other pretrial motions can we expect from the defense?”
   Jake thought for a moment. “There will be others.”
   “May I inquire about the others?” asked Noose with a hint of irritation.
   “Judge, I really don’t care to discuss my defense at this time. We just received the indictment and I haven’t discussed it with my client. We obviously have some work to do.”
   “How much time do you need?”
   “Sixty days.”
   “Are you kidding!” Buckley shouted. “Is this a joke? The State could try it tomorrow, Judge. Sixty days is ridiculous.”
   Jake began to burn but said nothing. Buckley walked to the window and mumbled to himself in disbelief.
   Noose studied his calendar. “Why sixty days?”
   “It could be a complicated case.”
   Buckley laughed and continued shaking his head.
   “Then we can expect a defense of insanity?” asked the judge.
   “Yes, sir. And it will take time to have Mr. Hailey examined by a psychiatrist. Then the State will of course want him examined by its doctors.”
   “I see.”
   “And we may have other pretnal matters. 11 s a oig case, and I want to make sure we have time to adequately prepare.”
   “Mr. Buckley?” said the judge.
   “Whatever. It makes no difference to the State. We’ll be ready. We could try it tomorrow.”
   Noose scribbled on his calendar and adjusted his reading glasses, which were perched on the tip of that nose and held in place by a tiny wart located perfectly at the foot of the beak. Due to the size of the nose and the odd shape of the head, specially built reading glasses with extra long stems were required for His Honor, who never used them for reading or any other purpose except in a vain effort to distract from the size and shape of the nose. Jake had always suspected this, but lacked the courage to inform His Honor that the ridiculous, orange-tinted hexagonal glasses diverted attention from everything else directly to the nose.
   “How long do you anticipate for trial, Jake?” Noose asked.
   “Three or four days. But it could take three days to pick the jury.”
   “Mr. Buckley?”
   “Sounds about right. But I don’t understand why it takes sixty days to prepare for a three-day trial. I think it should be tried sooner.”
   “Relax, Rufus,” Jake said calmly. “The cameras will be here in sixty days, even ninety days. They won’t forget about you. You can give interviews, hold press conferences, preach sermons, everything. The works. But don’t worry so much. You’ll get your chance.”
   Buckley’s eyes narrowed and his face reddened. He took three steps in Jake’s direction. “If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Brigance, you’ve given more interviews and seen more cameras than I have during the past week.”
   “I know, and you’re jealous, aren’t you?”
   “No, I’m not jealous! I don’t care about the cameras—”
   “Since when?”
   “Gentlemen, please,” Noose interrupted. “This promises to be a long, emotional case. I expect my attorneys to act like professionals. Now, my calendar is congested. The only opening I have is the week of July 22. Does that present a problem?”
   “We can try it that week,” said Musgrove.
   Jake smiled at Buckley and flipped through his pocket calendar. “Looks good to me.”
   “Fine. All motions must be filed and pretrial matters disposed of by Monday, July 8. Arraignment is set for tomorrow at nine. Any questions?”
   Jake stood and shook hands with Noose and Musgrove, and left.
   After lunch he visited his famous client in Ozzie’s office at the jail. A copy of the indictment had been served on Carl Lee in his cell. He had some questions for his lawyer.
   “What’s capital murder?”
   “The worst kind.”
   “How many kinds are there?”
   “Basically three. Manslaughter, regular murder, and capital murder.”
   “What’s manslaughter?”
   “Twenty years.”
   “What’s regular murder?”
   “Twenty to life.”
   “What’s capital murder?”
   “Gas chamber.”
   “What’s aggravated assault on an officer?”
   “Life. No parole.”
   Carl Lee studied the indictment carefully. “You mean I got two gas chambers and a life sentence.”
   “Not yet. You’re entitled to a trial first. Which, by the way, has been set for July 22.”
   “That’s two months away! Why so long?”
   “We need the time. It’ll take that long to find a psychiatrist who’ll say you were crazy. Then Buckley gets to send you to Whitfield to be examined by the State’s doctors, and they’ll all say you were not crazy at the time. We file motions, Buckley files motions, we have a bunch of hearings. It takes time.”
   “No way to have it sooner?”
   “We don’t want it sooner.”
   “What if I do?” Carl Lee snapped.
   Jake studied him carefully. “What’s the matter, Dig man?”
   “I gotta get outta here, and fast.”
   “I thought you said jail wasn’t so bad.”
   “It ain’t, but I need to get home. Gwen’s outta money, can’t find a job. Lester’s in trouble with his wife. She’s callin’ all the time, so he won’t last much longer. I hate to ask my folk for help.”
   “But they will, won’t they?”
   “Some. They got their own problems. You gotta get me outta here, Jake.”
   “Look, you’ll be arraigned in the morning at nine. The trial is July 22, and the date won’t be changed, so forget about that. Have I explained the arraignment to you?”
   Carl Lee shook his head.
   “It won’t last twenty minutes. We appear before Judge Noose in the big courtroom. He’ll ask you some questions, then ask me some questions. He’ll read the indictment to you in open court, and ask if you’ve received a copy. Then he’ll ask you to plead guilty or not guilty. When you answer not guilty, he’ll set the trial date. You’ll sit down, and me and Buckley will get into a big fight over your bond. Noose will refuse to set a bond, then they’ll bring you back to the jail, where you’ll stay until the trial.”
   “What about after the trial?”
   Jake smiled. “Naw, you won’t be in jail after the trial.”
   “You promise?”
   “Nope. No promises. Any questions about tomorrow?”
   “No. Say, Jake, uh, how much money did I pay you?”
   Jake hesitated and smelled trouble. “Why do you ask?”
   “Just thinkin’.”
   “Nine hundred, plus a note.”
   Gwen had less than a hundred dollars. Bills were due and food was low. She had visited on Sunday and cried for an hour. Panic was a part of her life, her makeup, her composition. But he knew they were broke and she was scared. Her family would be of little help, maybe some vegetables from the garden and a few bucks for milk and eggs. When it came to funerals and hospital stays they were very dependable. They were generous and gave of their time freely to wail and moan and put on a show. But when real money was needed they scattered like chickens. He had little use for her family, and his wasn’t much better.
   He wanted to ask Jake for a hundred dollars, but decided to wait until Gwen was completely broke. It would be easier then.
   Jake flipped through his legal pad and waited for Carl Lee to ask for money. Criminal clients, especially the blacks, always asked for some of the fee back after it was paid. He doubted he would ever see more than nine hundred dollars, and he was not about to return any. Besides, the blacks always took care of their own. The families would be there and the churches would get involved. No one would starve.
   He waited and placed the legal pad and file in his briefcase. “Any questions, Carl Lee?”
   “Yeah. What can I say tomorrow?”
   “What do you want to say?”
   “I wanna tell that judge why I shot them boys. They raped my daughter. They needed shootin’.”
   “And you want to explain that to the judge tomorrow?”
   “Yeah.”
   “And you think he’ll turn you loose once you explain it all?”
   Carl Lee said nothing.
   “Look, Carl Lee, you hired me to be your lawyer. And you hired me because you have confidence in me, right? And if I want you to say something tomorrow, I’ll tell you. If I don’t, you stay quiet. When you go to trial in July you’ll have the chance to tell your side. But in the meantime, I’ll do the talking.”
   “You got that right.”
   Lester and Gwen piled the boys and Tonya in the red Cadillac and drove to the doctor’s building next to the hospital. The rape was two weeks in the past. Tbnya walked with a slight limp and wanted to run and climb steps with her brothers. But her mother held her hand. The soreness in her legs and buttocks was almost gone, the bandages on her wrists and ankles had been removed by the doctor last week, and the cuts were healing nicely. The gauze and cotton between her legs remained.
   In a small room she unaressea anu sat HCAI iu n,, mother on a padded table. Her mother hugged her and helped her stay warm. The doctor poked in her mouth and rubbed her jaw. He held her wrists and ankles and inspected them. He laid her on the table and touched between her legs. She cried and clutched her mother, who leaned over her.
   She was hurting again.
   At five Wednesday morning, Jake sipped coffee in his office and stared through the French doors across the dark courtyard square. He had slept fitfully, and several hours earlier had given up and left his warm bed in a desperate effort to find a nameless Georgia case that, as he thought he remembered from law school, required the judge to allow bail in a capital murder case if the defendant had no prior criminal record, owned property in the county, had a stable job, and had plenty of relatives nearby. It had not been found. He did find a battery of recent, well-reasoned, clear, and unambiguous Mississippi cases allowing the judge complete discretion in denying bail to such defendants. That was the law and Jake now knew it well, but he needed something to argue to Ichabod. He dreaded asking bail for Carl Lee. Buckley would scream and preach and cite those wonderful cases, and Noose would smile and listen, then deny bail. Jake would get his tail kicked in the first skirmish.
   “You’re here early this morning, sweetheart,” Dell said to her favorite customer as she poured his coffee.
   “At least I’m here.” He had missed a few mornings since the amputation. Looney was popular, and there was resentment at the Coffee Shop and around town for Hailey’s lawyer. He was aware of it and tried to ignore it.
   There was resentment among many for any lawyer who would defend a nigger for killing two white men.
   “You got a minute?” Jake asked.
   “Sure,” Dell said, looking around. At five-fifteen, the cafe was not yet full. She sat across from Jake in a small booth and poured coffee.
   “What’s the talk in here?” he asked.
   “The usual. Politics, fishing, farming. It never changes. I’ve been here for twenty-one years, serving the same food to the same people, and they’re still talking about the same things.”
   “Nothing new?”
   “Hailey. We get a lotta talk about tnat. except wiicn me strangers are here, then it goes back to the usual.”
   “Why?”
   “Because if you act like you know anything about the case, some reporter will follow you outside with a bunch of questions.”
   “That bad, huh?”

   “No. It’s great. Business has never been better.”
   Jake smiled and buttered his grits, then added Tabasco.
   “How do you feel about the case?”
   Dell scratched her nose with long, red, fake fingernails and blew into her coffee. She was famous for her bluntness, and he was hoping for a straight answer.
   “He’s guilty. He killed them. It’s cut and dried. But he had the best damned excuse I’ve ever seen. There’s some sympathy for him.”
   “Let’s say you’re on the jury. Guilty or innocent?”
   She watched the front door and waved at a regular. “Well, my instinct is to forgive anyone who kills a rapist. Especially a father. But, on the other hand, we can’t allow people to grab guns and hand out their own justice. Can you prove he was crazy when he did it?”
   “Let’s assume I can.”
   “Then I would vote not guilty, even though I don’t think he was crazy.”
   He smeared strawberry preserves on dry toast and nodded his approval.
   “But what about Looney?” she asked. “He’s a friend of mine.”
   “It was an accident.”
   “Is that good enough?”
   “No. No, it’s not. The gun did not go off by accident. Looney was accidentally shot, but I doubt if that’s a valid defense. Would you convict him for shooting Looney?”, “Maybe,” she answered slowly. “He lost a leg.”
   How could he be insane when he shot Cobb and Wil-lard, and not when he shot Looney, Jake thought, but didn’t ask. He changed the subject.
   “What’s the gossip on me?”
   “About the same. Someone was asking where you were the other day, and said you don’t have time for us now that you’re a celebrity. I’ve heard some mumbling, about you and the nigger, but it’s pretty quiet. They don’t criticize you loudly. I won’t let them.”
   “You’re a sweetheart.”
   “I’m a mean bitch and you know it.”
   “No. You just try to be.”
   “Yeah, watch this.” She jumped from the booth and shouted abuse at a table of farmers who had motioned for more coffee. Jake finished alone, and returned to the office.
   When Ethel arrived at eight-thirty, two reporters were loitering on the sidewalk outside the locked door. They followed Ethel inside and demanded to see Mr. Brigance. She refused, and asked them to leave. They refused, and repeated their demand. Jake heard the commotion downstairs and locked his door. Let Ethel fight with them.
   From his office he watched a camera crew set up by the rear door of the courthouse. He smiled and felt a wonderful surge of adrenaline. He could see himself on the evening news walking briskly, stern, businesslike, across the street followed by reporters begging for dialogue but getting no comments. And this was just the arraignment. Imagine the trial! Cameras everywhere, reporters yelling questions, front page stories, perhaps magazine covers. An Atlanta paper had called it the most sensational murder in the South in twenty years. He would have taken the case for free, almost.
   Moments later he interrupted the argument downstairs, and warmly greeted the reporters. Ethel disappeared into the conference room.
   “Could you answer some questions?” one of them asked.
   “No,” Jake answered politely. “I have to meet with Judge Noose.”
   “Just a couple of questions?”
   “No. But there will be a press conference at three P. M.” Jake opened the door, and the reporters followed him onto the sidewalk.
   “Where’s the press conference?”
   “In my office.”
   “What’s the purpose?”
   “To discuss the case.”
   Jake walked slowly across the street and up the short driveway to the courthouse answering questions along me way.
   “Will Mr. Hailey be at the press conference?”
   “Yes, along with his family.”
   “The girl, too?”
   “Yes, she will be there.”
   “Will Mr. Hailey—answer questions?”
   “Maybe. I haven’t decided.”
   Jake said good day, and disappeared into the courthouse, leaving the reporters to chat and gossip about the press conference.
   Buckley entered the courthouse through the huge wooden front doors, amid no fanfare. He had hoped for a camera or two, but was dismayed to learn they were gathering at the rear door to catch a glimpse of the defendant. He would use the rear door in the future.
   Judge Noose parked by a fire hydrant in front of the post office and loped along the east sidewalk across the courtyard square and into the courthouse. He, too, attracted no attention, except for a few curious stares.
   Ozzie peered through the front windows of the jail and watched the mob waiting for Carl Lee in the parking lot. The ploy of another end run crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. His office had received two dozen death threats on Carl Lee, and Ozzie took a few seriously. They were specific, with dates and places. But most were just general, everyday death threats. And this was just the arraignment. He thought of the trial, and mumbled something to Moss Junior. They surrounded Carl Lee with uniformed bodies and marched him down the sidewalk, past the press and into a rented step van. Six deputies and a driver piled in. Escorted by Ozzie’s three newest patrol cars, the van drove quickly to the courthouse.
   Noose had scheduled a dozen arraignments for 9:00 A. M., and when he settled into the chair on the bench he shifted through the files until he found Hailey’s. He looked to the front row in the courtroom and saw a somber group of suspicious-looking men, all newly indicted. At the far end of the front row, two deputies sat next to a handcuffed defendant, and Brigance was whispering to him. Must be Hailey.
   Noose picked up a red court file and adjusted his read—ing glasses so they would not hinder his reading. “State versus Carl Lee Hailey, case number 3889. Will Mr. Hailey come forward?”
   The handcuffs were removed, and Carl Lee followed his attorney to the bench, where they stood looking up to His Honor, who quietly and nervously scanned the indictment in the file. The courtroom grew silent. Buckley rose and strutted slowly to within a few feet of the defendant. The artists near the railing busily sketched the scene.
   Jake glared at Buckley, who had no reason to stand before the bench during the arraignment. The D. A. was dressed in his finest black three-piece polyester suit. Every hair on his huge head had been meticulously combed and plastered in place. He had the appearance of a television evangelist.
   Jake walked to Buckley and whispered, “That’s a nice suit, Rufus.”
   “Thanks,” he replied, somewhat off-guard.
   “Does it glow in the dark?” Jake asked, then returned to the side of his client.
   “Are you Carl Lee Hailey?” asked the judge.
   “Yes.”
   “Mr. Brigance your attorney?”
   “Yes.”
   “I’m holding here a copy of an indictment returned against you by the grand jury. Have you been served a copy of this?”
   “Yes.”
   “Have you read it?”
   “Yes.”
   “Have you discussed it with your attorney?”
   “Yes.”
   “Do you understand it?”
   “Yes.”
   “Good. I’m required by law to read it to you in open court.” Noose cleared his throat. “ ‘The grand jurors of the State of Mississippi, taken from the body of good and lawful citizens of Ford County thereof, duly elected, empaneled, sworn, and charged to inquire in and for said county and state aforesaid, in the name and under the authority of the State of Mississippi, upon their oaths present that Carl Lee Hailey, late of the county and state aloresaia, wimm me jurisdiction of this court, did unlawfully, willfully, and feloniously and intentionally and with malice aforethought, kill and murder Billy Ray Cobb, a human being, and Pete Wil-lard, a human being, and did shoot and attempt to kill DeWayne Looney, a peace officer, in direct violation of the Mississippi Code, and against the peace and dignity of the State of Mississippi. A true bill. Signed, Laverne Gossett, foreman of the grand jury.”
   Noose caught his breath. “Do you understand the charges against you?”
   “Yes.”
   “Do you understand that if convicted you could be put to death in the gas chamber at the state penitentiary at Parchman?”
   “Yes.”
   “Do you wish to plead guilty or not guilty?”
   “Not guilty.”
   Noose reviewed his calendar as the audience watched intently. The reporters took notes. The artists focused-on the principals, including Buckley, who had managed to enter the picture and stand sideways, allowing for a profile shot. He was anxious to say something. He scowled contemptuously at the rear of Carl Lee’s head, as if he could not wait to fry this murderer. He swaggered to the table where Musgrove was sitting and the two whispered importantly. He marched across the courtroom and engaged in hushed conversation with one of the clerks. Then he returned to the bench where the defendant stood motionless next to his attorney, who was aware of Buckley’s show and was trying desperately to ignore it.
   “Mr. Hailey,” Noose squeaked, “your trial is set for Monday, July 22. All pretrial motions and matters must be filed by June 24, and disposed of by July 8.”
   Carl Lee and Jake nodded.
   “Anything further?”
   “Yes, Your Honor,” Buckley boomed loud enough for the reporters in the rotunda. “The State opposes any request for bail by this defendant.”
   Jake gripped his fists and wanted to scream. “Your Honor, the defendant has not yet asked for bail. Mr. Buck—ley, as usual, is confused about the procedure. He cannot oppose a request until it is made. He should’ve learned that in law school.”
   Buckley was stung, but continued. “Your Honor, Mr. Brigance always requests bail, and I’m sure he’ll request it today. The State will oppose any such request.”
   “Well, why don’t you wait until he makes his request?” Noose asked the D. A. with a touch of irritation.
   “Very well,” Buckley said. His face had reddened and he glared at Jake.
   “Do you plan to request bail?” Noose asked.
   “I had planned to at the proper time, but before I got a chance Mr. Buckley intervened with his theatrics—”
   “Never mind Mr. Buckley,” Noose interrupted.
   “I know, Judge, he’s just confused.”
   “Bail, Mr. Brigance?”
   “Yes, I had planned to request it.”
   “I thought so, and I’ve already considered whether bail should be allowed in this case. As you know, it is completely within my discretion, and I never allow bail in a capital murder case. I don’t feel as though an exception is in order in this case.”
   “You mean you’ve decided to deny bail?”
   “Yes.” ‘ Jake shrugged his shoulders and laid a file on the table. “Good enough.”
   “Anything further?” Noose asked.
   “No, Your Honor,” Jake said.
   Buckley shook his head in silence.

   “Good. Mr. Hailey, you are hereby ordered to remain in the custody of the Ford County sheriff until trial. You are dismissed.”
   Carl Lee returned to the front row, where a deputy waited with the handcuffs. Jake opened his briefcase, and was stuffing it with files and papers when Buckley grabbed his arm.
   “That was a cheap shot, Brigance,” he said through clenched teeth.
   “You asked for it,” Jake replied. “Let go of my arm.”
   Buckley released his arm. “I don’t appreciate it.”
   “Too bad, big man. You shouldn’t talk so mucn. Big mouths get burned.”
   Buckley had three inches and fifty pounds on Jake, and his irritation was growing. The exchange had drawn attention, and a deputy moved between them. Jake winked at Buckley and left the courtroom.
   At two the Hailey clan, led by Uncle Lester, entered Jake’s office through the rear door. Jake met them in a small office next to the conference room downstairs. They talked about the press conference. Twenty minutes later, Ozzie and Carl Lee strolled nonchalantly through the rear door, and Jake led them to the office, where Carl Lee was reunited with his family. Ozzie and Jake left the room.
   The press conference was carefully orchestrated by Jake, who marveled at his ability to manipulate the press and its willingness to be manipulated. On one side of the long conference table he sat with the three Hailey boys standing behind him. Gwen was seated to his left, Carl Lee to his right holding Tonya.
   Legal etiquette forbade revealing the identity of a child rape victim, but Tonya was different. Her name, face, and age were well known because of her daddy. She had already been exposed to the world, and Jake wanted her to be seen and photographed in her best white Sunday dress sitting on her daddy’s knee. The jurors, whoever they were and wherever they lived, would be watching.
   Reporters crammed into the room, which overflowed and trailed down the hall to the reception area, where Ethel rudely ordered them to sit and leave her alone. A deputy guarded the front door, and two others sat on the rear steps. Sheriff Walls and Lester stood awkwardly behind the Haileys and their lawyer. Microphones were clustered on the table in front of Jake, and the cameras clicked and flashed under the warm television lights.
   “I have a few prefatory remarks,” Jake began. “First, all questions will be answered by me. No questions are to be directed to Mr. Hailey or any member of his family. If he is asked a question, I will instruct him not to answer. Second, I would like to introduce his family. To my left is his wife, Gwen Hailey. Standing behind us are his sons, Carl Lee, Jr., Jarvis, and Robert. Behind the boys is Mr. Hailey’s brother, Lester Hailey.”
   Jake paused and smiled at Tonya. “Sitting in her daddy’s lap is Tonya Hailey. Now I’ll answer questions.”
   “What happened in court this morning?”
   “Mr. Hailey was arraigned, he pled not guilty, and his trial was set for July 22.”
   “Was there an altercation between you and the district attorney?”
   “Yes. After the arraignment, Mr. Buckley approached me, grabbed my arm, and looked as if he planned to assault me when a deputy intervened.”
   “What caused it?”
   “Mr. Buckley has a tendency to crack under pressure.”
   “Are you and Mr. Buckley friends?”
   “No.”
   “Will the trial be in Clanton?”
   “A motion to change venue will be filed by the defense. The location of the trial will be determined by Judge Noose. No predictions.”
   “Could you describe what this has done to the Hailey family?”
   Jake thought a minute while the cameras rolled. He glanced at Carl Lee and Tonya. “You’re looking at a very nice family. Two weeks ago life was good and simple. There was a job at the paper mill, a little money in the bank, security, stability, church every Sunday together, a loving family. Then, for reasons known only to God, two drunk, drugged punks committed a horrible, violent act against this little ten-year-old girl. They shocked us, and made us all feel sick. They ruined her life, and the lives of her parents and family. It was too much for her father. He snapped. He broke. Now he’s in jail facing trial and the prospect of the gas chamber. The job is gone. The money is gone. The innocence is gone. The children face the possibility of growing up without their father. Their mother must now find a job to support them, and she’ll have to beg and borrow from friends and relatives in order to survive.
   “To answer your question, sir, the family has been devastated and destroyed.”
   Gwen began crying quietly, and Jake handed ner a handkerchief.
   “Are you hinting at a defense of insanity?”
   “Yes.”
   “Will there in fact be a plea of insanity?”
   “Yes.”
   “Can you prove it?”
   “That will be left for the jury. We will provide them experts in the field of psychiatry.”
   “Have you already consulted with these experts?”
   “Yes,” lied Jake.
   “Could you give us their names?”
   “No, that would be inappropriate at this point.”
   “We’ve heard rumors of death threats against Mr. Hai-ley. Could you confirm?”
   “There continue to be threats against Mr. Hailey, his family, my family, the sheriff, the judge, just about everyone involved. I don’t know how serious they are.”
   Carl Lee patted Tonya on the leg and looked blankly at the table. He looked scared, pitiful, and in need of sympathy. His boys looked scared too, but, according to strict orders, they stood at attention, afraid to move. Carl Lee, Jr., the oldest at fifteen, stood behind Jake. Jarvis, the middle son at thirteen, stood behind his daddy. And Robert, age eleven, stood behind his mother. They wore identical navy suits with white shirts and little red bow ties. Robert’s” suit was once Carl Lee, Jr. ‘s, then Jarvis’s, and now his, and it looked a bit more worn than the other two. But it was clean, neatly pressed, and perfectly cuffed. The boys looked sharp. How could any juror vote to force these children to live without their father?
   The press conference was a hit. Segments of it ran on the networks and local stations, both on the evening and late news. The Thursday papers ran front page pictures of the Haileys and their lawyer.
   The Swede had called several times during the two weeks her husband had been in Mississippi. She didn’t trust him down there. There were old girlfriends he had confessed to. Each time she called, Lester was not around, and Gwen lied and explained that he was fishing or cutting pulpwood so they could buy groceries. Gwen was tired of lying, and Lester was tired of carousing, and they were tired of each other. When the phone rang before dawn Friday morning, Lester answered it. It was the Swede.
   Two hours later the red Cadillac was parked at the jail. Moss Junior led Lester into Carl Lee’s cell. The brothers whispered above the sleep of the inmates.
   “Gotta go home,” Lester mumbled, somewhat ashamed, somewhat timid.
   “Why?” Carl Lee asked as if he had been expecting it.
   “My wife called this mornin’. I gotta be at work tomorrow or I’m fired.”
   Carl Lee nodded approvingly.
   “I’m sorry, bubba. I feel bad about goin’, but I ain’t got no choice.”
   “I understand. When you comin’ back?”
   “When you want me back?”
   “For the trial. It’ll be real hard on Gwen and the kids. Can you be back then?”
   “You know I’ll be here. I got some vacation time and all. I’ll be here.”
   They sat on the edge of Carl Lee’s bunk and watched each other in silence. The cell was dark and quiet. The two bunks opposite Carl Lee’s were empty.
   “Man, I forgot how bad this place is,” Lester said.
   “I just hope I ain’t here much longer.”
   They stood and embraced, and Lester called for Moss Junior to open the cell. “I’m proud of you, bubba,” he said to his older brother, then left for Chicago.
   \-*aii j-jcc a acwvjiiu VIMIXU ui me illuming wao ilia aliuilicy, who met him in Ozzie’s office. Jake was red eyed and irritable.
   “Carl Lee, I talked to two psychiatrists in Memphis yesterday. Do you know what the minimum fee is to evaluate you for trial purposes? Do you?”
   “Am I supposed to know?” asked Carl Lee.
   “One thousand dollars,” Jake shouted. “One thousand dollars. Where can you find a thousand dollars?”
   “I gave you all the money I got. I even offered—”
   “I don’t want the deed to your land. Why? Because nobody wants to buy it, and if you can’t sell it, it’s no good. We’ve got to have cash, Carl Lee. Not for me, but for the psychiatrists.”
   “Why?”
   “Why!” Jake repeated in disbelief. “Why? Because I’d like to keep you away from the gas chamber, and it’s only a hundred miles from here. It’s not that far. And to do that, we’ve got to convince the jury that you were insane when you shot those boys. I can’t tell them you were crazy. You can’t tell them you were crazy. It takes a psychiatrist. An expert. A doctor. And they don’t work for free. Understand?”
   Carl Lee leaned on his knees and watched a spider crawl across the dusty carpet. After twelve days in jail and two court appearances, he had had enough of the criminal justice system. He thought of the hours and minutes before the killings. What was he thinking? Sure the boys had to die. He had no regrets. But did he contemplate jail, or poverty, or lawyers, or psychiatrists? Maybe, but only in passing. Those unpleasantries were only by-products to be encountered and endured temporarily before he was set free. After the deed, the system would process him, vindicate him, and send him home to his family. It would be easy, just as Les-ter’s episode had been virtually painless.
   But the system was not working now. It was conspiring to keep him in jail, to break him, to make orphans of his children. It seemed determined to punish him for performing an act he considered unavoidable. And now, his only ally was making demands he could not meet. His lawyer asked the impossible. His friend Jake was angry and yelling.
   “Get it,” Jake shouted as he headed for the door. “Get it from your brothers and sisters, from Gwen’s family, get it from your friends, get it from your church. But get it. And as soon as possible.”
   Jake slammed the door and marched out of the jail.
   Carl Lee’s third visitor of the morning arrived before noon in a long black limousine with a chauffeur and Tennessee plates. It maneuvered through the small parking lot and came to rest straddling three spaces. A large black bodyguard emerged-from behind the wheel and opened the door to release his boss. They strutted up the sidewalk and into the jail.
   The secretary stopped typing and smiled suspiciously. “Good mornin’.”
   “Mornin’,” said the smaller one, the one with the patch. “My name is Cat Bruster, and I’d like to see Sheriff Walls.”
   “May I ask what for?”
   “Yes ma’am. It’s regardin’ a Mr. Hailey, a resident of your fine facility.”
   The sheriff heard his name mentioned, and appeared from his office to greet this infamous visitor. “Mr. Bruster, I’m Ozzie Walls.” They shook hands. The bodyguard did not move.
   “Nice to meet you, Sheriff. I’m Cat Bruster, from Memphis.”
   “Yes. I know who you are. Seen you in the news. What brings you to Ford County?”
   “Well, I gotta buddy in bad trouble. Carl Lee Hailey, and I’m here to help.”
   “Okay. Who’s he?” Ozzie asked, looking up at the bodyguard. Ozzie was six feet four, and at least five inches shorter than the bodyguard. He weighed at least three hundred pounds, most of it in his arms.
   “This here is Tiny Tom,” Cat explained. “We just call him Tiny for short.”
   “I see.”
   “He’s sort of like a bodyguard.” [ “He’s not carryin’ a gun, is he?”
   “Naw, Sheriff, he don’t need a gun.”
   rair enougn. wny aon t you and liny step into my office?”
   In the office, Tiny closed the door and stood by it while his boss took a seat across from the sheriff.
   “He can sit if he wants to,” Ozzie explained to Cat.
   “Naw, Sheriff, he always stands by the door. That’s the way he’s been trained.”
   “Sorta like a police dog?”
   “Right.”
   “Fine. What’d you wanna talk about?”
   Cat crossed his legs and laid a diamond-clustered hand on his knee. “Well, Sheriff, me and Carl Lee go way back. Fought together in ‘Nam. We was pinned down near Da Nang, summer of ‘71. I got hit in the head, and, bam!, two seconds later he got hit in the leg. Our squad disappeared, and the gooks was usin’ us for target practice. Carl Lee limped to where Fs layin’, put me on his shoulders, and ran through the gunfire to a ditch next to a trail. I hung on his back while he crawled two miles. Saved my life. He got a medal for it. You know that?”

   “No.”
   “It’s true. We laid next to each other in a hospital in Saigon for two months, then got our black asses outta Vietnam. Don’t plan to go back.”
   Ozzie was listening intently.
   “And now that my man is in trouble, I’d like to help.”
   “Did he get the M-16 from you?”
   Tiny grunted and Cat smiled. “Of course not.”
   “Would you like to see him?”
   “Why sure. It’s that easy?”
   “Yep. If you can move Tiny away from that door, I’ll get him.”
   Tiny stepped aside, and two minutes later Ozzie was back with the prisoner. Cat yelled at him, hugged him, and they patted each other like boxers. Carl Lee looked awkwardly at Ozzie, who took the hint and left. Tiny again closed the door and stood guard. Carl Lee moved two chairs together so they could face each other closely and talk.
   Cat spoke first. “I’m proud of you, big man, for what you did. Real proud. Why didn’t you tell me that’s why you wanted the gun?”
   “Just didn’t.”
   “How was it?”
   “Just like ‘Nam, except they couldn’t shoot back.”
   “That’s the best way.”
   “Yeah, I guess. I just wish none of this had to happen.”
   “You ain’t sorry, are you?”
   Carl Lee rocked in his chair and studied the ceiling. “I’d do it over, so I got no regrets about that. I just wish they hadn’t messed with my little girl. I wish she was the same. I wish none of it ever happened.”
   “Right, right. It’s gotta be tough on you here.”
   “I ain’t worried ‘bout me. I’m real concerned with my family.”
   “Right, right. How’s the wife?”
   “She’s okay. She’ll make it.”
   “I saw in the paper where the trial’s in July. You been in the paper more than me here lately.”
   “Yeah, Cat. But you always get off. I ain’t so sure ‘bout me.”
   “You gotta good lawyer, don’t you?”
   “Yeah. He’s good.”
   Cat stood and walked around the office, admiring Oz-zie’s trophies and certificates. “That’s the main reason I came to see you, my man.”
   “What’s that?” Carl Lee asked, unsure of what his friend had in mind, but certain his visit had a purpose.
   “Carl Lee, you know how many times I been on trial?”
   “Seems like all the time.”
   “Five! Five times they put me on trial. The federal boys. The state boys. The city boys. Dope, gamblin’, bribery, guns, racketeerin’, whores. You name it, and they’ve tried me for it. And you know somethin’, Carl Lee, I’ve been guilty of it all. Evertime I’ve gone to trial, I’ve been guilty as hell. You know how many times I been convicted?”
   “No.”
   “None! Not once have they got me. Five trials, five not guilties.”
   Carl Lee smiled with admiration.
   “You know why they can’t convict me?”
   Carl Lee had an idea, but he shook his head anyway.
   “Because, Carl Lee, I got the smartest, meanest, v”]-n]n. utai illinium lawyer in inese pans,. tie cneats, ne plays dirty, and the cops hate him. But I’m sittin’ here instead of some prison. He’ll do whatever it takes to win a case.”
   “Who is he?” Carl Lee asked eagerly.
   “You’ve seen him on television walkin’ in and outta court. He’s in the papers all the time. Evertime some big-shot crook gets in trouble, he’s there. He gets the drug dealers, the politicians, me, all the big-time thugs.”
   “What’s his name?”
   “He handles nothin’ but criminal cases, mainly dope, bribery, extortion, stuff like that. But you know what his favorite is?”
   “What?”
   “Murder. He loves murder cases. Ain’t never lost one. Gets all the big ones in Memphis. Remember when they caught those two niggers throwin’ a dude off the bridge into the Mississippi. Caught them redhanded. ‘Bout five years ago?”
   “Yeah, I remember.”
   “Had a big trial for two weeks, and they got off. He was the man. Walked them outta there. Not guilty.”
   “I think I remember seein’ him on TV.”
   “Sure you did. He’s a bad dude, Carl Lee. I’m tellin’ you the man never loses.”
   “What’s his name?”
   Cat landed in his chair and stared solemnly into Carl Lee’s face. “Bo Marsharfsky,” he said.
   Carl Lee gazed upward as if he remembered the name. “So what?”
   Cat laid five fingers with eight carats on Carl Lee’s knee. “So he wants to help you, my man.”
   “I already got one lawyer I can’t pay. How I’m gonna pay another?”
   “You ain’t gotta pay, Carl Lee. That’s where I come in. He’s on my retainer all the time. I own him. Paid the guy ‘bout a hundred thousand last year just to keep me outta trouble. You don’t pay.”
   Suddenly, Carl Lee had a keen interest in Bo Marsharfsky. “How does he know ‘bout me?”
   “Because he reads the paper and watches the tube. You know how lawyers are. I was in his office yesterday and he was studyin’ the paper with your picture on the front. I told him ‘bout me and you. He went crazy. Said he had to have your case. I said I would help.”
   “And that’s why you’re here?”
   “Right, right. He said he knew just the folks to get you off.”
   “Like who?”
   “Doctors, psychiatrists, folks like that. He knows them all.”
   “They cost money.”
   “I’ll pay for it, Carl Lee! Listen to me! I’ll pay for it all. You’ll have the best lawyer and doctors money can buy, and your old pal Cat will pay the tab. Don’t worry ‘bout money!”
   “But I gotta good lawyer.”
   “How old is he?”
   “I guess ‘bout thirty.”
   Cat rolled his eyes in amazement. “He’s a child, Carl Lee. He ain’t been outta school long enough. Marsharfsky’s fifty, and he’s handled more murder cases than your boy’ll ever see. This is your life, Carl Lee. Don’t trust it to no rookie.”
   Suddenly, Jake was awful young. But then there was Lester’s trial when Jake had been even younger.
   “Look, Carl Lee, I been in many trials, and that crap is complicated and technical. One mistake and your ass is gone. If this kid misses one trick, it might be the difference between life and death. You can’t afford to have no young kid in there hopin’ he don’t mess up. One mistake,” Cat snapped his fingers for special effect, “and you’re in the gas chamber. Marsharfsky don’t make mistakes.”
   Carl Lee was on the ropes. “Would he work with my lawyer?” he asked, seeking compromise.
   “No! No way. He don’t work with nobody. He don’t need no help. Your boy’d be in the way.”
   Carl Lee placed his elbows on his knees and stared at his feet. A thousand bucks for a doctor would be impossible. He did not understand the need for one since he had not felt insane at the time, but evidently one would be necessary. Everyone seemed to think so. A thousand bucks for a cheap doctor. Cat was offering the best money could buy.
   i naic 10 uo mis 10 my lawyer, ne muttered quietly.
   “Don’t be stupid, man,” Cat scolded. “You better be lookin’ out for Carl Lee and to hell with this child. This ain’t no time to worry ‘bout hurtin’ feelin’s. He’s a lawyer, forget him. He’ll get over it.”
   “But I already paid him—”
   “How much?” Cat demanded, snapping his fingers at Tiny.
   “Nine hundred bucks.”
   Tiny produced a wad of cash, and Cat peeled off nine one-hundred-dollar bills and stuffed them in Carl Lee’s shirt pocket. “Here’s somethin’ for the kids,” he said as he unraveled a one-thousand-dollar bill and stuffed it with the rest.
   Carl Lee’s pulse jumped as he thought of the cash covering his heart. He felt it move in the pocket and press gently against his chest. He wanted to look at the big bill and hold it firmly in his hand. Food, he thought, food for his kids.
   “We gotta deal?” Cat asked with a smile.
   “You want me to fire my lawyer and hire yours?” he asked carefully.
   “Right, right.”
   “And you gonna pay for everthing?”
   “Right, right.”
   “What about this money?”
   “It’s yours. Lemme know if you need more.”
   “Mighty nice of you, Cat.”
   “I’m a very nice man. I’m helpin’ two friends. One saved my life many years ago, and the other saves my ass ever two years.”
   “Why does he want my case so bad?”
   “Publicity. You know how lawyers are. Look at how much press this kid’s already made off you. It’s a lawyer’s dream. We gotta deal?”
   “Yeah. It’s a deal.”
   Cat struck him on the shoulder with an affectionate blow, and walked to the phone on Ozzie’s desk. He punched the numbers. “Collect to 901–566–9800. From Cat Bruster. Person to person to Bo Marsharfsky.”
   On the twentieth floor in a downtown office building, Bo Marsharfsky hung up the phone and asked his secretary if the press release was prepared. She handed it to him, and he read it carefully.
   “This looks fine,” he said. “Get it to both newspapers immediately. Tell them to use the file photograph, the new one. See Frank Fields at the Post. Tell him I want it on the front page in the morning. He owes me a favor.”
   “Yes, sir. What about the TV stations?” she asked.
   “Deliver them a copy. I can’t talk now, but I’ll hold a news conference in Clanton next week.”
   Lucien called at six-thirty Saturday morning. Carla was buried deep under the blankets and did not respond to the phone. Jake rolled toward the wall and grappled with the lamp until he found the receiver. “Hello,” he managed weakly.
   “What’re you doing?” Lucien asked.
   “I was sleeping until the phone rang.”
   “You seen the paper?”
   “What time is it?”
   “Go get the paper and call me after you read it.”
   The phone was dead. Jake stared at the receiver, then placed it on the table. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed the fog from his eyes, and tried to remember the last time Lucien called his house. It must be important.
   He made the coffee, turned out the dog, and walked quickly in his gym shorts and sweatshirt to the edge of the street where the three morning papers had fallen within ten inches of each other. He rolled the rubber bands off onto the kitchen table and spread the papers next to his coffee. Nothing in the Jackson paper. Nothing from Tupelo. The Memphis Post carried a headline of death in the Middle East, and, then, he saw it. On the bottom half of the front page he saw himself, and under his picture was the caption: “Jake Brigance-Out.” Next was a picture of Carl Lee, and then a splendid picture of a face he had seen before. Under it, the words: “Bo Marsharfsky-In.” The headline announced that the noted Memphis criminal attorney had been hired to represent the “vigilante killer.”
   aureiy n was a mistake. He had seen Carl Lee only yesterday. He read the story slowly. There were few details, just a history of Mar-sharfsky’s greatest verdicts. He promised a news conference in Clanton. He said the case would present new challenges, etc. He had faith in the jurors of Ford County.
   Jake slipped silently into starched khakis and a button-down. His wife was still lost somewhere deep in the bed. He would tell her later. He took the paper and drove to the office. The Coffee Shop would not be safe. At Ethel’s desk he read the story again and stared at his picture on the front page.
   Lucien had a few words of comfort. He knew Marsharf-sky, or “The Shark,” as he was known. He was a sleazy crook with polish and finesse. Lucien admired him.
   Moss Junior led Carl Lee into Ozzie’s office, where Jake waited with a newspaper. The deputy quickly left and closed the door. Carl Lee sat on the small black vinyl couch.
   Jake threw the newspaper at him. “Have you seen this?” he demanded.
   Carl Lee glared at him and ignored the paper.
   “Why, Carl Lee?”
   “I don’t have to explain, Jake.”
   “Yes, you do. You didn’t have the guts to call me like a man and tell me. You let me read it in the paper. I demand an explanation.”
   “You wanted too much money, Jake. You’re always gripin’ over the money. Here I am sittin’ in jail and you’re bitchin’ ‘bout somethin’ I can’t help.”
   “Money. You can’t afford to pay me. How can you afford Marsharfsky?”
   “I ain’t gotta pay him.”
   “What!”
   “You heard me. I ain’t payin’ him.”
   “I guess he works for free.”
   “Nope. Somebody else is payin’.”
   “Who!” Jake shouted.
   “I ain’t tellin’. It ain’t none of your business, Jake.”
   “You’ve hired the biggest criminal lawyer in Memphis, and someone else is payin’ his bill?”
   “Yep.”
   The NAACP, thought Jake. No, they wouldn’t hire Marsharfsky. They’ve got their own lawyers. Besides,xhe was too expensive for them. Who else?
   Carl Lee took the newspaper and folded it neatly. He was ashamed, and felt bad, but the decision had been made. He had asked Ozzie to call Jake and convey the news, but the sheriff wanted no part of it. He should have called, but he was not going to apologize. He studied his picture on the front page. He liked the part about the vigilante business.
   “And you’re not going to tell me who?” Jake said, somewhat quieter.
   “Naw, Jake. I ain’t tellin’.”
   “Did you discuss it with Lester?”
   The glare returned to his eyes. “Nope. He ain’t on trial, and it ain’t none of his business.”
   “Where is he?”

   “Chicago. Left yesterday. And don’t you go call him. I’ve made up my mind, Jake.”
   We’ll see, Jake said to himself. Lester would find out shortly.
   Jake opened the door. “That’s it. I’m fired. Just like that.”
   Carl Lee stared at his picture and said nothing.
   Carla was eating breakfast and waiting. A reporter from Jackson had called looking for Jake, and had told her about Marsharfsky.
   There were no words, just motions. He filled a cup with coffee and went to the back porch. He sipped from the steaming cup and surveyed the unkempt hedges that lined the boundary of his long and narrow backyard. A brilliant sun baked the rich green Bermuda and dried the dew, creating a sticky haze that drifted upward and hung to his shirt. The hedges and grass were waiting on their weekly grooming. He kicked off his loafers-no socks-and walked through the soggy turf to inspect a broken birdbath near a scrawny crepe myrtle, the only tree of any significance.
   UC11111U Him.
   He took her hand and smiled. “You okay?” she asked.
   “Yeah, I’m fine.”
   “Did you talk to him?”
   “Yes.”
   “What did he say?”
   He shook his head and said nothing.
   “I’m sorry, Jake.”
   He nodded and stared at the birdbath.
   “There will be other cases,” she said without confidence.
   “I know.” He thought of Buckley, and could hear the laughter. He thought of the guys at the Coffee Shop, and vowed not to return. He thought of the cameras and reporters, and a dull pain moved through his stomach. He thought of Lester, his only hope of retrieving the case.
   “Would you like some breakfast?” she asked.
   “No. I’m not hungry. Thanks.”
   “Look on the bright side,” she said. “We won’t be afraid to answer the phone.”
   “I think I’ll cut the grass,” he said.
   The Council of Ministers was a group of black preachers that had been formed to coordinate political activities in the black communities of Ford County. It met infrequently during the off years, but during election years it met weekly, on Sunday afternoons, to interview candidates and discuss issues, and, more importantly, to determine the benevolence of each office seeker. Deals were cut, strategies developed, money exchanged. The council had proven it could deliver the black vote. Gifts and offerings to black churches rose dramatically during elections.
   The Reverend Ollie Agee called a special meeting of the council for Sunday afternoon at his church. He wrapped up his sermon early, and by 4:00 P. M. his flock had scattered when the Cadillacs and Lincolns began filling his parking lot. The meetings were secret, with only ministers who were council members invited. There were twenty-three black churches in Ford County, and twenty-two members were present when Reverend Agee called the meeting to order. The meeting would be brief, since some of the ministers, especially from the Church of Christ, would begin their evening services shortly.
   The purpose of the meeting, he explained, was to organize moral, political, and financial support of Carl Lee Hai-ley, a member in good standing of his church. A legal defense fund must be established to assure the best legal representation. Another fund must be established to provide support for his family. He, Reverend Agee, would chair the fund-raising efforts, with each minister responsible for his own congregation, as usual. A special offering would be taken during the morning and evening services, starting next Sunday. Agee would use his discretion in disbursing the money to the family. Half of the proceeds would go to the defense fund. Time was important. The trial was next month. The money had to be raised quickly while the issue was hot, and the people were in a giving mood.
   cuuncn unanimously agreed witn Keverend Agee. He continued.
   The NAACP must become active in the Hailey case. He would not be on trial if he was white. Not in Ford County. He was on trial only because he was black, and this must be addressed by the NAACP. The national director had been called. The Memphis and Jackson chapters had promised help. Press conferences would be held. Demonstrations and marches would be important. Maybe boycotts of white-owned businesses-that was a popular tactic at the moment, and it worked with amazing results.
   This must be done immediately, while the people were willing and in a giving mood. The ministers unanimously agreed and left for their evening services.
   In part due to fatigue, and in part due to embarrassment, Jake slept through church. Carla fixed pancakes, and they enjoyed a long breakfast with Hanna on the patio. He ignored the Sunday papers after he found, on the front page of the second section of The Memphis Post, a full-page spread on Marsharfsky and his famous new client. The story was complete with pictures and quotes from the great lawyer. The Hailey case presented his biggest challenge, he said. Serious legal and social issues would be addressed. A novel defense would be employed, he promised. He had not lost a murder case in twelve years, he boasted. It would be difficult, but he had confidence in the wisdom and fairness of Mississippi jurors.
   Jake read the article without comment and laid the paper in the trash can.
   Carla suggested a picnic, and although he needed to work he knew better than to mention it. They loaded the Saab with food and toys and drove to the lake. The brown, muddy waters of Lake Chatulla had crested for the year, and within days would begin their slow withdrawal to the center. The high water attracted a flotilla of skiboats, bass rigs, catamarans, and dinghies.
   Carla threw two heavy quilts under an oak on the side of a hill while Jake unloaded the food and doll house. Hanna arranged her large family with pets and automobiles on one quilt and began giving orders and setting up house. Her parents listened and smiled. Her birth had been a harrowing, gut-wrenching nightmare, two and a half months premature and shrouded with conflicting symptoms and prognoses. For eleven days Jake sat by the incubator in ICU and watched the tiny, purple, scrawny, beautiful three-pound body cling to life while an army of doctors and nurses studied the monitors and adjusted tubes and needles, and shook their heads. When he was alone he touched the incubator and wiped tears from his cheeks. He prayed as he had never prayed. He slept in a rocking chair near his daughter and dreamed of a beautiful blue-eyed, dark-haired little girl playing with dolls and sleeping on his shoulder. He could hear her voice.
   After a month the nurses smiled and the doctors relented. The tubes were removed one at a time each day for a week. Her weight ballooned to a hearty four and a half pounds, and the proud parents took her home. The doctors suggested no more children, unless adopted.
   She was perfect now, and the sound of her voice could still bring tears to his eyes. They ate and chuckled as Hanna lectured her dolls on proper hygiene.
   “This is the first time you’ve relaxed in two weeks,” Carla said as they lay on their quilt. Wildly colored catamarans crisscrossed the lake below dodging a hundred roaring boats pulling half-drunken skiers.
   “We went to church last Sunday,” he replied.
   “And all you thought about was the trial.”
   “Still thinking about it.”
   “It’s over, isn’t it?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “Will he change his mind?”
   ‘ “He might, if Lester talks to him. It’s hard to say. Blacks are so unpredictable, especially when they’re in trouble. He’s got a good deal, really. He’s got the best criminal lawyer in Memphis, and he’s free.”
   “Who’s paying the bill?”
   “An old friend of Carl Lee’s from Memphis, a guy by the name of Cat Bruster.”
   “Who’s he?”
   f\. very ncn pimp, dope pusher, thug, thief. Marsharf-sky’s his lawyer. A couple of crooks.”
   “Did Carl Lee tell you this?”
   “No. He wouldn’t tell me, so I asked Ozzie.”
   “Does Lester know?”
   “Not yet.”
   “What do you mean by that? You’re not going to call him, are you?”
   “Well, yes, I had planned to.”
   “That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?”
   “I don’t think so. Lester has a right to know, and—”
   “Then Carl Lee should tell him.”
   “He should, but he won’t. He’s made a mistake, and he does not realize it.”
   “But it’s his problem, not yours. At least not anymore.”
   “Carl Lee’s too embarrassed to tell Lester. He knows Lester will cuss him and tell him he’s made another mistake.”
   “So it’s up to you to intervene in their family affairs.”
   “No. But I think Lester should know.”
   “I’m sure he’ll see it in the papers.”
   “Maybe not,” Jake said without any conviction. “I think Hanna needs some more orange juice.”
   “I think you want to change the subject.”
   “The subject doesn’t bother me. I want the case, and I intend to get it back. Lester’s the only person who can retrieve it.”
   Her eyes narrowed and he could feel them. He watched a bass rig drift into a mud bar on the near shore.
   “Jake, that’s unethical, and you know it.” Her voice was calm, yet controlled and firm. The words were slow and scornful.
   “That’s not true, Carla. I’m a very ethical attorney.”
   “You’ve always preached ethics. But at this moment you’re scheming to solicit the case. That’s wrong, Jake.”
   “Retrieve, not solicit.”
   “What’s the difference?”
   “Soliciting is unethical. I’ve never seen a prohibition against retrieving.”
   “It’s not right, Jake. Carl Lee’s hired another lawyer and it’s time for you to forget it.”
   “And I suppose you think Marsharfsky reads ethics opinions. How do you think he got the case? He’s been hired by a man who’s never heard of him. He chased the case, and he’s got it.”
   “So that makes it okay if you chase it now?”
   “Retrieve, not chase.”
   Hanna demanded cookies, and Carla searched through the picnic basket. Jake reclined on an elbow and ignored them both. He thought of Lucien. What would he do in this situation? Probably rent a plane, fly to Chicago, get Lester, slip him some money, bring him home, and convince him to browbeat Carl Lee. He would assure Lester that Marsharfsky could not practice in Mississippi, and since he was a foreigner, the rednecks on the jury wouldn’t believe him anyway. He would call Marsharfsky and curse him for chasing cases and threaten him with an ethics complaint the minute he stepped into Mississippi. He would get his black cronies to call Gwen and Ozzie and persuade them that the only lawyer with a dog’s chance in hell of winning the case was Lucien Wilbanks. Finally, Carl Lee would knuckle under and send for Lucien.
   That’s exactly what Lucien would do. Talk about ethics.
   “Why are you smiling?” Carla interrupted.
   “Just thinking about how nice it is out here with you and Hanna. We don’t do this enough.”
   “You’re disappointed, aren’t you?”
   “Sure. There will never be another case like this one. Win it, and I’m the greatest lawyer in these parts. We would never have to worry about money again.”
   “And if you lost it?”
   “It would still be a drawing card. But I can’t lose what I don’t have.”
   “Embarrassed?”

  “A little. It’s hard to accept. Every lawyer in the county is laughing about it, except maybe Harry Rex. But I’ll get over it.”
   “What should I do with the scrapbook?”
   “Save it. You might fill it up yet.”
   unc, nine reel long and tour feet wide, made to fit inconspicuously in the long bed of a pickup. Much larger crosses were used for the rituals, but the small ones worked better in the nocturnal raids into residential areas. They were not used often, or often enough according to their builders. In fact, it had been many years since one had been used in Ford County. The last one was planted in the yard of a nigger accused of raping a white woman.
   Several hours before dawn on Monday morning, the cross was lifted quietly and quickly from the pickup and thrust into a ten-inch, freshly dug slot in the front yard of the quaint Victorian house on Adams Street. A small torch was thrown at the foot of the cross, and in seconds it was in flames. The pickup disappeared into the night and stopped at a pay phone at the edge of town, where a call was placed to the dispatcher.
   Moments later, Deputy Marshall Prather turned down Adams and instantly saw the blazing cross in Jake’s front yard. He turned into the driveway and parked behind the Saab. He punched the doorbell and stood on the porch watching the flames. It was almost three-thirty. He punched it again. Adams was dark and silent except for the glow of the cross and the snapping and crackling of the wood burning fifty feet away. Finally, Jake stumbled through the front door and froze, wild-eyed and stunned, next to the deputy. The two stood side by side on the porch, mesmerized not only by the burning cross, but by its purpose.
   “Mornin”, Jake,” Prather finally said without looking from the fire.
   “Who did it?” Jake asked with a scratchy, dry throat.
   “Don’t know. They didn’t leave a name. Just called and told us about it.”
   “When did they call?”
   “Fifteen minutes ago.”
   Jake ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep it from blowing wild in the soft breeze. “How long will it burn?” he asked, knowing Prather knew as little or even less than he about burning crosses.
   “No tellin’. Probably soaked in kerosene. Smells like it anyway. Might burn for a couple of hours. You want me to call a fire truck?”
   Jake looked up and down the street. Every house was silent and dark.
   “Naw. No need to wake everybody. Let it burn. It won’t hurt anything, will it?”
   “It’s your yard.”
   Prather never moved; just stood there, hands in his pockets, his belly hanging over his belt. “Ain’t had one of these in a long time around here. Last one I remember was in Karaway, nineteen-sixry—”
   “Nineteen sixty-seven.”
   “You remember?”
   “Yeah. I was in high school. We drove out and watched it burn.”
   “What was that nigger’s name?”
   “Robinson, something Robinson. Said he raped Velma Thayer.”
   “Did he?” asked Prather.
   “The jury thought so. He’s in Parchman chopping cotton for the rest of his life.”
   Prather seemed satisfied.
   “Let me get Carla,” Jake mumbled as he disappeared. He returned with his wife behind him.
   “My God, Jake! Who did it?”
   “Who knows.”
   “Is it the KKK?” she asked.
   “Must be,” answered the deputy. “I don’t know anybody else who burns crosses, do you, Jake?”
   Jake shook his head.
   “I thought they left Ford County years ago,” said Prather.
   “Looks like they’re back,” said Jake.
   Carla stood frozen, her hand over her mouth, terrified. The glow of the fire reddened her face. “Do something, Jake. Put it out.”
   Jake watched the fire and again glanced up and down the street. The snapping and popping grew louder and the orange flames reached higher into the night. For a moment he hoped it would die quickly without being seen by anyone other than the three of them, and that it would simply go away and be forgotten and no one in Clanton would ever know. Then he smiled at his foolishness.
   iiamci giumcu, anu it was oovious he was tired of standing on the porch. “Say, Jake, uh, I don’t mean to bring this up, but accordin’ to the papers they got the wrong lawyer. That true?”
   “I guess they can’t read,” Jake muttered.
   “Probably not.”
   “Tell me, Prather, do you know of any active Klan members in this county?”
   “Not a one. Got some in the southern part of the state, but none around here. Not that I know of. FBI told us the Klan was a thing of the past.”
   “That’s not very comforting.”
   “Why not?”
   “Because these guys, if they’re Klan members, are not from around here. Visitors from parts unknown. It means they’re serious, don’t you think, Prather?”
   “I don’t know. I’d worry more if it was local people workin’ with the Klan. Could mean the Klan’s comin’ back.”
   “What does it mean, the cross?” Carla asked the deputy.
   “It’s a warnin’. Means stop what you’re doin’, or the next time we’ll do more than burn a little wood. They used these things for years to intimidate whites who were sympathetic to niggers and all that civil rights crap. If the whites didn’t stop their nigger lovin’, then violence followed. Bombs, dynamite, beatings, even murder. But that was a • long time ago, I thought. In your case, it’s their way of tellin’ Jake to stay away from Hailey. But since he ain’t Hailey’s lawyer no more, I don’t know what it means.”
   “Go check on Hanna,” Jake said to Carla, who went inside.
   “If you got a water hose, I’ll be glad to put it out,” offered Prather.
   “That’s a good idea,” Jake said. “I’d hate for the neighbors to see it.”
   Jake and Carla stood on the porch in their bathrobes and watched the deputy spray the burning cross. The wood fizzed and smoked as the water covered the cross and snuffed out the flames. Prather soaked it for fifteen minutes, then neatly rolled the hose and placed it behind the shrubs in the flower bed next to the front steps.
   “Thanks, Marshall. Let’s keep this quiet, okay?”
   Prather wiped his hands on his pants and straightened his hat. “Sure. Y’all lock up good. If you hear anything, call the dispatcher. We’ll keep a close watch on it for the next few days.”
   He backed from the driveway and drove slowly down Adams Street toward the square. They sat in the swing and watched the smoking cross.
   “I feel like I’m looking at an old issue of Life magazine,” Jake said.
   “Or a chapter from a Mississippi history textbook. Maybe we should tell them you got fired.”
   “Thanks.”
   “Thanks?”.
   “For being so blunt.”
   “I’m sorry. Should I say discharged, or terminated, or—”
   “Just say he found another lawyer. You’re really scared aren’t you?”
   “You know I’m scared. I’m terrified. If they can burn a cross in our front yard, what’s to stop them from burning the house? It’s not worth it, Jake. I want you to be happy and successful and all that wonderful stuff, but not at the expense of our safety. No case is worth this.”
   “You’re glad I got fired?”
   “I’m glad he found another lawyer. Maybe they’ll leave us alone now.”
   Jake put his arm around her, and pulled her into his lap. The swing rocked gently. She was beautiful, at three-thirty in the morning in her bathrobe.
   “They won’t be back, will they?” she asked.
   “Naw. They’re through with us. They’ll find out I’m off the case, then they’ll call and apologize.”
   “It’s not funny, Jake.”
   “I know.”
   “Do you think people will know?”
   “Not for another hour. When the Coffee Shop opens at five, Dell Perkins will know every detail before she pours the first cup of coffee.”
   “What’re you going to do with it?” she asked, nodding at the cross, now barely visible under the half moon.
   i vc goi an idea. Let s load it up, take it to Memphis, and burn it in Marsharfsky’s yard.” “I’m going to bed.”
   By 9:00 A. M. Jake had finished dictating his motion to withdraw as counsel of record. Ethel was typing it with zest when she interrupted him: “Mr. Brigance, there’s a Mr. Marsharf-sky on the phone. I told him you were in conference, and he said he would hold.”
   “I’ll talk to him.” Jake gripped the receiver. “Hello.”
   “Mr. Brigance, Bo Marsharfsky in Memphis. How are you?”
   “Terrific.”
   “Good. I’m sure you saw the morning paper Saturday and Sunday. You do get the paper in Clantpn?”
   “Yes, and we have telephones and mail.”
   “So you saw the stories on Mr. Hailey?”
   “Yes. You write’ some very nice articles.”
   “I’ll ignore that. I wanted to discuss the Hailey case if you have a minute.”
   “I would love to.”
   “As I understand Mississippi procedure, out-of-state counsel must associate local counsel for trial purposes.”
   “You mean you don’t have a Mississippi license?” Jake asked incredulously.
   “Well, no, I don’t.”
   “That wasn’t mentioned in your articles.”
   “I’ll ignore that too. Do the judges require local counsel in all cases?”
   “Some do, some don’t.”
   “I see. What about Noose?”
   “Sometimes.”
   “Thanks. Well, I usually associate local counsel when I try cases out in the country. The locals feel better with one of their own sitting there at counsel table with me.”
   “That’s real nice.”
   “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in—”

  “You must be kidding!” Jake yelled. “I’ve just been fired and now you want me to carry your briefcase. You’re crazy. I wouldn’t have my name associated with yours.”
   “Wait a minute, hayseed—”
   “No, you wait a minute, counselor. This may come as a surprise to you, but in this state we have ethics and laws against soliciting litigation and clients. Champerty-ever hear of it? Of course not. It’s a felony in Mississippi, as in most states. We have canons of ethics that prohibit ambulance chasing and solicitation. Ethics, Mr. Shark, ever hear of them?”
   “I don’t chase cases, sonny. They come to me.”
   “Like Carl Lee Hailey. I’m supposed to believe he picked your name out of the yellow pages. I’m sure you have a full-page ad, next to the abortionists.”
   “He was referred to me.”
   “Yeah, by your pimp. I know exactly how you got him. Outright solicitation. I may file a complaint with the bar. Better yet, I might have your methods reviewed by the grand jury.”
   “Yeah, I understand you and the D. A. are real close. Good day, counselor.”
   Marsharfsky got the last word before he hung up. Jake fumed for an hour before he could concentrate on the brief he was writing. Lucien would have been proud of him.
   Just before lunch Jake received a call from Walter Sullivan, of the Sullivan firm.
   “Jake, my boy, how are you?”
   “Wonderful.”
   “Good. Listen, Jake, Bo Marsharfsky is an old friend of mine. We defended a couple of bank officials years ago on fraud charges. Got them off, too. He’s quite a lawyer. He’s associated me as local counsel for Carl Lee Hailey. I was just wanting to know—”
   Jake dropped the receiver and walked out of his office. He spent the afternoon on Lucien’s front porch.
   Gwen did not have Lester’s number. Neither did Ozzie, nor did anyone else. The operator said there were two pages of Haileys in the Chicago phone book, at least a dozen Lester Haileys, and several L. S. ‘s. Jake asked for the first five Lester Haileys and called each one. They were all white. He called Tank Scales, the owner of one of the safer and finer black honky tonks in the county. Tank’s Tonk, as it was known. Lester was especially fond of the place. Tank was a client and often provided Jake with valuable and confidential information on various blacks, their dealings and whereabouts.
   Tank stopped by the office Tuesday morning on the way to the bank.
   “Have you seen Lester Hailey in the past two weeks?” Jake asked.
   “Sure. Spent several days at the place shootin’ pool, drinkin’ beer. Went back to Chicago last weekend, I heard. Must’ve, I didn’t see him all weekend.”
   “Who was he with?”
   “Hisself mostly.”
   “What about Iris?”
   “Yeah, he brung her a couple of times when Henry was outta town. Makes me nervous when he brings her. Henry’s a bad dude. He’d cut them both if he knew they’s datin’.”
   “They’ve been doing it for ten years, Tank.”
   “Yeah, sh,e got two kids by Lester. Everbody knows it but Henry. Poor old Henry. He’ll find out one day, and you’ll have another murder case.”
   “Listen, Tank, can you talk to Iris?”
   “She don’t come in too often.”
   “That’s not what I asked. I need Lester’s phone number in Chicago. I figure Iris knows it.”
   “I’m sure she does. I think he sends her money.”
   “Can you get it for me? I need to talk to Lester.”
   “Sure, Jake. If she’s got it, I’ll get it.”
   By Wednesday Jake’s office had returned to normal. Clients began to reappear. Ethel was especially sweet, or as sweet as possible for a cranky old nag. He went through the motions of practicing law, but the pain showed. He skipped the Coffee Shop each morning and avoided the courthouse by making Ethel do the filing or checking or whatever business required his presence across the street. He was embarrassed, humiliated, and troubled. It was difficult to concentrate on other cases. He contemplated a long vacation, but couldn’t afford it. Money was tight, and he was not motivated to work. He spent most of his time in his office doing little but watching the courthouse and the town square below.
   He dwelt on Carl Lee, sitting in his cell a few blocks away, and asked himself a thousand times why he had been betrayed. He had pushed too hard for money, and forgot there were other lawyers willing to take the case for free. He hated Marsharfsky. He recalled the many times he had seen Marsharfsky parade in and out of Memphis courtrooms proclaiming the innocence and mistreatment of his pitiful, oppressed clients. Dope dealers, pimps, crooked politicians, and slimy corporate thugs. All guilty, all deserving of long prison terms, or perhaps even death. He was a yankee, with an obnoxious twang from somewhere in the upper Midwest. It would irritate anybody south of Memphis. An accomplished actor, he would look directly into the cameras and whine: “My client has been horribly abused by the Memphis police.” Jake had seen it a dozen times. “My client is completely, totally, absolutely innocent. He should not be on trial. My client is a model citizen, a taxpayer.” What about his four prior convictions for extortion? “He was framed by the FBI. Set up by the government. Besides, he’s paid his debt. He’s innocent this time.” Jake hated him, and to his recollection, he had lost as many as he had won.
   By Wednesday afternoon, Marsharfsky had not been seen in Clanton. Ozzie promised to notify Jake if he showed up at the jail.
   Circuit Court would be in session until Friday, and it would be respectful to meet briefly with Judge Noose and explain the circumstances of his departure from the case. His Honor was presiding over a civil case, and there was a good chance Buckley would be absent. He had. to be absent. He could not be seen or heard.
   Noose usually recessed for ten minutes around three-thirty, and precisely at that time Jake entered chambers through the side door. He had not been seen. He sat patiently by the window waiting for Ichabod to descend from the bench and stagger into the room. Five minutes later the door flung open, and His Honor walked in.
   “Jake, how are you?” he asked.
   “Fine, Judge. Can I have a minute?” Jake asked as he closed the door.
   “Sure, sit down. What’s on your mind?” Noose removed his robe, threw it over a chair, and lay on top of the desk, knocking off books, files, and the telephone in the process. Once his gawky frame had ceased moving, he slowly folded his hands over his stomach, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. “It’s my back, Jake. My doctor-tells me to rest on a hard surface when possible.”
   “Uh, sure, Judge. Should I leave?”
   “No, no. What’s on your mind?”
   “The Hailey case.”
   “I thought so. I saw your motion. Found a new lawyer, huh?”
   “Yes, sir. I had no idea it was coming. I expected to try the case in July.”
   “You owe no apologies, Jake. The motion to withdraw will be granted. It’s not your fault. Happens all the time. Who’s the new guy Marsharfsky?”
   “Yes, sir. From Memphis.”
   “With a name like that he should be a hit in Ford County.”
   “Yes, sir.” Almost as bad as Noose, thought Jake.
   “He has no Mississippi license,” Jake explained, helpfully.
   “That’s interesting. Is he familiar with our procedure?”
   “I’m not sure he’s ever tried a case in Mississippi. He told me he normally associates a local boy when he’s out in the country.”
   “In the country?”
   “That’s what he said.”
   “Well, he’d better associate if he comes into my court.
   I’ve had some bad experiences with out-of-state attorneys, especially from Memphis.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   Noose was breathing harder, and Jake decided to leave. “Judge, I need to go. If I don’t see you in July, I’ll see you during the August term of court. Take care of your back.”
   “Thanks, Jake. Take care.”
   Jake almost made it to the rear door of the small office when the main door from the courtroom opened and the Honorable L. Winston Lotterhouse and another hatchet man from the Sullivan firm strutted into chambers.
   “Well, hello, Jake,” Lotterhouse announced. “You know K. Peter Otter, our newest associate.”
   “Nice to meet you K. Peter,” replied Jake.
   “Are we interrupting anything?”
   “No, I was just leaving. Judge Noose is resting his back, and I was on my way out.”
   “Sit down, gentlemen,” Noose said.
   Lotterhouse smelled blood. “Say, Jake, I’m sure Walter Sullivan has informed you that our firm will serve as local counsel for Carl Lee Hailey.”
   “I have heard.”
   “I’m sorry it happened to you.”
   “Your grief is overwhelming.”
   “It does present an interesting case for our firm. We don’t get too many criminal cases, you know.”
   “I know,” Jake said, looking for a hole to crawl in. “I need to run. Nice chatting with you, L. Winston. Nice meeting you, K. Peter. Tell J. Walter and F. Robert and all the boys I said hello.”
   Jake slid out of the rear door of the courthouse and cursed himself for showing his face where he could get it slapped. He ran to his office.
   “Has Tank Scales called?” he asked Ethel as he started up the stairs.
   “No. But Mr. Buckley is waiting.”
   Jake stopped on the first step. “Waiting where?” he asked without moving his jaws.
   “Upstairs. In your office.”
   He walked slowly to her desk and leaned across to within inches of her face. She had sinned, and she knew it.
   He glared at her fiercely. “I didn’t know he had an appointment.” Again, the jaws did not move.
   “He didn’t,” she replied, her eyes glued to the desk.
   “I didn’t know he owned this building.”
   She didn’t move, didn’t answer.
   “I didn’t know he had a key to my office.”
   Again, no movement, no answer.
   He leaned closer. “I should fire you for this.”
   Her lip quivered and she looked helpless.
   “I’m sick of you, Ethel. Sick of your attitude, your voice, your insubordination. Sick of the way you treat people, sick of everything about you.”
   Her eyes watered. “I’m sorry.”
   “No you’re not. You know, and have known for years, that no one, no one in the world, not even my wife, goes up those stairs into my office if I’m not here.”
   “He insisted.”
   “He’s an ass. He gets paid for pushing people around. But not in this office.”
   “Shhh. He can hear you.”
   “I don’t care. He knows he’s an ass.”
   He leaned even closer until their noses were six inches apart. “Would you like to keep your job, Ethel?”
   She nodded, unable to speak.
   “Then do exactly as I say. Go upstairs to my office, fetch Mr. Buckley, and lead him into the conference room, where I’ll meet him. And don’t ever do it again.”
   Ethel wiped her face and ran up the stairs. Moments later the D. A. was seated in the conference room with the door closed. He waited.
   Jake was next door in the small kitchen drinking orange juice and assessing Buckley. He drank slowly. After fifteen minutes he opened the door and entered the room. Buckley was seated at one end of the long conference table. Jake sat at the other end, far away.
   “Hello, Rufus. What do you want?”
   “Nice place you have here. Lucien’s old offices, I believe.”
   “That’s right. What brings you here?”
   “Just wanted to visit.”