Musgrove was talking for the State now. “Your Honor, we have two theories we are submitting in opposition to the motion for a change of venue. First, we contend a fair trial is possible here in Ford County. Second, if the court is of the opinion that a fair trial is not possible here, the State contends that the immense publicity has reached every prospective juror in this state. The same prejudices and opinions, for and against, which exist in this county exist in every county. Therefore, nothing will be gained by moving the trial. We have witnesses to support this second theory.”
   “That’s a novel concept, Mr. Musgrove. I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”
   “Neither have I,” added Jake.
   “Who else do you have?”
   “Robert Kelly Williams, district attorney for the Ninth District.”
   “Where’sthat?”, “Southwestern tip of the state.”
   “He drove all the way up here to testify that everyone in his neck of the woods has already prejudged the case?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Who else?”
   “Grady Listen, district attorney, Fourteenth District.”
   “Same testimony?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “Is that all?”
   “Well, Your Honor, we have several more. But their testimony will pretty much follow the other witnesses’.”
   “Good, then we can limit your proof to these six witnesses?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “I will hear your proof. I will allow each of you five minutes to conclude your arguments, and I will rule on this motion within two weeks. Any questions?”
   It hurt to say no to the reporters. They followed Jake across Washington Street, where he excused himself, offered his no comments, and sought refuge in his office. Undaunted, a photographer from Newsweek pushed his way inside and asked if Jake would pose for a photograph. He wanted one of those important ones with a stern look and thick leather books in the background. Jake straightened his tie and showed the photographer into the conference room, where he posed in court-ordered silence. The photographer thanked him and left.
   “May I have a few minutes of your time?” Ethel asked politely as her boss headed for the stairs.
   “Certainly.”
   “Why don’t you sit down. We need to talk.”
   She’s finally quitting, Jake thought as he took a seat by the front window.
   “What’s on your mind?”
   “Money.”
   “You’re the highest-paid legal secretary in town. You got a raise three months ago.”
   “Not my money. Please listen. You don’t have enough in the bank to pay this month’s bills. June is almost gone, and we’ve grossed seventeen hundred dollars.”
   Jake closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
   “Look at these bills,” she said, waving a stack of invoices. “Four thousand dollars worth. How am I supposed to pay these?”
   “How much is in the bank?”
   “Nineteen hundred dollars, as of Friday. Nothing came in this morning.”
   “Nothing?”
   “Not a dime.”
   “What about the settlement on the Liford case? That’s three thousand in fees.”
   Ethel shook her head. “Mr. Brigance, that file has not been closed. Mr. Liford has not signed the release. You were to take it by his house. Three weeks ago, remember?”
   “No, I don’t remember. What about Buck Britt’s retainer? That’s a thousand dollars.”
   “His check bounced. The bank returned it, and it’s been on your desk for two weeks.”
   She paused and took a deep breath. “You’ve stopped seeing clients. You don’t return phone calls, and—”
   “Don’t lecture me, Ethel!”
   “And you’re a month behind on everything.”
   “That’s enough.”
   “Ever since you took the Hailey case. That’s all you think about. You’re obsessed with it. It’s going to break us.”
   “Us! How many paychecks have you missed, Ethel? How many of those bills are past due? Huh?”
   “Several.”
   “But no more than usual, right?”
   “Yes, but what about next month? The trial is four weeks away.”
   “Shut up, Ethel. Just shut up. If you can’t take the pressure, then quit. If you can’t keep your mouth shut, then you’re fired.”
   “You’d like to fire me, wouldn’t you?”
   “I could care less.”
   She was a tough, hard woman. Fourteen years with Lu-cien had toughened her skin and hardened her conscience, but she was a woman nonetheless, and at this moment her lip started to quiver, and her eyes watered. She dropped her head.
   “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I’m just worried.”
   “Worried about what?”
   “Me and Bud.”
   “What’s wrong with Bud?”
   “He’s a very sick man.”
   “I know that.”
   “His blood pressure keeps acting up. Especially after the phone calls. He’s had three strokes in five years, and he’s due for another one. He’s scared; we’re both scared.”
   “How many phone calls?”
   “Several. They threaten to burn our house or blow it up. They always tell us they know where we live, and if Hailey is acquitted, then they’ll burn it or stick dynamite under it while we are asleep. A couple have threatened to kill us. It’s just not worth it.”
   “Maybe you should quit.”
   “And starve? Bud hasn’t worked in ten years, you know that. Where else would I work?”
   “Look, Ethel, I’ve had threats too. I don’t take them seriously. I promised Carla I’d give up the case before I endangered my family, and you should be comforted by that. You and Bud should relax. The threats are not serious. There are a lot of nuts out there.”
   “That’s what worries me. People are crazy enough to do something.”
   “Naw, you worry too much. I’ll tell Ozzie to watch your house a bit closer.”
   “Will you do that?”
   “Sure. They’ve been watching mine. Take my word, Ethel, there’s nothing to worry about. Probably just some young punks.”
   She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry for crying, and I’m sorry for being so irritable lately.”
   You’ve been irritable for forty years, Jake thought. “That’s okay.”
   “What about these?” she asked, pointing to the invoices.
   “I’ll get the money. Don’t worry about it.”
   Willie Hastings finished the second shift at 10:00 P. M. and punched the clock next to Ozzie’s office. He drove straight to the Hailey house. It was his night to sleep on the couch. Someone slept on Owen’s couch every night; a brother, a cousin, or a friend. Wednesday was his night.
   It was impossible to sleep with the lights on. Tonya refused to go near the bed unless every light in the house was on. Those men could be in the dark, waiting for her. She had seen them many times crawling along the floor toward her bed, and lurking in the closets. She had heard their voices outside her window, and she had seen their bloodshot eyes peering in, watching her as she got ready for bed. She heard noises in the attic, like the footsteps of the bulky cowboy boots they had kicked her with. She knew they were up there, waiting for everyone to go to sleep so they could come down and take her back to the woods. Once a week her mother and oldest brother climbed the folding stairs and inspected the attic with a flashlight and a pistol.
   Not a single room in the house could be dark when she went to bed. One night, as she lay wide awake next to her mother, a light in the hall burned out. She screamed violently until Gwen’s brother drove to Clanton to an all-night quick shop for more bulbs.
   She slept with her mother, who held her firmly for hours until the demons faded into the night and she drifted away. At first, Gwen had trouble with the lights, but after five weeks she napped periodically through the night. The small body next to her wiggled and jerked even while it slept.
   Willie said good night to the boys and kissed Tonya. He showed her his gun and promised to stay awake on the couch. He walked through the house and checked the closets. When Tonya was satisfied, she lay next to her mother and stared at the ceiling. She cried softly.
   Around midnight, Willie took off his boots and relaxed on the couch. He removed his holster and placed the gun on the floor. He was almost asleep when he heard the scream. It was the horrible, high-pitched cry of a child being tortured. He grabbed his gun and ran to the bedroom. Tonya was sitting on the bed, facing the wall, screaming and shaking. She had seen them in the window, waiting for her. Gwen hugged her. The three boys ran to the foot of the bed and watched helplessly. Carl Lee, Jr., went to the window and saw nothing. They had been through it many times in five weeks, and knew there was little they could do.
   Gwen soothed her and laid her head gently on the pillow. “It’s okay, baby, Momma’s here and Uncle Willie’s here. Nobody’s gonna get you. It’s okay, baby.”
   She wanted Uncle Willie to sit under the window with his gun and the boys to sleep on the floor around the bed. They took their positions. She moaned pitifully for a few moments, then grew quiet and still.
   Willie sat on the floor by the window until they were all asleep. He carried the boys one at a time to their beds and tucked them in. He sat under her window and waited for the morning sun.

   Jake and Atcavage met for lunch at Claude’s on Friday. They ordered ribs and slaw. The place was packed as usual, and for the first time in four weeks there were no strange faces. The regulars talked and gossiped like old times. Claude was in fine form-ranting and scolding and cursing his loyal customers. Claude was one of those rare people who could curse a man and make him enjoy it.
   Atcavage had watched the venue hearing, and would have testified had he been needed. The bank had discouraged his testifying, and Jake did not want to cause trouble. Bankers have an innate fear of courtrooms, and Jake admired his friend for overcoming this paranoia and attending the hearing. In doing so, he became the first banker in the history of Ford County to voluntarily appear in a courtroom without a subpoena while court was in session. Jake was proud of him.
   Claude raced by and told them they had ten minutes, so shut up and eat. Jake finished a rib and mopped his face. “Say, Stan, speaking of loans, I need to borrow five thousand for ninety days, unsecured.”
   “Who said anything about loans?”
   “You said something about banks.”
   “I thought we were condemning Buckley. I was enjoying it.”
   “You shouldn’t criticize, Stan. It’s an easy habit to acquire and an impossible one to break. It robs your soul of. character.”
   “I’m terribly sorry. How can you ever forgive me?”
   “About the loan?”
   “Okay. Why do you need it?”
   “Why is that relevant?”
   “What do you mean, ‘Why is that relevant?’ “ “Look Stan, all you should worry about is whether or not I can repay the money in. ninety days.”
   “Okay. Can you repay the money in ninety days?”
   “Good question. Of course I can.”
   The banker smiled. “Hailey’s got you bogged down, huh?”
   The lawyer smiled. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s hard to concentrate on anything else. The trial is three weeks from Monday, and until then I won’t concentrate on anything else.”
   “How much will you make off this case?”
   “Nine hundred minus ten thousand.”
   “Nine hundred dollars!”
   “Yeah, he couldn’t borrow on his land, remember?”
   “Cheap shot.”
   “Of course, if you’d loan Carl Lee the money on his land, then I wouldn’t have to borrow any.”
   “I prefer to loan it to you.”
   “Great. When can I get a check?”
   “You sound desperate.”
   “I know how long you guys take, with your loan committees and auditors and vice-presidents here and vice-presidents there, and maybe a vice-president will finally approve my loan in a month or so, if the manual says he can and if the home office is in the right mood. I know how you operate.”
   Atcavage looked at his watch. “Three o’clock soon enough?”
   “I guess.”
   “Unsecured?”
   Jake wiped his mouth and leaned across the table. He spoke quietly. “My house is a landmark with landmark mortgages, and you’ve got the lien on my car, remember? I’ll give you the first mortgage on my daughter, but if you try to foreclose I’ll kill you. Now what security do you have in mind?”
   “Sorry I asked.”
   “When can I get the check?”
   “Three P. M.”
   Claude appeared and refilled the tea glasses. “You got five minutes,” he said loudly.
   “Eight,” replied Jake.
   “Listen Mr. Big Shot,” Claude said with a grin. “This ain’t no courtroom, and your picture in the paper ain’t worth two cents in here. I said five minutes.”
   “Just as well. My ribs were tough anyway.”
   “I notice you didn’t leave any.”
   “Might as well eat them, as much as they cost.”
   “They cost more if you complain.” “We’re leaving,” Atcavage said as he stood and threw a dollar on the table.
   Sunday afternoon the Haileys picnicked under the tree away from the violence under the basketball goal. The first heat wave of the summer had settled in, and the heavy, sticky humidity hung close to the ground and penetrated the shade. Gwen swatted flies as the children and their daddy ate warm fried chicken and sweated. The children ate hurriedly and ran to a new swing Ozzie had installed for the children of his inmates.
   “What’d they do at Whitfield?” Gwen asked.
   “Nothin’ really. Asked a bunch of questions, made me do some tests. Bunch of crap.”
   “How’d they treat you?”
   “With handcuffs and padded walls.”
   “No kiddin’. They put you in a room with padded walls?” Gwen was amused and managed a rare giggle.
   “Sure did. They watched me like I was some animal. Said I was famous. My guards told me they was proud of me—one was white and one was black. Said that I did the right thing and they hoped I got off. They was nice to me.”
   “What’d the doctors say?”
   “They won’t say nothin’ till we get to trial, and then they’ll say I’m fine.”
   “How do you know what they’ll say?”
   “Jake told me. He ain’t been wrong yet.”
   “Has he found you a doctor?”
   “Yeah, some crazy drunk he drug up somewhere. Says he’s a psychiatrist. We’ve talked a couple of times in Ozzie’s office.”
   “What’d he say?”
   “Not much. Jake said he’ll say whatever we want him to say.”
   “Must be a real good doctor.”
   “He’d fit in good with those folks in Whitfield.”
   “Where’s he from?”
   “Jackson, I think. He wasn’t too sure of anything. He acted like I was gonna kill him too. I swear he was drunk bolh times we talked. He asked some questions that neither one of us understood. Took some notes like a real big shot. Said he thought he could help me. I asked Jake about him. Jake said not to worry, that he would be sober at the trial. But I think Jake’s worried too.”
   “Then why are we usin’ him?”
   “ ‘Cause he’s free. Owes somebody some favors. A real shrink’d cost over a thousand dollars just to evaluate me, and then another thousand or so to come testify at trial. A cheap shrink. Needless to say, I can’t pay it.”
   Gwen lost her smile and looked away. “We need some money around the house,” she said without looking at him.
   “How much?”
   “Coupla hundred for groceries and bills.”
   “How much you got?”
   “Less than fifty.”
   “I’ll see what I can do.”
   She looked at him. “What does that mean? What makes you think you can get money while you’re in jail?”
   Carl Lee raised his eyebrows and pointed at his wife. She was not to question him. He still wore the pants, even though he put them on in jail. He was the boss.
   “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
   Reverend Agee peered through a crack in one of the huge stained glass windows of his church and watched with satisfaction as the clean Cadillacs and Lincolns arrived just before five Sunday afternoon. He had called a meeting of the council to assess the Hailey situation and plan strategy for the final three weeks before the trial, and to prepare for the arrival of the NAACP lawyers. The weekly collections had gone well-over seven thousand dollars had been gathered throughout the county and almost six thousand had been deposited by the reverend in a special account for the Carl Lee Hailey Legal Defense Fund. None had been given to the family. Agee was waiting for the NAACP to direct him in spending the money, most of which, ‘he thought, should go to the defense fund. The sisters in the church could feed the family if they got hungry. The cash was needed elsewhere.
   The council talked of ways to raise more money. It was not easy getting money from poor people, but the issue was hot and the time was right, and if they didn’t raise it now it would not be raised. They agreed to meet the following day at the Springdale Church in Clanton. The NAACP people were expected in town by morning. No press; it was to be a work session.
   Norman Reinfeld was a thirty-year-old genius in criminal law who held the record for finishing Harvard’s law school at the age of twenty-one, and after graduation declined a most generous offer to join his father and grandfather’s prestigious Wall Street law factory, opting instead to take a job with the NAACP and spend his time fighting furiously to keep Southern blacks off death row. He was very good at what he did although, through no fault of his own, he was not very successful at what he did. Most Southern blacks along with most Southern whites who faced the gas chamber deserved the gas chamber. But Reinfeld and his team of capital murder defense specialists won more than their share, and even in the ones they lost they usually managed to keep the convicts alive through a myriad of exhausting delays and appeals. Four of his former clients had either been gassed, electrocuted, or lethally injected, and that was four too many for Reinfeld. He had watched them all die, and with each execution he renewed his vow to break any law, violate any ethic, contempt any court, disrespect any judge, ignore any mandate, or do whatever it took to prevent a human from legally killing another human. He didn’t worry much about the illegal killings of humans, such as those killings so artfully and cruelly achieved by his clients. It wasn’t his business to think about those killings, so he didn’t. Instead he vented his righteous and sanctimonious anger and zeal at the legal killings.
   He seldom slept more than three hours a night. Sleep was difficult with thirty-one clients on death row. Plus seventeen clients awaiting trial. Plus eight egotistical attorneys to supervise. He was thirty and looked forty-five. He was old, abrasive, and ill-tempered. In the normal course of his business, he would have been much too busy to attend a gathering of local black ministers in Clanton, Mississippi. But this was not the normal case. This was Hailey. The vigilante. The father driven to revenge. The most famous criminal case in the country at the moment. This was Mississippi, where for years whites shot blacks for any reason or no reason and no one cared; where whites raped blacks and it was considered sport; where blacks were hanged for fighting back. And now a black father had killed two white men who raped his daughter, and faced the gas chamber for something that thirty years earlier would have gone unnoticed had he been white. This was the case, his case, and he would handle it personally.
   On Monday he was introduced to the council by Reverend Agee, who opened the meeting with a lengthy and detailed review of the activities in Ford County. Reinfeld was brief. He and his team could not represent Mr. Hailey because he had not been hired by Mr. Hailey, so a meeting was imperative. Today, preferably. Tomorrow morning at the latest, because he had a flight out of Memphis at noon. He was needed in a murder trial somewhere in Georgia. Reverend Agee promised to arrange a meeting with the defendant as soon as possible. He was friends with the sheriff. Fine, said Reinfeld, just get it done.
   “How much money have you raised?” Reinfeld asked.
   “Fifteen thousand from you folks,” Agee answered.
   “I know that. How much locally?”
   “Six thousand,” Agee said proudly.
   “Six thousand!” repeated Reinfeld. “Is that all? I thought you people were organized. Where’s all this great local support you were talking about? Six thousand! How much more can you raise? We’ve only got three weeks.”
   The council members were silent. This Jew had a lot of nerve. The only white man in the group and he was on the attack.
   “How much do we need?” asked Agee.
   “That depends, Reverend, on how good a defense you want for Mr. Hailey. I’ve only got eight other attorneys on my staff. Five are in trial at this very moment. We’ve got thirty-one capital murder convictions at various stages of appeal. We’ve got seventeen trials scheduled in ten states over the next five months. We get ten requests each week to represent defendants, eight of which we turn down because we simply don’t have the staff or the money. For Mr. Hailey, fifteen thousand has been contributed by two local chapters and the home office. Now you tell me that only six thousand has been raised locally. That’s twenty-one thousand. Fpr that amount you’ll get the best defense we can afford. Two attorneys, at least one psychiatrist, but nothing fancy. Twenty-one thousand gets a good defense, but not what I had in mind.”
   “What exactly did you have in mind?”
   “A first-class defense. Three or four attorneys. A battery of psychiatrists. Half dozen investigators. A jury psychologist, just to name a few. This is not your run-of-the-mill murder case. I want to win. I was led to believe that you folks wanted to win.”
   “How much?” asked Agee.
   “Fifty thousand, minimum. A hundred thousand would be nice.”
   “Look, Mr. Reinfeld, you’re in Mississippi. Our people are poor. They’ve given generously so far, but there’s no way we can raise another thirty thousand here.”
   Reinfeld adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and scratched his graying beard. “How much more can you raise?”
   “Another five thousand, maybe.”
   “That’s not much money.”
   “Not to you, but it is to the black folk of Ford County.”
   Reinfeld studied the floor and continued stroking his beard. “How much has the Memphis chapter given?”
   “Five thousand,” answered someone from Memphis.
   “Atlanta?”
   “Five thousand.”
   “How about the state chapter?”

   “Which state?”
   “Mississippi.”
   “None.”
   “None?”
   “None.”
   “Why not?”
   “Ask him,” Agee said, pointing at Reverend Henry Hillman, the state director.
   “Uh, we tryin’ to raise some money now,” Hillman said weakly. “But—”
   “How much have you raised so far?” asked Agee.
   “Well, uh, we got—”
   “Nothin’, right? You ain’t raised nothin’, have you, Hillman?” Agee said loudly.
   “Come on, Hillman, tell us how much you raised,” chimed in Reverend Roosevelt, vice-chairman of the council.
   Hillman was dumbfounded and speechless. He had been sitting quietly on the front pew minding his own business, half asleep. Suddenly he was under attack.
   “The state chapter will contribute.”
   “Sure you will, Hillman. You folks at state are constantly badgerin’ us locals to contribute here and donate there for this cause and that cause, and we never see any of the money. You always cryin’ about bein’ so broke, and we’re always sendin’ money to state. But when we need help, state don’t do a thing but show up here and talk.”
   “That’s not true.”
   “Don’t start lyin’, Hillman.”
   Reinfeld was embarrassed and immediately aware that a nerve had been touched. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, let’s move on,” he said diplomatically.
   “Good idea,” Hillman said.
   “When can we meet with Mr. Hailey?” Reinfeld asked.
   “I’ll arrange a meetin’ for in the mornin’,” Agee said.
   “Where can we meet?”
   “I suggest we meet in Sheriff Walls’ office in the jail. He’s black, you know, the only black sheriff in Mississippi.”
   “Yes, I’ve heard.”
   “I think he’ll let us meet in his office.”
   “Good. Who is Mr. Hailey’s attorney?”
   “Local boy. Jake Brigance.”
   “Make sure he’s invited. We’ll ask him to help us on the case. It’ll ease the pain.”
   Ethel’s obnoxious, high-pitched, bitchy voice broke the tran-quility of the late afternoon and startled her boss. “Mr. Brigance, Sheriff Walls is on line two,” she said through the intercom.
   “Okay.”
   “Do you need me for anything else, sir?”
   “No. See you in the morning.”
   Jake punched line two. “Hello, Ozzie. What’s up?”
   “Listen Jake, we’ve got a bunch of NAACP big shots in town.”
   “What else is new?”
   “No, this is different. They wanna meet with Carl Lee in the mornin’.”
   “Why?”
   “Some guy named Reinfeld.”
   “I’ve heard of him. He heads up their capital murder team. Norman Reinfeld.”
   “Yeah, that’s him.”
   “I’ve been waiting for this.”
   “Well, he’s here, and he wants to talk to Carl Lee.”
   “Why are you involved?”
   “Reverend Agee called me. He wants a favor, of course. He asked me to call you.”
   “The answer is no. Emphatically no.”
   Ozzie paused a few seconds. “Jake, they want you 10 oe present.”
   “You mean I’m invited?”
   “Yes. Agee said Reinfeld insisted on it. He wants you to be here.”
   “Where?”
   “In my office. Nine A. M.”
   Jake breathed deeply and replied slowly. “Okay, I’ll be there. Where’s Carl Lee?”
   “In his cell.”
   “Get him in your office. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
   “What for?”
   “We need to have a prayer meeting.”
   Reinfeld and Reverends Agee, Roosevelt, and Hillman sat in a perfect row of folding chairs and faced the sheriff, the defendant, and Jake, who puffed a cheap cigar in a determined effort to pollute the small office. He puffed mightily and stared nonchalantly at the floor, trying his best to show nothing but absolute contempt for Reinfeld and the reverends. Reinfeld was no pushover when it came to arrogance, and his disdain for this simple, small-time lawyer was not well hidden because he made no attempt to hide it. He was arrogant and insolent by nature. Jake had to work at it.
   “Who called this meeting?” Jake asked impatiently, after a long, uncomfortable silence.
   “Uh, well, I guess we did,” answered Agee as he searched Reinfeld for guidance.
   “Well, get on with it. What do you want?”
   “Take it easy now, Jake,” Ozzie said. “Reverend Agee asked me to arrange the meeting so Carl Lee could meet Mr. Reinfeld here.”
   “Fine. They’ve met. Now what, Mr. Reinfeld?”
   “I’m here to offer my services, and the services of my staff and the entire NAACP to Mr. Hailey,” said Reinfeld.
   “What type of services?” asked Jake.
   “Legal, of course.”
   “Carl Lee, did you ask Mr. Reinfeld to come here?” asked Jake.
   “Nope.”
   “Sounds like solicitation to me, Mr. Reinfeld.”
   “Skip the lecture, Mr. Brigance. You know what I do, and you know why I’m here.”
   “So you chase all your cases?”
   “We don’t chase anything. We’re called in by local NAACP members and other civil rights activists. We handle only capital murder cases, and we’re very good at what we do.”
   “I suppose you’re the only attorney competent to handle a case of this magnitude?”
   “I’ve handled my share.”
   “And lost your share.”
   “Most of my cases are supposed to be lost.”
   “I see. Is that your position on this case? Do you expect to lose it?”
   Reinfeld picked at his beard and glared at Jake. “I didn’t come here to argue with you, Mr. Brigance.”
   “I know. You came here to offer your formidable legal skills to a defendant who’s never heard of you and happens to be satisfied with his attorney. You came here to take my client. I know exactly why you’re here.”
   “I’m here because the NAACP invited me. Nothing more or less.”
   “I see. Do you get all your cases from the NAACP?”
   “I work for the NAACP, Mr. Brigance. I’m in charge of its capital murder defense team. I go where the NAACP sends me.”
   “How many clients do you have?”
   “Several dozen. Why is that important?”
   “Did they all have attorneys before you pushed yourself into their cases?”
   “Some did, some didn’t. We always try to work with the local attorney.”
   Jake smiled. “That’s marvelous. You’re offering me a chance to carry your briefcase and chauffeur you around Clanton. I might even get to fetch you a sandwich during the noon recess. What a thrill.”
   Carl Lee sat frozen with arms crossed and his eyes fixed on a spot in the rug. The reverends watched him closely, waiting for him to say something to his lawyer, to tell him to shut up, that he was fired and the NAACP lawyers would handle the case. They watched ana wauea, DUI sat calmly and listened.
   “We have a lot to offer, Mr. Hailey,” Reinfeld said. It was best to stay calm until the defendant decided who would represent him. A tantrum might ruin things.
   “Such as?” Jake asked.
   “Staff, resources, expertise, experienced trial lawyers who do nothing but capital defense. Plus we have a number of highly competent doctors we use in these cases. You name it, we have it.”
   “How much money do you have to spend?”
   “That’s none of your business.”
   “Is that so? Is it Mr. Hailey’s business? After all, it’s his case. Perhaps Mr. Hailey would like to know how much you have to spend in his defense. Would you, Mr. Hailey?”
   “Yep.”
   “All right, Mr. Reinfeld, how much do you have to spend?”
   Reinfeld squirmed and looked hard at the reverends, who looked hard at Carl Lee.
   “Approximately twenty thousand, so far,” Reinfeld admitted sheepishly.
   Jake laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “Twenty thousand! Y’all are really serious about this, aren’t you? Twenty thousand! I thought you guys played in the big leagues. You raised a hundred and fifty thousand for the cop killer in Birmingham last year. And he was convicted, by the way. You spent a hundred thousand for the whore in Shreve-port who killed her customer. And she, too, was convicted, I might add. And you think this case is worth only twenty thousand.”
   “How much do you have to spend?” asked Reinfeld.
   “If you can explain to me how that’s any of your business, I’ll be glad to discuss it with you.”
   Reinfeld started to speak, then leaned forward and rubbed his temples. “Why don’t you talk to him, Reverend Agee.”
   The reverends stared at Carl Lee. They wished they were alone with him, with no white folks around. They could talk to him like he was a nigger. They could explain things to. him; tell him to fire this young white boy and get him some real lawyers. NAACP lawyers. Lawyers who knew how to fight for blacks. But they were not alone with him, and they couldn’t curse him. They had to show respect for the white folks present. Agee spoke first.
   “Look here, Carl Lee, we tryin’ to help you. We brought in Mr. Reinfeld here, and he’s got all his lawyers and ever-body at your disposal, to help you now. We ain’t got nothin’ against Jake here; he’s a fine young lawyer. But he can work with Mr. Reinfeld. We don’t want you to fire Jake; we just want you to hire Mr. Reinfeld too. They can all work together.”
   “Forget that,” said Jake.
   Agee paused and looked helplessly at Jake.
   “Come on, Jake. We ain’t got nothin’ against you. It’s a big chance for you. You can work with some real big lawyers. Get some real good experience. We—”
   “Let me make it real clear, Reverend. If Carl Lee wants your lawyers, fine. But I’m not playing gofer for anyone. I’m either in or out. Nothing in between. My case or your case. The courtroom is not big enough for me, Reinfeld, and Ru-fus Buckley.”
   Reinfeld rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling, shaking his head slowly and grinning with an arrogant little smirk.
   “You sayin’ it’s up to Carl Lee?” asked Reverend Agee.
   “Of course it’s up to him. He’s hired me. He can fire me. He’s already done it once. I’m not the one facing the gas chamber.”
   “How ‘bout it, Carl Lee?” asked Agee.
   Carl Lee uncrossed his arms and stared at Agee. “This twenty thousand, what’s it for?”
   “Really, it’s more like thirty thousand,” answered Reinfeld. “The local folks have pledged another ten thousand. The money will be used for your defense. None of it’s attorney fees. We’ll need two or three investigators. Two, maybe three, psychiatric experts. We often use a jury psychologist to assist us in selecting the jury. Our defenses are very expensive.”
   “Uh huh. How much money has been raised by local people?” asked Carl Lee.
   “About six thousand,” answered Reinfeld.
   “Who collected mis money: Reinfeld looked at Agee. “The churches,” answered the reverend.
   “Who collected the money from the churches?” asked Carl Lee.
   “We did,” answered Agee.
   “You mean, you did,” said Carl Lee.
   “Well, uh, right. I mean, each church gave the money to me, and I deposited it in a special bank account.”
   “Yeah, and you deposited every nickel you received?”
   “Of course I did.”.
   “Of course. Let me ask you this. How much of the money have you offered to my wife and kids?”
   Agee looked a bit pale, or as pale as possible, and quickly searched the faces of the other reverends, who, at the moment, were preoccupied with a stink bug on the carpet. They offered no help. Each knew Agee had been taking his cut, and each knew the family had received nothing. Agee had profited more. than the family. They knew it, and Carl Lee knew it

   “How much, Reverend?” repeated Carl Lee.
   “Well, we thought the money—”
   “How much, Reverend?”
   “The money is gonna be spent on lawyer fees and stuff like that.”
   “That ain’t what you told your church, is it? You said it was for the support of the family. You almost cried when you talked about how my family might starve to death if the folks didn’t donate all they could. Didn’t you, Reverend?”
   “The money’s for you, Carl Lee. You and your family. Right now we think it could be better spent on your defense.”
   “And what if I don’t want your lawyers? What happens to the twenty thousand?”
   Jake chuckled. “Good question. What happens to the money if Mr. Hailey doesn’t hire you, Mr. Reinfeld?”
   “It’s not my money,” answered Reinfeld.
   “Reverend Agee?” asked Jake.
   The reverend had had enough. He grew defiant and belligerent. He pointed at Carl Lee. “Listen here, Carl Lee. We busted our butts to raise this money. Six thousand bucks from the poor people of this county, people who didn’t have it to give. We worked hard for this money, and it was given by poor people, your people, people on food stamps and welfare and Medicaid, people who couldn’t afford to donate a dime. But they gave for one reason, and only one reason: they believe in you and what you did, and they want you to walk outta that courtroom a free man. Don’t say you don’t want the money.”
   “Don’t preach to me,” Carl Lee replied softly. “You say the poor folks of this county gave six thousand?”
   “Right?”
   “Where’d the rest of the money come from?”
   “NAACP. Five thousand from Atlanta, five from Memphis, and five from national. And it’s strictly for your defense fees.”
   “If I use Mr. Reinfeld here?”
   “Right.”
   “And if I don’t use him, the fifteen thousand disappears?”
   “Right.”
   “What about the other six thousand?”
   “Good question. We ain’t discussed that yet. We thought you’d appreciate us for raisin’ money and tryin’ to help. We’re offerin’ the best lawyers and obviously you don’t care.”
   The room was silent for an eternity as the preachers, the lawyers, and the sheriff waited for some message from the defendant. Carl Lee chewed on his lower lip and stared at the floor. Jake lit another cigar. He had been fired before, and he could handle it again.
   “You gotta know right now?” Carl Lee asked finally.
   “No,” said Agee.
   “Yes,” said Reinfeld. “The trial is less than three weeks away, and we’re two months behind already. My time is too valuable to wait on you, Mr. Hailey. Either you hire me now or forget it. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
   “Well, I’ll tell you what you do, Mr. Reinfeld. You go and catch your plane and don’t ever worry ‘bout comin’ back to Clanton on my behalf. I’ll take my chances with my friend Jake.”
   The Ford County Klavern was founded at midnight, Thursday, July 11, in a small pasture next to a dirt road deep in a forest somewhere in the northern part of the county. The six inductees stood nervously before the huge burning cross and repeated strange words offered by a wizard. A dragon and two dozen white-robed Klansmen watched and chanted when appropriate. A guard with a gun stood quietly down the road, occasionally watching the ceremony but primarily watching for uninvited guests. There were none.
   Precisely at midnight the six fell to their knees and closed their eyes as the white hoods were ceremoniously placed onto their heads. They were Klansmen now, these six. Freddie Cobb, brother of the deceased, Jerry Maples, Clifton Cobb, Ed Wilburn, Morris Lancaster, and Terrell Grist. The grand dragon hovered above each one and chanted the sacred vows of klanhood. The flames from the cross scorched the faces of the new members as they knelt and quietly suffocated under the heavy robes and hoods. Sweat dripped from their red faces as they prayed fervently for the dragon to shut up with his nonsense and finish the ceremony. When the chanting stopped, the new members rose and quickly retreated from the cross. They were embraced by their new brothers, who grabbed their shoulders firmly and pounded primal incantations onto their sweaty collarbones. The heavy hoods were removed, and the Klansmen, both new members and old, walked proudly from the pasture and into the rustic cabin across the dirt road. The same guard sat on the front steps as the whiskey was poured around the table and plans were made for the trial of Carl Lee Hailey.
   Deputy Pirtle pulled the graveyard shift, ten to six, and had stopped for coffee and pie at Gurdy’s all-night diner on the highway north of town when his radio blared out the news that he was wanted at the jail. It was three minutes after midnight, Friday morning.
   Pirtle left his pie and drove a mile south to the jail. “What’s up?” he asked the dispatcher.
   “We got a call a few minutes ago, anonymous, from someone lookin’ for the sheriff. I explained that he was not on duty, so they asked for whoever was on duty. That’s you. They said it was very important, and they’d call back in fifteen minutes.”
   Pirtle poured some coffee and relaxed in Ozzie’s big chair. The phone rang. “It’s for you,” yelled the dispatcher.
   “Hello,” answered Pirtle.
   “Who’s this?” asked the voice.
   “Deputy Joe Pirtle. Who’s this?”
   “Where’s the sheriff?”
   “Asleep, I reckon.”
   “Okay listen, and listen real good because this is important and I ain’t callin’ again. You know that Hailey nigger?”
   “Yeah.”
   “You know his lawyer, Brigance?”
   “Yeah.”
   “Then listen. Sometime between now and three A. M., they’re gonna blow up his house.”
   “Who?”
   “Brigance.”
   “No, I mean who’s gonna blow up his house?”
   “Don’t worry about that, Deputy, just listen to me. This ain’t no joke, and if you think it’s a joke, just sit there and wait for his house to go up. It may happen any minute.”
   The voice became silent but did not disappear. Pirtle listened. “You still there?”
   “Good night, Deputy.” The receiver clicked.
   Pirtle jumped to his feet and ran to the dispatcher. “Did you listen?”
   “Of course I did.”
   “Call Ozzie and tell him to get down here. I’ll be at the Brigance house.”
   Pirtle hid his patrol car in a driveway on Monroe Street and walked across the front lawns to Jake’s house. He saw noth—ing. It was 12:55 A. M. He walked arouno me nuusc wim “.” flashlight and noticed nothing unusual. Every house on the street was dark and asleep. He unscrewed the light bulb on the front porch and took a seat in a wicker chair. He waited. The odd-looking foreign car was parked next to the Oldsmo-bile under the veranda. He would wait and ask Ozzie about notifying Jake.
   Headlights appeared at the end of the street. Pirtle slumped lower in the chair, certain he could not be seen. A red pickup moved suspiciously toward the Brigance house but did not stop. He sat up and watched it disappear down the street.
   Moments later he noticed two figures jogging from the direction of the square. He unbuttoned his holster and removed his service revolver. The first figure was much larger than the second, and seemed to run with more ease and grace. It was Ozzie. The other was Nesbit. Pirtle met the two in the driveway and they retreated into the darkness of the front porch. They whispered and watched the street.
   “What exactly did he say?” asked Ozzie.
   “Said someone’s gonna blow up Jake’s house between now and three A. M. Said it was no joke.”
   “Is that all?”
   “Yep. He wasn’t real friendly.”
   “How long you been here?”
   “Twenty minutes.”
   Ozzie turned to Nesbit. “Give me your radio and go hide in the backyard. Stay quiet and keep your eyes open.”
   Nesbit scurried to the rear of the house and found a small opening between the shrubs along the back fence. Crawling on all fours, he disappeared into the shrubs. From his nest he could see the entire rear of the house.
   “You gonna tell Jake?” asked Pirtle.
   “Not yet. We might in a minute. If we knock on the door, they’ll be turnin’ on lights and we don’t need that right now.”
   “Yeah, but what if Jake hears us and comes through the door firin’ away. He might think we’re just a couple of niggers tryin’ to break in.”
   Ozzie watched the street and said nothing.
   “Look, Ozzie, put yourself in his place. The cops have your house surrounded at one o’clock in the mornin’ waitin’ for somebody to throw a bomb. Now, would you wanna stay in bed asleep or would you wanna know about it?”
   Ozzie studied the houses in the distance.
   “Listen, Sheriff, we better wake them up. What if we don’t stop whoever’s plannin’ this, and somebody inside the house gets hurt? We get blamed, right?”
   Ozzie stood and punched the doorbell. “Unscrew that light bulb,” he ordered, pointing at the porch ceiling.
   “I already did.”
   Ozzie punched the doorbell again. The wooden door swung open, and Jake walked to the storm door and stared at the sheriff. He was wearing a wrinkled nightshirt that fell just below his knees, and he held a loaded. 38 in his right hand. He slowly opened the storm door.
   “What is it, Ozzie?” he asked.
   “Can I come in?”
   “Yeah. What’s going on?”

   “Stay here on the porch,” Ozzie told Pirtle. “I’ll be just a minute.”
   Ozzie closed the front door behind them and turned off the light in the foyer. They sat in the dark living room overlooking the porch and the front yard.
   “Start talking,” Jake said.
   “ ‘Bout a half hour ago we took an anonymous call from someone who said that someone planned to blow up your house between now and three A. M. We’re takin’ it serious.”
   “Thanks.”
   “I’ve got Pirtle on the front porch and Nesbit in the backyard. ‘Bout ten minutes ago Pirtle saw a pickup drive by real interested like, but that’s all we’ve seen.”
   “Have you searched around the house?”
   “Yeah, nothin’. They ain’t been here yet. But somethin’ tells me this is the real thing.”
   “Why?”
   “Just a hunch.”
   Jake laid the. 38 beside him on the couch and rubbed his temples. “What’s your suggestion?”
   “Sit and wait. That’s all we can do. You got a rifle?”
   “I’ve got enough guns to invade Cuba.”
   “Why don’t you get it and get dressed. Take a position in one of those cute little windows upstairs. We’ll niae oui-side and wait,”
   “Have you got enough men?”
   “Yeah, I figure there’ll only be one or two of them.”
   “Who’s them?”
   “Don’t know. Could be the Klan, could be some freelancers. Who knows?”
   Both men sat in deep thought and stared at the dark street. They could see the top of Pirtle’s head as he slumped in the wicker chair just outside the window.
   “Jake, you remember those three civil rights workers killed by the Klan back in ‘64? Found them buried in a levee down around Philadelphia.”
   “Sure. I was a kid, but I remember.”
   “Those boys woulcPve never been found if someone hadn’t told where they was. That someone was in the Klan. An informant. Seems like that always happened to the Klan. Somebody on the inside was always squealin’.”
   “You think it’s the Klan?”
   “Sure looks like it. If it was just one or two freelancers, then who else would know about it? The bigger the group, the better the chance of someone tippin’ us off.”
   “That makes sense, but for some reason I’m not comforted by it.”
   “Of course, it could be a joke.”
   “Nobody’s laughing.”
   “You gonna tell your wife?”
   “Yeah. I’d better go do that.”
   “I would too. But don’t be turnin’ on lights. You might scare them off.”
   “But I would like to scare them off.”
   “And I’d like to catch them. If we don’t catch them now, they’ll try again, and next time they might forget to call us ahead of time.”
   Carla dressed hurriedly in the dark. She was terrified. Jake laid Hanna on the couch in the den, where she mumbled something and went back to sleep. Carla held her head and watched Jake load a rifle.
   “I’ll be upstairs in the guest room. Don’t turn on any lights. The cops have the place surrounded, so don’t worry.”
   “Don’t worry! Are you crazy?”
   “Try to go back to sleep.”
   “Sleep! Jake, you’ve lost your mind.”
   They didn’t wait long. From his vantage point somewhere deep in the shrubs in front of the house, Ozzie saw him first: a lone figure walking casually down the street from the direction opposite the square. He had in his hand a small box or case of some sort. When he was two houses away, he left the street and cut through the front lawns of the neighbors. Ozzie pulled his revolver and nightstick and watched the man walk directly toward him. Jake had him in the scope of his deer rifle. Pirtle crawled like a snake across the porch and into the shrubs, ready to strike.
   Suddenly, the figure darted across the front lawn next door and to the side of Jake’s house. He carefully laid the small suitcase under Jake’s bedroom window. As he turned to run, a huge black nightstick crashed across the side of his head, ripping his right ear in two places, each barely hanging to his head. He screamed and fell to the ground.
   “I got him!” Ozzie yelled. Pirtle and Nesbit sprinted to the side of the house. Jake calmly walked down the stairs.
   “I’ll be back in a minute,” he told Carla.
   Ozzie grabbed the suspect by the neck and sat him next to the house. He was conscious but dazed. The suitcase was inches away.
   “What’s your name?” Ozzie demanded.
   He moaned and clutched his head and said nothing.
   “I asked you a question,” Ozzie said as he hovered over his suspect. Pirtle and Nesbit stood nearby, guns drawn, too frightened to speak or move. Jake stared at the suitcase.
   “I ain’t sayin’,” came the reply.
   Ozzie raised the nightstick high over his head and drove it solidly against the man’s right ankle. The crack of the bone was sickening.
   He howled and grabbed his leg. Ozzie kicked him in the face. He fell backward and his head smashed into the side of the house. He rolled to his side and groaned in pain.
   Jake knelt above the suitcase and put his ear next to it. He jumped and retreated. “It’s ticking,” he said weakly.
   Ozzie bent over the suspect and laid the nightstick softly against his nose. “I’ve got one more question before I break ever bone in your body. What’s in the box?”
   No answer.
   Ozzie recoiled the nightstick and broke the other ankle. “What’s in the box!” he shouted.
   “Dynamite!” came the anguished reply.
   Pirtle dropped his gun. Nesbit’s blood pressure shot through his cap and he leaned on the house. Jake turned white and his knees vibrated. He ran through the front door yelling at Carla. “Get the car keys! Get the car keys!”
   “What for?” she asked nervously.
   “Just do as I say. Get the car keys and get in the car.”
   He lifted Hanna and carried her through the kitchen, into the carport, and laid her in the back seat of Carla’s Cutlass. He took Carla by the arm and helped her into the car. “Leave, and don’t come back for thirty minutes.”
   “Jake, what’s going on?” she demanded.
   “I’ll tell you later. There’s no time now. Just leave. Go drive around for thirty minutes. Stay away from this street.”
   “But why, Jake? What have you found?”
   “Dynamite.”
   She backed out of the driveway and disappeared.
   When Jake returned to the side of the house, the suspect’s left hand had been handcuffed to the gas meter next to the window. He was moaning, mumbling, cursing. Ozzie carefully lifted the suitcase by the handle and sat it neatly between the suspect’s broken legs. Ozzie kicked both legs to spread them. He groaned louder. Ozzie, the deputies, and Jake backed away slowly and watched him. He began to cry.
   “I don’t know how to defuse it,” he said through clenched teeth.
   “You’d better learn fast,” Jake said, his voice somewhat stronger.
   The suspect closed his eyes and lowered his head. He bit his lip and breathed loudly and rapidly. Sweat dripped from his chin and eyebrows. His ear was shredded and hung like a falling leaf. “Give me a flashlight.”
   Pirtle handed him a flashlight.
   “I need both hands,” he said.
   “Try it with one,” Ozzie said.
   He placed his fingers gently on the latch and closed his eyes.
   “Let’s get outta here,” Ozzie said. They ran around the corner of the house and into the carport, as far away as possible.
   “Where’s your family?” Ozzie asked.
   “Gone. Recognize him?”
   “Nope,” said Ozzie.
   “I never seen him,” said Nesbit.
   Pirtle shook his head.
   Ozzie called the dispatcher, who called Deputy Riley, the self-trained explosives man for the county.
   “What if he passes out and the bomb goes off?” Jake asked.
   “You got insurance, don’t you, Jake?” asked Nesbit.
   “That’s not funny.”
   “We’ll give him a few minutes, then Pirtle can go check on him,” said Ozzie.
   “Why me?”
   “Okay, Nesbit can go.”
   “I think Jake should go,” said Nesbit. “It’s his house.”
   “Very funny,” said Jake.
   They waited and chatted nervously. Nesbit made another stupid remark about insurance. “Quiet!” Jake said. “I heard something.”
   They froze. Seconds later the suspect yelled again. They ran back across the front yard, then slowly turned the corner. The empty suitcase had been tossed a few feet away. Next to the man was a neat pile of a dozen sticks of dynamite. Between his legs was a large, round-faced clock with wires bound together with silver electrical tape.
   “Is it defused?” Ozzie asked anxiously.
   “Yeah,” he replied between heavy, rapid breaths.
   Ozzie knelt before him and removed the clock and the wires. He did not touch the dynamite. “Where are your buddies?”
   No response.
   He removed his nightstick and moved closer to the man. “I’m gonna start breakin’ ribs one at a time. You better start talkin’. Now where are your buddies?”
   “Kiss my ass.”
   Ozzie stood and quickly looked around, not at Jake and the deputies, but at the house next door. Seeing nothing, he raised the nightstick. The suspect’s left arm hung from the gas meter, and Ozzie planted the stick just below the left armpit. He squealed and jerked to the left. Jake almost felt sorry for him.
   “Where are they?” Ozzie demanded.
   No response.
   Jake turned his head as the sheriff landed another blow to the ribs.
   “Where are they?”
   No response.
   Ozzie raised the nightstick.
   “Stop… please stop,” the suspect begged.
   “Where are they?”
   “Down that way. A couple of blocks.”
   “How many?”
   “One.”
   “What vehicle?”
   “Pickup. Red GMC.”
   “Get the patrol cars,” Ozzie ordered.
   Jake waited impatiently under the carport for his wife to return. At two-fifteen she drove slowly into the driveway and parked.
   “Is Hanna asleep?” Jake asked as he opened the door.
   “Yes.”
   “Good. Leave her there. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”
   “Where are we going?”
   “We’ll discuss it inside.”
   Jake poured the coffee and tried to act calm. Carla was scared and shaking and angry and making it difficult to act calm. He described the bomb and suspect and explained that Ozzie was searching for the accomplice.

   “I want you and Hanna to go to Wilmington and stay with your parents until after the trial,” he said.
   She stared at the coffee and said nothing.
   “I’ve already called your dad and explained everything.
   They’re scared too, and they insist you stay with them until this thing is over.”
   “And what if I don’t want to go?”
   “Please, Carla. How can you argue at a time like this?”
   “What about you?”
   “I’ll be fine. Ozzie will give me a bodyguard and they’ll watch the house around the clock. I’ll sleep at the office some. I’ll be safe, I promise.”
   She was not convinced.
   “Look, Carla, I’ve got a thousand things on my mind right now. I’ve got a client facing the gas chamber and his trial is ten days away. I can’t lose it. I’ll work night and day from now until the twenty-second, and once the trial starts you won’t see me anyway. The last thing I need is to be worried about you and Hanna. Please go.”
   “They were going to kill us, Jake. They tried to kill us.”
   He couldn’t deny it.
   “You promised to withdraw if the danger became real.”
   “It’s out of the question. Noose would never allow me to withdraw at this late date.”
   “I feel as though you’ve lied to me.”
   “That’s not fair. I think I underestimated this thing, and now it’s too late.”
   She walked to the bedroom and began packing.
   “The plane leaves Memphis at six-thirty. Your father will meet you at the Raleigh airport at nine-thirty.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   Fifteen minutes later they left Clanton. Jake drove and Carla ignored him. At five, they ate breakfast in the Memphis airport. Hanna was sleepy but excited about seeing her grandparents. Carla said little. She had much to say, but as a rule, they didn’t argue in front of Hanna. She ate quietly and sipped her coffee and watched her husband casually read the paper as if nothing had happened.
   Jake kissed them goodbye and promised to call every day. The plane left on time. At seven-thirty he was in Ozzie’s office.
   “Who is he?” Jake asked the sheriff.
   “We have no idea. No wallet, no identification, nothin’. And he ain’t talkin’.”
   “Does anybody recognize him?”
   Ozzie thought for a second. “Well, Jake, he’s kinda hard to recognize right now. Got a lot of bandages on his face.”
   Jake smiled. “You play rough, don’t you, big guy?”
   “Only when I have to. I didn’t hear you object.”
   “No, I wanted to help. What about his friend?”
   “We found him sleepin’ in a red GMC ‘bout a half a mile from your house. Terrell Grist. Local redneck. Lives out from Lake Village. I think he’s a friend of the Cobb family.”
   Jake repeated the name a few times. “Never heard of him. Where is he?”
   “Hospital. Same room with the other.”
   “My God, Ozzie, did you break his legs too?”
   “Jake, my friend, he resisted arrest. We had to subdue him. Then we had to interrogate him. He didn’t want to cooperate.”
   “What did he say?”
   “Not much. Don’t know nothin’. I’m convinced he doesn’t know the guy with the dynamite.”
   “You mean they brought in a professional?”
   “Could be. Riley looked at the firecrackers and timin’ device and said it was pretty good work. We’d have never found you, your wife, your daughter, probably never found your house. It was set for two A. M. Without the tip, you’d be dead, Jake. So would your family.”
   Jake felt dizzy and sat on the couch. Reaction set in like a hard kick to the groin. A case of diarrhea almost manifested itself, and he was nauseated.
   “You get your family off?”
   “Yeah,” he said weakly.
   “I’m gonna assign a deputy to you full-time. Got a preference?”
   “Not really.”
   “How ‘bout Nesbit?”
   “Fine. Thanks.”
   “One other thing. I guess you want this kept quiet?”
   “If possible. Who knows about it?”
   “Just me and the deputies. I think we can keep it under wraps until after the trial, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
   “I understand. Try your best.”
   “I will, Jake.”
   “I know you will, Ozzie. I appreciate you.”
   Jake drove to the office, made the coffee and lay on the couch in his office. He wanted a quick nap, but sleep was impossible. His eyes burned, but he could not close them. He stared at the ceiling fan.
   “Mr. Brigance,” Ethel called over the intercom.
   No response.
   “Mr. Brigance!”
   Somewhere in the deep recesses of his subconscious, Jake heard himself being paged/. He bolted upright. “Yes!” he yelled.
   “Judge Noose is on the phone.”
   “Okay, okay,” he mumbled as he staggered to his desk. He checked his watch. Nine A. M. He had slept for an hour.
   “Good morning, Judge,” he said cheerfully, trying to sound alert and awake.
   “Good morning, Jake. How are you?”
   “Just fine, Judge. Busy getting ready for the big trial.”
   “I thought so. Jake, what is your schedule today?”
   What’s today, he thought. He grabbed his appointment book. “Nothing but office work.”
   “Good. I would like to have lunch with you at my home. Say around eleven-thirty.”
   “I would be delighted, Judge. What’s the occasion?”
   “I want to discuss the Hailey case.”
   “Fine, Judge. I’ll see you at eleven-thirty.”
   The Nooses lived in a stately antebellum home off the town square in Chester. The home had been in the wife’s family for over a century, and although it could stand some maintenance and repair, it was in decent condition. Jake had never been a guest in the house, and had never met Mrs. Noose, although he had heard she was a snobby blue blood whose family at one time had money but lost it. She was as unattractive as Ichabod, and Jake wondered what the children looked like. She was properly polite when she met Jake at the door and attempted small talk as she led him to the patio, where His Honor was drinking iced tea and reviewing correspondence. A maid was preparing a small table nearby.
   “Good to see you, Jake,” Ichabod said warmly. “Thanks for coming over.”
   “My pleasure, Judge. Beautiful place you have here.”
   They discussed the Hailey trial over soup and chicken salad sandwiches. Ichabod was dreading the ordeal, although he didn’t admit it. He seemed tired, as if the case was already a burden. He surprised Jake with an admission that he detested Buckley. Jake said he felt the same way.
   “Jake, I’m perplexed over this venue ruling,” he said. “I’ve studied your brief and Buckley’s brief, and I’ve researched the law myself. It’s a tough question. Last weekend I attended a judges’ conference on the Gulf Coast, and I had a few drinks with Judge Denton on the Supreme Court. He and I were in law school together, and we were colleagues in the state senate. We’re very close. He’s from Dupree County in south Mississippi, and he says that everybody down there talks about the case. People on the street ask him how he’s gonna rule if the case winds up on appeal. Everybody’s got an opinion, and that’s almost four hundred miles away. Now, if I agree to change venue, where do we go? We can’t leave the state, and I’m convinced that everyone has not only heard about your client, but already prejudged him. Would you agree?”
   “Well, there’s been a lot of publicity,” Jake said carefully.
   “Talk to me, Jake. We’re not in court. That’s why I invited you here. I want to pick your brain. I know there’s been a lot of publicity. If we move it, where do we go?”
   “How about the delta?”
   Noose smiled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
   “Of course. We could pick us a good jury over there. One that would truly understand the issues.”
   “Yeah, and one that would be half black.”
   “I hadn’t thought about that.”
   “Do you really believe those folks haven’t already prejudged this defendant?”
   “I suppose so.”
   “So where do we go?”
   “Did Judge Denton have a suggestion?”
   “Not really. We discussed the court’s traditional refusal to allow changes of venue except in the most heinous of cases. It’s a difficult issue with a notorious crime that arouses passion both for and against the defendant. With television and all the press nowadays, these crimes are instant news, and everyone knows the details long before the trial. And this case tops them all. Even Denton admitted he’d never seen a case with this much publicity, and he admitted it would be impossible to find a fair and impartial jury anywhere in Mississippi. Suppose I leave it in Ford County and your man is convicted. Then you appeal claiming venue should have been changed. Denton indicated he would be sympathetic with my decision not to move it. He thinks a majority of the court would uphold my denial of the venue change. Of course, that’s no guarantee, and we discussed it over several long drinks. Would you like a drink?”
   “No thanks.”
   “I just don’t see any reason to move the trial from Clanton. If we did, we’d be fooling ourselves if we thought we could find twelve people who are undecided about Mr. Hailey’s guilt.”
   “Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind, Judge.”
   “I have. We’re not changing venue. The trial will be held in Clanton. I’m not comfortable with it, but I see no reason to move the trial. Besides, I like Clanton. It’s close to home and the air conditioning works in the courthouse.”
   Noose reached for a file and found an envelope. “Jake, this is an order, dated today, overruling the request to change venue. I’ve sent a copy to Buckley, and there’s a copy for you. The original is in here, and I would appreciate you filing this with the clerk in Clanton.”
   “I’ll be glad to.”
   “I just hope I’m doing the right thing. I’ve really struggled with this.”
   “It’s a tough job,” Jake offered, attempting sympathy.
   Noose called the maid and ordered a gin and tonic. He insisted that Jake view his rose garden, and they spent an hour in the sprawling rear lawn admiring His Honor’s flow—ers. Jake thought of Carla, and Hanna, and his home, and the dynamite, but gallantly remained interested in Ichabod’s handiwork.
   Friday afternoons often reminded Jake of law school, when, depending on the weather, he and his friends would either group in their favorite bar in Oxford and guzzle happy-hour beer and debate their new-found theories of law or curse the insolent, arrogant, terroristic law professors, or, if the weather was warm and sunny, pile the beer in Jake’s well-used convertible Beetle and head for the beach at Sardis Lake, where the women from sorority row plastered their beautiful, bronze bodies with oil and sweated in the sun and coolly ignored the catcalls from the drunken law students and fraternity rats. He missed those innocent days. He hated law school-every law student with any sense hated law school-but he missed the friends and good times, especially the Fridays. He missed the pressureless lifestyle, although at times the pressure had seemed unbearable, especially during the first year when the professors were more abusive than normal. He missed being broke, because when he had nothing he owed nothing and most of his classmates were in the same boat. Now that he had an income he worried constantly about mortgages, the overhead, credit cards, and realizing the American dream of becoming affluent. Not wealthy, just affluent. He missed his Volkswagen because it had been his first new car, a gift at high school graduation, and it was paid for, unlike the Saab. He missed being single, occasionally, although he was happily married. And he missed beer, either from a pitcher, can, or bottle. It didn’t matter. He had been a social drinker, only with friends, and he spent as much time as possible with his friends, He didn’t drink every day in law school, and he seldom got drunk. But there had been several painful, memorable hangovers.
   Then came Carla. He met her at the beginning of his last semester, and six months later they married. She was beautiful, and that’s what got his attention. She was quiet, and a little snobby at first, like most of the wealthy sorority girls at Ole Miss. But he found her to be warm and personable and lacking in self-confidence. He had never under—stood how someone as beautiful as Carla could be insecure. She was a Dean’s List scholar in liberal arts with no intention of ever doing more than teaching school for a few years. Her family had money, and her mother had never worked. This appealed to Jake-the family money and the absence of a career ambition. He wanted a wife who would stay home and stay beautiful and have babies and not try to wear the pants. It was love at first sight.
   But she frowned on drinking, any type of drinking. Her father drank heavily when she was a child, and there were painful memories. So Jake dried out his last semester in law school and lost fifteen pounds. He looked great, felt great, and he was madly in love. But he missed beer.
   There was a country grocery a few miles out of Chester with a Coors sign in the window. Coors had been his favorite in law school, although at that time it was not for sale east of the river. It was a delicacy at Ole Miss, and the bootlegging of Coors had been profitable around the campus. Now that it was available everywhere most folks had returned to Budweiser.

   It was Friday, and hot. Carla was nine hundred miles away. He had no desire to go to the office, and anything there could wait until tomorrow. Some nut just tried to kill his family and remove his landmark from the National Register of Historic Places. The biggest trial of his career was ten days away. He was not ready. and the pressure was mounting. He had just lost his most critical pretrial motion. And he was thirsty. Jake stopped and bought a six-pack of Coors.
   It took almost two hours to travel the sixty miles from Chester to Clanton. He enjoyed the diversion, the scenery, the beer. He stopped twice to relieve himself and once to get another six-pack. He felt great.
   There was only one place to go in his condition. Not home, not the office, certainly not the courthouse to file Ichabod’s villainous order. He parked the Saab behind the nasty little Porsche and glided up the sidewalk with cold beer in hand. As usual, Lucien was rocking slowly on the front porch, drinking and reading a treatise on the insanity defense. He closed the book and, noticing the beer, smiled at his former associate. Jake just grinned at him.
   “What’s the occasion, Jake?”
   “Nothing, really. Just got thirsty.”
   “I see. What about your wife?”
   “She doesn’t tell me what to do. I’m my own man. I’m the boss. If I want beer, I’ll drink some beer, and she’ll say nothing.” Jake took a long sip.
   “She must be outta town.”
   “North Carolina.”
   “When did she leave?”
   “Six this morning. Flew from Memphis with Hanna. She’ll stay with her parents in Wilmington until the trial’s over. They’ve got a fancy little beach house where they spend their summers.”
   “She left this morning, and you’re drunk by mid-afternoon.”
   “I’m not drunk,” Jake answered. “Yet.”
   “How long you been drinkin’?”
   “Coupla hours. I bought a six-pack when I left Noose’s house around one-thirty. How long have you been drinking?”
   “I normally drink my breakfast. Why were you at his house?”
   “We discussed the trial over lunch. He refused to change venue.”
   “He what?”
   “You heard me. The trial will be in Clanton.”
   Lucien took a drink and rattled his ice. “Sallie!” he screamed.
   “Did he give any reason?”
   “Yeah. Said it would be impossible to find jurors anywhere who hadn’t heard of the case.”
   “I told you so. That’s a good common sense reason not to move it, but it’s a poor legal reason. Noose is wrong.”
   Sallie returned with a fresh drink and took Jake’s beer to the refrigerator. Lucien took a slug and smacked his lips. He wiped his mouth with his arm, and took another long drink.
   “You know what that means, don’t you?” he asked.
   “Sure. An all-white jury.”
   “That, plus a reversal on appeal if he’s convicted.”
   “Don’t bet on it. Noose has already consulted with the Supreme Court. He thinks the Court will affirm him if challenged. He thinks he’s on solid ground.”
   “He’s an idiot. I can show him twenty cases that say the trial should be moved. I think he’s afraid to move it.”
   “Why would Noose be afraid?”
   “He’s taking some heat.”
   “From who?”
   Lucien admired the golden liquid in his large glass and slowly stirred the ice cubes with a finger. He grinned and looked as though he knew something but wouldn’t tell unless he was begged.
   “From who?” Jake demanded, glaring at his friend with shiny, pink eyes.
   “Buckley,” Lucien said smugly.
   “Buckley,” Jake repeated. “I don’t understand.”
   “I knew you wouldn’t.”
   “Do you mind explaining?”
   “I guess I could. But you can’t repeat it. It’s very confidential. Came from good sources.”
   “Who?”
   “Can’t tell.”
   “Who are your sources?” Jake insisted.
   “I said I can’t tell. Won’t tell. Okay?”
   “How can Buckley put pressure on Noose?”
   “If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you.”
   “Buckley has no influence over Noose. Noose despises him. Told me so himself. Today. Over lunch.”
   “I realize that.”
   “Then how can you say Noose is feeling some heat from Buckley?”
   “If you’ll shut up, I’ll tell you.”
   Jake finished a beer and called for Sallie.
   “You know what a cutthroat and political whore Buck-ley is.”
   Jake nodded.
   “You know how bad he wants to win this trial. If he wins, he thinks it will launch his campaign for attorney general.”
   “Governor,” said Jake.
   “Whatever. He’s ambitious, okay?”
   “Okay.”
   “Well, he’s been getting political chums throughout the district to call Noose and suggest that the trial be held in Ford County. Some have been real blunt with Noose. Like, move the trial, and we’ll get you in the next election. Leave it in Clanton, and we’ll help you get reelected.”
   “I don’t believe that.”
   “Fine. But it’s true.”
   “How do you know?”
   “Sources.”
   “Who’s called him?”
   “One example. Remember that thug that used to be sheriff in Van Buren County? Motley? FBI got him, but he’s out now. Still a very popular man in that county.”
   “Yeah, I remember.”
   “I know for a fact he went to Noose’s house with a couple of sidekicks and suggested very strongly that Noose leave the trial here. Buckley put them up to it.”
   “What did Noose say?”
   “They all cussed each other real good. Motley told Noose he wouldn’t get fifty votes in Van Buren County next election. They promised to stuff ballot boxes, harass the blacks, rig the absentee ballots, the usual election practices in Van Buren County. And Noose knows they’ll do it.”
   “Why should he worry about it?”
   “Don’t be stupid, Jake. He’s an old man who can do nothing but be a judge. Can you imagine him trying to start a law practice. He makes sixty thousand a year and would starve if he got beat. Most judges are like that. He’s got to keep that job. Buckley knows it, so he’s talking to the local bigots and pumping them up and telling how this no-good nigger might be acquitted if the trial is moved and that they should put a little heat on the judge. That’s why Noose is feeling some pressure.”
   They drank for a few minutes in silence, both rocking quietly in the tall wooden rockers. The beer felt great.
   “There’s more,” Lucien said.
   “To what?”
   “To Noose.”
   “What is it?”
   “He’s had some threats. Not political threats, but death threats. I hear he’s scared to death. Got the police over there guarding his house. Carries a gun now.”
   “I know the feeling,” Jake mumbled.
   “Yeah, I heard.”
   “Heard what?”
   “About the dynamite. Who was he?”
   Jake was flabbergasted. He stared blankly at Lucien, unable to speak.
   “Don’t ask. I got connections. Who was he?”
   “No one knows.”
   “Sounds like a pro.”
   “Thanks.”
   “You’re welcome to stay here. I’ve got five bedrooms.”
   The sun was gone by eight-fifteen when Ozzie parked his patrol car behind the Saab, which was still parked behind the Porsche. He walked to the foot of the steps leading up to the porch. Lucien saw him first.
   “Hello, Sheriff,” he attempted to say, his tongue thick and ponderous.
   “Evenin’, Lucien. Where’s Jake?”
   Lucien nodded toward the end of the porch, where Jake lay sprawled on the swing.
   “He’s taking a nap,” Lucien explained helpfully.
   Ozzie walked across the squeaking boards and stood above the comatose figure snoring peacefully. He punched him gently in the ribs. Jake opened his eyes, and struggled desperately to sit up.
   “Carla called my office lookin’ for you. She’s worried sick. She’s been callin’ all afternoon and couldn’t find you. Nobody’s seen you. She thinks you’re dead.”
   Jake rubbed his eyes as the swing rocked gently. “Tell her I’m not dead. Tell her you’ve seen me and talked to me and you are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not dead. Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow. Tell her, Ozzie, please tell her.”
   “No way, buddy. You’re a big boy, you call her and tell her.” Ozzie walked off the porch. He was not amused.
   Jake struggled to his feet and staggered into the house. “Where’s the phone?” he yelled at Sallie. As he dialed, he could hear Lucien on the porch laughing uncontrollably.
   The last hangover had been in law school, six or seven years earlier; he couldn’t remember. The date, that is. He couldn’t remember the date, but the pounding head, dry mouth, short breath, and burning eyes brought back painful, vivid memories of long and unforgettable bouts with the tasty brown stuff.
   He knew he was in trouble immediately, when his left eye opened. The eyelids on the right one were matted firmly together, and they would not open, unless manually opened with fingers, and he did not dare move. He lay there in the dark room on a couch, fully dressed, including shoes, listening to his head pound and watching the ceiling fan rotate slowly. He felt nauseated. His neck ached because there was no pillow. His feet throbbed because of the shoes. His stomach rolled and flipped and promised to erupt. Death would have been welcome.

   Jake had problems with hangovers because he could not sleep them off. Once his eyes opened and his brain awoke and began spinning again, and the throbbing between his temples set in, he could not sleep. He had never understood this. His friends in law school could sleep for days with a hangover, but not Jake. He never managed more than a few hours after the last can or bottle was empty.
   Why? That was always the question the next morning. Why did he do it? A cold beer was refreshing. Maybe two or three. But ten, fifteen, even twenty? He had lost count. After six, beer lost its taste, and from then on the drinking was just for the sake of drinking and getting drunk. Lucien had been very helpful. Before dark he had sent Sallie to the store for a whole case of Coors, which he gladly paid for, then encouraged Jake to drink. There were a few cans left. It was Lu-cien’s fault.
   Slowly he lifted his legs, one at a time, and placed his feet on the floor. He gently rubbed his temples, to no avail. He breathed deeply, but his heart pounded rapidly, pumping more blood to his brain and fueling the small jackhammers at work on the inside of his head. He had to have water. His..v. guv, rraa uciiyuiaieu ana putted to the point where it was easier to leave his mouth open like a dog in heat. Why, oh why?
   He stood, carefully, slowly, retardedly, and crept into the kitchen. The light above the stove was shielded and dim, but it penetrated the darkness and pierced his eyes. He rubbed his eyes and tried to clean them with his smelly fingers. He drank the warm-water slowly and allowed it to run from his mouth and drip on the floor. He didn’t care. Sallie would clean it. The clock on the counter said it was two-thirty.
   Gaining momentum, he walked awkwardly yet quietly through the living room, past the couch with no pillow, and out the door. The porch was littered with empty cans and bottles. Why?
   He sat in the hot shower in his office for an hour, unable to move. It relieved some of the aches and soreness, but not the violence swirling around his brain. Once in law school, he had managed to crawl from his bed to the refrigerator for a beer. He drank it, and it helped; then he drank another, and felt much better. He remembered this now while sitting in the shower, and the thought of another beer made him vomit.
   He lay on the conference table in his underwear and tried his best to die. He had plenty of life insurance. They would leave his house alone. The new lawyer could get a continuance.
   Nine days to trial. Time was scarce, precious,, and he had just wasted one day with a massive hangover. Then he thought of Carla, and his head pounded harder. He had tried to sound sober. Told her he and Lucien had spent the afternoon reviewing insanity cases, and he would have called earlier but the phones weren’t working, at least Lucien’s weren’t. But his tongue was heavy and his speech slow, and she knew he was drunk. She was furious-a controlled fury. Yes, her house was still standing. That was all she believed.
   At six-thirty he called her again. She might be impressed if she knew he was at the office by dawn working diligently. She wasn’t. With great pain and fortitude, he sounded cheerful, even hyper. She was not impressed.
   “How do you feel?” she insisted.
   “Great!” he answered with closed eyes.
   “What time did you go to bed?”
   What bed, thought Jake. “Right after I called you.”
   She said nothing.
   “I got to the office at three o’clock this morning,” he said proudly.
   “Three o’clock!”
   “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep.”
   “But you didn’t sleep any Thursday night.” A touch of concern edged through her icy words, and he felt better.
   “I’ll be okay. I may stay with Lucien some this week and next. It might be safer over there.”
   “What about the bodyguard?”
   “Yeah, Deputy Nesbit. He’s parked outside asleep in his car.”
   She hesitated and Jake could feel the phone lines thawing. “I’m worried about you,” she said warmly.
   “I’ll be fine, dear. I’ll call tomorrow. I’ve got work to do.”
   He replaced the receiver, ran to the restroom and vomited again.
   The knocking persisted at the front door. Jake ignored it for fifteen minutes, but whoever it was knew he was there and kept knocking.
   He walked to the balcony. “Who is it?” he yelled at the street.
   The woman walked from the sidewalk under the balcony and leaned on a black BMW parked next to the Saab. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of faded, starched, well-fitting jeans. The noon sun burned brightly and blinded her as she looked up in his direction. It also illuminated her light, goldish red hair.
   “Are you Jake Brigance?” she asked, shielding her eyes with a forearm.
   “Yeah. Whatta you want?”
   “I need to talk to you.”
   “I’m very busy.”
   “It’s very important.”
   “You’re not a client, are you?” he asked, focusing his anu Knowing sne was indeed not a client.
   “No. I just need five minutes of your time.”
   Jake unlocked the door. She walked in casually as if she owned the place. She shook his hand firmly.
   “I’m Ellen Roark.”
   He pointed to a seat by the door. “Nice to meet you. Sit down.”
   Jake sat on the edge of Ethel’s desk. “One syllable or two?”
   “I beg your pardon.”
   She had a quick, cocky Northeast accent, but tempered with some time in the South.
   “Is it Rork or Row Ark?”
   “R-o-a-r-k. That’s Rork in Boston, and Row Ark in Mississippi.”
   “Mind if I call you Ellen?”
   “Please do, with two syllables. Can I call you Jake?”
   “Yes, please.”
   “Good, I hadn’t planned to call you Mister.”
   “Boston, huh?”
   “Yeah, I was born there. Went to Boston College. My dad is Sheldon Roark, a notorious criminal lawyer in Boston.”
   “I guess I’ve missed him. What brings you to Mississippi?”
   “I’m in law school at Ole Miss.”
   “Ole Miss! How’d you wind up down here?”
   “My mother’s from Natchez. She was a sweet little sorority girl at Ole Miss, then moved to New York!, where she met my father.”
   “I married a sweet little sorority girl from Ole Miss.”
   “They have a great selection.”
   “Would you like coffee?”
   “No thanks.”
   “Well, now that we know each other, what brings you to Clanton?”
   . “Carl Lee Hailey.”
   “I’m not surprised.”
   “I’ll finish law school in December, and I’m killing time in Oxford this summer. I’m taking criminal procedure under Guthrie, and I’m bored.”
   “Crazy George Guthrie.”
   “Yeah, he’s still crazy.
   “He flunked me in constitutional law my first year.”
   “Anyway, I’d like to help you with the trial.”
   Jake smiled and took a seat in Ethel’s heavy-duty, rotating secretarial chair. He studied her carefully. Her black cotton polo shirt was fashionably weathered and neatly pressed. The outlines and subtle shadows revealed a healthy bustline, no bra. The thick, wavy hair fell perfectly on her shoulders.
   “What makes you think I need help?”
   “I know you practice alone, and I know you don’t have a law clerk.”
   “How do you know all this?”
   “Newsweek.”
   “Ah, yes. A wonderful publication. It was a good picture, wasn’t it?”
   “You looked a bit stuffy, but it was okay. You look better in person.”
   “What credentials do you bring with you?”
   “Genius runs in my family. I finished summa cum laude at BC, and I’m second in my law class. Last summer I spent three months with the Southern Prisoners Defense League in Birmingham and played gofer in seven capital trials. I watched Elmer Wayne Doss die in the Florida electric chair and I watched Willie Ray Ash get lethally injected in Texas. In my spare time at Ole Miss I write briefs for the ACLU and I’m working on two death penalty appeals for a law firm in Spartanburg, South Carolina. I was raised in my father’s law office, and I was proficient in legal research before I could drive. I’ve watched him defend murderers, rapists, embezzlers, extortionists, terrorists, assassins, child abusers, child fondlers, child killers, and children who killed their parents. I worked forty hours a week in his office when I was in high school and fifty when I was in college. He has eighteen lawyers in his firm, all very bright, very talented. It’s a great training ground for criminal lawyers, and I’ve been there for fourteen years. I’m twenty-five years old, and when I grow up I want to be a radical criminal lawyer like my dad. 0.—”” ~c. ii stamping out me death penalty.”
   “Is that all?”
   “My dad’s filthy rich, and even though we’re Irish Catholic I’m an only child. I’ve got more money than you do so I’ll work for free. No charge. A free law clerk for three weeks. I’ll do all the research, typing, answering the phone. I’ll even carry your briefcase and make the coffee.”
   “I was afraid you’d want to be a law partner.”
   “No. I’m a woman, and I’m in the South. I know my place.”
   “Why are you so interested in this case?”
   “I want to be in the courtroom. I love criminal trials, big trials where there’s a life on the line and pressure so thick you can see it in the air. Where the courtroom’s packed and security is tight. Where half the people hate the defendant and his lawyers and the other half pray he gets off. I love it. And this is the trial of all trials. I’m not a Southerner and I find this place bewildering most of the time, but I have developed a perverse love for it. It’ll never make sense to me, but it is fascinating. The racial implications are enormous. The trial of a black father for killing two white men who raped his daughter-my father said he would take the case for free.”
   “Tell him to stay in Boston.”
   “It’s a trial lawyer’s dream. I just want to be there. I’ll stay out of the way, I promise. Just let me work in the background and watch the trial.”
   “Judge Noose hates women lawyers.”
   “So does every male lawyer in the South. Besides, I’m not a lawyer, I’m a law student.”
   “I’ll let you explain that to him.”
   “So I’ve got the job.”
   Jake stopped staring at her and breathed deeply. A minor wave of nausea vibrated through his stomach and lungs and took his breath. The jackhammers had returned with a fury and he needed to be near the restroom.
   “Yes, you’ve got the job. I could use some free research. These cases are complicated, as I’m sure you are aware.”
   She flashed a comely, confident smile. “When do I start?”
   “Now.”
   Jake led her through a quick tour of the office, and assigned her to the war room upstairs. They laid the Hailey file on the conference table and she spent an hour copying it.
   At two-thirty Jake awoke from a nap on his couch. He walked downstairs to the conference room. She had removed half the books from the shelves and had them scattered the length of the table with page markers sticking up every fifty or so pages. She was busy taking notes.
   “Not a bad library,” she said.
   “Some of these books haven’t been used in twenty years.”

   “I noticed the dust.”
   “Are you hungry?”
   “Yes. I’m starving.”
   “There’s a little cafe around the corner where the specialty is grease and fried corn meal. My system needs a shot of grease.”
   “Sounds delicious.”
   They walked around the square to Claude’s, where the crowd was thin for a Saturday afternoon. There were no other whites in the place. Claude was absent and the silence was deafening. Jake ordered a cheeseburger, onion rings, and three headache powders.
   “Got a headache?” Ellen asked.
   “Massive.”
   “Stress?”
   “Hangover.”
   “Hangover? I thought you were a teetotaler.”
   “And where’d you hear that?”
   “Newsweek. The article said you were a clean-cut family man, workaholic, devout Presbyterian who drank nothing and smoked cheap cigars. Remember? How could you forget, right?”
   “You believe everything you read?”
   “No.”
   “Good, because last night I got plastered, and I’ve puked all morning.”
   The law clerk was amused. “What do you drink?”
   “I don’t-remember. At least I didn’t until last night.
   i, ano i nope it’s my last. I’d forgotten how terrible these things are.”
   “Why do lawyers drink so much?”
   “They learn how in law school. Does your dad drink?”
   “Are you kidding? We’re Catholic. He’s careful, though.”
   “Do you drink?”
   “Sure, all the time,” she said proudly.
   “Then you’ll make a great lawyer.”
   Jake carefully mixed the three powders in a glass of ice water and slugged it down. He grimaced and wiped his mouth. She watched intently with an amused smile.
   “What’d your wife say?”
   “About what?”
   “The hangover, from such a devout and religious family man.”
   “She doesn’t know about it. She left me early yesterday morning.”
   “I’m sorry.”
   “She went to stay with her parents until the trial is over. We’ve had anonymous phone calls and death threats for two months now, and early yesterday morning they planted dynamite outside our bedroom window. The cops found it in time and they caught the men, probably the Klan. Enough dynamite to level the house and kill all of us. That was a good excuse to get drunk.”
   “I’m sorry to hear that.”
   “The job you’ve just taken could be very dangerous. You should know that at this point.”
   “I’ve been threatened before. Last summer in Dothan, Alabama, we defended two black teenagers who had sodomized and strangled an eighty-year-old woman. No lawyer in the state would take the case so they called the Defense League. We rode into town on black horses and the mere sight of us would cause lynch mobs to form instantly on street corners. I’ve never felt so hated in my life. We hid in a motel in another town and felt safe, until one night two men cornered me in the motel lounge and tried to abduct me.”
   “What happened?”
   “I carry a snub-nosed. 38 in my purse and I convinced them I knew how to use it.”
   “A snub-nosed. 38?”
   “My father gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday. I have a license.”
   “He must be a hell of a guy.”
   “He’s been shot at several times. He takes very controversial cases, the kind you read about in the papers where the public is outraged and demanding that the defendant be hanged without a trial or a lawyer. Those are the cases he likes best. He has a full-time bodyguard.”
   “Big deal. So do I. His name is Deputy Nesbit, and he couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a shotgun. He was assigned to me yesterday.”
   The food arrived. She removed the onions and tomatoes from her Claudeburger, and offered him the french fries. She cut it in half and nibbled around the edges like a bird. Hot grease dripped to her plate. With each small bite, she carefully wiped her mouth.
   Her face was gentle and pleasant with an easy smile that belied the ACLU, ERA, burn-the-bra, I-can-outcuss-you bitchiness Jake knew was lurking somewhere near the surface. There was not a trace of makeup anywhere on the face. None was needed. She was not beautiful, not cute, and evidently determined not to be so. She had the pale skin of a redhead, but it was healthy skin with seven or eight freckles splattered about the small, pointed nose. With each frequent smile, her lips spread wonderfully and folded her cheeks into neat, transient, hollow dimples. The smiles were confident, challenging, and mysterious. The metallic green eyes radiated a soft fury and were fixed and unblinking when she talked.
   It was an intelligent face, attractive as hell.
   Jake chewed on his burger and tried to nonchalantly ignore her eyes. The heavy food settled his stomach, and for the first time in ten hours he began to think he might live.
   “Seriously, why’d you choose Ole Miss?” he asked.
   “It’s a good law school.”
   “It’s my school. But we don’t normally attract the brightest students from the Northeast. That’s Ivy League country. We send our smartest kids up there.”
   “My father hates every lawyer with an Ivy League degree. He was dirt poor and scratched his way through law—.—..,. 6,*i.,*v o cuuuicu me snuos from rich, well-educated, and incompetent lawyers all his life. Now he laughs at them. He told me I could go to law school anywhere in the country, but if I chose an Ivy League school he would not pay for it. Then there’s my mother. I was raised on these enchanting stories of life in the Deep South, and I had to see for myself. Plus, the Southern states seemed determined to practice the death penalty, so I think I’ll end up here.”
   “Why are you so opposed to the death penalty?”
   “And you’re not?”
   “No, I’m very much in favor of it.”
   “That’s incredible! Coming from a criminal defense lawyer.”
   “I’d like to go back to public hangings on the courthouse lawn.”
   “You’re kidding, aren’t you? I hope. Tell me you are.”
   “I am not.”
   She stopped chewing and smiling. The eyes glowed fiercely and watched him for a signal of weakness. “You are serious.”
   “I am very serious. The problem with the death penalty is that we don’t use it enough.”
   “Have you explained that to Mr. Hailey?”
   “Mr. Hailey does not deserve the death penalty. But the two men who raped his daughter certainly did.”
   “I see. How do you determine who gets it and who doesn’t?”
   “That’s very simple. You look at the crime and you look at the criminal. If it’s a dope dealer who guns down an undercover narcotics officer, then he gets the gas. If it’s a drifter who rapes a three-year-old girl, drowns her by holding her little head in a mudhole, then throws her body off a bridge, then you take his life and thank God he’s gone. If it’s an escaped convict who breaks into a farmhouse late at night and beats and tortures an elderly couple before burning them with their house, then you strap him in a chair, hook up a few wires, pray for his soul, and pull the switch. And if it’s two dopeheads who gang-rape a ten-year-old girl and kick her with pointed-toe cowboy boots until her jaws break, then you happily, merrily, thankfully, gleefully lock them in a gas chamber and listen to them squeal. It’s very simple.”
   “It’s barbaric.”
   “Their crimes were barbaric. Death is too good for them, much too good.”
   “And if Mr. Hailey is convicted and sentenced to die?”
   “If that happens, I’m sure I’ll spend the next ten years cranking out appeals and fighting furiously to save his life. And if they ever strap him in the chair, I’m sure I’ll be outside the prison with you and the Jesuits and a hundred other kindly souls marching and holding candles and singing hymns. And then 11 stand beside his grave behind his church with his widow and children and wish I’d never met him.”
   “Have you ever witnessed an execution?”
   “Not that I recall.”
   “I’ve watched two. You’d change your mind if you saw one.”
   “Good. I won’t see one.”
   “It’s a horrible thing to watch.”
   “Were the victims’ families there?”
   “Yes, in both instances.”
   “Were they horrified? Were their minds changed? Of course not. Their nightmares were over.”
   “I’m surprised at you.”
   “And I’m bewildered by people like you. How can you be so zealous and dedicated in trying to save people who have begged for the death penalty and according to the law should get it?”
   “Whose law? It’s not the law in Massachusetts.”
   “You don’t say. What do you expect from the only state McGovern carried in 1972? You folks have always been tuned in with the rest of the country.”
   The Claudeburgers were being ignored and their voices had grown too loud. Jake glanced around and caught a few stares. Ellen smiled again, and took one of his onion rings.
   “What do you think of the ACLU?” she asked, crunching.
   “I suppose you’ve got a membership card in your purse.”
   “I do.”
   “Then you’re fired.”
   “I joined when I was sixteen.”
   “Why so late? You must have been the last one in your Girl Scout troop to join.”
   “Do you have any respect for the Bill of Rights?”
   “I adore the Bill of Rights. I despise the judges who interpret them. Eat.”
   They finished the burgers in silence, watching each other carefully. Jake ordered coffee and two more headache powders.
   “So how do we plan to win this case?” she asked.
   “We?”
   “I still have the job, don’t I?”
   “Yes. Just remember that I’m the boss and you’re the clerk.”
   “Sure, boss. What’s your strategy?”
   “How would you handle it?”
   “Well, from what I gather, our client carefully planned the killings and shot them in cold blood, six days after the rape. It sounds exactly like he knew what he was doing.”
   “He did.”
   “So we have no defense and I think you should plead him guilty for a life sentence and avoid the gas chamber.”
   “You’re a real fighter.”
   “Just kidding. Insanity is our only defense. And it sounds impossible to prove.”
   “You’re familiar with the M’Naghten Rule?” Jake asked.
   “Yes. Do we have a psychiatrist?”
   “Sort of. He’ll say anything we want him to say; that is, if he’s sober at trial. One of your more difficult tasks as my new law clerk will be to make sure he is sober at trial. It won’t be easy, believe me.”

   “I live for new challenges in the courtroom.”
   “All right Row Ark, take a pen. Here’s a napkin. Your boss is about to give you instructions.”
   She began making notes on a paper napkin.
   “I want a brief on the M’Naghten decisions rendered by the Mississippi Supreme Court in thepast fifty years. There’s probably a hundred. There’s a big case from 1976, State vs. Hill, where the court was bitterly divided five to four, with the dissenters opting for a more liberal definition of insanity. Keep the brief short, less than twenty pages. Can you type?”
   “Ninety words a minute.”
   “I should’ve known. I’d like it by Wednesday.”
   “You’ll have it.”
   “There are some evidentiary points I need researched. You saw those gruesome pictures of the two bodies. Noose normally allows the jury to see the blood and gore, but I’d like to keep them away from the jury. See if there’s a way.”
   “It won’t be easy.”
   “The rape is crucial to his defense. I want the jury to know details. This needs to be researched thoroughly. I’ve got two or three cases you can start from, and I think we can prove to Noose that the rape is very relevant.”
   “Okay. What else?”
   “I don’t know. When my brain is alive again I’ll think of more, but that will do it for now.”
   “Do I report Monday morning?”
   “Yes, but no sooner than nine. I like my quiet time.”
   “What’s the dress code?”
   “You look fine.”
   “Jeans and no socks?”
   “I have one other employee, a secretary by the name of Ethel. She’s sixty-four, top heavy, and thankfully she wears a bra. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you.”
   “I’ll think about it.”
   “I don’t need the distraction.”
   Monday, July 15. One week until trial. Over the weekend word spread quickly that the trial would be in Clanton, and the small town braced for the spectacle. The phones rang steadily at the three motels as the journalists and their crews confirmed reservations. The cafes buzzed with anticipation. A county maintenance crew swarmed around the courthouse after breakfast and began painting and polishing. Ozzie sent the yardboys from the jail with their mowers and weed-eaters. The old men under the Vietnam monument whittled cautiously and watched all this activity. The trusty who supervised the yard work asked them to spit their Red Man in the grass, not on the sidewalk. He was told to go to hell. The thick, dark Bermuda was given an extra layer of fertilizer, and a dozen lawn sprinklers were hissing and splashing by 9:00 A. M.
   By 10:00 A. M. the temperature was ninety-two. The merchants in the small shops around the square opened their doors to the humidity and ran their ceiling fans. They called Memphis and Jackson and Chicago for inventory to be sold at special prices next week.
   Noose had called Jean Gillespie, the Circuit Court clerk, late Friday and informed her that the trial would be in her courtroom. He instructed her to summon one hundred and fifty prospective jurors. The defense had requested an enlarged panel from which to select the twelve, and Noose agreed. Jean and two deputy clerks spent Saturday combing the voter registration books randomly selecting potential jurors. Following Noose’s specific instructions, they culled those over sixty-five. One thousand names were chosen, and each name along with its address was written on a small index card and thrown into a cardboard box. The two deputy clerks then took turns drawing cards at random from the box. One clerk was white, one black. Each would pull a card blindly from the box and arrange it neatly on a folding table with the other cards. When the count reached one hundred and fifty, the drawing ceased and a master list was typed. These were the jurors for State vs. Hailey. Each step of their selection had been carefully dictated by the Honorable Omar Noose, who knew exactly what he was doing. If there was an all-white jury, and a conviction, and a death sentence, every single elementary step of the jury selection procedure would be attacked on appeal. He had been through it before, and had been reversed. But not this time.
   From the master list, the name and address of each juror was typed on a separate jury summons. The stack of summonses was. kept in Jean’s office under lock until eight Monday morning when Sheriff Ozzie Walls arrived. He drank coffee with Jean and received his instructions.
   “Judge Noose wants these served between four P. M. and midnight tonight,” she said.
   “Okay.”
   “The jurors are to report to the courtroom promptly by nine next Monday.”
   “Okay.”
   “The summons does not indicate the name or nature of the trial, and the jurors are not to be told anything.”
   “I reckon they’ll know.”
   “Probably so, but Noose was very specific. Your men are to say nothing about the case when the summonses are served. The names of the jurors are very confidential, at least until Wednesday. Don’t ask why-Noose’s orders.”
   Ozzie flipped through the stack. “How many do we have here?”
   “One fifty.”
   “A hundred and fifty! Why so many?”
   “It’s a big case. Noose’s orders.”
   “It’ll take ever man I’ve got to serve these papers.”
   “I’m sorry.”
   “Oh well. If that’s what His Honor wants.”
   Ozzie left, and within seconds Jake was standing at the counter flirting with the secretaries and smiling at Jean Gil-lespie. He followed her back to her office. He closed the door. She retreated behind her desk and pointed at him. He kept smiling.
   “I know why you’re here,” she said sternly, “and you can’t have it.”
   “Give me the list, Jean.”
   “Not until Wednesday. Noose’s orders.”
   Wednesday? Why Wednesday?”
   “I don’t know. But Omar was very specific.”
   “Give me the list, Jean.”
   “Jake, I can’t. Do you want me to get in trouble?”
   “You won’t get in trouble because no one will know it. You know how well I can keep a secret.” He was not smiling now. “Jean, give me the damned list.”
   “Jake, I just can’t.”
   “I need it, and I need it now. I can’t wait until Wednesday. I’ve got work to do.”
   “It wouldn’t be fair to Buckley,” she said weakly.
   “To hell with Buckley. Do you think he plays fair? He’s a snake and you dislike him as much as I do.”
   “Probably more.”
   “Give me the list, Jean.”
   “Look, Jake, we’ve always been close. I think more of you than any lawyer I know. When my son got in trouble I called you, right? I trust you and I want you to win this case. But I can’t defy a judge’s orders.”
   “Who helped you get elected last time, me or Buck-ley?”
   “Come on, Jake.”
   “Who kept your son out of jail, me or Buckley?”
   “Please.”
   “Who tried to put your son in jail, me or Buckley?”
   “That’s not fair, Jake.”
   “Who stood up for your husband when everybody, and I mean everybody, in the church wanted him gone when the books didn’t balance?”
   “It’s not a question. of loyalty, Jake. I love you and Carla and Hanna, but I just can’t do it.”
   Jake slammed the door and stormed out of the office. Jean sat at her desk and wiped tears from her cheeks.
   At 10:00 A. M. Harry Rex barged into Jake’s office and threw a copy of the jury list on his desk. “Don’t ask,” he said. Beside each name he had made notes, such as “Don’t know” or “Former client-hates niggers” or “Works at the shoe factory, might be sympathetic.”
   Jake read each name slowly, trying to place it with a face or a reputation. There was nothing but names. No addresses, ages, occupations. Nothing but names. His fourth-grade schoolteacher from Karaway. One of his mother’s friends from the Garden Club. A former client, shoplifting, he thought. A name from church. A regular at the Coffee Shop. A prominent farmer. Most of the names sounded white. There was a Willie Mae Jones, Leroy Washington, Roosevelt Tucker, Bessie Lou Bean, and a few other black names. But the list looked awfully pale. He recognized thirty names at most.
   “Whatta you think?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Hard to tell. Mostly white, but that’s to be expected. Where’d you get this?”
   “Don’t ask. I made notes by twenty-six names. That’s the best I can do. The rest I don’t know.”
   “You’re a true friend, Harry Rex.”
   “I’m a prince. Are you ready for trial?”
   “Not yet. But I’ve found a secret weapon.”
   “What?”
   “You’ll meet her later.”
   “Her?”
   “Yeah. You busy Wednesday night?”
   “I don’t think so. Why?”
   “Good. Meet here at eight. Lucien will be here. Maybe one or two others. I want to take a couple of hours and talk about the jury. Who do we want? Let’s get a profile of the model juror, and go from there. We’ll cover each name and hopefully identify most of these people.”
   “Sounds like fun. I’ll be here. What’s your model juror?”
   “I’m not sure. I think the vigilante would appeal to rednecks. Guns, violence, protection of women. The rednecks would eat it up. But my man is black, and a bunch of rednecks would fry him. He killed two of their own.”
   “I agree. I’d stay away from women. They would have no sympathy for the rapists, but they place a higher value on life. Taking an M-16 and blowing their heads off is something women just don’t understand. You and I understand it because we’re fathers. It appeals to us. The violence and blood doesn’t bother us. We admire him. You’ve got to pick oumc aumirers on tnat jury. Young fathers with some education.”
   “That’s interesting. Lucien said he would stick with women because they’re more sympathetic.”
   “I don’t think so. I know some women who’d cut your throat if you crossed them.”
   “Some of your clients?”
   “Yeah, and one is on that list. Frances Burdeen. Pick her, and I’ll tell her how to vote.”
   “You serious?”
   “Yep. She’ll do anything I tell her.”
   “Can you be in court Monday? I want you to watch the jury during the selection process, then help me decide on the twelve.”
   “I wouldn’t miss it.”
   Jake heard voices downstairs and pressed his finger to his lips. He listened, then smiled and motioned for Harry Rex to follow him. They tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened to the commotion around Ethel’s desk.
   “You most certainly do not work here,” Ethel insisted.
   “I most certainly do. I was hired Saturday by Jake Bri-gance, who I believe is your boss.”
   “Hired for what?” Ethel demanded.
   “As a law clerk.”
   “Well, he didn’t discuss it with me.”
   “He discussed it with me, and gave me the job.”
   “How much is he paying you?”
   “A hundred bucks an hour.”
   “Oh my God! I’ll have to speak with him first.”
   “I’ve already spoken with him, Ethel.”
   “It’s Mrs. Twitty to you.” Ethel studied her carefully from head to toe. Acid-washed jeans, penny loafers, no socks, an oversized white cotton button-down with, evidently, nothing on underneath. “You’re not dressed appropriately for this office. You’re, you’re indecent.”
   Harry Rex raised his eyebrows and smiled at Jake. They watched the stairs and listened.
   “My boss, who happens to be your boss, said I could dress like this.”
   “But you forgot something, didn’t you?”
   “Jake said I could forget it. He told me you hadn’t worn a bra in twenty years. He said most of the women in Clanton go braless, so I left mine at home.”
   “He what?” Ethel screamed with arms crossed over her chest.
   “Is he upstairs?” Ellen asked coolly.