The blacks with their cane poles and straw hats camped under the bridges and waited for the storm to blow over. Below them, the still creeks came to life. Muddy water from the fields and gullies rushed downward and stirred the small streams and brooks. The water rose and moved forward. The blacks ate bologna and crackers and told fishing stories.
   Harry Rex was hungry. He stopped at Treadway’s Grocery near the lake, and bought more beer, two catfish dinners, and a large bag of Cajiin-spiced red-hot barbecue pork skins. He threw them at Jake.
   They crossed the dam in a blinding downpour. Harry Rex parked next to a small pavilion over a picnic area. They sat on the concrete table and watched the rain batter Lake Chatulla. Jake drank beer while Harry Rex ate the catfish dinners.
   “When you gonna tell Carla?” he asked, slurping beer.
   The tin roof roared above. “About what?”
   “The house.”
   “I’m not gonna tell her. I think I can have it rebuilt before she gets back.”
   “You mean by the end of the week?”
   “Yeah.”
   “You’re cracking up, Jake. You’re drinking too much, and you’re losing your mind.”
   “I deserve it. I’ve earned it. I’m two weeks away from bankruptcy. I’m about to lose the biggest case of my career, for which I have been paid nine hundred dollars. My beautiful home that everyone took pictures of and the old ladies from the Garden Club tried to get written up in Southern Living has been reduced to rubble. My wife has left me, and when she hears about the house, she’ll divorce me. No question about that. So I’ll lose my wife. And once my daughter learns that her damned dog died in the fire, she’ll hate me forever. There’s a contract on my head. I’ve got Klan goons looking for me. Snipers shooting at me. There’s a soldier lying up in the hospital with my bullet in his spine. He’ll be a vegetable, and I’ll think about him every hour of every day for the rest of my life. My secretary’s husband was killed because of me. My last employee is in the hospital with a punk haircut and a concussion because she worked for me. The jury thinks I’m a lying crook because of my expert witness. My client wants to fire me. When he’s convicted, every—body will blame me. He’ll hire another lawyer for the appeal, one of those ACLU types, and they’ll sue me claiming ineffective trial counsel. And they’ll be right. So I’ll get my ass sued for malpractice. I’ll have no wife, no daughter, no house, no practice, no clients, no money, nothing.”
   “You need psychiatric help, Jake. I think you should make an appointment with Dr. Bass. Here, have a beer.”
   “I guess I’ll move in with Lucien and sit on the porch all day.”
   “Can I have your office?”
   “Do you think she’ll divorce me?”
   “Probably so. I’ve had four divorces, and they’ll file for damned near anything.”
   “Not Carla. I worship the ground she walks on, and she knows it.”
   “She’ll be sleeping on the ground when she gets back to Clanton.”
   “Naw, we’ll get a nice, cozy little double-wide trailer. It’ll do us fine until the bankruptcy is over. Then we’ll find another old house and start over.”
   “You’ll probably find you another wife and start over. Why would she leave a swanky cottage on the beach and return to a house trailer in Clanton?”
   “Because I’ll be in the house trailer.”
   “That’s not good enough, Jake. You’ll be a drunk, bankrupt, disbarred lawyer, living in a house trailer. You will be publicly disgraced. All of your friends, except me and Lucien, will forget about you. She’ll never come back. It’s over, Jake. As your friend and divorce lawyer, I advise you to file first. Do it now, tomorrow, so she’ll never know what hit her.”
   “Why would I sue her for divorce?”
   “Because she’s gonna sue you. We’ll file first and allege that she deserted you in your hour of need.”
   “Is that grounds for divorce?”
   “No. But we’ll also claim that you’re crazy, temporary insanity. Just let me handle it. The M’Naghten Rule. I’m the sleazy divorce lawyer, remember.”
   “How could I forget?”
   Jake poured hot beer from his neglected bottle, and opened another. The rain slackened and the clouds lightened. A cool wind blew up from the lake.
   “They’ll convict him, won’t they, Harry Rex?” he asked, staring at the lake in the distance.
   He quit chomping and wiped his mouth. He laid the paper plate on the table, and took a long drink of beer. The wind blew light drops of water onto his face. He wiped it with a sleeve.
   “Yeah, Jake. Your man is about to be sent away. I can see it in their eyes. The insanity crap just didn’t work. They didn’t want to believe Bass to begin with, and after Buckley yanked his pants down, it was all over. Carl Lee didn’t help himself any. He seemed rehearsed and too sincere. Like he was begging for sympathy. He was a lousy witness. I watched the jury while he testified. I saw no support for him. They’ll convict, Jake. And quickly.”
   “Thanks for being so blunt.”
   “I’m your friend, and I think you should start preparing for a conviction and a long appeal.”
   “You know, Harry Rex, I wish I’d never heard of Carl Lee Hailey.”
   “I think it’s too late, Jake.”
   Sallie answered the door and told Jake she was sorry about the house. Lucien was upstairs in his study, working and sober. He pointed to a chair and instructed Jake to sit down. Legal pads littered his desk.
   “I’ve spent all afternoon working on a closing argument,” he said, waving at the mess before him. “Your only hope of saving Hailey is with a spellbinding performance on final summation. I mean, we’re talking about the greatest closing argument in the history of jurisprudence. That’s what it’ll take.”
   “And I assume you’ve created such a masterpiece. “‘ “As a matter of fact, I have. It’s much better than anything you could come up with. And I assumed-correctlythat you would spend your Sunday afternoon mourning the loss of your home and drowning your sorrows with Coors. I knew you would have nothing prepared. So I’ve done it for you.”
   “I wish I could stay as sober as you, Lucien.”
   “I was a better lawyer drunk than you are sober.”
   “At least I’m a lawyer.”
   Lucien tossed a legal pad at Jake. “There it is. A compilation of my greatest closing arguments. Lucien Wilbanks at his best, all rolled into one for you and your client. I suggest you memorize it and use it word for word. It’s that good. Don’t try to modify it, or improvise. You’ll just screw it up.”
   “I’ll think about it. I’ve done this before, remember?”
   “You’d never know it.”
   “Dammit, Lucien! Get off my back!”
   “Take it easy, Jake. Let’s have a drink. Sallie! Sallie!”
   Jake threw the masterpiece on the couch and walked to the window overlooking the backyard. Sallie ran up the stairs. Lucien ordered whiskey and beer.
   “Were you up all night?” Lucien asked.
   “No. I slept from eleven to twelve.”
   “You look terrible. You need a good night’s rest.”
   “I feel terrible, and sleep will not help. Nothing will help, except the end of this trial. I don’t understand, Lucien. I don’t understand how everything has gone so wrong. Surely to God we’re entitled to a little good luck. The case should not even be tried in Clanton. We were dealt the worst possible jury-a jury that’s been tampered with. But I can’t prove it. Our star witness was completely destroyed. The defendant made a lousy witness. And the jury does not trust me. I don’t know what else could go wrong.”
   “You can still win the case, Jake. It’ll take a miracle, but those things happen sometimes. I’ve snatched victory from the jaws of defeat many times with an effective closing argument. Zero in on one or two jurors. Play to them. Talk to them. Remember, it just takes one to hang the jury.”
   “Should I make them cry?”
   “If you can. It’s not that easy. But I believe in tears in the jury box. It’s very effective.”
   Sallie brought the drinks, and they followed her downstairs to the porch. After dark, she fed them sandwiches and fried potatoes. At ten, Jake excused himself and went to his room. He called Carla and talked for an hour. There was no mention of the house. His stomach cramped when he heard her voice and realized that one day very soon he would be forced to tell her that the house, her house, no longer existed. He hung up and prayed she didn’t read about it in the newspaper.
   Clanton returned to normal Monday morning as the barricades were put in place around the square and the ranks of the soldiers swelled to preserve the public peace. They loitered about in loose formation, watching as the Kluxers returned to their appointed ground on one side, and the black protestors on the other. The day of rest brought renewed energy to both groups, and by eight-thirty they were in full chorus. The collapse of Dr. Bass had been big news, and the Kluxers smelled victory. Plus they had scored a direct hit on Adams Street. They appeared to be louder than normal.
   At nine, Noose summoned the attorneys to chambers. “Just wanted to make sure you were all alive and well.” He grinned at Jake.
   “Why don’t you kiss my ass, Judge?” Jake said under his breath, but loud enough to be heard. The prosecutors froze. Mr. Pate cleared his throat.
   Noose cocked his head sideways as if hard of hearing. “What did you say, Mr. Brigance?”
   “I said, ‘Why don’t we get started, Judge?’”
   “Yes, that’s what I thought you said. How’s your clerk, Ms. Roark?”
   “She’ll be fine.”
   “Was it the Klan?”
   “Yes, Judge. The same Klan that tried to kill me. Same Klan that lit up the county with crosses and who knows what else for our jury panel. Same Klan that’s probably intimidated most of those jurors sitting out there. Yes, sir, it’s the same Klan.”
   Noose ripped off his glasses. “Can you substantiate that?”
   “You mean, do I have written, signed, notarized confessions from the Klansmen? No, sir. They’re most uncooperative.”
   “If you can’t prove it, Mr. Brigance, then leave it alone.”
   “Yes, Your Honor.”
   Jake left chambers and slammed the door. Seconds later Mr. Pate called the place to order and everyone rose. Noose welcomed his jury back and promised the ordeal was almost over. No one smiled at him. It had been a lonely weekend at the Temple Inn.
   “Does the State have any rebuttal?” he asked Buckley.
   “One witness, Your Honor.”
   Dr. Rodeheaver was fetched from the witness room. He carefully situated himself in the witness chair and nodded warmly at the jury. He looked like a psychiatrist. Dark suit, no boots.
   Buckley assumed the podium and smiled at the jury. “You are Dr. Wilbert Rodeheaver?” he thundered, looking at the jury as if to say, “Now you’ll meet a real psychiatrist.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   Buckley asked questions, a million questions, about his educational and professional background. Rodeheaver was confident, relaxed, prepared, and accustomed to the witness chair. He talked at great length about his broad educational training, his vast experience as a practicing physician, and more recently, the enormous magnitude of his job as head of staff at the state mental hospital. Buckley asked him if he had written any articles in his field. He said yes, and for thirty minutes they discussed the writings of this very learned man. He had received research grants from the federal government and from various states. He was a member of all the organizations Bass belonged to, and a few more. He had been certified by every association remotely touching the study of the human mind. He was polished, and sober.
   Buckley tendered him as an expert, and Jake had no questions.
   Buckley continued. “Dr. Rodeheaver, when did you first examine Carl Lee Hailey?”
   The expert checked his notes. “June 19.”
   “Where did the examination take place?”
   “In my office at Whitfield.”
   “How long did you examine him?”
   “Couple of hours.”
   “What was the’ purpose of this examination?”
   “To try and determine his mental condition at that time and also at the time he killed Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard.”
   “Did you obtain his medical history?”
   “Most of the information was taken by an associate at the hospital. I reviewed it with Mr. Hailey.”
   “What did the history reveal?”
   “Nothing remarkable. He talked a lot about Vietnam, but nothing remarkable.”
   “Did he talk freely about Vietnam?”
   “Oh yes. He wanted to talk about it. It was almost like he had been told to discuss it as much as possible.”
   “What else did you discuss at the first examination?”
   “We covered a wide variety of topics. His childhood, family, education, various jobs, just about everything.”
   “Did he discuss the rape of his daughter?”
   “Yes, in great detail. It was painful for him to talk about it, the sam& as it would have been for me had it been my daughter.”
   “Did he discuss with you the events leading up to the shootings of Cobb and Willard?”
   “Yes, we talked about that for quite a while. I tried to ascertain the degree of knowledge and understanding he had about those events.”
   “What did he tell you?”
   “Initially, not much. But with time, he opened up and explained how he inspected “the courthouse three days before the shooting and picked a good place to attack.”
   “What about the shootings?”
   “He never told me much about the actual killings. Said he didn’t remember much, but I suspect otherwise.”
   Jake sprang to his feet. “Objection! The witness can only testify as to what he actually knows. He cannot speculate.”
   “Sustained. Please continue, Mr. Buckley.”
   “What else did you observe concerning his mood, attitude, and manner of speech?”
   Rodeheaver crossed his legs and rocked gently. He lowered his eyebrows in deep thought. “Initially, he was distrustful of me and had difficulty looking me in the eye. He gave short answers to my questions. He was very resentful of the fact that he was guarded and sometimes handcuffed while at our facility. He questioned the padded walls. But after a while, he opened up and talked freely about most everything. He flatly refused to answer a few questions, but other than that I would say he was fairly cooperative.”
   “When and where did you examine him again?”
   “The next day, same place.”
   “What was his mood and attitude?”
   “About the same as the day before. Cool at first, but he opened up eventually. He discussed basically the same topics as the day before.”
   “How long did this examination last?”
   “Approximately four hours.”
   Buckley reviewed something on a legal pad, then whispered to Musgrove. “Now, Dr. Rodeheaver, as a result of your examinations of Mr. Hailey on June 19 and 20, were you able to arrive at a medical diagnosis of the defendant’s psychiatric condition on those dates?”
   “Yes, sir.”
   “And what is that diagnosis?”
   “On June 19 and 20, Mr. Hailey appeared to be of sound mind. Perfectly normal, I would say.”
   “Thank you. Based on your examinations, were you able to arrive at a diagnosis of Mr. Hailey’s mental condition on the day he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?”
   “Yes.”
   “And what is that diagnosis?”
   “At that time his mental condition was sound, no defects of any nature.”
   “Upon what factors do you base this?”
   Rodeheaver turned to the jury and became a professor. “You must look at the level of premeditation involved in this crime. Motive is an element of premeditation. He certainly had a motive for doing what he did, and his mental condition at that time did not prevent him from entertaining the requisite premeditation. Frankly, Mr. Hailey carefully planned what he did.”
   “Doctor, you are familiar with the M’Naghten Rule as a test for criminal responsibility?”
   “Certainly.”
   “And you are aware that another psychiatrist, a Dr. W. T. Bass, has told this jury that Mr. Hailey was incapable of knowing the difference between right and wrong, and, further, that he was unable to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions.”
   “Yes, I am aware of that.”
   “Do you agree with that testimony?”
   “No. I find it preposterous, and I am personally offended by it. Mr. Hailey himself has testified he planned the murders. He’s admitted, in effect, that his mental condition at the time did not prevent him from possessing the ability to plan. That’s called premeditation in every legal and medical book. I’ve never heard of someone planning a murder, admitting he planned it, then claiming he did not know what he was doing. It’s absurd.”
   At that moment, Jake felt it was absurd too, and as it echoed around the courtroom it sounded mighty absurd. Rodeheaver sounded good and infinitely credible. Jake thought of Bass and cursed to himself.
   Lucien sat with the blacks and agreed with every word of Rodeheaver’s testimony. When compared to Bass, the State’s doctor was terribly believable. Lucien ignored the jury box. From time to time he would cut his eyes without moving his head and catch Clyde Sisco blatantly and openly staring directly at him. But Lucien would not allow their eyes to meet. The messenger had not called Monday morning as instructed. An affirmative nod or wink from Lucien would consummate the deal, with payment to be arranged later, after the verdict. Sisco knew the rules, and he watched for an answer. There was none. Lucien wanted to discuss it with Jake.
   “Now, Doctor, based upon these factors and your diagnosis of his mental condition as of May 20, do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, as to whether Mr. Hailey was capable of knowing the difference between right and wrong when he shot Billy Ray Cobb, Pete Willard, and Deputy DeWayne Looney?”
   “I have.”
   “And what is that opinion?”
   “His mental condition was sound, and he was very capable of distinguishing right from wrong.”
   “And do you have an opinion, based upon the same factors, as to whether Mr. Hailey was able to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions?”
   “I have.”

   “And what is that opinion?”
   “That he fully appreciated what he was doing.”
   Buckley snatched his legal pad and bowed politely. “Thank you, Doctor. I have no further questions.”
   “Any cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?” Noose asked.
   “Just a few questions.”
   “I thought so. Let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”
   Jake ignored Carl Lee, and moved quickly out of the courtroom, up the stairs, and into the law library on the third floor. Harry Rex was waiting, and smiling.
   “Relax, Jake. I’ve called every newspaper in North Carolina, and there’s no story about the house. There’s nothing about Row Ark. The Raleigh morning paper ran a story about the trial, but it was in real general terms. Nothing else. Carla doesn’t know about it, Jake. As far as she knows, her pretty little landmark is still standing. Isn’t that great?”
   “Wonderful. Just wonderful. Thanks, Harry Rex.”
   “Don’t mention it. Look, Jake, I sorta hate to bring this up.”
   “I can’t wait.”
   “You know I hate Buckley. Hate him worse than you do. But me and Musgrove get along okay. I can talk to Mus-grove. I was thinking last night that it might be a good idea to approach them-me through Musgrove-and explore the possibilities of a plea bargain.”
   “No!”
   “Listen, Jake. What harm will it do? None! If you can plead him guilty to murder with no gas chamber, then you know you have saved his life.”
   “No!”
   “Look, Jake. Your man is about forty-eight hours away from a death penalty conviction. If you don’t believe that, then you’re blind, Jake. My blind friend.”
   “Why should Buckley cut a deal? He’s got us on the ropes.”
   “Maybe he won’t. But let me at least find out.”
   “No, Harry Rex. Forget it.”
   Rodeheaver returned to his seat after the recess, and Jake looked at him from behind the podium. In his brief legal career, he had never won an argument, in court or out, with an expert witness. And the way his luck was running, he decided not to argue with this one.
   “Dr. Rodeheaver, psychiatry is the study of the human mind, is it not?”
   “It is.”
   “And it is an inexact science at best, is it not?”
   “That is correct.”
   “You might examine a person and reach a diagnosis, and the next psychiatrist might reach a completely different diagnosis?”
   “That’s possible, yes.”
   “In fact, you could have ten psychiatrists examine a mental patient, and arrive at ten different opinions about what’s wrong with the patient.”
   “That’s unlikely.”
   “But it could happen, couldn’t it, Doctor?”
   “Yes, it could. Just like legal opinions, I guess.”
   “But we’re not dealing with legal opinions in this case, are we, Doctor?”
   “No.”
   “The truth is, Doctor, in many cases psychiatry cannot tell us what is wrong with a person’s mind?”
   “That is true.”
   “And psychiatrists disagree all the time, don’t they, Doctor?”
   “Of course.”
   “Now, who do you work for, Doctor?”
   “The State of Mississippi.”
   “And for how long?”
   “Eleven years.”
   “And who is prosecuting Mr. HaDey?”
   “The State of Mississippi.”
   “During your eleven-year career with the State, how many times have you testified in trials where the insanity defense was used?”
   Rodeheaver thought for a moment. “I think this is my forty-third trial.”
   Jake checked something in a file and eyed the doctor with a nasty little smile. “Are you sure it’s not your forty-sixth?”
   “It could be, yes. I’m not certain.”
   The courtroom became still. Buckley and Musgrove hovered over their legal pads, but watched their witness carefully.
   “Forty-six times you’ve testified for the State in insanity trials?”
   “If you say so.”
   “And forty-six times you’ve testified that the defendant was not legally insane. Correct, Doctor?”
   “I’m not sure.”
   “Well, let me make it simple. You’ve testified forty-six times, and forty-six times it has been your opinion the defendant was not legally insane. Correct?”
   Rodeheaver squirmed just a little, and a hint of discomfort broke around his eyes. “I’m not sure.”
   “You’ve never seen a legally insane criminal defendant, have you, Doctor?”
   “Of course I have.”
   “Good. Would you then, please, sir, tell us the name of the defendant and where he was tried?”
   Buckley rose and buttoned his coat. “Your Honor, the State objects to these questions. Dr. Rodeheaver cannot be required to remember the names and places of the trials he has testified in.”
   “Overruled, Sit down. Answer the question, Doctor.”
   Rodeheaver breathed deeply and studied the ceiling. Jake glanced at the jurors. They were awake and waiting on an answer.
   “I can’t remember,” he finally said.
   Jake lifted a thick stack of papers and waved it at the witness. “Could it be, Doctor, that the reason you can’t remember is that in eleven years, forty-six trials, you have never testified in favor of the defendant?”
   “I honestly can’t remember.”
   “Can you honestly name us one trial in which you found the defendant to be legally insane?”
   “I’m sure there are some.”
   “Yes or no, Doctor. One trial?”
   The expert looked briefly at the D. A. “No. My memory fails me. I cannot at this time.”
   Jake walked slowly to the defense table and picked up a thick file.
   “Dr. Rodeheaver, do you recall testifying in the trial of a man by the name of Danny Booker in McMurphy County in December of 1975? A rather gruesome double homicide?”
   “Yes, I recall that trial.”
   “And you testified to the effect that he was not legally insane, did you not?”
   “That is correct.”
   “Do you recall how many psychiatrists testified in his behalf?”
   “Not exactly. There were several.”
   “Do the names Noel McClacky, M. D.; O. G. McGuire, M. D.; and Lou Watson, M. D., ring a bell?”
   “Yes.”
   “They’re all psychiatrists, aren’t they?”
   “Yes.”
   “They’re all qualified, aren’t they?”
   “Yes.”
   “And they all examined Mr. Booker and testified at trial that in their opinions the poor man was legally insane?”
   “That’s correct.”
   “And you testified he was not legally insane?”
   “That’s correct.”
   “How many other doctors supported your position?”
   “None, that I recall.”
   “So it was three against one?”
   “Yes, but I’m still convinced I was right.”
   “I see. What did the jury do, Doctor?”
   “He, uh, was found not guilty by reason of insanity.”
   “Thank you. Now, Dr. Rodeheaver, you’re the head doctor at Whitfield, aren’t you?”
   “Yes, so to speak.”
   “Are you directly or indirectly responsible for the treatment of every patient at Whitfield?”
   “I’m directly responsible, Mr. Brigance. I may not personally see every patient, but their doctors are under my supervision.”
   “Thank you. Doctor, where is Danny Booker today?”
   Rodeheaver shot a desperate look at Buckley, and immediately covered it with a warm, relaxed grin for the jury. He hesitated for a few seconds, then hesitated one second too long.
   “He’s at Whitfield, isn’t he?” Jake asked in a tone of voice that informed everyone that the answer was yes.
   “I believe so,” Rodeheaver said.
   “So, he’s directly under your care, then, Doctor?”
   “I suppose.”
   “And what is his diagnosis, Doctor?”
   “I really don’t know. I have a lot of patients and—”
   “Paranoid schizophrenic?”
   “It’s possible, yes.”
   Jake walked backward and sat on the railing. He turned up the volume. “Now, Doctor, I want to make this clear for the jury. In 1975 you testified that Danny Booker was legally sane and understood exactly what he was doing when he committed his crime, and the jury disagreed with you and found him not guilty, and since that time he has been a patient in your hospital, under your supervision, and treated by you as a paranoid schizophrenic. Is that correct?”
   The smirk on Rodeheaver’s face informed the jury that it was indeed correct.
   Jake picked up another piece of paper and seemed to review it. “Do you recall testifying in the trial of a man by the name of Adam Couch in Dupree County in May of 1977?”
   “I remember that case.”
   “It was a rape case, wasn’t it?”
   “Yes.”
   “And you testified on behalf of the State against Mr. Couch?”
   “That’s correct.”
   “And you told the jury that he was not legally insane?”
   “That was my testimony.”
   “Do you recall how many doctors testified on his behalf and told the jury he was a very sick man, that he was legally insane?”
   “There were several.”
   “Have you ever heard of the following doctors: Felix Perry, Gene Shumate, and Hobny Wicker?”
   “Yes.”
   “Are they all qualified psychiatrists?”
   “They are.”
   “And they all testified on behalf of Mr. Couch, didn’t they?”
   “Yes.”
   “And they all said he was legally insane, didn’t they?”
   “They did.”
   “And you were the only doctor in the trial who said he was not legally insane?”
   “As I recall, yes.”
   “And what did the jury do, Doctor?”
   “He was found not guilty.”
   “By reason of insanity?”
   “Yes.”
   “And where is Mr. Couch today, Doctor?”
   “I think he’s at Whitfield.”
   “And how long has he been there?”
   “Since the trial, I believe.”
   “I see. Do you normally admit patients and keep them for several years if they are of perfectly sound mind?”
   Rodeheaver shifted his weight and began a slow burn. He looked at his lawyer, the people’s lawyer, as if to say he was tired of this, do something to stop it.
   Jake picked up more papers. “Doctor, do you recall the trial of a man by the name of Buddy Wooddall in Cleburne County, May of 1979?”
   “Yes, I certainly do.”
   “Murder, wasn’t it?”
   “Yes.”
   “And you testified as an expert in the field of psychiatry and told the jury that Mr. Wooddall was not insane?”
   “I did.”
   “Do you recall how many psychiatrists testified on his behalf and told the jury the poor man was legally insane?”
   “I believe there were five, Mr. Brigance.”
   “That’s correct, Doctor. Five against one. Do you recall what the jury did?”
   The anger and frustration was building in the witness stand. The wise old grandfather/professor with all the right answers was becoming rattled. “Yes, I recall. He was found not guilty by reason of insanity.”
   “How do you explain that, Dr. Rodeheaver? Five against one, and the jury finds against you?”
   “You just can’t trust juries,” he blurted, then caught himself. He fidgeted and grinned awkwardly at the jurors.
   Jake stared at him with a wicked smile, then looked at the jury in disbelief. He folded his arms and allowed the last words to sink in. He waited, staring and grinning at the witness.
   “You may proceed, Mr. Brigance,” Noose finally said.
   Moving slowly and with great animation, Jake gathered his files and notes while staring at Rodeheaver. “I think we’ve heard enough from this witness, Your Honor.”
   “Any redirect, Mr. Buckley?”
   “No, sir. The State rests.”

   Noose addressed the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, this trial is almost over. There will be no more witnesses. I will now meet with the attorneys to cover some technical areas, then they will be allowed to make their final arguments to you. That will begin at two o’clock and take a couple of hours. You will finally get the case around four, and I will allow you to deliberate until six. If you do not reach a verdict today, you will be taken back to your rooms until tomorrow. It is now almost eleven, and we’ll recess until two. I need to see the attorneys in chambers.”
   Carl Lee leaned over and spoke to his lawyer for the first time since Saturday’s adjournment. “You tore him up pretty good, Jake.”
   “Wait till you hear the closing argument.”
   Jake avoided Harry Rex, and drove to Karaway. His childhood home was an old country house in downtown, surrounded by ancient oaks and maples and elms that kept it cool in spite of the summer heat. In the back, past the trees, was a long open field which ran for an eighth of a mile and disappeared over a small hill. A chickenwire backstop stood over the weeds in one corner. Here, Jake had taken his first steps, rode his first bike, thrown his first football and base—ball. Under an oak beside the field, he had buried three dogs, a raccoon, a rabbit, and some ducks. A tire from a ‘54 Buick swung not far from the small cemetery.
   The house had been locked and deserted for two months. A neighborhood kid cut the grass and tended the lawn. Jake checked the house once a week. His parents were somewhere in Canada in a camper-the summer ritual. He wished he were with them.
   He unlocked the door and walked upstairs to his room. It would never change. The walls were covered with team pictures, trophies, baseball caps, posters of Pete Rose, Archie Manning, and Hank Aaron. A row of baseball gloves hung above the closet door. A cap and gown picture sat on the dresser. His mother still cleaned it weekly. She once told him she often went to his room and expected to find him doing homework or sorting baseball cards. She would flip through his scrapbooks, and get all teary eyed.
   He thought of Hanna’s room, with the stuffed animals and Mother Goose wallpaper. A thick knot formed in his throat.
   He looked out the window, past the trees, and saw himself swinging in the tire near the three white crosses where he buried his dogs. He remembered each funeral, and his father’s promises to get another dog. He thought of Hanna and her dog, and his eyes watered.
   The bed was much smaller now. He removed his shoes and lay down. A football helmet hung from the ceiling. Eighth grade, Karaway Mustangs. He scored seven touchdowns in five games. It was all on film downstairs under the bookshelves. The butterflies floated wildly through his stomach.
   He carefully placed his notes-his notes, not Lucien’son the dresser. He studied himself in the mirror.
   He addressed the jury. He began by facing his biggest problem, Dr. W. T. Bass. He apologized. A lawyer walks into a courtroom, faces a strange jury, and has nothing to offer but his credibility. And if he does anything to hurt his credibility, he has hurt his cause, his client. He asked them tb believe that he would never put a convicted felon on the stand as an expert witness in any trial. He did not know of the conviction, he raised his hand and swore to this. The world is full of psychiatrists, and he could easily have found another if he had known Bass had a problem, but he simply did not know. And he was sorry.
   But what about Bass’s testimony. Thirty years ago he had sex with a girl under eighteen in Texas. Does that mean he is lying now in this trial? Does that mean you cannot trust his professional opinion? Please be fair to Bass the psychiatrist, forget Bass the person. Please be fair to his patient, Carl Lee Hailey. He knew nothing of the doctor’s past.
   There was something about Bass they might like to know. Something that was not mentioned by Mr. Buckley when he was ripping the doctor to pieces. The girl he had sex with was seventeen. She later became his wife, bore him a son, and was pregnant when she and the boy were killed in a train—“Objection!” Buckley shouted. “Objection, Your Honor. That evidence is not in the record!”
   “Sustained. Mr. Brigance, you are not to refer to facts not in evidence. The jury will disregard the last statements by Mr. Brigance.”
   Jake ignored Noose and Buckley and stared painfully at the jury.
   When the shouting died, he continued. What about Rodeheaver? He wondered if the State’s doctor had ever engaged in sex with a girl under eighteen. Seemed silly to think about such things, didn’t it? Bass and Rodeheaver in their younger days-it seemed so unimportant now in this courtroom almost thirty years later.
   The State’s doctor is a man with an obvious bias. A highly trained specialist who treats thousands for all sorts of mental illnesses, yet when crimes are involved he cannot recognize insanity. His testimony should be carefully weighed.
   They watched him, listened to every word. He was not a courtroom preacher, like his opponent. He was quiet, sincere. He looked tired, almost hurt.
   Lucien was sober, and he sat with folded arms and watched the jurors, all except Sisco. It was not his closing, but it was good. It was coming from the heart.
   Jake apologized for his inexperience. He had not been in many trials, not nearly as many as Mr. Buckley. And if he seemed a little green, or if he made mistakes, please don’t hold it against Carl Lee. It wasn’t his fault. He was just a rookie trying his best against a seasoned adversary who tried murder cases every month. He made a mistake with Bass, and he made other mistakes, and he asked the jury to forgive him.
   He had a daughter, the only one he would ever have. She was four, almost five, and his world revolved around her. She was special; she was a little girl, and it was up to him to protect her. There was a bond there, something he could not explain. He talked about little girls.
   Carl Lee had a daughter. Her name was Tonya. He pointed to her on the front row next to her mother and brothers. She’s a beautiful little girl, ten years old. And she can never have children. She can never have a daughter because—”
   “Objection,” Buckley said without shouting.
   “Sustained,” Noose said.
   Jake ignored the commotion. He talked about rape for a while, and explained how rape is much worse than murder. With murder, the victim is gone, and not forced to deal with what happened to her. The family must deal with it, but not the victim. But rape is much worse. The victim has a lifetime of coping, of trying to understand, of asking questions, and, the worst part, of knowing the rapist is still alive and may someday escape or be released. Every hour of every day, the victim thinks of the rape and asks herself a thousand questions. She relives it, step by step, minute by minute, and it hurts just as bad.
   Perhaps the most horrible crime of all is the violent rape of a child. A woman who is raped has a pretty good idea why it happened. Some animal was filled with hatred, anger and violence. But a child? A ten-year-old child? Suppose you’re a parent. Imagine yourself trying to explain to your child why she was raped. Imagine yourself trying to explain why she cannot bear children.
   “Objection.”
   “Sustained. Please disregard that last statement, ladies and gentlemen.”
   Jake never missed a beat. Suppose, he said, your ten-year-old daughter is raped, and you’re a Vietnam vet, very familiar with an M-16, and you get your hands on one while your daughter is lying in the hospital fighting for her life. Suppose the rapist is caught, and six days later you manage to maneuver to within five feet of him as he leaves court. And you’ve got the M-16.
   What do you do?
   Mr. Buckley has told you what he would do. He would mourn for his daughter, turn the other cheek, and hope the judicial system worked. He would hope the rapist would receive justice, be sent to Parchman, and hopefully never paroled. That’s what he would do, and they should admire him for being such a kind, compassionate, and forgiving soul. But what would a reasonable father do?
   What would Jake do? If he had the M-16? Blow the bastard’s head off!
   It was simple. It was justice.
   Jake paused for a drink of water, then shifted gears. The pained and humble look was replaced with an air of indignation. Let’s talk about Cobb and Willard. They started this mess. It was their lives the State was attempting to justify. Who would miss them except their mothers? Child rapists. Drug pushers. Would society miss such productive citizens? Wasn’t Ford County safer without them? Were not the other children in the county better off now that two rapists and pushers had been removed? All parents should feel safer. Carl Lee deserves a medal, or at least a round of applause. He was a hero. That’s what Looney said. Give the man a trophy. Send him home to his family.
   He talked about Looney. He had a daughter. He also had one leg, thanks to Carl Lee Hailey. If anyone had a right to be bitter, to want blood, it was DeWayne Looney. And he said Carl Lee should be sent home to his family.
   He urged them to forgive as Looney had forgiven. He asked them to follow Looney’s wishes.
   He became much quieter, and said he was almost through. He wanted to leave them with one thought. Picture this if they could. When she was lying there, beaten, bloodied, legs spread and tied to trees, she looked into the woods around her. Semiconscious and hallucinating, she saw some—one running toward her. It was her daddy, running desperately to save her. In her dreams she saw him when she needed him the most. She cried out for him, and he disappeared. He was taken away.
   She needs him now, as much as she needed him then. Please don’t take him away. She waits on the front row for her daddy.
   Let him go home to his family.
   The courtroom was silent as Jake sat next to his client. He glanced at the jury, and saw Wanda Womack brush away a tear with her finger. For the first time in two days he felt a flicker of hope.
   At four, Noose bid farewell to his jury. He told them to elect a foreman, get organized, and get busy. He told them they could deliberate until six, maybe seven, and if no verdict was reached he would recess until nine Tuesday morning. They stood and filed slowly from the courtroom. Once out of sight, Noose recessed until six and instructed the attorneys to remain close to the courtroom or leave a number with the clerk.
   The spectators held their seats and chatted quietly. Carl Lee was allowed to sit on the front row with his family. Buckley and Musgrove waited in chambers with Noose. Harry Rex, Lucien, and Jake left for the office and a liquid supper. No one expected a quick verdict.
   The bailiff locked them in the jury room and instructed the two alternates to take a seat in the narrow hallway. Inside, Barry Acker was elected foreman by acclamation. He laid the jury instructions and exhibits on a small table in a corner. They sat anxiously around two folding tables placed end to end.
   “I suggest we take an informal vote,” he said. “Just to see where we are. Any objections to that?”
   There were none. He had a list of twelve names.
   “Vote guilty, not guilty, or undecided. Or you can pass for now.”
   “Reba Betts.”
   “Undecided.”
   “Bernice Toole.”
   “Guilty.”
   “Carol Corman.”
   “Guilty.”
   “Donna Lou Peck.”
   “Undecided.”
   “Sue Williams.”
   “Pass.”
   “Jo Ann Gates.”
   “Guilty.”
   “Rita Mae Plunk.”
   “Guilty.”
   “Frances McGowan.”
   “Guilty.”
   “Wanda Womack.”
   “Undecided.”
   “Eula Dell Yates.”
   “Undecided, for now. I wanna talk about it.”
   “We will. Clyde Sisco.”
   “Undecided.”
   “That’s eleven. I’m Barry Acker, and I vote not guilty.”

   He tallied for a few seconds and said, “That’s five guil-ties, five undecideds, one pass, and one not guilty. Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
   They worked through the exhibits, photographs, fingerprints, and ballistics reports. At six, they informed the judge they had not reached a verdict. They were hungry and wanted to go. He recessed until Tuesday morning.
   They sat for hours on the porch, saying little, watching as darkness surrounded the town below and ushered in the mosquitoes. The heat wave had returned. The soggy air clung to their skin and moistened their shirts. The sounds of a hot summer night echoed softly across the front lawn. Sallie had offered to cook. Lucien declined and ordered whiskey. Jake had no appetite for food, but the Coors filled his system and satisfied any hunger pangs stirring within. When things were good and dark, Nesbit emerged from his car, walked across the porch, through the front screen door, and into the house. A moment later he slammed the door, walked past them with a cold beer, and disappeared down the driveway in the direction of his car. He never said a word.
   Sallie stuck her head through the door and made one last offer of food. Both declined.
   “Jake, I got a call this afternoon. Clyde Sisco wants twenty-five thousand to hang the jury, fifty thousand for an acquittal.”
   Jake began shaking his head.
   “Before you say no, listen to me. He knows he can’t guarantee an acquittal, but he can guarantee a hung jury. It just takes one. That’s twenty-five thousand. I know it’s a lot of money, but you know I’ve got it. I’ll pay it and you can repay me over the years. Whenever, I don’t care. If you never repay it, I don’t care. I’ve got a bankful of C. D. ‘s. You know money means nothing to me. If I were you I’d do it in a minute.”
   “You’re crazy, Lucien.”
   “Sure I’m crazy. You haven’t been acting so good yourself. Trial work’ll drive you crazy. Just take a look at what this trial has done to you. No sleep, no food, no routine, no house. Plenty of booze, though.”
   “But I’ve still got ethics.”
   “And I have none. No ethics, no morals, no conscience. But I won, bubba. I won more than anybody has ever won around here, and you know it.”
   “It’s corrupt, Lucien.”
   “And I guess you think Buckley’s not corrupt. He would lie, cheat, bribe, and steal to win this case. He’s not worried about fancy ethics, rules, and opinions. He’s not concerned about morality. He’s concerned with one thing and only one thing-winning! And you’ve got a golden chance to beat him at his own game. I’d do it, Jake.”
   “Forget it, Lucien. Please, just forget it.”
   An hour passed with no words. The lights of the town below slowly disappeared. Nesbit’s snoring was audible in the darkness. Sallie brought one last drink and said good night.
   “This is the hardest part,” Lucien said. “Waiting on twelve average, everyday people to make sense of all this.”
   “It’s a crazy system, isn’t it?”
   “Yes, it is. But it usually works. Juries are right ninety percent of the time.”
   “I just don’t feel lucky. I’m waiting on the miracle.”
   “Jake, my boy, the miracle happens tomorrow.”
   “Tomorrow?”
   “Yes. Early tomorrow morning.”
   “Would you care to elaborate?”
   “By noon tomorrow, Jake, there will be ten thousand angry blacks swarming like ants around the Ford County Courthouse. Maybe more.”
   “Ten thousand! Why?”
   “To scream and shout and chant ‘Free Carl Lee, Free Carl Lee. ‘ To raise hell, to scare everybody, to intimidate the jury. To just disrupt the hell out of everything. There’ll be so many blacks, white folks will run for cover. The governor will send in more troops.”
   “And how do you know all this?”
   “Because I planned it, Jake.”
   “You?”
   “Listen, Jake, when I was in my prime I knew every black preacher in fifteen counties. I’ve been in their churches. Prayed with them, marched with them, sang with them. They sent me clients, and I sent them money. I was the only white radical NAACP lawyer in north Mississippi. I’ filed more race discrimination lawsuits than any ten firms in Washington. These were my people. I’ve just made a few phone calls. They’ll start arriving in the morning, and by noon you won’t be able to stir niggers with a stick in downtown Clanton.”
   “Where will they come from?”
   “Everywhere. You know how tracks love to march and protest. This will be great for them. They’re looking forward to it.”
   “You’re crazy, Lucien. My crazy friend.”
   “I win, bubba.”
   In Room 163, Barry Acker and Clyde Sisco finished their last game of gin rummy and made preparations for bed. Acker gathered some coins and announced he wanted a soft drink. Sisco said he was not thirsty.
   Acker tiptoed past a guardsman asleep in the hall. The machine informed him it was out of order, so he quietly opened the exit dqpr and walked up the stairs to the second floor, where he found another machine next to an ice maker. He inserted his coins. The machine responded with a diet Coke. He bent over to pick it up.
   Out of the darkness two figures charged. They knocked him to the floor, kicked him and pinned him in a dark corner beside the ice maker, next to a door with a chain and padlock. The large one grabbed Acker’s collar and threw him against the cinder block wall. The smaller one stood by the Coke machine and watched the dark hall.
   “You’re Barry Acker!” said the large one through clenched teeth.
   “Yeah! Let go of me!” Acker attempted to shake free, but his assailant lifted him by the throat and held him to the wall with one hand. He used the other hand to unsheathe a shiny hunting knife, which he placed next to Acker’s nose. The wiggling stopped.
   “Listen to me,” he demanded in a loud whisper, “and listen good. We know you’re married and you live at 1161 Forrest Drive. We know you got three kids, and we know where they play and go to school. Your wife works at the bank.”
   Acker went limp.
   “If that nigger walks free, you’ll be sorry. Your family will be sorry. It may take years, but you’ll be awfully sorry.” He dropped him to the floor and grabbed his hair. “You breathe one word of this to anyone, and you’ll lose a kid.
   Understand?”
   They vanished. Acker breathed deeply, almost gasping for breath. He rubbed his throat and the back of his head.
   He sat in the darkness, too scared to move.
   At hundreds of small black churches across north Mississippi, the faithful gathered before dawn and loaded picnic baskets, coolers, lawn chairs, and water jugs into converted school buses and church vans. They greeted friends and chatted nervously about the trial. For weeks they had read and talked about Carl Lee Hailey; now, they were about to go help. Many were old and retired, but there were entire families with children and playpens. When the buses were full, they piled into cars and followed their preachers. They sang and prayed. The preachers met other preachers in small towns and county seats, and they set out in force down the dark highways. When daylight materialized, the highways and roads leading to Ford County were filled with caravans of pilgrims.
   They jammed the side streets for blocks around the square. They parked where they stopped and unloaded.
   The fat colonel had just finished breakfast and stood in the gazebo watching intently. Buses and cars, many with horns honking, were coming from all directions to the square. The barricades held firm. He barked commands and the soldiers jumped into high gear. More excitement. At seven-thirty, he called Ozzie and told him of the invasion. Ozzie arrived immediately and found Agee, who assured him it was a peaceful march. Sort of like a sit-in. How many were coming? Ozzie asked. Thousands, said Agee. Thousands.
   ‘They set up camp under the stately oaks, and milled around the lawn inspecting things. They arranged tables and chairs and playpens. They were indeed peaceful, until a group began the familiar cry of “Free Carl Lee!” They cleared their throats and joined in. It was not yet eight o’clock.
   A black radio station in Memphis flooded the airwaves early Tuesday with a call for help. Black bodies were needed to march and demonstrate in Clanton, Mississippi, an hour away. Hundreds of cars met at a mall and headed south.
   Every civil rights activist and black politician in the city made the trip.
   Agee was a man possessed. He used a bullhorn to shout orders here and there. He herded new arrivals into their places. He organized the black preachers. He assured Ozzie and the colonel everything was okay.
   Everything was okay until a handful of Klansmen made their routine appearance. The sight of the white robes was new to many of the blacks, and they reacted loudly. They inched forward, screaming and jeering. The troops surrounded the robes and protected them. The Kluxers were stunned and scared, and did not yell back.
   By eight-thirty, the streets of Clanton were gridlocked. Deserted cars, vans, and buses were scattered haphazardly through parking lots and along the quiet residential streets. A steady stream of blacks walked toward the square from all directions. Traffic did not move. Driveways were blocked. Merchants parked blocks away from their shops. The mayor stood in the center of the gazebo, wringing his hands and begging Ozzie to do something. Around him thousands of blacks swarmed and yelled in perfect unison. Ozzie asked the mayor if he wanted him to start arresting everybody on the courthouse lawn.
   Noose parked at a service station a half mile south of the jail, and walked with a group of blacks to the courthouse. They watched him curiously, but said nothing. No one would suspect he was a person of authority. Buckley and Musgrove parked in a driveway on Adams Street. They cursed and walked toward the square. They noticed the pile of rubble that had been Jake’s house but said nothing. They were too busy cursing. With state troopers leading the way, the Greyhound from Temple reached the square at twenty minutes after nine. Through the dark windows, the fourteen passengers stared in disbelief at the carnival around the courthouse.
   Mr. Pate called the packed courtroom to order, and Noose welcomed his jury. He apologized for the trouble outside, but there was nothing he could do. If there were no problems to report, they could continue deliberations.
   “Very well, you may retire to the jury room and get to work. We will meet again just before lunch.”
   The jurors filed out and went to the jury room. The Hailey children sat with their father at the defense table. The spectators, now predominantly black, remained seated and struck up conversations. Jake returned to his office.
   Foreman Acker sat at the end of the long, dusty table and thought of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Ford Countians who had served in this room and sat around this table and argued about justice over the past century. Any pride he may have felt for serving on the jury of the most famous case was greatly overshadowed by what happened last night. He wondered how many of his predecessors had been threatened with death. Probably a few, he decided.
   The others fixed their coffee and slowly found seats around the tables. The room brought back fond memories for Clyde Sisco. Prior jury duty had proved lucrative for him, and he relished the thought of another handsome payoff for another just and true verdict. His messenger had not contacted him.
   “How would y’all like to proceed?” the foreman asked.
   Rita Mae Plunk had an especially hard and unforgiving look about her. She was a rough woman with a house trailer, no husband, and two outlaws for sons, both of whom had expressed hatred for Carl Lee Hailey. She had a few things she wanted to get off her large chest.
   “I got a few things I wanna say,” she informed Acker.
   “Fine. Why don’t we start with you, Miss Plunk, and go around the table.”
   “I voted guilty yesterday in the first vote, and I’ll vote guilty next time. I don’t see how anybody could vote not guilty, and I want just one of you to explain to me how you could vote in favor of this nigger!”
   “Don’t say that word again!” yelled Wanda Womack.
   “I’ll say ‘nigger’ if I wanna say ‘nigger,’ and there ain’t a damned thing you can do,” replied Rita Mae.
   “Please don’t use that word,” said Frances McGowan.
   “I find it personally offensive,” said Wanda Womack.
   “Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger,” Rita Mae yelled across the table.
   “Come on,” said Clyde Sisco.
   “Oh boy,” said the foreman. “Look, Miss Plunk, let’s be honest, okay. Most of us use that word, from time to time.
   I’m sure some of us use it more than others. But it’s offensive to many people, and I think it’d be a good idea not to use it during our deliberations. We’ve got enough to worry about as it is. Can we all agree not to use that word?”
   Everyone nodded but Rita Mae.
   Sue Williams decided to answer. She was well dressed, attractive, about forty. She worked for the county welfare department. “I didn’t vote yesterday. I passed. But I tend to sympathize with Mr. Hailey. I have a daughter, and if she was raped, it would greatly affect my mental stability. I can understand how a parent might crack in that situation, and I think it’s unfair for us to judge Mr. Hailey as if he was supposed to act completely rational.”
   “You think he was legally insane?” asked Reba Betts, an undecided.
   “I’m not sure. But I know he wasn’t stable. He couldn’t have been.”
   “So you believe that nut of a doctor who testified for him?” asked Rita Mae.
   “Yes. He was as believable as the State’s doctor.”
   “I liked his boots,” said Clyde Sisco. No one laughed.
   “But he’s a convict,” said Rita Mae. “He lied and tried to cover Ft up. You can’t believe a word he said.”
   “He had sex with a girl under eighteen,” Clyde said. “If that’s a crime, then a bunch of us should’ve been indicted.”
   Again, no one appreciated the attempt at humor. Clyde decided to stay quiet for a while.
   “He later married the girl,” said Donna Lou Peck, an undecided.
   They went around the table, one at a time, expressing opinions and answering questions. The N word was carefully avoided by those wanting a conviction. The battle lines became clearer. Most of the undecideds leaned toward guilty, it seemed. The careful planning by Carl Lee, knowing the exact movements of the boys, the M-16-it all seemed so premeditated. If he had caught them in the act and killed them on the spot, he would not be held accountable. But to plan it so carefully for six days did not indicate an insane mind.
   Wanda Womack, Sue Williams, and Clyde Sisco leaned toward acquittal-the rest toward conviction. Barry Acker was noticeably noncommittal.
   Agee unfurled a long blue and white FREE CARL LEE banner. The ministers gathered fifteen abreast behind it, and waited for the parade to form behind them. They stood in the center of Jackson Street, in front of the courthouse, while Agee screamed instructions to the masses. Thousands of blacks packed tightly behind them, and off they went. They inched down Jackson, and turned left on Caffey, up the west side of the square. Agee led the marchers in their now familiar battle cry of “Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!” They screamed it in an endless, repetitive, numbing chorus. As the crowd moved around the square, it grew in number and volume.
   Smelling trouble, the merchants locked up and headed for home and safety. They checked their policies to see if they were insured for riot damage. The green soldiers were lost in a sea of black. The colonel, sweating and nervous, ordered his troops to circle the courthouse and stand firm. While Agee and the marchers were turning onto Washington Street, Ozzie met with the handful of Kluxers. In a sincere and diplomatic way, he convinced them things could get out of hand, and he could no longer guarantee their safety. He acknowledged their right to assemble, said they had made their point, and asked them to get away from the square before there was trouble. They huddled quickly, and disappeared.
   When the banner passed under the jury room, all twelve gaped from the window. The incessant chanting rattled the glass panes. The bullhorn sounded like a loudspeaker hanging from the ceiling. The jurors stared in disbelief at the mob, the black mob which filled the street and trailed around the corner onto Caffey. A varied assortment of homemade signs bobbed above the masses and demanded that the man be freed.
   “I didn’t know there were this many niggers in Ford County,” Rita Mae Plunk said. At that moment, the other eleven held the same thought.
   Buckley was furious. He and Musgrove watched from a third-floor window in the library. The roar below had disrupted their quiet conversation.
   “I didn’t know there were this many niggers in Ford County,” Musgrove said.
   “There ain’t. Somebody shipped these niggers in here. I wonder who put them up to it.”
   “Probably Brigance.”
   “Yeah, probably so. It’s mighty convenient that they start all this hell-raising when the jury is deliberating. There must be five thousand niggers down there.”
   “At least.”
   Noose and Mr. Pate watched and listened from a second-floor window in chambers. His Honor was not happy. He worried about his jury. “I don’t see how they can concentrate on much with all this going on.”
   “Pretty. good timing, ain’t it, Judge?” Mr. Pate said.
   “It certainly is.”
   “I didn’t know we had that many blacks in the whole county.”
   It took twenty minutes for Mr. Pate and Jean Gillespie to find the attorneys and bring the courtroom to order. When it was quiet, the jurors filed into their seats. There were no smiles.
   Noose cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for lunch. I don’t suppose you have anything to report.”
   Barry Acker shook his head.
   “That’s what I figured. Let’s break for lunch, until one-thirty. I realize you cannot leave the courthouse, but I want you to eat for a while without working on the case. I apologize for the disturbance outside, but, frankly, I can’t do anything about it. We’ll be in recess until one-thirty.”
   In chambers, Buckley went wild. “This is crazy, Judge! There’s no way the jury can concentrate on this case with all that noise out there. This is a deliberate effort to intimidate the jury.”
   “I don’t like it,” Noose said.
   “It was planned, Judge! It’s intentional!” Buckley yelled.
   “It looks bad,” Noose added.
   “I’m almost ready for a mistrial!”
   “I won’t grant one. What do you say, Jake?”
   Jake grinned for a moment, and said, “Free Carl Lee.”
   “Very funny,” Buckley growled. “You probably planned all this.”

  “No. If you will recall, Mr. Buckley, I tried to prevent it. I have repeatedly asked for a change of venue. I have repeatedly said the trial should not be held in this courthouse. You wanted it here, Mr. Buckley, and you kept it here, Judge Noose. You both now look foolish complaining.”
   Jake was impressed with his arrogance. Buckley growled and stared out the window. “Look at them. Wild niggers. Must be ten thousand out there.”
   During lunch the ten thousand grew to fifteen thousand. Cars from a hundred miles away-some with Tennessee plates-parked on the shoulders of the highways outside the city limits. The people hiked for two and three miles under a blistering sun to join the festivities around the courthouse. Agee broke for lunch, and the square quieted.
   The blacks were peaceful. They opened their coolers and picnic baskets, and shared with each other. They congregated in the shade, but there were not enough trees to go around. They filled the courthouse in search of cold water and rest rooms. They walked the sidewalks and gazed in the windows of the closed shops and stores. Fearing trouble from the horde, the Coffee Shop and the Tea Shoppe closed during lunch. Outside of Claude’s, they lined the sidewalk for a block and a half.
   Jake, Harry Rex, and Lucien relaxed on the balcony and enjoyed the circus below. A pitcher of fresh, slushy mar-garitas sat on the table and slowly disappeared. At times they participated in the rally, yelling “Free Carl Lee” or humming along with “We Shall Overcome.” No one knew the words but Lucien. He had learned them during the glorious civil rights days of the sixties, and still claimed to be the only white in Ford County who knew all the words to every stanza. He had even joined a black church back then, he explained between drinks, after his church voted to exclude black members. He dropped out after a three-hour sermon ruptured a disc. He had decided white people were not cut out for that kind of worship. He still contributed, however.
   Occasionally, a crew of TV people would stray near Jake’s office and serve up a question. Jake would pretend not to hear, then finally yell “Free Carl Lee.”
   Precisely at one-thirty, Agee found his bullhorn, unfurled his banner, lined up the ministers and gathered his marchers. He started with the hymn, sung directly into the bullhorn, and the parade crawled down Jackson, then onto Caffey, and around and around the square. Each lap attracted more people and made more noise.
   The jury room was silent for fifteen minutes after Reba Betts was converted from an undecided to a not guilty. If a man raped her, she just might blow his head off if she got the chance. It was”now five to five with two undecideds, and a compromise looked hopeless. The foreman continued to straddle the fence. Poor old Eula Dell Yates had cried one way, then cried the other, and everyone knew she would eventually go with the majority. She had burst into tears at the window, and was led to her seat by Clyde Sisco. She wanted to go home. Said she felt like a prisoner.
   The shouting and marching had taken its toll. When the bullhorn passed nearby, the anxiety level in the small room reached a frenzied peak. Acker would ask for quiet, and they would wait impatiently until the racket faded to the front of the courthouse. It never disappeared completely. Carol Corman was the first to inquire about their safety. For the first time in a week, the quiet motel was awfully attractive.
   Three hours of nonstop chanting had unraveled whatever nerves were left. The foreman suggested they talk about their families and wait until Noose sent for them at five.
   Bernice Toole, a soft guilty, suggested something they had all thought about but no one had mentioned. “Why don’t we just tell the judge we are hopelessly deadlocked?”
   “He’d declare a mistrial, wouldn’t he?” asked Jo Ann Gates.
   “Yes,” answered the foreman. “And he would be re—tried in a few months. Why don’t we call it a day, and try again tomorrow?”
   They agreed. They were not ready to quit. Eula Dell cried softly.
   At four, Carl Lee and the kids walked to one of the tall windows lining each side of the courtroom. He noticed a small knob. He turned it, and the windows swung open to a tiny platform hanging over the west lawn. He nodded at a deputy, and stepped outside. He held Tonya and watched the crowd.
   They saw him. They yelled his name and rushed to the building under him. Agee led the marchers off the street and across the lawn. A wave of black humanity gathered under the small porch and pressed forward for a closer look at their champion.
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   “Free Carl Lee!”
   He waved at his fans below him. He kissed his daughter and hugged his sons. He waved and told the kids to wave.
   Jake and his small band of hombres used the diversion to stagger across the street to the courthouse. Jean Gillespie had called. Noose wanted to see the lawyers in chambers. He was disturbed. Buckley was raging.
   “I demand a mistrial! I demand a mistrial!” he yelled at Noose the second Jake walked in.
   “You move for a mistrial, Governor. You don’t demand,” Jake sard through glassy eyes.
   “You go to hell, Brigance! You planned all this. You plotted this insurrection. Those are your niggers out there.”
   “Where’s the court reporter?” Jake asked. “I want this on the record.”
   “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Noose said. “Let’s be professionals.”
   “Judge, the State moves for a mistrial,” Buckley said, somewhat professionally.
   “Overruled.”
   “All right, then. The State moves to allow the jury to deliberate at someplace other than the courthouse.”
   “Now that’s an interesting idea,” Noose said.
   “I see no reason why they can’t deliberate at the motel. It’s quiet and few people know where it is,” Buckley said confidently.
   “Jake?” Noose said.
   “Nope, it won’t work. There is no statutory provision giving you the authority to allow deliberations outside the courthouse.” Jake reached in his pocket and found several folded papers. He threw them on the desk. “State versus Dubose, 1963 case from Linwood County. The air conditioning in the Linwood County Courthouse quit during a heat wave. The circuit judge allowed the jury to deliberate in a local library. The defense objected. Jury convicted. On appeal, the Supreme Court ruled the judge’s decision was improper and an abuse of discretion. The court went on to hold that the jury deliberations must take place in the jury room in the courthouse where the defendant is being tried. You can’t move them.”
   Noose studied the case and handed it to Musgrove.
   “Get the courtroom ready,” he said to Mr. Pate.
   With the exception of the reporters, the courtroom was solid black. The jurors looked haggard and strained.
   “I take it you do not have a verdict,” Noose said.
   “No, sir,” replied the foreman.
   “Let me ask you this. Without indicating any numerical division, have you reached a point where you can go no further?”
   “We’ve talked about that, Your Honor. And we’d like to leave, get a good night’s rest, and try again tomorrow. We’re not ready to quit.”
   “That’s good to hear. I apologize for the distractions, but, again, there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to do your best. Anything further?”
   “No, sir.”
   “Very well. We’ll stand adjourned until nine A. M. tomorrow.”
   Carl Lee pulled Jake’s shoulder. “What does all this mean?”
   “It means they’re deadlocked. It could be six to six, or eleven to one against you, or eleven to one for acquittal. So, don’t get excited.”
   Barry Acker cornered the bailiff and handed him a folded sheet of paper. It read: Luann: Pack the kids and go to your mother’s. Don’t tell anyone. Stay there until this thing is over. Just do as I say. Things are dangerous.
   Barry “Can you get this to my wife today? Our number is 881–0774.”
   “Sure,” said the bailiff.
   Tim Nunley, mechanic down at the Chevrolet place, former client of Jake Brigance, and Coffee Shop regular, sat on a couch in the cabin deep in the woods and drank a beer. He listened to his Klan brothers as they got drunk and cursed niggers. Occasionally, he cursed them too. He had noticed whispering for the past two nights now, and felt something was up. He listened carefully.
   He stood to get another beer. Suddenly, they jumped him. Three of his comrades pinned him against the wall and pounded him with fists and feet. He was beaten badly, then gagged, bound, and dragged outside, across the gravel road, and into the field where he had been inducted as a member. A cross was lit as he was tied to a pole and stripped. A bullwhip lashed him until his shoulders, back, and legs were solid crimson.
   Two dozen of his ex-brethren watched in mute horror as the pole and limp body were soaked with kerosene. The leader, the one with the bullwhip, stood next to him for an eternity. He pronounced the death sentence, then threw a match.
   Mickey Mouse had been silenced.
   They packed their robes and belongings, and left for home. Most would never return to Ford County.
   Wednesday. For the first time in weeks Jake slept more than eight hours. He had fallen asleep on the couch in his office, and he awoke at five to the sounds of the military preparing for the worst. He was rested, but the nervous throbbing returned with the thought that this day would probably be the big day. He showered and shaved downstairs, and ripped open a new pack of Fruit of the Loom he had purchased at the drug store. He dressed himself in Stan Atcavage’s finest navy all-season suit, which was an inch too short and a bit loose, but not a bad fit under the circumstances. He thought of the rubble on Adams Street, then Carla, and the knot in his stomach began to churn. He ran for the newspapers.
   On the front pages of the Memphis, Jackson, and Tu-pelo papers were identical photos of Carl Lee standing on the small porch over the mob, holding his daughter and waving to his people. There was nothing about Jake’s house. He was relieved, and suddenly hungry.
   Dell hugged him like a lost child. She removed her apron and sat next to him in a corner booth. As the regulars arrived and saw him, they stopped by and patted him on the back. It was good to see him again. They had missed him, and they were for him. He looked gaunt, she said, so he ordered most of the menu.
   “Say, Jake, are all those blacks gonna be back today?” asked Bert West.
   “Probably,” he said as he stabbed a chunk of pancakes.
   “I heard they’s plannin’ to bring more folks this mornin’,” said Andy Rennick. “Ever nigger radio station in north Mississippi is tellin’ folks to come to Clanton.”
   Great, thought Jake. He added Tabasco to his scrambled eggs.
   “Can the jury hear all that yellin’?” asked Bert.
   “Sure they can,” Jake answered. “That’s why they’re doing it. They’re not deaf.”
   “That’s gotta scare them.”
   Jake certainly hoped so.
   “How’s the family?” Dell asked quietly.
   “Fine, I guess. I talked to Carla every night.”
   “She scared?”
   “Terrified.”
   “What have they done to you lately?”
   “Nothing since Sunday morning.”
   “Does Carla know?”
   Jake chewed and shook his head.
   “I didn’t think so. You poor thing.”
   “I’ll be okay. What’s the talk in here?”
   “We closed at lunch yesterday. There were so many blacks outside, and we were afraid of a riot. We’ll watch it close this morning, and we may close again. Jake, what if there’s a conviction?”
   “It could get hairy.”
   He stayed for an hour and answered their questions. Strangers arrived, and Jake excused himself.
   There was nothing to do but wait. He sat on the balcony, drank coffee, smoked a cigar, and watched the guardsmen. He thought of the clients he once had; of a quiet little Southern law office with a secretary and clients waiting to see him. Of docket calls and interviews at the jail. Of normal things, like a family, a home, and church on Sunday mornings. He was not meant for the big time.
   The first church bus arrived at seven-thirty and was halted by the soldiers. The doors flew open and an endless stream of blacks with lawn chairs and food baskets headed for the front lawn. For an hour Jake blew smoke into the heavy air and watched with great satisfaction as the square filled beyond capacity with noisy yet peaceful protestors. The reverends were out in full force, directing their people and assuring Ozzie and the colonel they were nonviolent folk. Ozzie was convinced. The colonel was nervous. By nine, the streets were crammed with demonstrators. Someone spotted the Greyhound. “Here they come!” Agee screamed into the loudspeaker. The mobpushed to the corner of Jackson and Quincy, where the soldiers, troopers, and deputies formed a mobile barricade around the bus and walked it through the crowd to the rear of the courthouse.
   Eula Dell Yates cried openly. Clyde Sisco sat next to the window and held her hand. The others stared in fear as the bus inched around the square. A heavily armed passageway was cleared from the bus to the courthouse, and Ozzie came aboard. The situation was under control, he assured them over the roar. Just follow him and walk as fast as possible.
   The bailiff locked the door as they gathered around the coffeepot. Eula Dell sat by herself in the corner crying softly and flinching as each “Free Carl Lee!’” boomed from below.
   “I don’t care what we do,” she said. “I really don’t care, but I just can’t take any more of this. I haven’t seen my family in eight days, and now this madness. I didn’t sleep any last night.” She cried louder. “I think I’m close to a nervous breakdown. Let’s just get outta here.”
   Clyde handed her a Kleenex and rubbed her shoulder.
   Jo Ann Gates was a soft guilty who was ready to crack. “I didn’t sleep either last night. I can’t take another day like yesterday. I wanna go home to my kids.”
   Barry Acker stood by the window and thought of the riot that would follow a guilty verdict. There wouldn’t be a building left downtown, including the courthouse. He doubted if anybody would protect the jurors in the aftermath of a wrong verdict. They probably wouldn’t make it back to the bus. Thankfully, his wife and kids had fled to safety in Arkansas.
   “I feel like a hostage,” said Bernice Toole, a firm guilty. “That mob would storm the courthouse in a split second if we convict him. I feel intimidated.”
   Clyde handed her a box of Kleenexes.
   “I don’t care what we do,” Eula Dell whined in desperation. “Let’s just get outta here. I honestly don’t care if we convict him or cut him loose, let’s just do something. My nerves can’t take it.”
   Wanda Womack stood at the end of the table and nervously cleared her throat. She asked for attention. “I have a proposal,” she said slowly, “that just might settle this thing.”
   The crying stopped, and Barry Acker returned to his seat. She had their complete attention.
   “I thought of something last night when I couldn’t sleep, and I want you to consider it. It may be painful. It may cause you to search your heart and take a long look at your soul. But I’ll ask you to do it anyway. And if each of you will be honest with yourself, I think we can wrap this up before noon.”
   The only sounds came from the street below.
   “Right now we are evenly divided, give or take a vote. We could tell Judge Noose that we are hopelessly deadlocked. He would declare a mistrial, and we would go home. Then in a few months this entire spectacle would be repeated. Mr. Hailey would be tried again in this same courtroom, with the same judge, but with a different jury, a jury drawn from this county, a jury of our friends, husbands, wives, and parents. The same kind of people who are now in this room. That jury will be confronted with the same issues before us now, and those people will not be any smarter than we are.
   “The time to decide this case is now. It would be morally wrong to shirk our responsibilities and pass the buck to the next jury. Can we all agree on that?”
   They silently agreed.
   “Good. This is what I want you to do. I want you to pretend with me for a moment. I want you to use your imaginations. I want you to close your eyes and listen to nothing but my voice.”
   They obediently closed their eyes. Anything was worth a try.
   Jake lay on the couch in his office and listened to Lucien tell stories about his prestigious father and grandfather, and their prestigious law firm, and all the people they screwed out of money and land.
   “My inheritance was built by my promiscuous ancestors!” he yelled. “They screwed everybody they could!”
   Harry Rex laughed uncontrollably. Jake had heard the stories before, but they were always funny, and different.
   “What about Ethel’s retarded son?” Jake asked.
   “Don’t talk that way about my brother,” Lucien protested. “He’s the brightest one in the family. Sure he’s my brother. Dad hired her when she was seventeen, and believe it or not, she looked good back then. Ethel Twitry was the hottest thing in Ford County. My dad couldn’t keep his hands off her. Sickening to think about now, but it’s true.”
   “It’s disgusting,” Jake said.
   “She had a houseful of kids, and two of them looked just like me, especially the dunce. It was very embarrassing back then.”
   “What about your mother?” asked Harry Rex.
   “She was one of those dignified old Southern ladies whose main concern was who had blue blood and who didn’t. There’s not much blue blood around here, so she. spent most of her time in Memphis trying to impress and be accepted by the cotton families. I spent a good part of my childhood at the Peabody Hotel all starched out with a little red bow tie, trying to act polished around the rich kids from Memphis. I hated it, and I didn’t care much for my mother either. She knew about Ethel, but she accepted it. She told the old man to be discreet and not embarrass the family. He was discreet, and I wound up with a retarded half-brother.”
   “When did she die?”
   “Six months before my father was killed in the plane crash.”
   “How’d she die?” asked Harry Rex.
   “Gonorrhea. Caught it from the yard boy.”
   “Lucien! Seriously?”
   “Cancer. Carried it for three years, but she was dignified to the very end.”
   “Where’d you go wrong?” Jake asked.
   “I think it started in the first grade. My uncle owned the big plantation south of town, and he owned several black families. This was in the Depression, right? I spent most of my childhood there because my father was too busy right here in this office and my mother was too busy with her hot-tea-drinkers clubs. All of my playmates were black. I’d been raised by black servants. My best friend was Willie Ray Wilbanks. No kidding. My great-grandfather purchased his great-grandfather. And when the slaves were freed, most of them just kept the family name. What were they supposed to do? That’s why you’ve got so many black Wilbankses around here. We owned all the slaves in Ford County, and most of them became Wilbankses.”
   “You’re probably kin to some,” Jake said.
   “Given the proclivities of my forefathers, I’m probably kin to all of them.”
   The phone rang. They froze and stared at it. Jake sat up and held his breath. Harry Rex picked up the receiver, then hung up. “Wrong number,” he said.
   They studied each other, then smiled.
   “Anyway, back to the first grade,” Jake said.
   “Okay. When it came time to start school, Willie Ray and the rest of my little buddies got on the bus headed for the black school. I jumped on the bus too, and the driver very carefully took my hand and made me get off. I cried and screamed, and my uncle took me home and told my mother, ‘Lucien got on the nigger school bus. ‘ She was horrified, and beat my little ass. The old man beat me too, but years later admitted it was funny. So I went to the white school where I was always the little rich kid. Everybody hated the little rich kid, especially in a poor town like Clanton. Not that I was lovable to begin with, but everyone got a kick out of hating me just because we had money. That’s why I’ve never thought much of money. That’s where the nonconformity started. In the first grade. I decided not to be like my mother because she frowned all the time and looked down on the world. And my old man was always too busy to enjoy himself. I said piss on it. I’m gonna have some fun.”
   Jake stretched and closed his eyes.
   “Nervous?” Lucien asked.
   “I just want it to be over.”
   The phone rang again, and Lucien grabbed it. He listened, then hung up.
   “What is it?” Harry Rex demanded.
   Jake sat up and glared at Lucien. The moment had arrived.
   “Jean Gillespie. The jury is ready.”
   “Oh my God,” Jake said as he rubbed his temples.
   “Listen to me, Jake,” Lucien lectured. “Millions of people will see what is about to happen. Keep your cool. Be careful what you say.”
   “What about me?” Harry Rex moaned. “I need to go vomit.”
   “That’s strange advice coming from you, Lucien,” Jake said as he buttoned Stan’s coat.
   “I’ve learned a lot. Show your class. If you win, watch what you say to the press. Be sure and thank the jury. If you lose—”
   “If you lose,” Harry Rex said, “run like hell, because those niggers will storm the courthouse.”
   “I feel weak,” Jake admitted.

   Agee took the platform on the front steps and announced the jury was ready. He asked for quiet, and instantly the mob grew still. They moved toward the front columns. Agee asked them to fall to their knees and pray. They knelt obediently and prayed earnestly. Every man, woman, and child on the front lawn bowed before God and begged him to let their man go.
   The soldiers stood bunched together and also prayed for an acquittal.
   Ozzie and Moss Junior seated the courtroom and lined deputies and reserves around the walls and down the aisle. Jake entered from the holding room and stared at Carl Lee at the defense table. He glanced at the spectators. Many were praying. Many were biting their fingers. Gwen was wiping tears. Lester looked fearfully at Jake. The children were confused and scared.
   Noose assumed the bench and an electrified silence engulfed the courtroom. There was no sound from the outside. Twenty thousand blacks knelt on the ground like Muslims. Perfect stillness inside the courtroom and out.
   “I have been advised that the jury has reached a verdict, is that correct, Mr. Bailiff? Very well. We will soon seat the jury, but before we do so I have some instructions. I will not tolerate any outbursts or displays of emotion. I will direct the sheriff to remove any person who creates a disturbance. If need be, I will clear the courtroom. Mr. Bailiff, will you seat the jury.”
   The door opened, and it seemed like an hour before Eula Dell Yates appeared first with tears in her eyes. Jake dropped his head. Carl Lee stared gamely at the portrait of Robert E. Lee above Noose. They awkwardly filled the jury box. They seemed jittery, tense, scared. Most had been crying. Jake felt sick. Barry Acker held a piece of paper that attracted the attention of everyone.
   “Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?”
   “Yes, sir, we have,” answered the foreman in a high-pitched, nervous voice.
   “Hand it to the clerk, please.”
   Jean Gillespie took it and handed it to His Honor, who studied it forever. “It is technically in order,” he finally said.
   Eula Dell was flooding, and her sniffles were the only sounds in the courtroom. Jo Ann Gates and Bernice Toole padded their eyes with handkerchiefs. The crying could mean only one thing. Jake had vowed to ignore the jury before the verdict was read, but it was impossible. In his first criminal trial, the jurors had smiled as they took their seats. At that moment, Jake had become confident of an acquittal. Seconds later he learned that the smiles were because a criminal was about to be removed from the streets. Since that trial, he had vowed never to look at the jurors. But he always did. It would be nice to see a wink or a thumbs up, but that never happened.
   Noose looked at Carl Lee. “Will the defendant please rise.”
   Jake knew there were probably more terrifying requests known to the English tongue, but to a criminal lawyer that request at that particular moment had horrible implications. His client stood awkwardly, pitifully. Jake closed his eyes and held his breath. His hands shook and his stomach ached.
   Noose handed the verdict back to Jean Gillespie. “Please read it, Madam Clerk.”
   She unfolded it and faced the defendant. “As to each count of the indictment, we the jury find the defendant not guilty by reason of insanity.”
   Carl Lee turned and bolted for the railing. Tonya and the boys sprang from the front pew and grabbed him. The courtroom exploded in pandemonium. Gwen screamed and burst into tears. She buried her head in Lester’s arms. The reverends stood, looked upward, and shouted “Hallelujah!” and “Praise Jesus!” and “Lord! Lord! Lord!”
   Noose’s admonition meant nothing. He rapped the gavel half-heartedly and said, “Order, order, order in the seemed content to allow a little celebration.
   Jake was numb, lifeless, paralyzed. His only movement was a weak smile in the direction of the jury box. His eyes watered and his lip quivered, and he decided not to make a spectacle of himself. He nodded at Jean Gillespie, who was crying, and just sat at the defense table nodding and trying to smile, unable to do anything else. From the corner of his eye he could see Musgrove and Buckley removing files, legal pads, and important-looking papers, and throwing it all into their briefcases. Be gracious, he told himself.
   A teenager darted between two deputies, through the door, and ran through the rotunda screaming “Not guilty! Not guilty!” He ran to a small balcony over the front steps and screamed to the masses below “Not guilty! Not guilty!” Bedlam erupted.
   “Order, order in the court,” Noose was saying when the delayed reaction from the outside came thundering through the windows.
   “Order, order in the courtroom.” He tolerated the excitement for another minute, then asked the sheriff to restore order. Ozzie raised his hands and spoke. The clapping, hugging and praising died quickly. Carl Lee released his children and returned to the defense table. He sat close to his attorney and put his arm around him, grinning and crying at the same time.
   Noose smiled at the defendant. “Mr. Hailey, you have been tried by a jury of your peers and found not guilty. I do not recall any expert testimony that you are now dangerous or in need of further psychiatric treatment. You are a free man.”
   His Honor looked at the attorneys. “If there is nothing further, this court will stand adjourned until August 15.”
   Carl Lee was smothered by his family and friends. They hugged him, hugged each other, hugged Jake. They wept unashamedly and praised the Lord. They told Jake they loved him.
   The reporters pressed against the railing and began firing questions at Jake. He held up his hands, and said he would have no comment. But there would be a full-blown press conference in his office at 2:00 P. M.
   Buckley and Musgrove left through a side door. The jurors were locked in the jury room to await the last bus ride to the motel. Barry Acker asked to speak to the sheriff. Oz-zie met him in the hallway, listened intently, and promised to escort him home and provide protection around the clock.
   The reporters assaulted Carl Lee. “I just wanna go home,” he said over and over. “I just wanna go home.”
   The celebration kicked into high gear on the front lawn. There was singing, dancing, crying, back-slapping, hugging, thanks-giving, congratulating, outright laughing, cheering, chanting, high fives, low fives, and soul brother shakes. The heavens were praised in one glorious, tumultuous, irreverent jubilee. They packed closer together in front of the courthouse and waited impatiently for their hero to emerge and bask in his much deserved adulation.
   Their patience grew thin. After thirty minutes of screaming “We Want Carl Lee! We Want Carl Lee!” their man appeared at the door. An ear-splitting, earth-shaking roar greeted him. He inched forward through the mass with his lawyer and family, and stopped on the top step under the pillars where the plywood platform held a thousand microphones. The whooping and yelling of twenty thousand voices was deafening. He hugged his lawyer, and they waved to the sea of screaming faces.
   The shouting from the army of reporters was completely inaudible. Occasionally, Jake would stop waving and yell something about a press conference in his office at two.
   Carl Lee hugged his wife and children, and they waved. The crowd roared its approval. Jake slid away and into the courthouse, where he found Lucien and Harry Rex waiting in a corner, away from the mad rush of spectators. “Let’s get out of here,” Jake yelled. They pushed through the mob, down the hall and out the rear door. Jake spotted a swarm of reporters on the sidewalk outside his office.
   “Where are you parked?” he asked Lucien. He pointed to a side street, and they disappeared behind the Coffee Shop.
   Sallie fried pork chops and green tomatoes, and served them on the porch. Lucien produced a bottle of expensive cham—Rex ate with his fingers, gnawing on the bones as if he hadn’t seen food in a month. Jake played with his food and worked on the ice-cold champagne. After two glasses, he smiled into the distance. He savored the moment.
   “You look silly as hell,” Harry Rex said with a mouthful of pork.
   “Shut up, Harry Rex,” Lucien said. “Let him enjoy his finest hour.”
   “He’s enjoying it. Look at that smirk.”
   “What should I tell the press?” Jake asked.
   “Tell them you need some clients,” Harry Rex said.
   “Clients will be no problem,” Lucien said. “They’ll line the sidewalks waiting for appointments.”
   “Why didn’t you talk to the reporters in the courthouse? They had their cameras running and everything. I started to say something for them,” Harry Rex said.
   “I’m sure it would’ve been a gem,” Lucien said.
   “I’ve got them at my fingertips,” Jake said. “They’re not going anywhere. We could sell tickets to the press conference and make a fortune.”
   “Can I sit and watch, please, Jake, please,” Harry Rex said.
   They argued over whether they should take the antique Bronco or the nasty little Porsche. Jake said he was not driving. Harry Rex cursed the loudest, and they loaded into the Bronco. Lucien found a spot in the rear seat. Jake rode shotgun and gave instructions. They hit the back streets, and missed most of the traffic from the square. The highway was crowded, and Jake directed his driver through a myriad of gravel roads. They found blacktop, and Harry Rex raced away in the direction of the lake.
   “I have one question, Lucien,” Jake said.
   “What?”
   “And I want a straight answer.”
   “What?”
   “Did you cut a deal with Sisco?”
   “No, my boy, you won it on your own.”
   “Do you swear?”
   “I swear to God. On a stack of Bibles.”
   Jake wanted to believe him, so he dropped it. They rode in silence, in the sweltering heat, and listened as Harry Rex sang along with the stereo. Suddenly, Jake pointed and yelled. Harry Rex slammed on the brakes, made a wild left turn, and sped down another gravel road.
   “Where are we going?” Lucien demanded.
   “Just hang on,” Jake said as he looked at a row of houses approaching on the right. He pointed to the second one, and Harry Rex pulled into the driveway and parked under a shade tree. Jake got out, looked around the front yard, and walked onto the porch. He knocked on the screen door.
   A man appeared. A stranger. “Yeah, whatta you want?”
   “I’m Jake Brigance, and—”
   The door flew open, and the man rushed onto the porch and grabbed Jake’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Jake. I’m Mack Loyd Crowell. I was on the grand jury that almost didn’t indict. You done a real good job. I’m proud of you.”
   Jake shook his hand and repeated his name. Then he remembered, Mack Loyd Crowell, the man who told Buckley to shut up and sit down in the grand jury. “Yeah, Mack Loyd, now I remember. Thanks.”
   Jake looked awkwardly through the door.
   “You lookin’ for Wanda?” Crowell asked.
   “Well, yes. I was just passing by, and remembered her address from the jury research.”
   “You’ve come to the right place. She lives here, and I do too most of the time. We ain’t married or nothing, but we go together. She’s layin’ down takin’ a nap. She’s pretty wore out.”
   “Don’t wake her,” Jake said.
   “She told me what happened. She won it for you.”
   “How? What happened?”
   “She made them all close their eyes and listen to her. She told them to pretend that the little girl had blond hair and blue eyes, that the two rapists were black, that they tied her right foot to a tree and her left foot to a fence post, that they raped her repeatedly and cussed her because she was white. She told them to picture the little girl layin’ there beggin’ for her daddy while they kicked her in the mouth and knocked out her teeth, broke both jaws, broke her nose. She said to imagine two drunk blacks pouring beer on her and pissing in her face, and laughing like idiots. And then she told them to imagine that the little girl belonged to them—their daughter. She told them to be honest with themselves and to write on a piece of paper whether or not they would kill those black bastards if they got the chance. And they voted, by secret ballot. All twelve said they would do the killing. The foreman counted the votes. Twelve to zero. Wanda said she’d sit in that jury room until Christmas before she’d vote to convict, and if they were honest with themselves, then they ought to feel the same way. Ten of them agreed with her, and one lady held out. They all started cryin’ and cussin’ her so bad, she finally caved in. It was rough in there, Jake.”
   Jake listened to every word without breathing. He heard a noise. Wanda Womack walked to the screen door. She smiled at him and began crying. He stared at her through the screen, but could not talk. He bit his lip and nodded. “Thanks,” he managed weakly. She wiped her eyes and nodded.
   On Craft Road, a hundred cars lined both shoulders east and west of the Hailey driveway. The long front yard was packed with vehicles, children playing, and parents sitting under shade trees and on car hoods. Harry Rex parked in a ditch by the mailbox. A crowd rushed to greet Carl Lee’s lawyer. Lester grabbed him and said, “You done it again, you done it again.”
   They shook hands and slapped backs across the yard and up to the porch. Agee hugged him and praised God. Carl Lee left the swing and walked down the steps, followed by his family and admirers. They gathered around Jake as the two great men came face to face. They clutched hands and smiled at each other, both searching for words. They embraced. The crowd clapped and shouted.
   “Thank you, Jake,” Carl Lee said softly.
   The lawyer and client sat in the swing and answered questions about the trial. Lucien and Harry Rex joined Lester and some of his friends under a shade tree for a little drink. Tonya ran and jumped around the yard with a hundred other kids.
   At two-thirty, Jake sat at his desk and talked to Carla. Harry Rex and Lucien drank the last of the margaritas, and quickly got drunk. Jake drank coffee and told his wife he would leave Memphis in three hours and be in North Carolina by ten. Yes, he was fine, he said. Everything was okay, and everything was over. There were dozens of reporters packed into his conference room, so be sure and watch the evening news. He would meet with them briefly, then drive to Memphis. He said he loved her, missed her body, and would be there soon. He hung up.
   Tomorrow, he’d call Ellen.
   “Why are you leaving today!” Lucien demanded.
   “You’re stupid, Jake, just stupid. You’ve got a thousand reporters in the palm of your hand, and you’re leaving town. Stupid, just stupid,” Harry Rex shouted.
   Jake stood. “How do I look, fellas?”
   “Like a dumbass if you leave town,” Harry Rex said.
   “Hang around for a couple of days,” Lucien pleaded. “This is an opportunity you’ll never have again. Please, Jake.”
   “Relax, fellas. I’m going to meet with them now, let them take my picture, answer a few of their stupid questions, then I’m leaving town.”
   “You’re crazy, Jake,” Harry Rex said.
   “I agree,” said Lucien.
   Jake checked the mirror, adjusted Stan’s tie, and smiled at his friends. “I appreciate you guys. I really do. I got paid nine hundred dollars for this trial, and I plan to share it with y’all.”
   They poured the last of the margaritas, gulped it down, and followed Jake Brigance down the stairs to face the reporters.

The Firm

John Grisham

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
About the Arthor

The Firm
by John Grisham

Chapter 1

   The senior partner studied the resume for the hundredth time and again found nothing he disliked about Mitchell Y. McDeere, at least not on paper. He had the brains, the ambition, the good looks. And he was hungry; with his background, he had to be. He was married, and that was mandatory. The Firm had never hired an unmarried lawyer, and it frowned heavily on divorce, as well as womanizing and drinking. Drug testing was in the contract. He had a degree in accounting, passed the CPA exam the first time he took it and wanted to be a tax lawyer, which of course was a requirement with a tax firm. He was white, and The Firm had never hired a black. They managed this by being secretive and clubbish and never soliciting job applications. Other firms solicited, and hired blacks. This firm recruited, and remained lily white. Plus, The Firm was in Memphis, of all places, and the top blacks wanted New York or Washington or Chicago. McDeere was a male, and there were no women in. That mistake had been made in the mid-seventies when they recruited the number one grad from Harvard, who happened to be a she and a wizard at taxation. She lasted four turbulent years and was killed in a car wreck.
   He looked good, on paper. He was their top choice. In fact, for this year there were no other prospects. The list was very short. It was McDeere or no one.
   The managing partner, Royce McKnight, studied a dossier labeled:


Mitchell Y. McDeere,
Harvard

   An inch thick with small print and a few photographs, it had been prepared by some ex-CIA agents in a private intelligence outfit in Bethesda. They were clients of and each year did the investigating for no fee. It was easy work, they said, checking out unsuspecting law students. They learned, for instance, that he preferred to leave the Northeast, that he was holding three job offers, two in New York and one in Chicago, and that the highest offer was $76,000 and the lowest was $68,000. He was in demand. He had been given the opportunity to cheat on a securities exam during his second year. He declined, and made the highest grade in the class. Two months ago he had been offered cocaine at a law school party. He said No and left when everyone began snorting. He drank an occasional beer, but drinking was expensive and he had no money. He owed close to $23,000 in student loans. He was hungry.
   Royce McKnight flipped through the dossier and smiled. McDeere was their man.
   Lamar Quin was thirty-two and not yet a partner. He had been brought along to look young and act young and project a youthful image for Bendini, Lambert & Locke, which in fact was a young firm, since most of the partners retired in their late forties or early fifties with money to burn. He would make partner in this firm. With a six-figure income guaranteed for the rest of his life, Lamar could enjoy the twelve-hundred-dollar tailored suits that hung so comfortably from his tall, athletic frame. He strolled nonchalantly across the thousand-dollar-a-day suite and poured another cup of decaf. He checked his watch. He glanced at the two partners sitting at the small conference table near the windows.
   Precisely at two-thirty someone knocked on the door. Lamar looked at the partners, who slid the resume and dossier into an open briefcase. All three reached for their jackets. Lamar buttoned his top button and opened the door.
   “Mitchell McDeere?” he asked with a huge smile and a hand thrust forward.
   “Yes.” They shook hands violently.
   “Nice to meet you, Mitchell. I’m Lamar Quin.”
   “My pleasure. Please call me Mitch.” He stepped inside and quickly surveyed the spacious room.
   “Sure, Mitch.” Lamar grabbed his shoulder and led him across the suite, where the partners introduced themselves. They were exceedingly warm and cordial. They offered him coffee, then water. They sat around a shiny mahogany conference table and exchanged pleasantries. McDeere unbuttoned his coat and crossed his legs. He was now a seasoned veteran in the search of employment, and he knew they wanted him. He relaxed. With three job offers from three of the most prestigious firms in the country, he did not need this interview, this firm. He could afford to be a little overconfident now. He was there out of curiosity. And he longed for warmer weather.
   Oliver Lambert, the senior partner, leaned forward on his elbows and took control of the preliminary chitchat. He was glib and engaging with a mellow, almost professional baritone. At sixty-one, he was the grandfather of the firm and spent most of his time administering and balancing the enormous egos of some of the richest lawyers in the country. He was the counselor, the one the younger associates went to with their troubles. Mr. Lambert also handled the recruiting, and it was his mission to sign Mitchell Y. McDeere.
   “Are you tired of interviewing?” asked Oliver Lambert.
   “Not really. It’s part of it.”
   Yes, yes, they all agreed. Seemed like yesterday they were interviewing and submitting resumes and scared to death they wouldn’t find a job and three years of sweat and torture would be down the drain. They knew what he was going through, all right.
   “May I ask a question?” Mitch asked.
   “Certainly.”
   “Sure.”
   “Anything.”
   “Why are we interviewing in this hotel room? The other firms interview on campus through the placement office.”
   “Good question.” They all nodded and looked at each other and agreed it was a good question.
   “Perhaps I can answer that, Mitch,” said Royce McKnight, the managing partner. “You must understand our firm. We are different, and we take pride in that. We have forty-one lawyers, so we are small compared with other firms. We don’t hire too many people; about one every other year. We offer the highest salary and fringes in the country, and I’m not exaggerating. So we are very selective. We selected you. The letter you received last month was sent after we screened over two thousand third-year law students at the best schools. Only one letter was sent. We don’t advertise openings and we don’t solicit applications. We keep a low profile, and we do things differently. That’s our explanation.”
   “Fair enough. What kind of firm is it?”
   “Tax. Some securities, real estate and banking, but eighty percent is tax work. That’s why we wanted to meet you, Mitch. You have an incredibly strong tax background.”
   “Why’d you go to Western Kentucky?” asked Oliver Lambert.
   “Simple. They offered me a full scholarship to play football. Had it not been for that, college would’ve been impossible.”
   “Tell us about your family.”
   “Why is that important?”
   “It’s very important to us, Mitch,” Royce McKnight said warmly.
   They all say that, thought McDeere. “Okay, my father was killed in the coal mines when I was seven years old. My mother remarried and lives in Florida. I had two brothers. Rusty was killed in Vietnam. I have a brother named Ray McDeere.”
   “Where is he?”
   “I’m afraid that’s none of your business.” He stared at Royce McKnight and exposed a mammoth chip on his shoulder. The dossier said little about Ray.
   “I’m sorry,” the managing partner said softly.
   “Mitch, our firm is in Memphis,” Lamar said. “Does that bother you?”
   “Not at all. I’m not fond of cold weather.”
   “Have you ever been to Memphis?”
   “No.”
   “We’ll have you down soon. You’ll love it.”
   Mitch smiled and nodded and played along. Were these guys serious? How could he consider such a small firm in such a small town when Wall Street was waiting?
   “How are you ranked in your class?” Mr. Lambert asked.
   “Top five.” Not top five percent, but top five. That was enough of an answer for all of them. Top five out of three hundred. He could have said number three, a fraction away from number two, and within striking distance of number one. But he didn’t. They came from inferior schools—Chicago, Columbia and Vanderbilt, as he recalled from a cursory examination of Martindale-HubbelPs Legal Directory. He knew they would not dwell on academics.
   “Why did you select Harvard?”
   “Actually, Harvard selected me. I applied at several schools and was accepted everywhere. Harvard offered more financial assistance. I thought it was the best school. Still do.”
   “You’ve done quite well here, Mitch,” Mr. Lambert said, admiring the resume. The dossier was in the briefcase, under the table.
   “Thank you. I’ve worked hard.”
   “You made extremely high grades in your tax and securities courses.”
   “That’s where my interest lies.”
   “We’ve reviewed your writing sample, and it’s quite impressive.”
   “Thank you. I enjoy research.”
   They nodded and acknowledged this obvious lie. It was part of the ritual. No law student or lawyer in his right mind enjoyed research, yet, without fail, every prospective associate professed a deep love for the library.
   “Tell us about your wife,” Royce McKnight said, almost meekly. They braced for another reprimand. But it was a standard, nonsacred area explored by every firm.
   “Her name is Abby. She has a degree in elementary education from Western Kentucky. We graduated one week and got married the next. For the past three years she’s taught at a private kindergarten near Boston College.”
   “And is the marriage—”
   “We’re very happy. We’ve known each other since high school.”
   “What position did you play?” asked Lamar, in the direction of less sensitive matters.
   “Quarterback. I was heavily recruited until I messed up a knee in my last high school game. Everyone disappeared except Western Kentucky. I played off and on for four years, even started some as a junior, but the knee would never hold up.”
   “How’d you make straight A’s and play football?”
   “I put the books first.”
   “I don’t imagine Western Kentucky is much of an academic school,” Lamar blurted with a stupid grin, and immediately wished he could take it back. Lambert and McKnight frowned and acknowledged the mistake.
   “Sort of like Kansas State,” Mitch replied. They froze, all of them froze, and for a few seconds stared incredulously at each other. This guy McDeere knew Lamar Quin went to Kansas State. He had never met Lamar Quin and had no idea who would appear on behalf of and conduct the interview. Yet, he knew. He had gone to Martindale-HubbelPs and checked them out. He had read the biographical sketches of all of the forty-one lawyers in, and in a split second he had recalled that Lamar Quin, just one of the forty-one, had gone to Kansas State. Damn, they were impressed.
   “I guess that came out wrong,” Lamar apologized.
   “No problem.” Mitch smiled warmly. It was forgotten.
   Oliver Lambert cleared his throat and decided to get personal again. “Mitch, our firm frowns on drinking and chasing women. We’re not a bunch of Holy Rollers, but we put business ahead of everything. We keep low profiles and we work very hard. And we make plenty of money.”
   “I can live with all that.”
   “We reserve the right to test any member of The Firm for drug use.”
   “I don’t use drugs.”
   “Good. What’s your religious affiliation?”
   “Methodist.”
   “Good. You’ll find a wide variety in our firm. Catholics, Baptists, Episcopalians. It’s really none of our business, but we like to know. We want stable families. Happy lawyers are productive lawyers. That’s why we ask these questions.”
   Mitch smiled and nodded. He’d heard this before.
   The three looked at each other, then at Mitch. This meant they had reached the point in the interview where the interviewee was supposed to ask one or two intelligent questions. Mitch recrossed his legs. Money, that was the big question, particularly how it compared to his other offers.
   If it isn’t enough, thought Mitch, then it was nice to meet you fellas. If the pay is attractive, then we can discuss families and marriages and football and churches.
   But, he knew, like all the other firms they had to shadowbox around the issue until things got awkward and it was apparent they had discussed everything in the world but money. So, hit them with a soft question first.

   “What type of work will I do initially?”
   They nodded and approved of the question. Lambert and McKnight looked at Lamar. This answer was his.
   “We have something similar to a two-year apprenticeship, although we don’t call it that. We’ll send you all over the country to tax seminars. Your education is far from over. You’ll spend two weeks next winter in Washington at the American Tax Institute. We take great pride in our technical expertise, and the training is continual, for all of us. If you want to pursue a master’s in taxation, we’ll pay for it. As far as practicing law, it won’t be very exciting for the first two years. You’ll do a lot of research and generally boring stuff. But you’ll be paid handsomely.”
   “How much?”
   Lamar looked at Royce McKnight, who eyed Mitch and said, “We’ll discuss the compensation and other benefits when you come to Memphis.”
   “I want a ballpark figure or I may not come to Memphis.” He smiled, arrogant but cordial. He spoke like a man with three job offers.
   The partners smiled at each other, and Mr. Lambert spoke first. “Okay. A base salary of eighty thousand the first year, plus bonuses. Eighty-five the second year, plus bonuses. A low-interest mortgage so you can buy a home. Two country club memberships. And a new BMW. You pick the color, of course.”
   They focused on his lips, and waited for the wrinkles to form on his cheeks and the teeth to break through. He tried to conceal a smile, but it was impossible. He chuckled.
   “That’s incredible,” he mumbled. Eighty thousand in Memphis equaled a hundred and twenty thousand in New York. Did the man say BMW?! His Mazda hatchback had a million miles on it and for the moment had to be jump-started while he saved for a rebuilt starter.
   “Plus a few more fringes we’ll be glad to discuss in Memphis.”
   Suddenly he had a strong desire to visit Memphis. Wasn’t it by the river?
   The smile vanished and he regained his composure. He looked sternly, importantly at Oliver Lambert and said, as if he’d forgotten about the money and the home and the BMW, “Tell me about your firm.”
   “Forty-one lawyers. Last year we earned more per lawyer than any firm our size or larger. That includes every big firm in the country. We take only rich clients—corporations, banks and wealthy people who pay our healthy fees and never complain. We’ve developed a specialty in international taxation, and it’s both exciting and very profitable. We deal only with people who can pay.”
   “How long does it take to make partner?”
   “On the average, ten years, and it’s a hard ten years. It’s not unusual for our partners to earn half a million a year, and most retire before they’re fifty. You’ve got to pay your dues, put in eighty-hour weeks, but it’s worth it when you make partner.”
   Lamar leaned forward. “You don’t have to be a partner to earn six figures. I’ve been with seven years, and went over a hundred thousand four years ago.”
   Mitch thought about this for a second and figured by the time he was thirty he could be well over a hundred thousand, maybe close to two hundred thousand. At the age of thirty!
   They watched him carefully and knew exactly what he was calculating.
   “What’s an international tax firm doing in Memphis?” he asked.
   That brought smiles. Mr. Lambert removed his reading glasses and twirled them. “Now that’s a good question. Mr. Bendini founded in 1944. He had been a tax lawyer in Philadelphia and had picked up some wealthy clients in the South. He got a wild hair and landed in Memphis. For twenty-five years he hired nothing but tax lawyers, and prospered nicely down there. None of us are from Memphis, but we have grown to love it. It’s a very pleasant old Southern town. By the way, Mr. Bendini died in 1970.”
   “How many partners in?”
   “Twenty, active. We try to keep a ratio of one partner for each associate. That’s high for the industry, but we like it. Again, we do things differently.”
   “All of our partners are multimillionaires by the age of forty-five,” Royce McKnight said.
   “All of them?”
   “Yes, sir. We don’t guarantee it, but if you join our firm, put in ten hard years, make partner and put in ten more years, and you’re not a millionaire at the age of forty-five, you’ll be the first in twenty years.”
   “That’s an impressive statistic.”
   “It’s an impressive firm, Mitch,” Oliver Lambert said, “and we’re very proud of it. We’re a close-knit fraternity. We’re small and we take care of each other. We don’t have the cutthroat competition the big firms are famous for. We’re very careful whom we hire, and our goal is for each new associate to become a partner as soon as possible. Toward that end we invest an enormous amount of time and money in ourselves, especially our new people. It is a rare, extremely rare occasion when a lawyer leaves our firm. It is simply unheard of. We go the extra mile to keep careers on track. We want our people happy. We think it is the most profitable way to operate.”
   “I have another impressive statistic,” Mr. McKnight added. “Last year, for firms our size or larger, the average turnover rate among associates was twenty-eight percent. At Bendini, Lambert & Locke, it was zero. Year before, zero. It’s been a long time since a lawyer left our firm.”
   They watched him carefully to make sure all of this sank in. Each term and each condition of the employment was important, but the permanence, the finality of his acceptance overshadowed all other items on the checklist. They explained as best they could, for now. Further explanation would come later.
   Of course, they knew much more than they could talk about. For instance, his mother lived in a cheap trailer park in Panama City Beach, remarried to a retired truck driver with a violent drinking problem. They knew she had received $41,000 from the mine explosion, squandered most of it, then went crazy after her oldest son was killed in Vietnam. They knew he had been neglected, raised in poverty by his brother Ray (whom they could not find) and some sympathetic relatives. The poverty hurt, and they assumed, correctly, it had bred the intense desire to succeed. He had worked thirty hours a week at an all-night convenience store while playing football and making perfect grades. They knew he seldom slept. They knew he was hungry. He was their man.
   “Would you like to come visit us?” asked Oliver Lambert.
   “When?” asked Mitch, dreaming of a black 318i with a sunroof.


* * *

   The ancient Mazda hatchback with three hubcaps and a badly cracked windshield hung in the gutter with its front wheels sideways, aiming at the curb, preventing a roll down the hill. Abby grabbed the door handle on the inside, yanked twice and opened the door. She inserted the key, pressed the clutch and turned the wheel. The Mazda began a slow roll. As it gained speed, she held her breath, released the clutch and bit her lip until the unmuffled rotary engine began whining.
   With three job offers on the table, a new car was four months away. She could last. For three years they had endured poverty in a two-room student apartment on a campus covered with Porsches and little Mercedes convertibles. For the most part they had ignored the snubs from the classmates and coworkers in this bastion of East Coast snobbery. They were hillbillies from Kentucky, with few friends. But they had endured and succeeded quite nicely all to themselves.
   She preferred Chicago to New York, even for a lower salary, largely because it was farther from Boston and closer to Kentucky. But Mitch remained noncommittal, characteristically weighing it all carefully and keeping most of it to himself. She had not been invited to visit New York and Chicago with her husband. And she was tired of guessing. She wanted an answer.
   She parked illegally on the hill nearest the apartment and walked two blocks. Their unit was one of thirty in a two-story red-brick rectangle. Abby stood outside her door and fumbled through the purse looking for keys. Suddenly, the door jerked open. He grabbed her, yanked her inside the tiny apartment, threw her on the sofa and attacked her neck with his lips. She yelled and giggled as arms and legs thrashed about. They kissed, one of those long, wet, ten-minute embraces with groping and fondling and moaning, the kind they had enjoyed as teenagers when kissing was fun and mysterious and the ultimate.
   “My goodness,” she said when they finished. “What’s the occasion?”
   “Do you smell anything?” Mitch asked.
   She looked away and sniffed. “Well, yes. What is it?”
   “Chicken chow mein and egg foo yung. From Wong Boys.”
   “Okay, what’s the occasion?”
   “Plus an expensive bottle of Chablis. It’s even got a cork.”
   “What have you done, Mitch?”
   “Follow me.” On the small, painted kitchen table, among the legal pads and casebooks, sat a large bottle of wine and a sack of Chinese food. They shoved the law school paraphernalia aside and spread the food. Mitch opened the wine and filled two plastic wineglasses.
   “I had a great interview today,” he said.
   “Who?”
   “Remember that firm in Memphis I received a letter from last month?”
   “Yes. You weren’t too impressed.”
   “That’s the one. I’m very impressed. It’s all tax work and the money looks good.”
   “How good?”
   He ceremoniously dipped chow mein from the container onto both plates, then ripped open the tiny packages of soy sauce. She waited for an answer. He opened another container and began dividing the egg foo yung. He sipped his wine and smacked his lips.
   “How much?” she repeated.
   “More than Chicago. More than Wall Street.”
   She took a long, deliberate drink of wine and eyed him suspiciously. Her brown eyes narrowed and glowed. The eyebrows lowered and the forehead wrinkled. She waited.
   “How much?”
   “Eighty thousand, first year, plus bonuses. Eighty-five, second year, plus bonuses.” He said this nonchalantly while studying the celery bits in the chow mein.
   “Eighty thousand,” she repeated.
   “Eighty thousand, babe. Eighty thousand bucks in Memphis, Tennessee, is about the same as a hundred and twenty thousand bucks in New York.”
   “Who wants New York?” she asked.
   “Plus a low-interest mortgage loan.”
   That word—mortgage–had not been uttered in the apartment in a long time. In fact, she could not, at the moment, recall the last discussion about a home or anything related to one. For months now it had been accepted that they would rent some place until some distant, unimaginable point in the future when they achieved affluence and would then qualify for a large mortgage.
   She sat her glass of wine on the table and said matter-of-factly, “I didn’t hear that.”
   “A low-interest mortgage loan. Loans enough money to buy a house. It’s very important to these guys that their associates look prosperous, so they give us the money at a much lower rate.”
   “You mean as in a home, with grass around it and shrubs?”
   “Yep. Not some overpriced apartment in Manhattan, but a three-bedroom house in the suburbs with a driveway and a two-car garage where we can park the BMW.”
   The reaction was delayed by a second or two, but she finally said, “BMW? Whose BMW?”
   “Ours, babe. Our BMW. The Firm leases a new one and gives us the keys. It’s sort of like a signing bonus for a first-round draft pick. It’s worth another five thousand a year. We pick the color, of course. I think black would be nice. What do you think?”
   “No more clunkers. No more leftovers. No more hand-me-downs,” she said as she slowly shook her head.
   He crunched on a mouthful of noodles and smiled at her. She was dreaming, he could tell, probably of furniture, and wallpaper, and perhaps a pool before too long. And babies, little dark-eyed children with light brown hair.
   “And there are some other benefits to be discussed later.”
   “I don’t understand, Mitch. Why are they so generous?”
   “I asked that question. They’re very selective, and they take a lot of pride in paying top dollar. They go for the best and don’t mind shelling out the bucks. Their turnover rate is zero. Plus, I think it costs more to entice the top people to Memphis.”
   “It would be closer to home,” she said without looking at him.
   “I don’t have a home. It would be closer to your parents, and that worries me.”
   She deflected this, as she did most of his comments about her family. “You’d be closer to Ray.”
   He nodded, bit into an egg roll and imagined her parents’ first visit, that sweet moment when they pulled into the driveway in their well-used Cadillac and stared in shock at the new French colonial with two new cars in the garage. They would burn with envy and wonder how the poor kid with no family and no status could afford all this at twenty-five and fresh out of law school. They would force painful smiles and comment on how nice everything was, and before long Mr. Sutherland would break down and ask how much the house cost and Mitch would tell him to mind his own business, and it would drive the old man crazy. They’d leave after a short visit and return to Kentucky, where all their friends would hear how great the daughter and the son-in-law were doing down in Memphis. Abby would be sorry they couldn’t get along but wouldn’t say much. From the start they had treated him like a leper. He was so unworthy they had boycotted the small wedding.
   “Have you ever been to Memphis?” he asked.
   “Once when I was a little girl. Some kind of convention, for the church. All I remember is the river.”
   “They want us to visit.”
   “Us! You mean I’m invited?”
   “Yes. They insist on you coming.”
   “When?”
   “Couple of weeks. They’ll fly us down Thursday afternoon for the weekend.”
   “I like this firm already.”

Chapter 2

   The five-story building had been built a hundred years earlier by a cotton merchant and his sons after the Reconstruction, during the revival of cotton trading in Memphis. It sat in the middle of Cotton Row on Front Street near the river. Through its halls and doors and across its desks, millions of bales of cotton had been purchased from the Mississippi and Arkansas deltas and sold around the world. Deserted, neglected, then renovated time and again since the first war, it had been purchased for good in 1951 by an aggressive tax lawyer named Anthony Bendini. He renovated it yet again and began filling it with lawyers. He renamed it the Bendini Building.
   He pampered the building, indulged it, coddled it, each year adding another layer of luxury to his landmark. He fortified it, sealing doors and windows and hiring armed guards to protect it and its occupants. He added elevators, electronic surveillance, security codes, closed-circuit television, a weight room, a steam room, locker rooms and a partners’ dining room on the fifth floor with a captivating view of the river.
   In twenty years he built the richest law firm in Memphis, and, indisputably, the quietest. Secrecy was his passion. Every associate hired by was indoctrinated in the evils of the loose tongue. Everything was confidential. Salaries, perks, advancement and, most especially, clients. Divulging firm business, the young associates were warned, could delay the awarding of the holy grail—a partnership. Nothing left the fortress on Front Street. Wives were told not to ask, or were lied to. The associates were expected to work hard, keep quiet and spend their healthy paychecks. They did, without exception.
   With forty-one lawyers, was the fourth largest in Memphis. Its members did not advertise or seek publicity. They were clannish and did not fraternize with other lawyers. Their wives played tennis and bridge and shopped among themselves. Bendini, Lambert & Locke was a big family, of sorts. A rather rich family.
   At 10 A.M. on a Friday, limo stopped on Front Street and Mr. Mitchell Y. McDeere emerged. He politely thanked the driver, and watched the vehicle as it drove away. His first limo ride. He stood on the sidewalk next to a streetlight and admired the quaint, picturesque, yet somehow imposing home of the quiet Bendini firm. It was a far cry from the gargantuan steel-and-glass erections inhabited by New York’s finest or the enormous cylinder he had visited in Chicago. But he instantly knew he would like it. It was less pretentious. It was more like himself.
   Lamar Quin walked through the front door and down the steps. He yelled at Mitch and waved him over. He had met them at the airport the night before and checked them into the Peabody–“the South’s Grand Hotel.”
   “Good morning, Mitch! How was your night?” They shook hands like lost friends.
   “Very nice. It’s a great hotel.”
   “We knew you’d like it. Everybody likes the Peabody.”
   They stepped into the front foyer, where a small billboard greeted Mr. Mitchell Y. McDeere, the guest of the day. A well-dressed but unattractive receptionist smiled warmly and said her name was Sylvia and if he needed anything while he was in Memphis just let her know. He thanked her. Lamar led him to a long hallway where he began the guided tour. He explained the layout of the building and introduced Mitch to various secretaries and paralegals as they walked. In the main library on the second floor a crowd of lawyers circled the mammoth conference table and consumed pastries and coffee. They became silent when the guest entered.
   Oliver Lambert greeted Mitch and introduced him to the gang. There were about twenty in all, most of the associates in, and most barely older than the guest. The partners were too busy, Lamar had explained, and would meet him later at a private lunch. He stood at the end of the table as Mr. Lambert called for quiet.
   “Gentlemen, this is Mitchell McDeere. You’ve all heard about him, and here he is. He is our number one choice this year, our number one draft pick, so to, speak. He is being romanced by the big boys in New York and Chicago and who knows where else, so we have to sell him on our little firm here in Memphis.” They smiled and nodded their approval. The guest was embarrassed.
   “He will finish at Harvard in two months and will graduate with honors. He’s an associate editor of the Harvard Law Review.” This made an impression, Mitch could tell. “He did his undergraduate work at Western Kentucky, where he graduated summa cum laude.” This was not quite as impressive. “He also played football for four years, starting as quarterback his junior year.” Now they were really impressed. A few appeared to be in awe, as if staring at Joe Namath.
   The senior partner continued his monologue while Mitch stood awkwardly beside him. He droned on about how selective they had always been and how well Mitch would fit in. Mitch stuffed his hands in his pockets and quit listening. He studied the group. They were young, successful and affluent. The dress code appeared to be strict, but no different than New York or Chicago. Dark gray or navy wool suits, white or blue cotton button-downs, medium starch, and silk ties. Nothing bold or nonconforming. Maybe a couple of bow ties, but nothing more daring. Neatness was mandatory. No beards, mustaches or hair over the ears. There were a couple of wimps, but good looks dominated.
   Mr. Lambert was winding down. “Lamar will give Mitch a tour of our offices, so you’ll have a chance to chat with him later. Let’s make him welcome. Tonight he and his lovely, and I do mean lovely, wife, Abby, will eat ribs at the Rendezvous, and of course tomorrow night is dinner at my place. I’ll ask you to be on your best behavior.” He smiled and looked at the guest. “Mitch, if you get tired of Lamar, let me know and we’ll get someone more qualified.”
   He shook hands with each one of them again as they left, and tried to remember as many names as possible.
   “Let’s start the tour,” Lamar said when the room cleared. “This, of course, is a library, and we have identical ones on each of the first four floors. We also use them for large meetings. The books vary from floor to floor, so you never know where your research will lead you. We have two full-time librarians, and we use microfilm and microfiche extensively. As a rule, we don’t do any research outside the building. There are over a hundred thousand volumes, including every conceivable tax reporting service. That’s more than some law schools. If you need a book we don’t have, just tell a librarian.”
   They walked past the lengthy conference table and between dozens of rows of books. “A hundred thousand volumes,” Mitch mumbled.
   “Yeah, we spend almost half a million a year on upkeep, supplements and new books. The partners are always griping about it, but they wouldn’t think of cutting back. It’s one of the largest private law libraries in the country, and we’re proud of it.”
   “It’s pretty impressive.”
   “We try to make research as painless as possible. You know what a bore it is and how much time can be wasted looking for the right materials. You’ll spend a lot of time here the first two years, so we try to make it pleasant.”
   Behind a cluttered workbench in a rear corner, one of the librarians introduced himself and gave a brief tour of the computer room, where a dozen terminals stood ready to assist with the latest computerized research. He offered to demonstrate the latest, truly incredible software, but Lamar said they might stop by later.
   “He’s a nice guy,” Lamar said as they left the library. “We pay him forty thousand a year just to keep up with the books. It’s amazing.”
   Truly amazing, thought Mitch.
   The second floor was virtually identical to the first, third and fourth. The center of each floor was filled with secretaries, their desks, file cabinets, copiers and the other necessary machines. On one side of the open area was the library, and on the other was a configuration of smaller conference rooms and offices.
   “You won’t see any pretty secretaries,” Lamar said softly as they watched them work. “It seems to be an unwritten firm rule. Oliver Lambert goes out of his way to hire the oldest and homeliest ones he can find. Of course, some have been here for twenty years and have forgotten more law than we learned in law school.”
   “They seem kind of plump,” Mitch observed, almost to himself.
   “Yeah, it’s part of the overall strategy to encourage us to keep our hands in our pockets. Philandering is strictly forbidden, and to my knowledge has never happened.”
   “And if it does?”
   “Who knows. The secretary would be fired, of course. And I suppose the lawyer would be severely punished. It might cost a partnership. No one wants to find out, especially with this bunch of cows.”
   “They dress nice.”
   “Don’t get me wrong. We hire only the best legal secretaries and we pay more than any other firm in town. You’re looking at the best, not necessarily the prettiest. We require experience and maturity. Lambert won’t hire anyone under thirty.”
   “One per lawyer?”
   “Yes, until you’re a partner. Then you’ll get another, and by then you’ll need one. Nathan Locke has three, all with twenty years’ experience, and he keeps them jumping.”
   “Where’s his office?”
   “Fourth floor. It’s off-limits.”
   Mitch started to ask, but didn’t.
   The corner offices were twenty-five by twenty-five, Lamar explained, and occupied by the most senior partners. Power offices, he called them, with great expectation. They were decorated to each individual’s taste with no expense spared and vacated only at retirement or death, then fought over by the younger partners.
   Lamar flipped a switch in one and they stepped inside, closing the door behind them. “Nice view, huh,” he said as Mitch walked to the windows and looked at the river moving ever so slowly beyond Riverside Drive.
   “How do you get this office?” Mitch asked as he admired a barge inching under the bridge leading to Arkansas.
   “Takes time, and when you get here you’ll be very wealthy, and very busy, and you won’t have time to enjoy the view.”
   “Whose is it?”
   “Victor Milligan. He’s head of tax, and a very nice man. Originally from New England, he’s been here for twenty-five years and calls Memphis home.” Lamar stuck his hands in his pockets and walked around the room. “The hardwood floors and ceilings came with the building, over a hundred years ago. Most of the building is carpeted, but in a few spots the wood was not damaged. You’ll have the option of rugs and carpet when you get here.”
   “I like the wood. What about that rug?”
   “Some kind of antique Persian. I don’t know its history. The desk was used by his great-grandfather, who was a judge of some sort in Rhode Island, or so he says. He’s full of crap, and you never know when he’s blowing smoke.”
   “Where is he?”
   “Vacation, I think. Did they tell you about vacations?”
   “No.”
   “You get two weeks a year for the first five years. Paid, of course. Then three weeks until you become a partner, then you take whatever you want. The Firm has a chalet in Vail, a cabin on a lake in Manitoba and two condos on Seven Mile Beach on Grand Cayman Island. They’re free, but you need to book early. Partners get priority. After that it’s first come. The Caymans are extremely popular in. It’s an international tax haven and a lot of our trips are written off. I think Milligan’s there now, probably scuba diving and calling it business.”
   Through one of his tax courses, Mitch had heard of the Cayman Islands and knew they were somewhere in the Caribbean. He started to ask exactly where, but decided to check it himself.
   “Only two weeks?” he asked.
   “Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?”
   “No, not really. The firms in New York are offering at least three.” He spoke like a discriminating critic of expensive vacations. He wasn’t. Except for the three-day weekend they referred to as a honeymoon, and an occasional drive through New England, he had never participated in a vacation and had never left the country.
   “You can get an additional week, unpaid.”
   Mitch nodded as though this was acceptable. They left Milligan’s office and continued the tour. The hallway ran in a long rectangle with the attorneys’ offices to the outside, all with windows, sunlight, views. Those with views of the river were more prestigious, Lamar explained, and usually occupied by partners. There were waiting lists.
   The conference rooms, libraries and secretarial desks were on the inside of the hallway, away from the windows and distractions.
   The associates’ offices were smaller—fifteen by fifteen—but richly decorated and much more imposing than any associates’ offices he had seen in New York or Chicago. spent a small fortune on design consultants, Lamar said. Money, it seemed, grew on trees. The younger lawyers were friendly and talkative and seemed to welcome the interruption. Most gave brief testimonials to the greatness of The Firm and of Memphis. The old town kind of grows on you, they kept telling him, but it takes time. They, too, had been recruited by the big boys in Washington and on Wall Street, and they had no regrets.
   The partners were busier, but just as nice. He had been carefully selected, he was told again and again, and he would fit in. It was his kind of firm. They promised to talk more during lunch.


* * *

   An hour earlier, Kay Quin had left the kids with the baby nurse and the maid and met Abby for brunch at the Peabody. She was a small-town girl, much like Abby. She had married Lamar after college and lived in Nashville for three years while he studied law at Vanderbilt. Lamar made so much money she quit work and had two babies in fourteen months. Now that she had retired and finished her childbearing, she spent most of her time with the garden club and the heart fund and the country club and the PTA and the church. Despite the money and the affluence, she was modest and unpretentious, and apparently determined to stay that way regardless of her husband’s success. Abby found a friend.
   After croissants and eggs Benedict, they sat in the lobby of the hotel, drinking coffee and watching the ducks swim in circles around the fountain. Kay had suggested a quick tour of Memphis with a late lunch near her home. Maybe some shopping.
   “Have they mentioned the low-interest loan?” she asked.
   “Yes, at the first interview.”
   “They’ll want you to buy a house when you move here. Most people can’t afford a house when they leave law school, so loans you the money at a lower rate and holds the mortgage.”
   “How low?”
   “I don’t know. It’s been seven years since we moved here, and we’ve bought another house since then. It’ll be a bargain, believe me. The Firm will see to it that you own a home. It’s sort of an unwritten rule.”
   “Why is it so important?”
   “Several reasons. First of all, they want you down here. This firm is very selective, and they usually get who they want. But Memphis is not exactly in the spotlight, so they have to offer more. Also, is very demanding, especially on the associates. There’s pressure, overwork, eighty-hour weeks and time away from home. It won’t be easy on either of you, and The Firm knows it. The theory is that a strong marriage means a happy lawyer, and a happy lawyer is a productive lawyer, so the bottom line is profits. Always profits.
   “And there’s another reason. These guys—all guys, no women—take a lot of pride in their wealth, and everyone is expected to look and act affluent. It would be an insult to if an associate was forced to live in an apartment. They want you in a house, and after five years, in a bigger house. If we have some time this afternoon, I’ll show you some of the partners’ homes. When you see them, you won’t mind the eighty-hour weeks.”
   “I’m used to them now.”
   “That’s good, but law school doesn’t compare with this. Sometimes they’ll work a hundred hours a week during tax season.”
   Abby smiled and shook her head as if this impressed her a great deal. “Do you work?”
   “No. Most of us don’t work. The money is there, so we’re not forced to, and we get little help with the kids from our husbands. Of course, working is not forbidden.”
   “Forbidden by whom?”
   “The Firm.”
   “I would hope not.” Abby repeated the word “forbidden” to herself, but let it pass.
   Kay sipped her coffee and watched the ducks. A small boy wandered away from his mother and stood near the fountain. “Do you plan to start a family?” Kay asked.
   “Maybe in a couple of years.”
   “Babies are encouraged.”
   “By whom?”
   “The Firm.”
   “Why should care if we have children?”
   “Again, stable families. A new baby is a big deal around the office. They send flowers and gifts to the hospital. You’re treated like a queen. Your husband gets a week off, but he’ll be too busy to take it. They put a thousand dollars in a trust fund for college. It’s a lot of fun.”
   “Sounds like a big fraternity.”
   “It’s more like a big family. Our social life revolves around, and that’s important because none of us are from Memphis. We’re all transplants.”
   “That’s nice, but I don’t want anyone telling me when to work and when to quit and when to have children.”
   “Don’t worry. They’re very protective of each other, but does not meddle.”
   “I’m beginning to wonder.”
   “Relax, Abby. The Firm is like a family. They’re great people, and Memphis is a wonderful old town to live in and raise kids. The cost of living is much lower and life moves at a slower pace. You’re probably considering the bigger towns. So did we, but I’ll take Memphis any day over the big cities.”
   “Do I get the grand tour?”
   “That’s why I’m here. I thought we’d start downtown, then head out east and look at the nicer neighborhoods, maybe look at some houses and eat lunch at my favorite restaurant.”
   “Sounds like fun.”
   Kay paid for the coflee, as she had the brunch, and they left the Peabody in the Quin family’s new Mercedes.
   The dining room, as it was simply called, covered the west end of the fifth floor above Riverside Drive and high above the river in the distance. A row of eight-foot windows lined the wall and provided a fascinating view of the tugboats, paddle-wheelers, barges, docks and bridges.
   The room was protected turf, a sanctuary for those lawyers talented and ambitious enough to be called partners in the quiet Bendini firm. They gathered each day for lunches prepared by Jessie Frances, a huge, temperamental old black woman, and served by her husband, Roosevelt, who wore white gloves and an odd-fitting, faded, wrinkled hand-me-down tux given to him by Mr. Bendini himself shortly before his death. They also gathered for coffee and doughnuts some mornings to discuss firm business and, occasionally, for a glass of wine in the late afternoon to celebrate a good month or an exceptionally large fee. It was for partners only, and maybe an occasional guest such as a blue-chip client or prospective recruit. The associates could dine there twice a year, only twice—and records were kept—and then only at the invitation of a partner.
   Adjacent to the dining room was a small kitchen where Jessie Frances performed, and where she had cooked the first meal for Mr. Bendini and a few others twenty-six years earlier. For twenty-six years she had cooked Southern food and ignored requests to experiment and try dishes she had trouble pronouncing. “Don’t eat it if you don’t like it,” was her standard reply. Judging from the scraps Roosevelt collected from the tables, the food was eaten and enjoyed immensely. She posted the week’s menu on Monday, asked that reservations be made by ten each day and held grudges for years if someone canceled or didn’t show. She and Roosevelt worked four hours each day and were paid a thousand each month.
   Mitch sat at a table with Lamar Quin, Oliver Lambert and Royce McKnight. The entree was prime rib, served with fried okra and boiled squash.
   “She laid off the grease today,” Mr. Lambert observed.
   “It’s delicious,” Mitch said.
   “Is your system accustomed to grease?”
   “Yes. They cook this way in Kentucky.”
   “I joined this firm in 1955,” Mr. McKnight said, “and I come from New Jersey, right? Out of suspicion, I avoided most Southern dishes as much as possible. Everything is battered and fried in animal fat, right? Then Mr. Bendini decides to open up this little cafe. He hires Jessie Frances, and I’ve had heartburn for the past twenty years. Fried ripe tomatoes, fried green tomatoes, fried eggplant, fried okra, fried squash, fried anything and everything. One day Victor Milligan said too much. He’s from Connecticut, right? And Jessie Frances had whipped up a batch of fried dill pickles. Can you imagine? Fried dill pickles! Milligan said something ugly to Roosevelt and he reported it to Jessie Frances. She walked out the back door and quit. Stayed gone for a week. Roosevelt wanted to work, but she kept him at home. Finally, Mr. Bendini smoothed things over and she agreed to return if there were no complaints. But she also cut back on the grease. I think we’ll all live ten years longer.”
   “It’s delicious,” said Lamar as he buttered another roll.
   “It’s always delicious,” added Mr. Lambert as Roosevelt walked by. “Her food is rich and fattening, but we seldom miss lunch.”
   Mitch ate cautiously, engaged in nervous chitchat and tried to appear completely at ease. It was difficult. Surrounded by eminently successful lawyers, all millionaires, in their exclusive, lavishly ornamented dining suite, he felt as if he was on hallowed ground. Lamar’s presence was comforting, as was Roosevelt’s.
   When it was apparent Mitch had finished eating, Oliver Lambert wiped his mouth, rose slowly and tapped his tea glass with his spoon. “Gentlemen, could I have your attention.”
   The room became silent as the twenty or so partners turned to the head table. They laid their napkins down and stared at the guest. Somewhere on each of their desks was a copy of the dossier. Two months earlier they had voted unanimously to make him their number one pick. They knew he ran four miles a day, did not smoke, was allergic to sulfites, had no tonsils, had a blue Mazda, had a crazy mother and once threw three interceptions in one quarter. They knew he took nothing stronger than aspirin even when he was sick, and that he was hungry enough to work a hundred hours a week if they asked. They liked him. He was good-looking, athletic-looking, a man’s man with a brilliant mind and a lean body.
   “As you know, we have a very special guest today, Mitch McDeere. He will soon graduate with honors from Harvard—”
   “Hear! Hear!” said a couple of Harvard alumni.
   “Yes, thank you. He and his wife, Abby, are staying at the Peabody this weekend as our guests. Mitch will finish in the top five out of three hundred and has been heavily recruited. We want him here, and I know you will speak to him before he leaves. Tonight he will have dinner with Lamar and Kay Quin, and then tomorrow night is the dinner at my place. You are all expected to attend.” Mitch smiled awkwardly at the partners as Mr. Lambert rambled on about the greatness of The Firm. When he finished, they continued eating as Roosevelt served bread pudding and coffee.
   Kay’s favorite restaurant was a chic East Memphis hangout for the young affluent. A thousand ferns hung from everywhere and the jukebox played nothing but early sixties. The daiquiris were served in tall souvenir glasses.
   “One is enough,” Kay warned.
   “I’m not much of a drinker.”
   They ordered the quiche of the day and sipped daiquiris.
   “Does Mitch drink?”
   “Very little. He’s an athlete and very particular about his body. An occasional beer or glass of wine, nothing stronger. How about Lamar?”
   “About the same. He really discovered beer in law school, but he has trouble with his weight. The Firm frowns on drinking.”
   “That’s admirable, but why is it their business?”
   “Because alcohol and lawyers go together like blood and vampires. Most lawyers drink like fish, and the profession is plagued with alcoholism. I think it starts in law school. At Vanderbilt, someone was always tapping a keg of beer. Probably the same at Harvard. The job has a lot of pressure, and that usually means a lot of booze. These guys aren’t a bunch of teetotalers, mind you, but they keep it under control. A healthy lawyer is a productive lawyer. Again, profits.”
   “I guess that makes sense. Mitch says there’s no turnover.”
   “It’s rather permanent. I can’t recall anyone leaving in the seven years we’ve been here. The money’s great and they’re careful about whom they hire. They don’t want anyone with family money.”
   “I’m not sure I follow.”
   “They won’t hire a lawyer with other sources of income. They want them young and hungry. It’s a question of loyalty. If all your money comes from one source, then you tend to be very loyal to that source. The Firm demands extreme loyalty. Lamar says there’s never talk of leaving. They’re all happy, and either rich or getting that way. And if one wanted to leave, he couldn’t find as much money with another firm. They’ll offer Mitch whatever it takes to get you down here. They take great pride in paying more.”
   “Why no female lawyers?”
   “They tried it once. She was a real bitch and kept the place in an uproar. Most women lawyers walk around with chips on their shoulders looking for fights. They’re hard to deal with. Lamar says they’re afraid to hire one because they couldn’t fire her if she didn’t work out, with affirmative action and all.”
   The quiche arrived and they declined another round of daiquiris. Hundreds of young professionals crowded under the clouds of ferns, and the restaurant grew festive. Smokey Robinson sang softly from the jukebox.
   “I’ve got a great idea,” Kay said. “I know a realtor. Let’s call her and go look at some houses.”
   “What kind of houses?”
   “For you and Mitch. For the newest associate at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. She can show you several in your price range.”
   “I don’t know our price range.”
   “I’d say a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand. The last associate bought in Oakgrove, and I’m sure he paid something like that.”
   Abby leaned forward and almost whispered, “How much would the monthly payments be?”
   “I don’t know. But you’ll be able to afford it. Around a thousand a month, maybe a little more.”
   Abby stared at her and swallowed hard. The small apartments in Manhattan were renting for twice that. “Let’s give her a call.”
   As expected, Royce McKnight’s office was a power one with a great view. It was in one of the prized corners on the fourth floor, down the hall from Nathan Locke. Lamar excused himself, and the managing partner asked Mitch to have a seat at a small conference table next to the sofa. A secretary was sent for coffee.
   McKnight asked him about his visit so far, and Mitch said he was quite impressed.
   “Mitch, I want to nail down the specifics of our offer.”
   “Certainly.”
   “The base salary is eighty thousand for the first year. When you pass the bar exam you receive a five-thousand-dollar raise. Not a bonus, but a raise. The exam is given sometime in August and you’ll spend most of your summer reviewing for it. We have our own bar study courses and you’ll receive extensive tutoring from some of the partners. This is done primarily on firm time. As you know, most firms put you to work and expect you to study on your own time. Not us. No associate of this firm has ever flunked the bar exam, and we’re not worried about you breaking with tradition. Eighty thousand initially, up to eighty-five in six months. Once you’ve been here a year, you’ll be raised to ninety thousand, plus you’ll get a bonus each December based on the profits and performance during the prior twelve months. Last year the average bonus for associates was nine thousand. As you know, profit sharing with associates is extremely rare for law firms. Any questions about the salary?”
   “What happens after the second year?”
   “Your base salary is raised about ten percent a year until you become a partner. Neither the raises nor the bonuses are guaranteed. They are based on performance.”
   “Fair enough.”
   “As you know, it is very important to us that you buy a home. It adds stability and prestige and we’re very concerned about these things, especially with our associates. provides a low-interest mortgage loan, thirty years, fixed rate, nonassumable should you decide to sell in a few years. It’s a one-shot deal, available only for your first home. After that you’re on your own.”
   “What kind of rate?”
   “As low as possible without running afoul with the IRS {Internal Revenue Service – Внутренняя налоговая служба США}. Current market rate is around ten, ten and a half. We should be able to get you a rate of seven to eight percent. We represent some banks, and they assist us. With this salary, you’ll have no trouble qualifying. In fact, The Firm will sign on as a guarantor if necessary.”
   “That’s very generous, Mr. McKnight.”
   “It’s important to us. And we don’t lose any money on the deal. Once you find a house, our real estate section handles everything. All you have to do is move in.”
   “What about the BMW?”
   Mr. McKnight chuckled. “We started that about ten years ago and it’s proved to be quite an inducement. It’s very simple. You pick out a BMW, one of the smaller ones, we lease it for three years and give you the keys. We pay for tags, insurance, maintenance. At the end of three years you can buy it from the leasing company for the fair market value. It’s also a one-shot deal.”
   “That’s very tempting.”
   “We know.”
   Mr. McKnight looked at his legal pad. “We provide complete medical and dental coverage for the entire family. Pregnancies, checkups, braces, everything. Paid entirely by The Firm.”
   Mitch nodded, but was not impressed. This was standard.
   “We have a retirement plan second to none. For every dollar you invest, matches it with two, provided, however, you invest at least ten percent of your base pay. Let’s say you start at eighty, and the first year you set aside eight thousand. The Firm kicks in sixteen, so you’ve got twenty-four after the first year. A money pro in New York handles it and last year our retirement earned nineteen percent. Not bad. Invest for twenty years and you’re a millionaire at forty-five, just off retirement. One stipulation: If you bail out before twenty years, you lose everything but the money you put in, with no income earned on that money.”
   “Sounds rather harsh.”
   “No, actually it’s rather generous. Find me another firm or company matching two to one. There are none, to my knowledge. It’s our way of taking care of ourselves. Many of our partners retire at fifty, some at forty-five. We have no mandatory retirement, and some work into their sixties and seventies. To each his own. Our goal is simply to ensure a generous pension and make early retirement an option.”
   “How many retired partners do you have?”
   “Twenty or so. You’ll see them around here from time to time. They like to come in and have lunch and a few keep office space. Did Lamar cover vacations?”
   “Yes.”
   “Good. Book early, especially for Vail and the Caymans. You buy the air fare, but the condos are free. We do a lot of business in the Caymans and from time to time we’ll send you down for two or three days and write the whole thing off. Those trips are not counted as vacation, and you’ll get one every year or so. We work hard, Mitch, and we recognize the value of leisure.”
   Mitch nodded his approval and dreamed of lying on a sun-drenched beach in the Caribbean, sipping on a pina colada and watching string bikinis.
   “Did Lamar mention the signing bonus?”
   “No, but it sounds interesting.”
   “If you join our firm we hand you a check for five thousand. We prefer that you spend the bulk of it on a new wardrobe. After seven years of jeans and flannel shirts, your inventory of suits is probably low, and we realize it. Appearance is very important to us. We expect our attorneys to dress sharp and conservative. There’s no dress code, but you’ll get the picture.”
   Did he say five thousand dollars? For clothes? Mitch currently owned two suits, and he was wearing one of them. He kept a straight face and did not smile.
   “Any questions?”
   “Yes. The large firms are infamous for being sweatshops where the associates are flooded with tedious research and locked away in some library for the first three years. I want no part of that. I don’t mind doing my share of research and I realize I will be the low man on the pole. But I don’t want to research and write briefs for the entire firm. I’d like to work with real clients and their real problems.”
   Mr. McKnight listened intently and waited with his rehearsed answer. “I understand, Mitch. You’re right, it is a real problem in the big firms. But not here. For the first three months you’ll do little but study for the bar exam. When that’s over, you begin practicing law. You’ll be assigned to a partner, and his clients will become your clients. You’ll do most of his research and, of course, your own, and occasionally you’ll be asked to assist someone else with the preparation of a briefer some research. We want you happy. We take pride in our zero turnover rate, and we go the extra mile to keep careers on track. If you can’t get along with your partner, we’ll find another one. If you discover you don’t like tax, we’ll let you try securities or banking. It’s your decision. The Firm will soon invest a lot of money in Mitch McDeere, and we want him to be productive.”
   Mitch sipped his coffee and searched for another question. Mr. McKnight glanced at his checklist.
   “We pay all moving expenses to Memphis.”
   “That won’t be much. Just a small rental truck.”
   “Anything else, Mitch?”
   “No, sir. I can’t think of anything.”
   The checklist was folded and placed in the file. The partner rested both elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Mitch, we’re not pushing, but we need an answer as soon as possible. If you go elsewhere, we must then continue to interview. It’s a lengthy process, and we’d like our new man to start by July 1.”
   “Ten days soon enough?”
   “That’s fine. Say by March 30?”
   “Sure, but I’ll contact you before then.” Mitch excused himself, and found Lamar waiting in the hall outside McKnight’s office. They agreed on seven for dinner.

Chapter 3

   There were no law offices on the fifth floor of the Bendini Building. The partners’ dining room and kitchen occupied the west end, some unused and unpainted storage rooms sat locked and empty in the center, then a thick concrete wall sealed off the remaining third of the floor. A small metal door with a button beside it and a camera over it hung in the center of the wall and opened into a small room where an armed guard watched the door and monitored a wall of closed-circuit screens. A hallway zigzagged through a maze of cramped offices and workrooms where an assortment of characters went secretly about their business of watching and gathering information. The windows to the outside were sealed with paint and covered with blinds. The sunlight stood no chance of penetrating the fortress.
   DeVasher, head of security, occupied the largest of the small, plain offices. The lone certificate on his bare walls recognized him for thirty years of dedicated service as a detective with the New Orleans Police Department. He was stocky with a slight belly, thick shoulders and chest and a huge, perfectly round head that smiled with great reluctance. His wrinkled shirt was mercifully unbuttoned at the collar, allowing his bulging neck to sag unrestricted. A thick polyester tie hung on the coatrack with a badly worn blazer.
   Monday morning after the McDeere visit, Oliver Lambert, stood before the small metal door and stared at the camera over it. He pushed the button twice, waited and was finally cleared through security. He walked quickly through the cramped hallway and entered the cluttered office. DeVasher blew smoke from a Dutch Masters into a smokeless ashtray and shoved papers in all directions until wood was visible on his desk.
   “Mornin’, Ollie. I guess you want to talk about McDeere.”
   DeVasher was the only person in the Bendini Building who called him Ollie to his face.
   “Yes, among other things.”
   “Well, he had a good time, was impressed with, liked Memphis okay and will probably sign on.”
   “Where were your people?”
   “We had the rooms on both sides at the hotel. His room was wired, of course, as was the limo and the phone and everything else. The usual, Ollie.”
   “Let’s get specific.”
   “Okay. Thursday night they checked in late and went to bed. Little discussion. Friday night he told her all about, the offices, the people, said you were a real nice man. I thought you’d like that.”
   “Get on with it.”
   “Told her about the fancy dining room and his little lunch with the partners. Gave her the specifics on the offer and they were ecstatic. Much better than his other offers. She wants a home with a driveway and a sidewalk and trees and a backyard. He said she could have one.”
   “Any problems with?”
   “Not really. He commented on the absence of blacks and women, but it didn’t seem to bother him.”
   “What about his wife?”
   “She had a ball. She likes the town, and she and Quin’s wife hit it off. They looked at houses Friday afternoon, and she saw a couple she liked.”
   “You get any addresses?”
   “Of course, Ollie. Saturday morning they called the limo and rode all over town. Very impressed with the limo. Our driver stayed away from the bad sections, and they looked at more houses. I think they decided on one. 1231 East Meadowbrook. It’s empty. Realtor by the name of Betsy Bell walked them through it. Asking one-forty, but will take less. Need to move it.”
   “That’s a nice part of town. How old is the house?”
   “Ten, fifteen years. Three thousand square feet. Sort of a colonial-looking job. It’s nice enough for one of your boys, Ollie.”
   “Are you sure that’s the one they want?”
   “For now anyway. They discussed maybe coming back in a month or so to look at some more. You might want to fly them back as soon as they accept. That’s normal procedure, ain’t it?”
   “Yes. We’ll handle that. What about the salary?”
   “Most impressed. Highest one so far. They talked and talked about the money. Salary, retirement, mortgage, BMW, bonus, everything. They couldn’t believe it. Kids must really be broke.”
   “They are. You think we got him, huh?”
   “I’d bet on it. He said once that may not be as prestigious as the ones on Wall Street, but the lawyers were just as qualified and a lot nicer. I think he’ll sign on, yeah.”
   “Any suspicions?”
   “Not really. Quin evidently told him to stay away from Locke’s office. He told his wife that no one ever went in there but some secretaries and a handful of partners. But he said Quin said Locke was eccentric and not that friendly. I don’t think he’s suspicious, though. She said seemed concerned about some things that were none of its business.”
   “Such as?”
   “Personal matters. Children, working wives, etc. She seemed a bit irritated, but I think it was more of an observation. She told Mitch Saturday morning that she would be damned if any bunch of lawyers would tell her when to work and when to have babies. But I don’t think it’s a problem.”
   “Does he realize how permanent this place is?”
   “I think so. There was no mention of putting in a few years and moving on. I think he got the message. He wants to be a partner, like all of them. He’s broke and wants the money.”
   “What about the dinner at my place?”
   “They were nervous, but had a good time. Very impressed with your place. Really liked your wife.”
   “Sex?”
   “Every night. Sounded like a honeymoon in there.”
   “What’d they do?”
   “We couldn’t see, remember. Sounded normal. Nothing kinky. I thought of you and how much you like pictures, and I kept telling myself we should’ve rigged up some cameras for old Ollie.”
   “Shut up, DeVasher.”
   “Maybe next time.”
   They were silent as DeVasher looked at a notepad. He stubbed his cigar in the ashtray and smiled to himself.
   “All in all,” he said, “it’s a strong marriage. They seemed to be very intimate. Your driver said they held hands all weekend. Not a cross word for three days. That’s pretty good, ain’t it? But who am I? I’ve been married three times myself.”
   “That’s understandable. What about children?”
   “Couple of years. She wants to work some, then get pregnant.”
   “What’s your opinion of this guy?”
   “Very good, very decent young man. Also very ambitious. I think he’s driven and he won’t quit until he’s at the top. He’ll take some chances, bend some rules if necessary.”
   Ollie smiled. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
   “Two phone calls. Both to her mother in Kentucky. Nothing remarkable.”
   “What about his family?”
   “Never mentioned.”
   “No word on Ray?”
   “We’re still looking, Ollie. Give us some time.”
   DeVasher closed the McDeere file and opened another, much thicker one. Lambert rubbed his temples and stared at the floor. “What’s the latest?” he asked softly.
   “It’s not good, Ollie. I’m convinced Hodge and Kozinski are working together now. Last week the FBI got a warrant and checked Kozinski’s house. Found our wiretaps. They told him his house was bugged, but of course they don’t know who did it. Kozinski tells Hodge last Friday while they’re hiding in the third-floor library. We got a bug nearby, and we pick up bits and pieces. Not much, but we know they talked about the wiretaps. They’re convinced everything is bugged, and they suspect us. They’re very careful where they talk.”
   “Why would the FBI bother with a search warrant?”
   “Good question. Probably for our benefit. To make things look real legal and proper. They respect us.”
   “Which agent?”
   “Tarrance. He’s in charge, evidently.”
   “Is he good?”
   “He’s okay. Young, green, overzealous, but competent! He’s no match for our men.”
   “How often has he talked to Kozinski?”
   “There’s no way to know. They figure we’re listening, so everybody’s real careful. We know of four meetings in the last month, but I suspect more.”
   “How much has he spilled?”
   “Not much, I hope. They’re still shadowboxing. The last conversation we got was a week ago and he didn’t say much. He’s bad scared. They’re coaxing a lot, but not getting much. He hasn’t yet made the decision to cooperate. They approached him, remember. At least we think they approached him. They shook him up pretty bad and he was ready to cut a deal. Now he’s having second thoughts. But he’s still in contact with them, and that’s what worries me.”
   “Does his wife know?”
   “I don’t think so. She knows he’s acting strange, and he tells her it’s office pressure.”
   “What about Hodge?”
   “Still ain’t talked to the Fibbies, as far as we know. He and Kozinski talk a lot, or whisper, I should say. Hodge keeps saying he’s scared to death of the FBI, that they don’t play fair and they cheat and play dirty. He won’t move without Kozinski.”
   “What if Kozinski is eliminated?”
   “Hodge will be a new man. But I don’t think we’ve reached that point. Dammit, Ollie, he ain’t some hotshot thug who gets in the way. He’s a very nice young man, with kids and all that.”
   “Your compassion is overwhelming. I guess you think I enjoy this. Hell, I practically raised these boys.”
   “Well, get them back in line, then, before this thing goes too far. New York’s getting suspicious, Ollie. They’re asking a lot of questions.”
   “Who?”
   “Lazarov.”
   “What have you told them, DeVasher?”
   “Everything. That’s my job. They want you in New York day after tomorrow, for a full briefing.”
   “What do they want?”
   “Answers. And plans.”
   “Plans for what?”
   “Preliminary plans to eliminate Kozinski, Hodge and Tarrance, should it become necessary.”
   “Tarrance! Are you crazy, DeVasher? We can’t eliminate a cop. They’ll send in the troops.”
   “Lazarov is stupid, Ollie. You know that. He’s an idiot, but I don’t think we should tell him.”
   “I think I will. I think I’ll go to New York and tell Lazarov he’s a complete fool.”
   “You do that, Ollie. You do that.”
   Oliver Lambert jumped from his seat and headed for the door. “Watch McDeere for another month.”
   “Sure, Ollie. You betcha. He’ll sign. Don’t worry.”


* * *

   The Mazda was sold for two hundred dollars, and most of the money was immediately invested in a twelve-foot U-Haul rental truck. He would be reimbursed in Memphis. Half of the odd assortment of furniture was given or thrown away, and when loaded the truck held a refrigerator, a bed, a dresser and chest of drawers, a small color television, boxes of dishes, clothes and junk and an old sofa which was taken out of sentiment and would not last long in the new location.
   Abby held Hearsay, the mutt, as Mitch worked his way through Boston and headed south, far south toward the promise of better things. For three days they drove the back roads, enjoyed the countryside, sang along with the radio, slept in cheap motels and talked of the house, the BMW, new furniture, children, affluence. They rolled down the windows and let the wind blow as the truck approached top speeds of almost forty-five miles per hour. At one point, somewhere in Pennsylvania, Abby mentioned that perhaps they could stop in Kentucky for a brief visit. Mitch said nothing, but chose a route through the Carolinas and Georgia, never venturing within two hundred miles of any point on the Kentucky border. Abby let it pass.
   They arrived in Memphis on a Thursday morning, and, as promised, the black 318i sat under the carport as though it belonged there. He stared at the car. She stared at the house. The lawn was thick, green and neatly trimmed. The hedges had been manicured. The marigolds were in bloom.
   The keys were found under a bucket in the utility room, as promised.
   After the first test drive, they quickly unloaded the truck before the neighbors could inspect the sparse belongings. The U-Haul was returned to the nearest dealer. Another test drive.
   An interior designer, the same one who would do his office, arrived after noon and brought with her samples of carpet, paint, floor coverings, curtains, drapes, wallpaper. Abby found the idea of a designer a bit hilarious after their apartment in Cambridge, but played along. Mitch was immediately bored, and excused himself for another test drive. He toured the tree-lined, quiet, shady streets of this handsome neighborhood of which he was now a member. He smiled as boys on bicycles stopped and whistled at his new car. He waved at the postman walking down the sidewalk sweating profusely. Here he was, Mitchell Y. McDeere, twenty-five years old and one week out of law school, and he had arrived.
   At three, they followed the designer to an upscale furniture store where the manager politely informed them that Mr. Oliver Lambert had already made arrangements for their credit, if they so chose, and there was in fact no limit on what they could buy and finance. They bought a houseful. Mitch frowned from time to time, and twice vetoed items as too expensive, but Abby ruled the day. The designer complimented her time and again on her marvelous taste, and said she would see Mitch on Monday, to do his office. Marvelous, he said.


* * *

   With a map of the city, they set out for the Quin residence. Abby had seen the house during the first visit, but did not remember how to find it. It was in a section of town called Chickasaw Gardens, and she remembered the wooded lots, huge houses and professionally landscaped front yards. They parked in the driveway behind the new Mercedes and the old Mercedes.
   The maid nodded politely, but did not smile. She led them to the living room, and left them. The house was dark and quiet—no children, no voices, no one. They admired the furniture and waited. They mumbled quietly, then grew impatient. Yes, they agreed, they had in fact been invited to dinner on this night, Thursday, June 25, at 6 P.M. Mitch checked his watch again and said something about it being rude. They waited.
   From the hallway, Kay emerged and attempted to smile. Her eyes were puffy and glazed, with mascara leaking from the corners. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, and she held a handkerchief over her mouth. She hugged Abby and sat next to her on the sofa. She bit the handkerchief and cried louder.
   Mitch knelt before her. “Kay, what’s happened?”
   She bit harder and shook her head. Abby squeezed her knee, and Mitch patted the other one. They watched her fearfully, expecting the worst. Was it Lamar or one of the kids?
   “There’s been a tragedy,” she said through the quiet sobbing.
   “Who is it?” Mitch asked.
   She wiped her eyes and breathed deeply. “Two members of The Firm, Marty Kozinski and Joe Hodge, were killed today. We were very close to them.”
   Mitch sat on the coffee table. He remembered Marty Kozinski from the second visit in April. He had joined Lamar and Mitch for lunch at a deli on Front Street. He was next in line for a partnership, but had seemed less than enthused. Mitch could not place Joe Hodge.
   “What happened?” he asked.
   She had stopped crying, but the tears continued. She wiped her face again and looked at him. “We’re not sure. They were on Grand Cayman, scuba diving. There was some kind of an explosion on a boat, and we think they drowned. Lamar said details were sketchy. There was a firm meeting a few hours ago, and they were all told about it. Lamar barely made it home.”
   “Where is he?”
   “By the pool. He’s waiting for you.”
   He sat in a white metal lawn chair next to a small table with a small umbrella, a few feet from the edge of the pool. Near a flower bed, a circular lawn sprinkler rattled and hissed and spewed forth water in a perfect arc which included the table, umbrella, chair and Lamar Quin. He was soaked. Water dripped from his nose, ears and hair. The blue cotton shirt and wool pants were saturated. He wore no socks or shoes.
   He sat motionless, never flinching with each additional dousing. He had lost touch. Some distant object on the side fence attracted and held his attention. An unopened bottle of Heineken sat in a puddle on the concrete beside his chair.
   Mitch surveyed the back lawn, in part to make sure the neighbors could not see. They could not. An eight-foot cypress fence ensured complete privacy. He walked around the pool and stopped at the edge of the dry area. Lamar noticed him, nodded, attempted a weak smile and motioned to a wet chair. Mitch pulled it a few feet away and sat down, just as the next barrage of water landed.
   His stare returned to the fence, or whatever it was in the distance. For an eternity they sat and listened to the thrashing sound of the sprinkler. Lamar would sometimes shake his head and attempt to mumble. Mitch smiled awkwardly, unsure of what, if anything, needed to be said.
   “Lamar, I’m very sorry,” he finally offered.
   He acknowledged this and looked at Mitch. “Me too.”
   “I wish I could say something.”
   His eyes left the fence, and he cocked his head sideways in Mitch’s direction. His dark hair was soaked and hung in his eyes. The eyes were red and pained. He stared, and waited until the next round of water passed over.
   “I know. But there’s nothing to say. I’m sorry it had to happen now, today. We didn’t feel like cooking.”
   “That should be the least of your concerns. I lost my appetite a moment ago.”
   “Do you remember them?” he asked, blowing water from his lips.
   “I remember Kozinski, but not Hodge,”
   “Marty Kozinski was one of my best friends. From Chicago. He joined three years ahead of me and was next in line for a partnership. A great lawyer, one we all admired and turned to. Probably the best negotiator in. Very cool and dry under pressure.”
   He wiped his eyebrows and stared at the ground. When he talked the water dripped from his nose and interfered with his enunciation. “Three kids. His twin girls are a month older than our son, and they’ve always played together.” He closed his eyes, bit his lip and started crying.
   Mitch wanted to leave. He tried not to look at his friend. “I’m very sorry, Lamar. Very sorry.”
   After a few minutes, the crying stopped, but the water continued. Mitch surveyed the spacious lawn in search of the outside faucet. Twice he summoned the courage to ask if he could turn off the sprinkler, and twice he decided he could last if Lamar could. Maybe it helped. He checked his watch. Darkness was an hour and a half away.
   “What about the accident?” Mitch finally asked.
   “We weren’t told much. They were scuba diving and there was an explosion on the boat. The dive captain was also killed. A native of the islands. They’re trying to get the bodies home now.”
   “Where were their wives?”
   “At home, thankfully. It was a business trip.”
   “I can’t picture Hodge.”
   “Joe was a tall blond-headed guy who didn’t say much. The kind you meet but don’t remember. He was a Harvard man like yourself.”
   “How old was he?”
   “He and Marty were both thirty-four. He would’ve made partner after Marty. They were very close. I guess we’re all close, especially now.”
   With all ten fingernails he combed his hair straight back. He stood and walked to dry ground. Water poured from his shirttail and the cuffs of his pants. He stopped near Mitch and looked blankly at the treetops next door. “How’s the BMW?”
   “It’s great. A fine car. Thanks for delivering it.”
   “When did you arrive?”
   “This morning. I’ve already put three hundred miles on it.”
   “Did the interior woman show up?”