A Time to Kill

13

Stump Sisson was the Klan’s Imperial Wizard for Mississippi, and he had called the meeting at the small cabin deep in the pine forests of Nettles County, two hundred and thirty miles south of Ford County. There were no robes, rituals, or speeches. The small group of Klansmen discussed the events in Ford County with a Mr. Freddie Cobb, brother of Billy Ray Cobb, deceased. Freddie had called a friend who called Stump to arrange the meeting.

Had they indicted the nigger? Cobb was not sure, but he had heard the trial would be in late summer, or early fall. What concerned him most was all the talk about the nigger pleading insanity and getting off. It wasn’t right. The nigger killed his brother in cold blood, planned the shooting. He hid in a closet and waited for his brother. It was cold-blooded murder, and now there was talk of the nigger walking free. What could the Klan do about it? The niggers have plenty of protection nowadays — the NAACP, ACLU, a thousand other civil rights groups, plus the courts and the government. Hell, white folks ain’t got a chance, except for the Klan. Who else would march and stand up for white people. All the laws favor the niggers, and the liberal nigger-loving politicians keep making more laws against white people. Somebody’s got to stand up for them. That’s why he called the Klan.

Is the nigger in jail? Yes, and he’s treated like a king. Got a nigger sheriff up there, Walls, and he likes this nigger. Gives him special privileges and extra protection. The sheriff’s another story. Someone said Hailey might get out of jail this week on bond. Just a rumor. They hoped he got out.

What about your brother? Did he rape her? We’re not sure, probably not. Willard, the other guy, confessed to rape, but Billy Ray never confessed. He had plenty of women. Why would he rape a little nigger girl? And if he did, what was the big deal?

Who’s the nigger’s lawyer? Brigance, a local boy in Clanton. Young, but pretty good. Does a lot of criminal work and has a good reputation. Won several murder trials. He told some reporters the nigger would plead insanity and get off.

Who’s the judge? Don’t know yet. Bullard was the county judge, but someone said he would not hear the case. There’s talk of moving the case to another county, so who knows who will be the judge.

Sisson and the Kluxers listened intently to this ignorant redneck. They liked the part about the NAACP and the government and the politicians, but they had also read the papers and watched TV and they knew his brother had received justice. But at the hands of a nigger. It was unthinkable.

The case had real potential. With the trial several months away, there was time to plan a rebellion. They could march during the day around the courthouse in their white robes and pointed, hooded masks. They could make speeches to a captive audience and parade in front of the cameras. The press would love it — hate them, but love the altercations, the disruptions. And at night they could intimidate with burning crosses and threatening phone calls. The targets would be easy and unsuspecting. Violence would be unavoidable. They knew how to provoke it. They fully appreciated what the sight of marching white robes did to crowds of angry niggers.

Ford County could be their playground for hide and seek, search and destroy, and hit and run. They had time to organize and call in comrades from other states. What Kluxer would miss this golden moment? And new recruits? Why, this case could fuel the fires of racism and bring nigger haters out of the woods and onto the streets. Membership was down. Hailey would be their new battle cry, the rallying point.

“Mr. Cobb, can you get us the names and addresses of the nigger, his family, his lawyer, the judge, and the jurors?” asked Sisson.

Cobb pondered this task. “Everbody but the jurors. They ain’t been picked yet.”

“When will you know them?”

“Damned if I know. I guess at trial. What’re y’all thinkin’?”

“We’re not sure, but the Klan most likely will get involved. We need to flex our muscle a bit, and this could be a good opportunity.”

“Can I help?” Cobb asked eagerly.

“Sure, but you need to be a member.”

“We ain’t got no Klan up there. It folded a long time ago. My granddaddy used to be a member.”

“You mean the grandfather of the victim was a Klansman?”

“Yep,” Cobb answered proudly.

“Well, then, we must get involved.” The Klansmen shook their heads in disbelief and vowed revenge. They explained to Cobb that if he could get five or six friends of similar thinking and motivation to agree to join, they would have a big, secret ceremony deep in the woods of Ford County with a huge burning cross and all sorts of rituals. They would be inducted as members, full-fledged members, of the Ku Klux Klan. Ford County Klavern. And they would all join in and make a spectacle of the trial of Carl Lee Hailey. They would raise so much hell in Ford County this summer that no juror with any common sense would consider voting to acquit the nigger. Just recruit half a dozen more, and they would make him the leader of the Ford County Klavern.

Cobb said he had enough cousins to start a klavern. He left the meeting drunk with excitement of being a Klansman, just like his grandfather.

Buckley’s timing was a little off. His 4:00 P.M. press show was ignored by the evening news. Jake flipped the channels on a small black and white in his office, and laughed out loud when the networks and then Memphis, then Jackson, then Tupelo signed off with no news of the indictments. He could see the Buckley family in their den glued to the set, turning knobs and searching desperately for their hero while he yelled at them all to be quiet. And then at seven, after the Tupelo weather, the last weather, they backed away and left him alone in his recliner. Maybe at ten, he probably said.

At ten, Jake and Carla laid cross-legged and tangled in the dark on the sofa, waiting on the news.

Finally, there he was, on the front steps, waving papers and shouting like a street preacher while the Channel 4 man on the scene explained that this was Rufus Buckley, the D.A. who would prosecute Carl Lee Hailey now that he had been indicted. After an awful glimpse of Buckley, the report panned around the square for a wonderful view of downtown Clanton, and then finally back to the reporter for two sentences about a trial in late summer.

“He’s offensive,” Carla said. “Why would he call a press conference to announce the indictments?”

“He’s a prosecutor. We defense lawyers hate the press.”

“I’ve noticed. My scrapbook is rapidly filling up.”

“Be sure and make copies for Mom.”

“Will you autograph it for her?”

“Only for a fee. Yours, I will autograph for free.”

“Fine. And if you lose, I’ll send you a bill for clipping and pasting.”

“I remind you, dear, that I have never lost a murder case. Three and oh, as a matter of fact.”

Carla punched the remote control and the weatherman remained but his volume disappeared. “You know what I dislike most about your murder trials?” She kicked the cushions from her thin, bronze, almost perfect legs.

“The blood, the carnage, the gruesomeness?”

“No.” She unfolded her shoulder-length hair and let it fall around her on the arm of the sofa.

“The loss of life, regardless of how insignificant?”

“No.” She was wearing one of his old, starched-out, sixteen-by-thirty-four, pinpoint Oxford button-downs, and she began to play with the buttons.

“The horrible specter of an innocent man facing the gas chamber?”

“No.” She was unbuttoning it. The bluish gray rays from the television flashed like a strobe in the dark room as the anchorperson smiled and mouthed good night.

“The fear of a young family as the father walks into the courtroom and faces a jury of his peers?”

“No.” It was unbuttoned, and under it a thin, fluorescent band of white silk glittered against the brown skin.

“The latent unfairness of our judicial system?”

“No.” She slid an almost perfect bronze leg up, up, up to the back of the sofa where it gently came to rest.

“The unethical and unscrupulous tactics employed by cops and prosecutors to nail innocent defendants?”

“No.” She unsnapped the band of silk between the two almost perfect breasts.

“The fervor, the fury, the intensity, the uncontrolled emotions, the struggle of the human spirit, the unbridled passion?”

“Close enough,” she said. Shirts and shorts ricocheted off the lamps and coffee tables as the bodies meshed deep under the cushions. The old sofa, a gift from her parents, rocked and squeaked on the ancient hardwood floor. It was sturdy, and accustomed to the rocking and squeaking. Max the mix-breed instinctively ran down the hall to stand guard by Hanna’s door.