A Time to Kill

17

The Council of Ministers was a group of black preachers that had been formed to coordinate political activities in the black communities of Ford County. It met infrequently during the off years, but during election years it met weekly, on Sunday afternoons, to interview candidates and discuss issues, and, more importantly, to determine the benevolence of each office seeker. Deals were cut, strategies developed, money exchanged. The council had proven it could deliver the black vote. Gifts and offerings to black churches rose dramatically during elections.

The Reverend Ollie Agee called a special meeting of the council for Sunday afternoon at his church. He wrapped up his sermon early, and by 4:00 P.M. his flock had scattered when the Cadillacs and Lincolns began filling his parking lot. The meetings were secret, with only ministers who were council members invited. There were twenty-three black churches in Ford County, and twenty-two members were present when Reverend Agee called the meeting to order. The meeting would be brief, since some of the ministers, especially from the Church of Christ, would begin their evening services shortly.

The purpose of the meeting, he explained, was to organize moral, political, and financial support of Carl Lee Hailey, a member in good standing of his church. A legal defense fund must be established to assure the best legal representation. Another fund must be established to provide support for his family. He, Reverend Agee, would chair the fund-raising efforts, with each minister responsible for his own congregation, as usual. A special offering would be taken during the morning and evening services, starting next Sunday. Agee would use his discretion in disbursing the money to the family. Half of the proceeds would go to the defense fund. Time was important. The trial was next month. The money had to be raised quickly while the issue was hot, and the people were in a giving mood.

The council unanimously agreed with Reverend Agee. He continued.

The NAACP must become active in the Hailey case. He would not be on trial if he was white. Not in Ford County. He was on trial only because he was black, and this must be addressed by the NAACP. The national director had been called. The Memphis and Jackson chapters had promised help. Press conferences would be held. Demonstrations and marches would be important. Maybe boycotts of white-owned businesses — that was a popular tactic at the moment, and it worked with amazing results.

This must be done immediately, while the people were willing and in a giving mood. The ministers unanimously agreed and left for their evening services.

In part due to fatigue, and in part due to embarrassment, Jake slept through church. Carla fixed pancakes, and they enjoyed a long breakfast with Hanna on the patio. He ignored the Sunday papers after he found, on the front page of the second section of The Memphis Post, a full-page spread on Marsharfsky and his famous new client. The story was complete with pictures and quotes from the great lawyer. The Hailey case presented his biggest challenge, he said. Serious legal and social issues would be addressed. A novel defense would be employed, he promised. He had not lost a murder case in twelve years, he boasted. It would be difficult, but he had confidence in the wisdom and fairness of Mississippi jurors.

Jake read the article without comment and laid the paper in the trash can.

Carla suggested a picnic, and although he needed to work he knew better than to mention it. They loaded the Saab with food and toys and drove to the lake. The brown, muddy waters of Lake Chatulla had crested for the year, and within days would begin their slow withdrawal to the center. The high water attracted a flotilla of skiboats, bass rigs, catamarans, and dinghies.

Carla threw two heavy quilts under an oak on the side of a hill while Jake unloaded the food and doll house. Hanna arranged her large family with pets and automobiles on one quilt and began giving orders and setting up house. Her parents listened and smiled. Her birth had been a harrowing, gut-wrenching nightmare, two and a half months premature and shrouded with conflicting symptoms and prognoses. For eleven days Jake sat by the incubator in ICU and watched the tiny, purple, scrawny, beautiful three-pound body cling to life while an army of doctors and nurses studied the monitors and adjusted tubes and needles, and shook their heads. When he was alone he touched the incubator and wiped tears from his cheeks. He prayed as he had never prayed. He slept in a rocking chair near his daughter and dreamed of a beautiful blue-eyed, dark-haired little girl playing with dolls and sleeping on his shoulder. He could hear her voice.

After a month the nurses smiled and the doctors relented. The tubes were removed one at a time each day for a week. Her weight ballooned to a hearty four and a half pounds, and the proud parents took her home. The doctors suggested no more children, unless adopted.

She was perfect now, and the sound of her voice could still bring tears to his eyes. They ate and chuckled as Hanna lectured her dolls on proper hygiene.

“This is the first time you’ve relaxed in two weeks,” Carla said as they lay on their quilt. Wildly colored catamarans crisscrossed the lake below dodging a hundred roaring boats pulling half-drunken skiers.

“We went to church last Sunday,” he replied.

“And all you thought about was the trial.”

“Still thinking about it.”

“It’s over, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will he change his mind?”

“He might, if Lester talks to him. It’s hard to say. Blacks are so unpredictable, especially when they’re in trouble. He’s got a good deal, really. He’s got the best criminal lawyer in Memphis, and he’s free.”

“Who’s paying the bill?”

“An old friend of Carl Lee’s from Memphis, a guy by the name of Cat Bruster.”

“Who’s he?”

“A very rich pimp, dope pusher, thug, thief. Marsharfsky’s his lawyer. A couple of crooks.”

“Did Carl Lee tell you this?”

“No. He wouldn’t tell me, so I asked Ozzie.”

“Does Lester know?”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean by that? You’re not going to call him, are you?”

“Well, yes, I had planned to.”

“That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. Lester has a right to know, and—”

“Then Carl Lee should tell him.”

“He should, but he won’t. He’s made a mistake, and he does not realize it.”

“But it’s his problem, not yours. At least not anymore.”

“Carl Lee’s too embarrassed to tell Lester. He knows Lester will cuss him and tell him he’s made another mistake.”

“So it’s up to you to intervene in their family affairs.”

“No. But I think Lester should know.”

“I’m sure he’ll see it in the papers.”

“Maybe not,” Jake said without any conviction. “I think Hanna needs some more orange juice.”

“I think you want to change the subject.”

“The subject doesn’t bother me. I want the case, and I intend to get it back. Lester’s the only person who can retrieve it.”

Her eyes narrowed and he could feel them. He watched a bass rig drift into a mud bar on the near shore.

“Jake, that’s unethical, and you know it.” Her voice was calm, yet controlled and firm. The words were slow and scornful.

“That’s not true, Carla. I’m a very ethical attorney.”

“You’ve always preached ethics. But at this moment you’re scheming to solicit the case. That’s wrong, Jake.”

“Retrieve, not solicit.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Soliciting is unethical. I’ve never seen a prohibition against retrieving.”

“It’s not right, Jake. Carl Lee’s hired another lawyer and it’s time for you to forget it.”

“And I suppose you think Marsharfsky reads ethics opinions. How do you think he got the case? He’s been hired by a man who’s never heard of him. He chased the case, and he’s got it.”

“So that makes it okay if you chase it now?”

“Retrieve, not chase.”

Hanna demanded cookies, and Carla searched through the picnic basket. Jake reclined on an elbow and ignored them both. He thought of Lucien. What would he do in this situation? Probably rent a plane, fly to Chicago, get Lester, slip him some money, bring him home, and convince him to browbeat Carl Lee. He would assure Lester that Marsharfsky could not practice in Mississippi, and since he was a foreigner, the rednecks on the jury wouldn’t believe him anyway. He would call Marsharfsky and curse him for chasing cases and threaten him with an ethics complaint the minute he stepped into Mississippi. He would get his black cronies to call Gwen and Ozzie and persuade them that the only lawyer with a dog’s chance in hell of winning the case was Lucien Wilbanks. Finally, Carl Lee would knuckle under and send for Lucien.

That’s exactly what Lucien would do. Talk about ethics.

“Why are you smiling?” Carla interrupted.

“Just thinking about how nice it is out here with you and Hanna. We don’t do this enough.”

“You’re disappointed, aren’t you?”

“Sure. There will never be another case like this one. Win it, and I’m the greatest lawyer in these parts. We would never have to worry about money again.”

“And if you lost it?”

“It would still be a drawing card. But I can’t lose what I don’t have.”

“Embarrassed?”

“A little. It’s hard to accept. Every lawyer in the county is laughing about it, except maybe Harry Rex. But I’ll get over it.”

“What should I do with the scrapbook?”

“Save it. You might fill it up yet.”

The cross was a small one, nine feet long and four feet wide, made to fit inconspicuously in the long bed of a pickup. Much larger crosses were used for the rituals, but the small ones worked better in the nocturnal raids into residential areas. They were not used often, or often enough according to their builders. In fact, it had been many years since one had been used in Ford County. The last one was planted in the yard of a nigger accused of raping a white woman.

Several hours before dawn on Monday morning, the cross was lifted quietly and quickly from the pickup and thrust into a ten-inch, freshly dug slot in the front yard of the quaint Victorian house on Adams Street. A small torch was thrown at the foot of the cross, and in seconds it was in flames. The pickup disappeared into the night and stopped at a pay phone at the edge of town, where a call was placed to the dispatcher.

Moments later, Deputy Marshall Prather turned down Adams and instantly saw the blazing cross in Jake’s front yard. He turned into the driveway and parked behind the Saab. He punched the doorbell and stood on the porch watching the flames. It was almost three-thirty. He punched it again. Adams was dark and silent except for the glow of the cross and the snapping and crackling of the wood burning fifty feet away. Finally, Jake stumbled through the front door and froze, wild-eyed and stunned, next to the deputy. The two stood side by side on the porch, mesmerized not only by the burning cross, but by its purpose.

“Mornin’, Jake,” Prather finally said without looking from the fire.

“Who did it?” Jake asked with a scratchy, dry throat.

“Don’t know. They didn’t leave a name. Just called and told us about it.”

“When did they call?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

Jake ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep it from blowing wild in the soft breeze. “How long will it burn?” he asked, knowing Prather knew as little or even less than he about burning crosses.

“No tellin’. Probably soaked in kerosene. Smells like it anyway. Might burn for a couple of hours. You want me to call a fire truck?”

Jake looked up and down the street. Every house was silent and dark.

“Naw. No need to wake everybody. Let it burn. It won’t hurt anything, will it?”

“It’s your yard.”

Prather never moved; just stood there, hands in his pockets, his belly hanging over his belt. “Ain’t had one of these in a long time around here. Last one I remember was in Karaway, nineteen-sixty—”

“Nineteen sixty-seven.”

“You remember?”

“Yeah. I was in high school. We drove out and watched it burn.”

“What was that nigger’s name?”

“Robinson, something Robinson. Said he raped Velma Thayer.”

“Did he?” asked Prather.

“The jury thought so. He’s in Parchman chopping cotton for the rest of his life.”

Prather seemed satisfied.

“Let me get Carla,” Jake mumbled as he disappeared. He returned with his wife behind him.

“My God, Jake! Who did it?”

“Who knows.”

“Is it the KKK?” she asked.

“Must be,” answered the deputy. “I don’t know anybody else who burns crosses, do you, Jake?”

Jake shook his head.

“I thought they left Ford County years ago,” said Prather.

“Looks like they’re back,” said Jake.

Carla stood frozen, her hand over her mouth, terrified. The glow of the fire reddened her face. “Do something, Jake. Put it out.”

Jake watched the fire and again glanced up and down the street. The snapping and popping grew louder and the orange flames reached higher into the night. For a moment he hoped it would die quickly without being seen by anyone other than the three of them, and that it would simply go away and be forgotten and no one in Clanton would ever know. Then he smiled at his foolishness.

Prather grunted, and it was obvious he was tired of standing on the porch. “Say, Jake, uh, I don’t mean to bring this up, but accordin’ to the papers they got the wrong lawyer. That true?”

“I guess they can’t read,” Jake muttered.

“Probably not.”

“Tell me, Prather, do you know of any active Klan members in this county?”

“Not a one. Got some in the southern part of the state, but none around here. Not that I know of. FBI told us the Klan was a thing of the past.”

“That’s not very comforting.”

“Why not?”

“Because these guys, if they’re Klan members, are not from around here. Visitors from parts unknown. It means they’re serious, don’t you think, Prather?”

“I don’t know. I’d worry more if it was local people workin’ with the Klan. Could mean the Klan’s comin’ back.”

“What does it mean, the cross?” Carla asked the deputy.

“It’s a warnin’. Means stop what you’re doin’, or the next time we’ll do more than burn a little wood. They used these things for years to intimidate whites who were sympathetic to niggers and all that civil rights crap. If the whites didn’t stop their nigger lovin’, then violence followed. Bombs, dynamite, beatings, even murder. But that was a long time ago, I thought. In your case, it’s their way of tellin’ Jake to stay away from Hailey. But since he ain’t Hailey’s lawyer no more, I don’t know what it means.”

“Go check on Hanna,” Jake said to Carla, who went inside.

“If you got a water hose, I’ll be glad to put it out,” offered Prather.

“That’s a good idea,” Jake said. “I’d hate for the neighbors to see it.”

Jake and Carla stood on the porch in their bathrobes and watched the deputy spray the burning cross. The wood fizzed and smoked as the water covered the cross and snuffed out the flames. Prather soaked it for fifteen minutes, then neatly rolled the hose and placed it behind the shrubs in the flower bed next to the front steps.

“Thanks, Marshall. Let’s keep this quiet, okay?”

Prather wiped his hands on his pants and straightened his hat. “Sure. Y’all lock up good. If you hear anything, call the dispatcher. We’ll keep a close watch on it for the next few days.”

He backed from the driveway and drove slowly down Adams Street toward the square. They sat in the swing and watched the smoking cross.

“I feel like I’m looking at an old issue of Life magazine,” Jake said.

“Or a chapter from a Mississippi history textbook. Maybe we should tell them you got fired.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“For being so blunt.”

“I’m sorry. Should I say discharged, or terminated, or—”

“Just say he found another lawyer. You’re really scared, aren’t you?”

“You know I’m scared. I’m terrified. If they can burn a cross in our front yard, what’s to stop them from burning the house? It’s not worth it, Jake. I want you to be happy and successful and all that wonderful stuff, but not at the expense of our safety. No case is worth this.”

“You’re glad I got fired?”

“I’m glad he found another lawyer. Maybe they’ll leave us alone now.”

Jake put his arm around her, and pulled her into his lap. The swing rocked gently. She was beautiful, at three-thirty in the morning in her bathrobe.

“They won’t be back, will they?” she asked.

“Naw. They’re through with us. They’ll find out I’m off the case, then they’ll call and apologize.”

“It’s not funny, Jake.”

“I know.”

“Do you think people will know?”

“Not for another hour. When the Coffee Shop opens at five, Dell Perkins will know every detail before she pours the first cup of coffee.”

“What’re you going to do with it?” she asked, nodding at the cross, now barely visible under the half moon.

“I’ve got an idea. Let’s load it up, take it to Memphis, and burn it in Marsharfsky’s yard.”

“I’m going to bed.”

By 9:00 A.M. Jake had finished dictating his motion to withdraw as counsel of record. Ethel was typing it with zest when she interrupted him: “Mr. Brigance, there’s a Mr. Marsharfsky on the phone. I told him you were in conference, and he said he would hold.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Jake gripped the receiver. “Hello.”

“Mr. Brigance, Bo Marsharfsky in Memphis. How are you?”

“Terrific.”

“Good. I’m sure you saw the morning paper Saturday and Sunday. You do get the paper in Clanton?”

“Yes, and we have telephones and mail.”

“So you saw the stories on Mr. Hailey?”

“Yes. You write some very nice articles.”

“I’ll ignore that. I wanted to discuss the Hailey case if you have a minute.”

“I would love to.”

“As I understand Mississippi procedure, out-of-state counsel must associate local counsel for trial purposes.”

“You mean you don’t have a Mississippi license?” Jake asked incredulously.

“Well, no, I don’t.”

“That wasn’t mentioned in your articles.”

“I’ll ignore that too. Do the judges require local counsel in all cases?”

“Some do, some don’t.”

“I see. What about Noose?”

“Sometimes.”

“Thanks. Well, I usually associate local counsel when I try cases out in the country. The locals feel better with one of their own sitting there at counsel table with me.”

“That’s real nice.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in—”

“You must be kidding!” Jake yelled. “I’ve just been fired and now you want me to carry your briefcase. You’re crazy. I wouldn’t have my name associated with yours.”

“Wait a minute, hayseed—”

“No, you wait a minute, counselor. This may come as a surprise to you, but in this state we have ethics and laws against soliciting litigation and clients. Champerty — ever hear of it? Of course not. It’s a felony in Mississippi, as in most states. We have canons of ethics that prohibit ambulance chasing and solicitation. Ethics, Mr. Shark, ever hear of them?”

“I don’t chase cases, sonny. They come to me.”

“Like Carl Lee Hailey. I’m supposed to believe he picked your name out of the yellow pages. I’m sure you have a full-page ad, next to the abortionists.”

“He was referred to me.”

“Yeah, by your pimp. I know exactly how you got him. Outright solicitation. I may file a complaint with the bar. Better yet, I might have your methods reviewed by the grand jury.”

“Yeah, I understand you and the D.A. are real close. Good day, counselor.”

Marsharfsky got the last word before he hung up. Jake fumed for an hour before he could concentrate on the brief he was writing. Lucien would have been proud of him.

Just before lunch Jake received a call from Walter Sullivan, of the Sullivan firm.

“Jake, my boy, how are you?”

“Wonderful.”

“Good. Listen, Jake, Bo Marsharfsky is an old friend of mine. We defended a couple of bank officials years ago on fraud charges. Got them off, too. He’s quite a lawyer. He’s associated me as local counsel for Carl Lee Hailey. I was just wanting to know—”

Jake dropped the receiver and walked out of his office. He spent the afternoon on Lucien’s front porch.