A Time to Kill

25

The Ford County Klavern was founded at midnight, Thursday, July 11, in a small pasture next to a dirt road deep in a forest somewhere in the northern part of the county. The six inductees stood nervously before the huge burning cross and repeated strange words offered by a wizard. A dragon and two dozen white-robed Klansmen watched and chanted when appropriate. A guard with a gun stood quietly down the road, occasionally watching the ceremony but primarily watching for uninvited guests. There were none.

Precisely at midnight the six fell to their knees and closed their eyes as the white hoods were ceremoniously placed onto their heads. They were Klansmen now, these six. Freddie Cobb, brother of the deceased, Jerry Maples, Clifton Cobb, Ed Wilburn, Morris Lancaster, and Terrell Grist. The grand dragon hovered above each one and chanted the sacred vows of klanhood. The flames from the cross scorched the faces of the new members as they knelt and quietly suffocated under the heavy robes and hoods. Sweat dripped from their red faces as they prayed fervently for the dragon to shut up with his nonsense and finish the ceremony. When the chanting stopped, the new members rose and quickly retreated from the cross. They were embraced by their new brothers, who grabbed their shoulders firmly and pounded primal incantations onto their sweaty collarbones. The heavy hoods were removed, and the Klansmen, both new members and old, walked proudly from the pasture and into the rustic cabin across the dirt road. The same guard sat on the front steps as the whiskey was poured around the table and plans were made for the trial of Carl Lee Hailey.

Deputy Pirtle pulled the graveyard shift, ten to six, and had stopped for coffee and pie at Gurdy’s all-night diner on the highway north of town when his radio blared out the news that he was wanted at the jail. It was three minutes after midnight, Friday morning.

Pirtle left his pie and drove a mile south to the jail. “What’s up?” he asked the dispatcher.

“We got a call a few minutes ago, anonymous, from someone lookin’ for the sheriff. I explained that he was not on duty, so they asked for whoever was on duty. That’s you. They said it was very important, and they’d call back in fifteen minutes.”

Pirtle poured some coffee and relaxed in Ozzie’s big chair. The phone rang. “It’s for you,” yelled the dispatcher.

“Hello,” answered Pirtle.

“Who’s this?” asked the voice.

“Deputy Joe Pirtle. Who’s this?”

“Where’s the sheriff?”

“Asleep, I reckon.”

“Okay listen, and listen real good because this is important and I ain’t callin’ again. You know that Hailey nigger?”

“Yeah.”

“You know his lawyer, Brigance?”

“Yeah.”

“Then listen. Sometime between now and three A.M., they’re gonna blow up his house.”

“Who?”

“Brigance.”

“No, I mean who’s gonna blow up his house?”

“Don’t worry about that, Deputy, just listen to me. This ain’t no joke, and if you think it’s a joke, just sit there and wait for his house to go up. It may happen any minute.”

The voice became silent but did not disappear. Pirtle listened. “You still there?”

“Good night, Deputy.” The receiver clicked.

Pirtle jumped to his feet and ran to the dispatcher. “Did you listen?”

“Of course I did.”

“Call Ozzie and tell him to get down here. I’ll be at the Brigance house.”

Pirtle hid his patrol car in a driveway on Monroe Street and walked across the front lawns to Jake’s house. He saw nothing. It was 12:55 A.M. He walked around the house with his flashlight and noticed nothing unusual. Every house on the street was dark and asleep. He unscrewed the light bulb on the front porch and took a seat in a wicker chair. He waited. The odd-looking foreign car was parked next to the Oldsmobile under the veranda. He would wait and ask Ozzie about notifying Jake.

Headlights appeared at the end of the street. Pirtle slumped lower in the chair, certain he could not be seen. A red pickup moved suspiciously toward the Brigance house but did not stop. He sat up and watched it disappear down the street.

Moments later he noticed two figures jogging from the direction of the square. He unbuttoned his holster and removed his service revolver. The first figure was much larger than the second, and seemed to run with more ease and grace. It was Ozzie. The other was Nesbit. Pirtle met the two in the driveway and they retreated into the darkness of the front porch. They whispered and watched the street.

“What exactly did he say?” asked Ozzie.

“Said someone’s gonna blow up Jake’s house between now and three A.M. Said it was no joke.”

“Is that all?”

“Yep. He wasn’t real friendly.”

“How long you been here?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Ozzie turned to Nesbit. “Give me your radio and go hide in the backyard. Stay quiet and keep your eyes open.”

Nesbit scurried to the rear of the house and found a small opening between the shrubs along the back fence. Crawling on all fours, he disappeared into the shrubs. From his nest he could see the entire rear of the house.

“You gonna tell Jake?” asked Pirtle.

“Not yet. We might in a minute. If we knock on the door, they’ll be turnin’ on lights and we don’t need that right now.”

“Yeah, but what if Jake hears us and comes through the door firin’ away. He might think we’re just a couple of niggers tryin’ to break in.”

Ozzie watched the street and said nothing.

“Look, Ozzie, put yourself in his place. The cops have your house surrounded at one o’clock in the mornin’ waitin’ for somebody to throw a bomb. Now, would you wanna stay in bed asleep or would you wanna know about it?”

Ozzie studied the houses in the distance.

“Listen, Sheriff, we better wake them up. What if we don’t stop whoever’s plannin’ this, and somebody inside the house gets hurt? We get blamed, right?”

Ozzie stood and punched the doorbell. “Unscrew that light bulb,” he ordered, pointing at the porch ceiling.

“I already did.”

Ozzie punched the doorbell again. The wooden door swung open, and Jake walked to the storm door and stared at the sheriff. He was wearing a wrinkled nightshirt that fell just below his knees, and he held a loaded .38 in his right hand. He slowly opened the storm door.

“What is it, Ozzie?” he asked.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

“Stay here on the porch,” Ozzie told Pirtle. “I’ll be just a minute.”

Ozzie closed the front door behind them and turned off the light in the foyer. They sat in the dark living room overlooking the porch and the front yard.

“Start talking,” Jake said.

“ ’Bout a half hour ago we took an anonymous call from someone who said that someone planned to blow up your house between now and three A.M. We’re takin’ it serious.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve got Pirtle on the front porch and Nesbit in the backyard. ’Bout ten minutes ago Pirtle saw a pickup drive by real interested like, but that’s all we’ve seen.”

“Have you searched around the house?”

“Yeah, nothin’. They ain’t been here yet. But somethin’ tells me this is the real thing.”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch.”

Jake laid the .38 beside him on the couch and rubbed his temples. “What’s your suggestion?”

“Sit and wait. That’s all we can do. You got a rifle?”

“I’ve got enough guns to invade Cuba.”

“Why don’t you get it and get dressed. Take a position in one of those cute little windows upstairs. We’ll hide outside and wait.”

“Have you got enough men?”

“Yeah, I figure there’ll only be one or two of them.”

“Who’s them?”

“Don’t know. Could be the Klan, could be some freelancers. Who knows?”

Both men sat in deep thought and stared at the dark street. They could see the top of Pirtle’s head as he slumped in the wicker chair just outside the window.

“Jake, you remember those three civil rights workers killed by the Klan back in ’64? Found them buried in a levee down around Philadelphia.”

“Sure. I was a kid, but I remember.”

“Those boys would’ve never been found if someone hadn’t told where they was. That someone was in the Klan. An informant. Seems like that always happened to the Klan. Somebody on the inside was always squealin’.”

“You think it’s the Klan?”

“Sure looks like it. If it was just one or two freelancers, then who else would know about it? The bigger the group, the better the chance of someone tippin’ us off.”

“That makes sense, but for some reason I’m not comforted by it.”

“Of course, it could be a joke.”

“Nobody’s laughing.”

“You gonna tell your wife?”

“Yeah. I’d better go do that.”

“I would too. But don’t be turnin’ on lights. You might scare them off.”

“But I would like to scare them off.”

“And I’d like to catch them. If we don’t catch them now, they’ll try again, and next time they might forget to call us ahead of time.”

Carla dressed hurriedly in the dark. She was terrified. Jake laid Hanna on the couch in the den, where she mumbled something and went back to sleep. Carla held her head and watched Jake load a rifle.

“I’ll be upstairs in the guest room. Don’t turn on any lights. The cops have the place surrounded, so don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry! Are you crazy?”

“Try to go back to sleep.”

“Sleep! Jake, you’ve lost your mind.”

They didn’t wait long. From his vantage point somewhere deep in the shrubs in front of the house, Ozzie saw him first: a lone figure walking casually down the street from the direction opposite the square. He had in his hand a small box or case of some sort. When he was two houses away, he left the street and cut through the front lawns of the neighbors.

Ozzie pulled his revolver and nightstick and watched the man walk directly toward him. Jake had him in the scope of his deer rifle. Pirtle crawled like a snake across the porch and into the shrubs, ready to strike.

Suddenly, the figure darted across the front lawn next door and to the side of Jake’s house. He carefully laid the small suitcase under Jake’s bedroom window. As he turned to run, a huge black nightstick crashed across the side of his head, ripping his right ear in two places, each barely hanging to his head. He screamed and fell to the ground.

“I got him!” Ozzie yelled. Pirtle and Nesbit sprinted to the side of the house. Jake calmly walked down the stairs.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he told Carla.

Ozzie grabbed the suspect by the neck and sat him next to the house. He was conscious but dazed. The suitcase was inches away.

“What’s your name?” Ozzie demanded.

He moaned and clutched his head and said nothing.

“I asked you a question,” Ozzie said as he hovered over his suspect. Pirtle and Nesbit stood nearby, guns drawn, too frightened to speak or move. Jake stared at the suitcase.

“I ain’t sayin’,” came the reply.

Ozzie raised the nightstick high over his head and drove it solidly against the man’s right ankle. The crack of the bone was sickening.

He howled and grabbed his leg. Ozzie kicked him in the face. He fell backward and his head smashed into the side of the house. He rolled to his side and groaned in pain.

Jake knelt above the suitcase and put his ear next to it. He jumped and retreated. “It’s ticking,” he said weakly.

Ozzie bent over the suspect and laid the nightstick softly against his nose. “I’ve got one more question before I break ever bone in your body. What’s in the box?”

No answer.

Ozzie recoiled the nightstick and broke the other ankle. “What’s in the box!” he shouted.

“Dynamite!” came the anguished reply.

Pirtle dropped his gun. Nesbit’s blood pressure shot through his cap and he leaned on the house. Jake turned white and his knees vibrated. He ran through the front door yelling at Carla. “Get the car keys! Get the car keys!”

“What for?” she asked nervously.

“Just do as I say. Get the car keys and get in the car.”

He lifted Hanna and carried her through the kitchen, into the carport, and laid her in the back seat of Carla’s Cutlass. He took Carla by the arm and helped her into the car. “Leave, and don’t come back for thirty minutes.”

“Jake, what’s going on?” she demanded.

“I’ll tell you later. There’s no time now. Just leave. Go drive around for thirty minutes. Stay away from this street.”

“But why, Jake? What have you found?”

“Dynamite.”

She backed out of the driveway and disappeared.

When Jake returned to the side of the house, the suspect’s left hand had been handcuffed to the gas meter next to the window. He was moaning, mumbling, cursing. Ozzie carefully lifted the suitcase by the handle and sat it neatly between the suspect’s broken legs. Ozzie kicked both legs to spread them. He groaned louder. Ozzie, the deputies, and Jake backed away slowly and watched him. He began to cry.

“I don’t know how to defuse it,” he said through clenched teeth.

“You’d better learn fast,” Jake said, his voice somewhat stronger.

The suspect closed his eyes and lowered his head. He bit his lip and breathed loudly and rapidly. Sweat dripped from his chin and eyebrows. His ear was shredded and hung like a falling leaf. “Give me a flashlight.”

Pirtle handed him a flashlight.

“I need both hands,” he said.

“Try it with one,” Ozzie said.

He placed his fingers gently on the latch and closed his eyes.

“Let’s get outta here,” Ozzie said. They ran around the corner of the house and into the carport, as far away as possible.

“Where’s your family?” Ozzie asked.

“Gone. Recognize him?”

“Nope,” said Ozzie.

“I never seen him,” said Nesbit.

Pirtle shook his head.

Ozzie called the dispatcher, who called Deputy Riley, the self-trained explosives man for the county.

“What if he passes out and the bomb goes off?” Jake asked.

“You got insurance, don’t you, Jake?” asked Nesbit.

“That’s not funny.”

“We’ll give him a few minutes, then Pirtle can go check on him,” said Ozzie.

“Why me?”

“Okay, Nesbit can go.”

“I think Jake should go,” said Nesbit. “It’s his house.”

“Very funny,” said Jake.

They waited and chatted nervously. Nesbit made another stupid remark about insurance. “Quiet!” Jake said. “I heard something.”

They froze. Seconds later the suspect yelled again. They ran back across the front yard, then slowly turned the corner. The empty suitcase had been tossed a few feet away. Next to the man was a neat pile of a dozen sticks of dynamite. Between his legs was a large, round-faced clock with wires bound together with silver electrical tape.

“Is it defused?” Ozzie asked anxiously.

“Yeah,” he replied between heavy, rapid breaths.

Ozzie knelt before him and removed the clock and the wires. He did not touch the dynamite. “Where are your buddies?”

No response.

He removed his nightstick and moved closer to the man. “I’m gonna start breakin’ ribs one at a time. You better start talkin’. Now, where are your buddies?”

“Kiss my ass.”

Ozzie stood and quickly looked around, not at Jake and the deputies, but at the house next door. Seeing nothing, he raised the nightstick. The suspect’s left arm hung from the gas meter, and Ozzie planted the stick just below the left armpit. He squealed and jerked to the left. Jake almost felt sorry for him.

“Where are they?” Ozzie demanded.

No response.

Jake turned his head as the sheriff landed another blow to the ribs.

“Where are they?”

No response.

Ozzie raised the nightstick.

“Stop ... please stop,” the suspect begged.

“Where are they?”

“Down that way. A couple of blocks.”

“How many?”

“One.”

“What vehicle?”

“Pickup. Red GMC.”

“Get the patrol cars,” Ozzie ordered.

Jake waited impatiently under the carport for his wife to return. At two-fifteen she drove slowly into the driveway and parked.

“Is Hanna asleep?” Jake asked as he opened the door.

“Yes.”

“Good. Leave her there. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’ll discuss it inside.”

Jake poured the coffee and tried to act calm. Carla was scared and shaking and angry and making it difficult to act calm. He described the bomb and suspect and explained that Ozzie was searching for the accomplice.

“I want you and Hanna to go to Wilmington and stay with your parents until after the trial,” he said.

She stared at the coffee and said nothing.

“I’ve already called your dad and explained everything. They’re scared too, and they insist you stay with them until this thing is over.”

“And what if I don’t want to go?”

“Please, Carla. How can you argue at a time like this?”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be fine. Ozzie will give me a bodyguard and they’ll watch the house around the clock. I’ll sleep at the office some. I’ll be safe, I promise.”

She was not convinced.

“Look, Carla, I’ve got a thousand things on my mind right now. I’ve got a client facing the gas chamber and his trial is ten days away. I can’t lose it. I’ll work night and day from now until the twenty-second, and once the trial starts you won’t see me anyway. The last thing I need is to be worried about you and Hanna. Please go.”

“They were going to kill us, Jake. They tried to kill us.”

He couldn’t deny it.

“You promised to withdraw if the danger became real.”

“It’s out of the question. Noose would never allow me to withdraw at this late date.”

“I feel as though you’ve lied to me.”

“That’s not fair. I think I underestimated this thing, and now it’s too late.”

She walked to the bedroom and began packing.

“The plane leaves Memphis at six-thirty. Your father will meet you at the Raleigh airport at nine-thirty.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fifteen minutes later they left Clanton. Jake drove and Carla ignored him. At five, they ate breakfast in the Memphis airport. Hanna was sleepy but excited about seeing her grandparents. Carla said little. She had much to say, but as a rule, they didn’t argue in front of Hanna. She ate quietly and sipped her coffee and watched her husband casually read the paper as if nothing had happened.

Jake kissed them goodbye and promised to call every day. The plane left on time. At seven-thirty he was in Ozzie’s office.

“Who is he?” Jake asked the sheriff. “We have no idea. No wallet, no identification, nothin’. And he ain’t talkin’.”

“Does anybody recognize him?” Ozzie thought for a second. “Well, Jake, he’s kinda hard to recognize right now. Got a lot of bandages on his face.”

Jake smiled. “You play rough, don’t you, big guy?”

“Only when I have to. I didn’t hear you object.”

“No, I wanted to help. What about his friend?”

“We found him sleepin’ in a red GMC ’bout a half a mile from your house. Terrell Grist. Local redneck. Lives out from Lake Village. I think he’s a friend of the Cobb family.”

Jake repeated the name a few times. “Never heard of him. Where is he?”

“Hospital. Same room with the other.”

“My God, Ozzie, did you break his legs too?”

“Jake, my friend, he resisted arrest. We had to subdue him. Then we had to interrogate him. He didn’t want to cooperate.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. Don’t know nothin’. I’m convinced he doesn’t know the guy with the dynamite.”

“You mean they brought in a professional?”

“Could be. Riley looked at the firecrackers and timin’ device and said it was pretty good work. We’d have never found you, your wife, your daughter, probably never found your house. It was set for two A.M. Without the tip, you’d be dead, Jake. So would your family.”

Jake felt dizzy and sat on the couch. Reaction set in like a hard kick to the groin. A case of diarrhea almost manifested itself, and he was nauseated.

“You get your family off?”

“Yeah,” he said weakly.

“I’m gonna assign a deputy to you full-time. Got a preference?”

“Not really.”

“How ’bout Nesbit?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“One other thing. I guess you want this kept quiet?”

“If possible. Who knows about it?”

“Just me and the deputies. I think we can keep it under wraps until after the trial, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“I understand. Try your best.”

“I will, Jake.”

“I know you will, Ozzie. I appreciate you.”

Jake drove to the office, made the coffee and lay on the couch in his office. He wanted a quick nap, but sleep was impossible. His eyes burned, but he could not close them. He stared at the ceiling fan.

“Mr. Brigance,” Ethel called over the intercom.

No response.

“Mr. Brigance!”

Somewhere in the deep recesses of his subconscious, Jake heard himself being paged. He bolted upright. “Yes!” he yelled.

“Judge Noose is on the phone.”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled as he staggered to his desk. He checked his watch. Nine A.M. He had slept for an hour.

“Good morning, Judge,” he said cheerfully, trying to sound alert and awake.

“Good morning, Jake. How are you?”

“Just fine, Judge. Busy getting ready for the big trial.”

“I thought so. Jake, what is your schedule today?”

What’s today, he thought. He grabbed his appointment book. “Nothing but office work.”

“Good. I would like to have lunch with you at my home. Say around eleven-thirty.”

“I would be delighted, Judge. What’s the occasion?”

“I want to discuss the Hailey case.”

“Fine, Judge. I’ll see you at eleven-thirty.”

The Nooses lived in a stately antebellum home off the town square in Chester. The home had been in the wife’s family for over a century, and although it could stand some maintenance and repair, it was in decent condition. Jake had never been a guest in the house, and had never met Mrs. Noose, although he had heard she was a snobby blue blood whose family at one time had money but lost it. She was as unattractive as Ichabod, and Jake wondered what the children looked like. She was properly polite when she met Jake at the door and attempted small talk as she led him to the patio, where His Honor was drinking iced tea and reviewing correspondence. A maid was preparing a small table nearby.

“Good to see you, Jake,” Ichabod said warmly. “Thanks for coming over.”

“My pleasure, Judge. Beautiful place you have here.”

They discussed the Hailey trial over soup and chicken salad sandwiches. Ichabod was dreading the ordeal, although he didn’t admit it. He seemed tired, as if the case was already a burden. He surprised Jake with an admission that he detested Buckley. Jake said he felt the same way.

“Jake, I’m perplexed over this venue ruling,” he said. “I’ve studied your brief and Buckley’s brief, and I’ve researched the law myself. It’s a tough question. Last weekend I attended a judges’ conference on the Gulf Coast, and I had a few drinks with Judge Denton on the Supreme Court. He and I were in law school together, and we were colleagues in the state senate. We’re very close. He’s from Dupree County in south Mississippi, and he says that everybody down there talks about the case. People on the street ask him how he’s gonna rule if the case winds up on appeal. Everybody’s got an opinion, and that’s almost four hundred miles away. Now, if I agree to change venue, where do we go? We can’t leave the state, and I’m convinced that everyone has not only heard about your client, but already prejudged him. Would you agree?”

“Well, there’s been a lot of publicity,” Jake said carefully.

“Talk to me, Jake. We’re not in court. That’s why I invited you here. I want to pick your brain. I know there’s been a lot of publicity. If we move it, where do we go?”

“How about the delta?”

Noose smiled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. We could pick us a good jury over there. One that would truly understand the issues.”

“Yeah, and one that would be half black.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Do you really believe those folks haven’t already prejudged this defendant?”

“I suppose so.”

“So where do we go?”

“Did Judge Denton have a suggestion?”

“Not really. We discussed the court’s traditional refusal to allow changes of venue except in the most heinous of cases. It’s a difficult issue with a notorious crime that arouses passion both for and against the defendant. With television and all the press nowadays, these crimes are instant news, and everyone knows the details long before the trial. And this case tops them all. Even Denton admitted he’d never seen a case with this much publicity, and he admitted it would be impossible to find a fair and impartial jury anywhere in Mississippi. Suppose I leave it in Ford County and your man is convicted. Then you appeal claiming venue should have been changed. Denton indicated he would be sympathetic with my decision not to move it. He thinks a majority of the court would uphold my denial of the venue change. Of course, that’s no guarantee, and we discussed it over several long drinks. Would you like a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“I just don’t see any reason to move the trial from Clanton. If we did, we’d be fooling ourselves if we thought we could find twelve people who are undecided about Mr. Hailey’s guilt.”

“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind, Judge.”

“I have. We’re not changing venue. The trial will be held in Clanton. I’m not comfortable with it, but I see no reason to move the trial. Besides, I like Clanton. It’s close to home and the air conditioning works in the courthouse.”

Noose reached for a file and found an envelope. “Jake, this is an order, dated today, overruling the request to change venue. I’ve sent a copy to Buckley, and there’s a copy for you. The original is in here, and I would appreciate you filing this with the clerk in Clanton.”

“I’ll be glad to.”

“I just hope I’m doing the right thing. I’ve really struggled with this.”

“It’s a tough job,” Jake offered, attempting sympathy.

Noose called the maid and ordered a gin and tonic. He insisted that Jake view his rose garden, and they spent an hour in the sprawling rear lawn admiring His Honor’s flowers. Jake thought of Carla, and Hanna, and his home, and the dynamite, but gallantly remained interested in Ichabod’s handiwork.

Friday afternoons often reminded Jake of law school, when, depending on the weather, he and his friends would either group in their favorite bar in Oxford and guzzle happy-hour beer and debate their newfound theories of law or curse the insolent, arrogant, terroristic law professors, or, if the weather was warm and sunny, pile the beer in Jake’s well-used convertible Beetle and head for the beach at Sardis Lake, where the women from sorority row plastered their beautiful, bronze bodies with oil and sweated in the sun and coolly ignored the catcalls from the drunken law students and fraternity rats. He missed those innocent days. He hated law school — every law student with any sense hated law school — but he missed the friends and good times, especially the Fridays. He missed the pressureless lifestyle, although at times the pressure had seemed unbearable, especially during the first year when the professors were more abusive than normal. He missed being broke, because when he had nothing he owed nothing and most of his classmates were in the same boat. Now that he had an income he worried constantly about mortgages, the overhead, credit cards, and realizing the American dream of becoming affluent. Not wealthy, just affluent. He missed his Volkswagen because it had been his first new car, a gift at high school graduation, and it was paid for, unlike the Saab. He missed being single, occasionally, although he was happily married. And he missed beer, either from a pitcher, can, or bottle. It didn’t matter. He had been a social drinker, only with friends, and he spent as much time as possible with his friends. He didn’t drink every day in law school, and he seldom got drunk. But there had been several painful, memorable hangovers.

Then came Carla. He met her at the beginning of his last semester, and six months later they married. She was beautiful, and that’s what got his attention. She was quiet, and a little snobby at first, like most of the wealthy sorority girls at Ole Miss. But he found her to be warm and personable and lacking in self-confidence. He had never understood how someone as beautiful as Carla could be insecure. She was a Dean’s List scholar in liberal arts with no intention of ever doing more than teaching school for a few years. Her family had money, and her mother had never worked. This appealed to Jake — the family money and the absence of a career ambition. He wanted a wife who would stay home and stay beautiful and have babies and not try to wear the pants. It was love at first sight.

But she frowned on drinking, any type of drinking. Her father drank heavily when she was a child, and there were painful memories. So Jake dried out his last semester in law school and lost fifteen pounds. He looked great, felt great, and he was madly in love. But he missed beer.

There was a country grocery a few miles out of Chester with a Coors sign in the window. Coors had been his favorite in law school, although at that time it was not for sale east of the river. It was a delicacy at Ole Miss, and the bootlegging of Coors had been profitable around the campus. Now that it was available everywhere most folks had returned to Budweiser.

It was Friday, and hot. Carla was nine hundred miles away. He had no desire to go to the office, and anything there could wait until tomorrow. Some nut just tried to kill his family and remove his landmark from the National Register of Historic Places. The biggest trial of his career was ten days away. He was not ready and the pressure was mounting. He had just lost his most critical pretrial motion. And he was thirsty. Jake stopped and bought a six-pack of Coors.

It took almost two hours to travel the sixty miles from Chester to Clanton. He enjoyed the diversion, the scenery, the beer. He stopped twice to relieve himself and once to get another six-pack. He felt great.

There was only one place to go in his condition. Not home, not the office, certainly not the courthouse to file Ichabod’s villainous order. He parked the Saab behind the nasty little Porsche and glided up the sidewalk with cold beer in hand. As usual, Lucien was rocking slowly on the front porch, drinking and reading a treatise on the insanity defense. He closed the book and, noticing the beer, smiled at his former associate. Jake just grinned at him.

“What’s the occasion, Jake?”

“Nothing, really. Just got thirsty.”

“I see. What about your wife?”

“She doesn’t tell me what to do. I’m my own man. I’m the boss. If I want beer, I’ll drink some beer, and she’ll say nothing.” Jake took a long sip.

“She must be outta town.”

“North Carolina.”

“When did she leave?”

“Six this morning. Flew from Memphis with Hanna. She’ll stay with her parents in Wilmington until the trial’s over. They’ve got a fancy little beach house where they spend their summers.”

“She left this morning, and you’re drunk by mid-afternoon.”

“I’m not drunk,” Jake answered. “Yet.”

“How long you been drinkin’?”

“Coupla hours. I bought a six-pack when I left Noose’s house around one-thirty. How long have you been drinking?”

“I normally drink my breakfast. Why were you at his house?”

“We discussed the trial over lunch. He refused to change venue.”

“He what?”

“You heard me. The trial will be in Clanton.”

Lucien took a drink and rattled his ice. “Sallie!” he screamed.

“Did he give any reason?”

“Yeah. Said it would be impossible to find jurors anywhere who hadn’t heard of the case.”

“I told you so. That’s a good commonsense reason not to move it, but it’s a poor legal reason. Noose is wrong.”

Sallie returned with a fresh drink and took Jake’s beer to the refrigerator. Lucien took a slug and smacked his lips. He wiped his mouth with his arm, and took another long drink.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” he asked.

“Sure. An all-white jury.”

“That, plus a reversal on appeal if he’s convicted.”

“Don’t bet on it. Noose has already consulted with the Supreme Court. He thinks the Court will affirm him if challenged. He thinks he’s on solid ground.”

“He’s an idiot. I can show him twenty cases that say the trial should be moved. I think he’s afraid to move it.”

“Why would Noose be afraid?”

“He’s taking some heat.”

“From who?”

Lucien admired the golden liquid in his large glass and slowly stirred the ice cubes with a finger. He grinned and looked as though he knew something but wouldn’t tell unless he was begged.

“From who?” Jake demanded, glaring at his friend with shiny, pink eyes.

“Buckley,” Lucien said smugly.

“Buckley,” Jake repeated. “I don’t understand.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“Do you mind explaining?”

“I guess I could. But you can’t repeat it. It’s very confidential. Came from good sources.”

“Who?”

“Can’t tell.”

“Who are your sources?” Jake insisted.

“I said I can’t tell. Won’t tell. Okay?”

“How can Buckley put pressure on Noose?”

“If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you.”

“Buckley has no influence over Noose. Noose despises him. Told me so himself. Today. Over lunch.”

“I realize that.”

“Then how can you say Noose is feeling some heat from Buckley?”

“If you’ll shut up, I’ll tell you.”

Jake finished a beer and called for Sallie.

“You know what a cutthroat and political whore Buckley is.”

Jake nodded.

“You know how bad he wants to win this trial. If he wins, he thinks it will launch his campaign for attorney general.”

“Governor,” said Jake.

“Whatever. He’s ambitious, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Well, he’s been getting political chums throughout the district to call Noose and suggest that the trial be held in Ford County. Some have been real blunt with Noose. Like, move the trial, and we’ll get you in the next election. Leave it in Clanton, and we’ll help you get reelected.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Fine. But it’s true.”

“How do you know?”

“Sources.”

“Who’s called him?”

“One example. Remember that thug that used to be sheriff in Van Buren County? Motley? FBI got him, but he’s out now. Still a very popular man in that county.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I know for a fact he went to Noose’s house with a couple of sidekicks and suggested very strongly that Noose leave the trial here. Buckley put them up to it.”

“What did Noose say?”

“They all cussed each other real good. Motley told Noose he wouldn’t get fifty votes in Van Buren County next election. They promised to stuff ballot boxes, harass the blacks, rig the absentee ballots, the usual election practices in Van Buren County. And Noose knows they’ll do it.”

“Why should he worry about it?”

“Don’t be stupid, Jake. He’s an old man who can do nothing but be a judge. Can you imagine him trying to start a law practice? He makes sixty thousand a year and would starve if he got beat. Most judges are like that. He’s got to keep that job. Buckley knows it, so he’s talking to the local bigots and pumping them up and telling how this no-good nigger might be acquitted if the trial is moved and that they should put a little heat on the judge. That’s why Noose is feeling some pressure.”

They drank for a few minutes in silence, both rocking quietly in the tall wooden rockers. The beer felt great.

“There’s more,” Lucien said.

“To what?”

“To Noose.”

“What is it?”

“He’s had some threats. Not political threats, but death threats. I hear he’s scared to death. Got the police over there guarding his house. Carries a gun now.”

“I know the feeling,” Jake mumbled.

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Heard what?”

“About the dynamite. Who was he?”

Jake was flabbergasted. He stared blankly at Lucien, unable to speak.

“Don’t ask. I got connections. Who was he?”

“No one knows.”

“Sounds like a pro.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome to stay here. I’ve got five bedrooms.”

The sun was gone by eight-fifteen when Ozzie parked his patrol car behind the Saab, which was still parked behind the Porsche. He walked to the foot of the steps leading up to the porch. Lucien saw him first.

“Hello, Sheriff,” he attempted to say, his tongue thick and ponderous.

“Evenin’, Lucien. Where’s Jake?”

Lucien nodded toward the end of the porch, where Jake lay sprawled on the swing.

“He’s taking a nap,” Lucien explained helpfully.

Ozzie walked across the squeaking boards and stood above the comatose figure snoring peacefully. He punched him gently in the ribs. Jake opened his eyes, and struggled desperately to sit up.

“Carla called my office lookin’ for you. She’s worried sick. She’s been callin’ all afternoon and couldn’t find you. Nobody’s seen you. She thinks you’re dead.”

Jake rubbed his eyes as the swing rocked gently. “Tell her I’m not dead. Tell her you’ve seen me and talked to me and you are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not dead. Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow. Tell her, Ozzie, please tell her.”

“No way, buddy. You’re a big boy, you call her and tell her.” Ozzie walked off the porch. He was not amused.

Jake struggled to his feet and staggered into the house. “Where’s the phone?” he yelled at Sallie. As he dialed, he could hear Lucien on the porch laughing uncontrollably.