A Time to Kill

19

Just before the courthouse closed on Friday, Jake called the clerk to see if a trial was in progress. No, she said, Noose was gone. Buckley, Musgrove, everybody was gone. The courtroom was deserted. Secure with that knowledge, Jake eased across the street, through the rear door of the courthouse, and down the hall to the clerk’s office. He flirted with the clerks and secretaries while he located Carl Lee’s file. He held his breath as he flipped through the pages. Good! Just as he had hoped. Nothing had been added to the file all week, with the exception of his motion to withdraw as counsel. Marsharfsky and his local counsel had not touched the file. Nothing had been done. He flirted some more and eased back to his office.

Leroy Glass was still in jail. His bond was ten thousand dollars, and his family couldn’t raise the thousand-dollar premium to pay a bondsman. So he continued to share the cell with Carl Lee. Jake had a friend who was a bondsman and who took care of Jake’s clients. If a client needed out of jail, and there was little danger of him disappearing once he was sprung, the bond would be written. Terms were available for Jake’s clients. Say, five percent down and so much a month. If Jake wanted Leroy Glass out of jail, the bond could be written anytime. But Jake needed him in jail.

“Look, Leroy, I’m sorry. I’m working with the bondsman,” Jake explained to his client in the Intoxilyzer room.

“But you said I’d be out by now.”

“Your folks don’t have the money, Leroy. I can’t pay it myself. We’ll get you out, but it’ll take a few days. I want you out so you can go to work, make some money and pay me.”

Leroy seemed satisfied. “Okay, Mr. Jake, just do what you can.”

“Food’s pretty good here, isn’t it?” Jake asked with a smile.

“It ain’t bad. Better at home.”

“We’ll get you out,” Jake promised.

“How’s the nigger I stabbed?”

“Not sure. Ozzie said he’s still in the hospital. Moss Tatum says he’s been released. Who knows. I don’t think he’s hurt too bad.

“Who was the woman?” Jake asked, unable to remember the details.

“Willie’s woman.”

“Willie who?”

“Willie Hoyt.”

Jake thought for a second and tried to recall the indictment. “That’s not the man you stabbed.”

“Naw, he’s Curtis Sprawling.”

“You mean, y’all were fighting over another man’s woman?”

“That’s right.”

“Where was Willie?”

“He was fightin’ too.”

“Who was he fighting?”

“Some other dude.”

“You mean the four of you were fighting over Willie’s woman?”

“Yeah, you got it.”

“What caused the fight?”

“Her husband was outta town.”

“She’s married?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s her husband’s name?”

“Johnny Sands. When he’s outta town, there’s normally a fight.”

“Why is that?”

“ ’Cause she ain’t got no kids, can’t have any, and she likes to have company. Know what I mean? When he leaves, everybody knows it. If she shows up at a tonk, look out for a fight.”

What a trial, thought Jake. “But I thought you said she showed up with Willie Hoyt?”

“That’s right. But that don’t mean nothin’ because everybody at the tonk starts easin’ up on her, buyin’ drinks, wantin’ to dance. You can’t help it.”

“Some woman, huh?”

“Oh, Mr. Jake, she looks so good. You oughtta see her.”

“I will. On the witness stand.”

Leroy gazed at the wall, smiling, dreaming, lusting after the wife of Johnny Sands. Never mind that he stabbed a man and could get twenty years. He had proven, in hand-to-hand combat, that he was worthy.

“Listen, Leroy, you haven’t talked to Carl Lee, have you?”

“Sure. I’m still in his cell. We talk all the time. Ain’t much else to do.”

“You haven’t told him what we discussed yesterday?”

“Oh no. I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Good.”

“But I’ll tell you this, Mr. Jake, he’s some kinda worried. He ain’t heard from his new lawyer. He’s bad upset. I had to bite my tongue to keep from tellin’ him, but I didn’t. I did tell him you were my lawyer.”

“That’s okay.”

“He said you was good ’bout comin’ by the jail and talkin’ ’bout the case and all. He said I hired a good lawyer.”

“Not good enough for him, though.”

“I think Carl Lee’s confused. He ain’t sure who to trust or anything. He’s a good dude.”

“Well, don’t be telling him what we discussed, right? It’s confidential.”

“Right. But somebody needs to.”

“He didn’t consult with me or anyone else before he fired me and hired his new lawyer. He’s a grown man. He made the decision. It’s his baby.” Jake paused and moved closer to Leroy. He lowered his voice. “And I’ll tell you something else, but you can’t tell it. I checked his court file thirty minutes ago. His new lawyer hasn’t touched the case all week. Not one thing has been filed. Nothing.”

Leroy frowned and shook his head. “Man oh man.”

His lawyer continued. “These big shots operate like that. Talk a lot, blow a lot of smoke, fly by the seat of their pants. Take more cases than they can handle, and end up losing more than they win. I know them. I watch them all the time. Most are overrated.”

“Is that why he ain’t been to see Carl Lee?”

“Sure. He’s too busy. Plus he’s got plenty of other big cases. He don’t care about Carl Lee.”

“That’s bad. Carl Lee deserves better.”

“It was his choice. He’ll have to live with it.”

“You think he’ll be convicted, Mr. Jake?”

“No doubt about it. He’s looking at the gas chamber. He’s hired a bogus big-shot lawyer who doesn’t have time to work on his case, doesn’t even have the time to talk to him in jail.”

“Are you sayin’ you could get him off?”

Jake relaxed and crossed his legs. “No, I never make that promise, and I won’t make it for your trial. A lawyer is stupid if he promises an acquittal. Too many things can go wrong at trial.”

“Carl Lee said his lawyer promised a not guilty in the newspaper.”

“He’s a fool.”

“Where you been?” Carl Lee asked his cellmate as the jailer locked the door.

“Talkin’ to my lawyer.”

“Jake?”

“Yeah.”

Leroy sat on his bunk directly across the cell from Carl Lee, who was rereading a newspaper. He folded the paper and laid it under his bunk.

“You look worried,” Carl Lee said. “Bad news about your case?”

“Naw. Just can’t make my bail. Jake says it’ll be a few days.”

“Jake talk about me?”

“Naw. Not much.”

“Not much? What’d he say?”

“Just ask how you was.”

“That all?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s not mad at me?”

“Naw. He might be worried about you, but I don’t think he’s mad.”

“Why’s he worried about me?”

“I don’t know,” Leroy answered as he stretched out on his bunk, folding his hands behind his head.

“Come on, Leroy. You know somethin’ you ain’t tellin’. What’d Jake say about me?”

“Jake said I can’t tell you what we talk about. He says it’s confidential. You wouldn’t want your lawyer repeatin’ what y’all talk about, would you?”

“I ain’t seen my lawyer.”

“You had a good lawyer till you fired him.”

“I gotta good one now.”

“How do you know? You ain’t ever met him. He’s too busy to come talk to you, and if he’s that busy, he ain’t got time to work on your case.”

“How do you know about him?”

“I asked Jake.”

“Yeah. What’d he say?”

Leroy was silent.

“I wanna know what he said,” demanded Carl Lee as he sat on the edge of Leroy’s bunk. He glared at his smaller, weaker cellmate. Leroy decided he was frightened and now had a good excuse to tell Carl Lee. Either talk or get slapped.

“He’s a crook,” Leroy said. “He’s a big-shot crook who’ll sell you out. He don’t care about you or your case. He just wants the publicity. He hasn’t touched your case all week. Jake knows, he checked in the courthouse this afternoon. Not a sign of Mr. Big Shot. He’s too busy to leave Memphis and check on you. He’s got too many other crooked clients in Memphis, includin’ your friend Mr. Bruster.”

“You’re crazy, Leroy.”

“Okay, I’m crazy. Wait and see who pleads insaneness. Wait and see how hard he works on your case.”

“What makes you such an expert?”

“You asked me and I’m tellin’ you.”

Carl Lee walked to the door and grabbed the bars, gripping them tightly with his huge hands. The cell had shrunk in three weeks, and the smaller it became the harder it was for him to think, to reason, to plan, to react. He could not concentrate in jail. He knew only what was told to him and had no one to trust. Gwen was irrational. Ozzie was noncommittal. Lester was in Chicago. There was no other person he trusted except Jake, and for some reason he had found a new lawyer. Money, that was the reason. Nineteen hundred dollars cash, paid by the biggest pimp and dope dealer in Memphis, whose lawyer specialized in defending pimps and dope dealers, and all kinds of cutthroats and hoodlums. Did Marsharfsky represent decent people? What would the jury think when they watched Carl Lee sit at the defense table next to Marsharfsky? He was guilty, of course. Why else would he hire a famous, big-city crook like Marsharfsky?

“You know what them rednecks on the jury’ll say when they see Marsharfsky?” Leroy asked.

“What?”

“They’re gonna think this poor nigger is guilty, and he’s sold his soul to hire the biggest crook in Memphis to tell us he ain’t guilty.”

Carl Lee mumbled something through the bars.

“They’re gonna fry you, Carl Lee.”

Moss Junior Tatum was on duty at six-thirty Saturday morning when the phone rang in Ozzie’s office. It was the sheriff.

“What’re you doing awake?” asked Moss.

“I’m not sure I’m awake,” answered the sheriff. “Listen, Moss, do you remember an old black preacher named Street, Reverend Isaiah Street?”

“Not really.”

“Yeah you do. He preached for fifty years at Springdale Church, north of town. First member of the NAACP in Ford County. He taught all the blacks around here how to march and boycott back in the sixties.”

“Yeah, now I remember. Didn’t the Klan catch him once?”

“Yeah, they beat him and burned his house, but nothin’ serious. Summer of ’65.”

“I thought he died a few years back.”

“Naw, he’s been half dead for ten years, but he still moves a little. He called me at five-thirty and talked for an hour. Reminded me of all the political favors I owe him.”

“What’s he want?”

“He’ll be there at seven to see Carl Lee. Why, I don’t know. But treat him nice. Put them in my office and let them talk. I’ll be in later.”

“Sure, Sheriff.”

In his heyday in the sixties, the Reverend Isaiah Street had been the moving force behind civil rights activity in Ford County. He walked with Martin Luther King in Memphis and Montgomery. He organized marches and protests in Clanton and Karaway and other towns in north Mississippi. In the summer of ’64 he greeted students from the North and coordinated their efforts to register black voters. Some had lived in his home that memorable summer, and they still visited him from time to time. He was no radical. He was quiet, compassionate, intelligent, and had earned the respect of all blacks and most whites. His was a calm, cool voice in the midst of hatred and controversy. He unofficially officiated at the great public school desegregation in ’69, and Ford County saw little trouble.

A stroke in ’75 deadened the right side of his body but left his mind untouched. Now, at seventy-eight, he walked by himself, slowly and with a cane. Proud, dignified, erect as possible. He was ushered into the sheriff’s office and seated. He declined coffee, and Moss Junior left to get the defendant.

“You awake, Carl Lee?” he whispered loudly, not wanting to wake the other prisoners, who would begin screaming for breakfast, medicine, lawyers, bonds men, and girlfriends.

Carl Lee sat up immediately. “Yeah, I didn’t sleep much.”

“You have a visitor. Come on.” Moss quietly unlocked the cell.

Carl Lee had met the reverend years earlier when he addressed the last senior class at East High, the black school. Desegregation followed, and East became the junior high. He had not seen the reverend since the stroke.

“Carl Lee, do you know Reverend Isaiah Street?” Moss asked properly.

“Yes, we met years ago.”

“Good, I’ll close the door and let y’all talk.”

“How are you, sir?” Carl Lee asked. They sat next to each other on the couch.

“Fine, my son, and you?”

“As good as possible.”

“I’ve been in jail too, you know. Years ago. It’s a terrible place, but I guess it’s necessary. How are they treating you?”

“Fine, just fine. Ozzie lets me do as I please.”

“Yes, Ozzie. We’re very proud of him, aren’t we?”

“Yes, suh. He’s a good man.” Carl Lee studied the frail, feeble old man with the cane. His body was weak and tired, but his mind was sharp, his voice strong.

“We’re proud of you too, Carl Lee. I don’t condone violence, but at times it’s necessary too, I guess. You did a good deed, my son.”

“Yes, suh,” answered Carl Lee, uncertain of the appropriate response.

“I guess you wonder why I’m here.”

Carl Lee nodded. The reverend tapped his cane on the floor.

“I’m concerned about your acquittal. The black community is concerned. If you were white, you would most likely go to trial, and most likely be acquitted. The rape of a child is a horrible crime, and who’s to blame a father for rectifying the wrong? A white father, that is. A black father evokes the same sympathy among blacks, but there’s one problem: the jury will be white. So a black father and a white father would not have equal chances with the jury. Do you follow me?”

“I think so.”

“The jury is all important. Guilt versus innocence. Freedom versus prison. Life versus death. All to be determined by the jury. It’s a fragile system, this trusting of lives to twelve average, ordinary people who do not understand the law and are intimidated by the process.”

“Yes, suh.”

“Your acquittal by a white jury for the killings of two white men will do more for the black folk of Mississippi than any event since we integrated the schools. And it’s not just Mississippi; it’s black folk everywhere. Yours is a most famous case, and it’s being watched carefully by many people.”

“I just did what I had to do.”

“Precisely. You did what you thought was right. It was right; although it was brutal and ugly, it was right. And most folks, black and white, believe that. But will you be treated as though you were white? That’s the question.”

“And if I’m convicted?”

“Your conviction would be another slap at us; a symbol of deep-seated racism; of old prejudices, old hatreds. It would be a disaster. You must not be convicted.”

“I’m doin’ all I can do.”

“Are you? Let’s talk about your attorney, if we may.”

Carl Lee nodded.

“Have you met him?”

“No.” Carl Lee lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. “Have you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“You have? When?”

“In Memphis in 1968. I was with Dr. King. Marsharfsky was one of the attorneys representing the garbage workers on strike against the city. He asked Dr. King to leave Memphis, claimed he was agitating the whites and inciting the blacks, and that he was impeding the contract negotiations. He was arrogant and abusive. He cursed Dr. King — in private, of course. We thought he was selling out the workers and getting money under the table from the city. I think we were right.”

Carl Lee breathed deeply and rubbed his temples.

“I’ve followed his career,” the reverend continued. “He’s made a name for himself representing gangsters, thieves, and pimps. He gets some of them off, but they’re always guilty. When you see one of his clients, you know he’s guilty. That’s what worries me most about you. I’m afraid you’ll be considered guilty by association.”

Carl Lee sunk lower, his elbows resting on his knees. “Who told you to come here?” he asked softly.

“I had a talk with an old friend.”

“Who?”

“Just an old friend, my son. He’s concerned about you too. We’re all concerned about you.”

“He’s the best lawyer in Memphis.”

“This isn’t Memphis, is it?”

“He’s an expert on criminal law.”

“That could be because he’s a criminal.”

Carl Lee stood abruptly and walked across the room, his back to the reverend.

“He’s free. He’s not costin’ me a dime.”

“His fee won’t seem important when you’re on death row, my son.”

Moments passed and neither spoke. Finally, the reverend lowered his cane and struggled to his feet. “I’ve said enough. I’m leaving. Good luck, Carl Lee.”

Carl Lee shook his hand. “I do appreciate your concern and I thank you for visitin’.”

“My point is simply this, my son. Your case will be difficult enough to win. Don’t make it more difficult with a crook like Marsharfsky.”

Lester left Chicago just before midnight Friday. He headed south alone, as usual. Earlier his wife went north to Green Bay for a weekend with her family. He liked Green Bay much less than she liked Mississippi, and neither cared to visit the other’s family. They were nice people, the Swedes, and they would treat him like family if he allowed it. But they were different, and it wasn’t just their whiteness. He grew up with whites in the South and knew them. He didn’t like them all and didn’t like most of their feelings toward him, but at least he knew them. But the Northern whites, especially the Swedes, were different. Their customs, speech, food, almost everything was foreign to him, and he would never feel comfortable with them.

There would be a divorce, probably within a year. He was black, and his wife’s older cousin had married a black in the early seventies and received a lot of attention. Lester was a fad, and she was tired of him. Luckily, there were no kids. He suspected someone else. He had someone else too, and Iris had promised to marry him and move to Chicago once she ditched Henry.

Both sides of Interstate 57 looked the same after midnight — scattered lights from the small, neat farms strewn over the countryside, and occasionally a big town like Champaign or Effingham. The north was where he lived and worked, but it wasn’t home. Home was where Momma was, in Mississippi, although he would never live there again. Too much ignorance and poverty. He didn’t mind the racism; it wasn’t as bad as it once was and he was accustomed to it. It would always be there, but gradually becoming less visible. The whites still owned and controlled everything, and that in itself was not unbearable. It was not about to change. What he found intolerable was the ignorance and stark poverty of many of the blacks; the dilapidated, shotgun houses, the high infant mortality rate, the hopelessly unemployed, the unwed mothers and their unfed babies. It was depressing to the point of being intolerable, and intolerable to the point he fled Mississippi like thousands of others and migrated north in search of a job, any decent-paying job which could ease the pain of poverty.

It was both pleasant and depressing to return to Mississippi. Pleasant in that he would see his family; depressing because he would see their poverty. There were bright spots. Carl Lee had a decent job, a clean house, and well-dressed kids. He was an exception, and now it was all in jeopardy because of two drunk, low-bred pieces of white trash. Blacks had an excuse for being worthless, but for whites in a white world, there were no excuses. They were dead, thank God, and he was proud of his big brother.

Six hours out of Chicago the sun appeared as he crossed the river at Cairo. Two hours later he crossed it again at Memphis. He drove southeast into Mississippi, and an hour later circled the courthouse in Clanton. He’d been awake for twenty hours.

“Carl Lee, you have a visitor,” Ozzie said through the iron bars in the door.

“I’m not surprised. Who is it?”

“Just follow me. I think you better use my office. This could take awhile.”

Jake loitered at his office waiting on the phone to ring. Ten o’clock. Lester should be in town, if he’s coming. Eleven. Jake riffled through some stale files and made notes for Ethel. Noon. He called Carla and lied about meeting a new client at one o’clock, so forget lunch. He would work in the yard later. One o’clock. He found an ancient case from Wyoming where a husband was acquitted after tracking down the man who raped his wife. In 1893. He copied the case, then threw it in the garbage. Two o’clock. Was Lester in town? He could go visit Leroy and snoop around the jail. No, that didn’t feel right. He napped on the couch in the big office.

At two-fifteen the phone rang. Jake bolted upright and scrambled from the couch. His heart was pounding as he grabbed the phone. “Hello!”

“Jake, this is Ozzie.”

“Yeah, Ozzie, what’s up?”

“Your presence is requested here at the jail.”

“What?” Jake asked, feigning innocence.

“You’re needed down here.”

“By who?”

“Carl Lee wants to talk to you.”

“Is Lester there?”

“Yeah. He wants you too.”

“Be there in a minute.”

“They’ve been in there for over four hours,” Ozzie said, pointing to the office door.

“Doing what?” asked Jake.

“Talkin’, cussin’, shoutin’. Things got quiet about thirty minutes ago. Carl Lee came out and asked me to call you.”

“Thanks. Let’s go in.”

“No way, man. I ain’t goin’ in there. They didn’t send for me. You’re on your own.”

Jake knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

He opened it slowly, walked inside and closed it.

Carl Lee was sitting behind the desk. Lester was lying on the couch. He stood and shook Jake’s hand. “Good to see you, Jake.”

“Good to see you, Lester. What brings you home?”

“Family business.”

Jake looked at Carl Lee, then walked to the desk and shook his hand. The defendant was clearly irritated.

“Y’all sent for me?”

“Yeah, Jake, sit down. We need to talk,” said Lester. “Carl Lee’s got somethin’ to tell you.”

“You tell him,” Carl Lee said.

Lester sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was tired and frustrated. “I ain’t sayin’ another word. This is between you and Jake.” Lester closed his eyes and relaxed on the couch. Jake sat in a padded, folding chair that he leaned against the wall opposite the couch. He watched Lester carefully, but did not look at Carl Lee, who rocked slowly in Ozzie’s swivel chair. Carl Lee said nothing. Lester said nothing. After three minutes of silence, Jake was annoyed.

“Who sent for me?” he demanded.

“I did,” answered Carl Lee.

“Well, what do you want?”

“I wanna give you my case back.”

“You assume I want it back.”

“What!” Lester sat up and looked at Jake.

“It’s not a gift you give or take away. It’s an agreement between you and your attorney. Don’t act as though you’re doing me a great favor.” Jake’s voice was rising, his anger apparent.

“Do you want the case?” asked Carl Lee.

“Are you trying to rehire me, Carl Lee?”

“That’s right.”

“Why do you want to rehire me?”

“ ’Cause Lester wants me to.”

“Fine, then I don’t want your case.” Jake stood and started for the door. “If Lester wants me and you want Marsharfsky, then stick with Marsharfsky. If you can’t think for yourself, you need Marsharfsky.”

“Wait, Jake. Be cool, man,” Lester said as he met Jake at the door. “Sit down, sit down. I don’t blame you for bein’ mad at Carl Lee for firin’ you. He was wrong. Right, Carl Lee?”

Carl Lee picked at his fingernails.

“Sit down, Jake, sit down and let’s talk,” Lester pleaded as he led him back to the folding chair. “Good. Now, let’s discuss this situation. Carl Lee, do you want Jake to be your lawyer?”

Carl Lee nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good. Now, Jake—”

“Explain why,” Jake asked Carl Lee.

“What?”

“Explain why you want me to handle your case. Explain why you’re firing Marsharfsky.”

“I don’t have to explain.”

“Yes! Yes, you do. You at least owe me an explanation. You fired me a week ago and didn’t have the guts to call me. I read it in the newspaper. Then I read about your new high-priced lawyer who evidently can’t find his way to Clanton. Now you call me and expect me to drop everything because you might change your mind again. Explain, please.”

“Explain, Carl Lee. Talk to Jake,” Lester said.

Carl Lee leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. He buried his face in his hands and spoke between his palms. “I’m just confused. This place is drivin’ me crazy. My nerves are shot. I’m worried about my little girl. I’m worried about my family. I’m worried about my own skin. Everbody’s tellin’ me to do somethin’ different. I ain’t ever been in a situation like this and I don’t know what to do. All I can do is trust people. I trust Lester, and I trust you, Jake. That’s all I can do.”

“You trust my advice?” asked Jake.

“I always have.”

“And you trust me to handle your case?”

“Yeah, Jake, I want you to handle it.”

“Good enough.”

Jake relaxed, and Lester eased into the couch. “You’ll need to notify Marsharfsky. Until you do, I can’t work on your case.”

“We’ll do that this afternoon,” Lester said.

“Good. Once you talk to him, give me a call. There’s a lot of work to do, and the time will disappear.”

“What about the money?” asked Lester.

“Same fee. Same arrangements. Is that satisfactory?”

“Okay with me,” replied Carl Lee. “I’ll pay you any way I can.”

“We’ll discuss that later.”

“What about the doctors?” asked Carl Lee.

“We’ll make some arrangements. I don’t know. It’ll work out.”

The defendant smiled. Lester snored loudly and Carl Lee laughed at his brother. “I figured you called him, but he swears you didn’t.”

Jake smiled awkwardly but said nothing. Lester was a smooth liar, a talent which had proved extremely beneficial during his murder trial.

“I’m sorry, Jake. I was wrong.”

“No apologies. There’s too much work to spend time apologizing.”

Next to the parking lot outside the jail, a reporter stood under a shade tree waiting for something to happen.

“Excuse me, sir, aren’t you Mr. Brigance?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Richard Flay, with The Jackson Daily. You’re Jake Brigance.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Hailey’s ex-lawyer.”

“No. Mr. Hailey’s lawyer.”

“I thought he had retained Bo Marsharfsky. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I heard a rumor Marsharfsky would be here this afternoon.”

“If you see him, tell him he’s too late.”

Lester slept hard on the couch in Ozzie’s office. The dispatcher woke him at 4:00 A.M. Sunday, and after filling a tall Styrofoam cup with black coffee, he left for Chicago. Late Saturday night he and Carl Lee had called Cat in his office above the club and informed him of Carl Lee’s conversion. Cat was indifferent and busy. He said he would call Marsharfsky. There was no mention of the money.