A Time to Kill

27

Monday, July 15. One week until trial. Over the weekend word spread quickly that the trial would be in Clanton, and the small town braced for the spectacle. The phones rang steadily at the three motels as the journalists and their crews confirmed reservations. The cafes buzzed with anticipation. A county maintenance crew swarmed around the courthouse after breakfast and began painting and polishing. Ozzie sent the yardboys from the jail with their mowers and weed-eaters. The old men under the Vietnam monument whittled cautiously and watched all this activity. The trusty who supervised the yard work asked them to spit their Red Man in the grass, not on the sidewalk. He was told to go to hell. The thick, dark Bermuda was given an extra layer of fertilizer, and a dozen lawn sprinklers were hissing and splashing by 9:00 A.M.

By 10:00 A.M. the temperature was ninety-two. The merchants in the small shops around the square opened their doors to the humidity and ran their ceiling fans. They called Memphis and Jackson and Chicago for inventory to be sold at special prices next week.

Noose had called Jean Gillespie, the Circuit Court clerk, late Friday and informed her that the trial would be in her courtroom. He instructed her to summon one hundred and fifty prospective jurors. The defense had requested an enlarged panel from which to select the twelve, and Noose agreed. Jean and two deputy clerks spent Saturday combing the voter registration books randomly selecting potential jurors. Following Noose’s specific instructions, they culled those over sixty-five. One thousand names were chosen, and each name along with its address was written on a small index card and thrown into a cardboard box. The two deputy clerks then took turns drawing cards at random from the box. One clerk was white, one black. Each would pull a card blindly from the box and arrange it neatly on a folding table with the other cards. When the count reached one hundred and fifty, the drawing ceased and a master list was typed. These were the jurors for State v. Hailey. Each step of their selection had been carefully dictated by the Honorable Omar Noose, who knew exactly what he was doing. If there was an all-white jury, and a conviction, and a death sentence, every single elementary step of the jury selection procedure would be attacked on appeal. He had been through it before, and had been reversed. But not this time.

From the master list, the name and address of each juror was typed on a separate jury summons. The stack of summonses was kept in Jean’s office under lock until eight Monday morning when Sheriff Ozzie Walls arrived. He drank coffee with Jean and received his instructions.

“Judge Noose wants these served between four P.M. and midnight tonight,” she said.

“Okay.”

“The jurors are to report to the courtroom promptly by nine next Monday.”

“Okay.”

“The summons does not indicate the name or nature of the trial, and the jurors are not to be told anything.”

“I reckon they’ll know.”

“Probably so, but Noose was very specific. Your men are to say nothing about the case when the summonses are served. The names of the jurors are very confidential, at least until Wednesday. Don’t ask why — Noose’s orders.”

Ozzie flipped through the stack. “How many do we have here?”

“One fifty.”

“A hundred and fifty! Why so many?”

“It’s a big case. Noose’s orders.”

“It’ll take ever man I’ve got to serve these papers.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh well. If that’s what His Honor wants.”

Ozzie left, and within seconds Jake was standing at the counter flirting with the secretaries and smiling at Jean Gillespie. He followed her back to her office. He closed the door. She retreated behind her desk and pointed at him. He kept smiling.

“I know why you’re here,” she said sternly, “and you can’t have it.”

“Give me the list, Jean.”

“Not until Wednesday. Noose’s orders.”

“Wednesday? Why Wednesday?”

“I don’t know. But Omar was very specific.”

“Give me the list, Jean.”

“Jake, I can’t. Do you want me to get in trouble?”

“You won’t get in trouble because no one will know it. You know how well I can keep a secret.” He was not smiling now. “Jean, give me the damned list.”

“Jake, I just can’t.”

“I need it, and I need it now. I can’t wait until Wednesday. I’ve got work to do.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to Buckley,” she said weakly.

“To hell with Buckley. Do you think he plays fair? He’s a snake and you dislike him as much as I do.”

“Probably more.”

“Give me the list, Jean.”

“Look, Jake, we’ve always been close. I think more of you than any lawyer I know. When my son got in trouble I called you, right? I trust you and I want you to win this case. But I can’t defy a judge’s orders.”

“Who helped you get elected last time, me or Buckley?”

“Come on, Jake.”

“Who kept your son out of jail, me or Buckley?”

“Please.”

“Who tried to put your son in jail, me or Buckley?”

“That’s not fair, Jake.”

“Who stood up for your husband when everybody, and I mean everybody, in the church wanted him gone when the books didn’t balance?”

“It’s not a question of loyalty, Jake. I love you and Carla and Hanna, but I just can’t do it.”

Jake slammed the door and stormed out of the office. Jean sat at her desk and wiped tears from her cheeks.

At 10:00 A.M. Harry Rex barged into Jake’s office and threw a copy of the jury list on his desk. “Don’t ask,” he said. Beside each name he had made notes, such as “Don’t know” or “Former client — hates niggers” or “Works at the shoe factory, might be sympathetic.”

Jake read each name slowly, trying to place it with a face or a reputation. There was nothing but names. No addresses, ages, occupations. Nothing but names. His fourth-grade schoolteacher from Karaway. One of his mother’s friends from the Garden Club. A former client, shoplifting, he thought. A name from church. A regular at the Coffee Shop. A prominent farmer. Most of the names sounded white. There was a Willie Mae Jones, Leroy Washington, Roosevelt Tucker, Bessie Lou Bean, and a few other black names. But the list looked awfully pale. He recognized thirty names at most.

“Whatta you think?” asked Harry Rex.

“Hard to tell. Mostly white, but that’s to be expected. Where’d you get this?”

“Don’t ask. I made notes by twenty-six names. That’s the best I can do. The rest I don’t know.”

“You’re a true friend, Harry Rex.”

“I’m a prince. Are you ready for trial?”

“Not yet. But I’ve found a secret weapon.”

“What?”

“You’ll meet her later.”

“Her?”

“Yeah. You busy Wednesday night?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Good. Meet here at eight. Lucien will be here. Maybe one or two others. I want to take a couple of hours and talk about the jury. Who do we want? Let’s get a profile of the model juror, and go from there. We’ll cover each name and hopefully identify most of these people.”

“Sounds like fun. I’ll be here. What’s your model juror?”

“I’m not sure. I think the vigilante would appeal to rednecks. Guns, violence, protection of women. The rednecks would eat it up. But my man is black, and a bunch of rednecks would fry him. He killed two of their own.”

“I agree. I’d stay away from women. They would have no sympathy for the rapists, but they place a higher value on life. Taking an M-16 and blowing their heads off is something women just don’t understand. You and I understand it because we’re fathers. It appeals to us. The violence and blood doesn’t bother us. We admire him. You’ve got to pick some admirers on that jury. Young fathers with some education.”

“That’s interesting. Lucien said he would stick with women because they’re more sympathetic.”

“I don’t think so. I know some women who’d cut your throat if you crossed them.”

“Some of your clients?”

“Yeah, and one is on that list. Frances Burdeen. Pick her, and I’ll tell her how to vote.”

“You serious?”

“Yep. She’ll do anything I tell her.”

“Can you be in court Monday? I want you to watch the jury during the selection process, then help me decide on the twelve.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Jake heard voices downstairs and pressed his finger to his lips. He listened, then smiled and motioned for Harry Rex to follow him. They tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened to the commotion around Ethel’s desk.

“You most certainly do not work here,” Ethel insisted.

“I most certainly do. I was hired Saturday by Jake Brigance, who I believe is your boss.”

“Hired for what?” Ethel demanded.

“As a law clerk.”

“Well, he didn’t discuss it with me.”

“He discussed it with me, and gave me the job.”

“How much is he paying you?”

“A hundred bucks an hour.”

“Oh my God! I’ll have to speak with him first.”

“I’ve already spoken with him, Ethel.”

“It’s Mrs. Twitty to you.” Ethel studied her carefully from head to toe. Acid-washed jeans, penny loafers, no socks, an oversized white cotton button-down with, evidently, nothing on underneath. “You’re not dressed appropriately for this office. You’re, you’re indecent.”

Harry Rex raised his eyebrows and smiled at Jake. They watched the stairs and listened.

“My boss, who happens to be your boss, said I could dress like this.”

“But you forgot something, didn’t you?”

“Jake said I could forget it. He told me you hadn’t worn a bra in twenty years. He said most of the women in Clanton go braless, so I left mine at home.”

“He what?” Ethel screamed with arms crossed over her chest.

“Is he upstairs?” Ellen asked coolly.

“Yes, I’ll call him.”

“Don’t bother.”

Jake and Harry Rex retreated into the big office and waited for the law clerk. She entered carrying a large briefcase.

“Good morning, Row Ark,” Jake said. “I want you to meet a good friend, Harry Rex Vonner.”

Harry Rex shook her hand and stared at her shirt. “Nice to meet you. What was your first name?”

“Ellen.”

“Just call her Row Ark,” Jake said. “She’ll clerk here until Hailey’s over.”

“That’s nice,” said Harry Rex, still staring.

“Harry Rex is a local lawyer, Row Ark, and one of the many you cannot trust.”

“What’d you hire a female law clerk for, Jake?” he asked bluntly.

“Row Ark’s a genius in criminal law, like most third-year law students. And she works very cheap.”

“You have something against females, sir?” Ellen asked.

“No ma’am. I love females. I’ve married four of them.”

“Harry Rex is the meanest divorce lawyer in Ford County,” Jake explained. “In fact, he’s the meanest lawyer, period. Come to think of it, he’s the meanest man I know.”

“Thanks,” said Harry Rex. He had stopped staring at her.

She looked at his huge, dirty, scuffed, worn wingtips, his ribbed nylon socks that had drooped into thick wads around his ankles, his soiled and battered khaki pants, his frayed navy blazer, his brilliant pink wool tie that fell eight inches above his belt, and she said, “I think he’s cute.”

“I might make you wife number five,” Harry Rex said.

“The attraction is purely physical,” she said.

“Watch it,” Jake said. “There’s been no sex in this office since Lucien left.”

“A lot of things left with Lucien,” said Harry Rex.

“Who’s Lucien?”

Jake and Harry Rex looked at each other. “You’ll meet him soon enough,” Jake explained.

“Your secretary is very sweet,” Ellen said.

“I knew y’all would hit it off. She’s really a doll once you get to know her.”

“How long does that take?”

“I’ve known her for twenty years,” said Harry Rex, “and I’m still waiting.”

“How’s the research coming?” Jake asked.

“Slow. There are dozens of M’Naghten cases, and they are all very long. I’m about half through. I planned to work on it all day here; that is, if that pit bull downstairs doesn’t attack me.”

“I’ll take care of her,” Jake said.

Harry Rex headed for the door. “Nice meetin’ you, Row Ark. I’ll see you around.”

“Thanks, Harry Rex,” said Jake. “See you Wednesday night.”

The dirt and gravel parking lot of Tank’s Tonk was full when Jake finally found it after dark. There had been no reason to visit Tank’s before, and he was not thrilled about seeing the place now. It was well hidden off a dirt road, six miles out of Clanton. He parked far away from the small cinder block building and toyed with the idea of leaving the engine running in case Tank was not there and a quick escape became necessary. But he quickly dismissed the stupid idea because he liked his car, and theft was not only likely but highly probable. He locked it, then double-checked it, almost certain that all or part of it would be missing when he returned.

The juke box blasted from the open windows, and he thought he heard a bottle crash on the floor, or across a table or someone’s head. He hesitated beside his car and decided to leave. No, it was important. He sucked in his stomach, held his breath, and opened the ragged wooden door.

Forty sets of black eyes immediately focused on this poor lost white boy with a coat and tie who was squinting and trying to focus inside the vast blackness of their tonk. He stood there awkwardly, desperately searching for a friend. There were none. Michael Jackson conveniently finished his song on the juke box, and for an eternity the tonk was silent. Jake stayed close to the door. He nodded and smiled and tried to act like one of the gang. There were no other smiles.

Suddenly, there was movement at the bar and Jake’s knees began vibrating. “Jake! Jake!” someone shouted. It was the sweetest two words he had ever heard. From behind the bar he saw his friend Tank removing his apron and heading for him. They shook hands warmly.

“What brings you here?”

“I need to talk to you for a minute. Can we step outside?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Just business.”

Tank flipped on a light switch by the front door. “Say, everbody, this here is Carl Lee Hailey’s lawyer, Jake Brigance. A good friend of mine. Let’s hear it for him.”

The small room exploded in applause and bravos. Several of the boys at the bar grabbed Jake and shook his hand. Tank reached in a drawer under the bar and pulled out a handful of Jake’s cards, which he passed out like candy. Jake was breathing again and the color returned to his face.

Outside, they leaned on the hood of Tank’s yellow Cadillac. Lionel Richie echoed through the windows and the crowd returned to normal. Jake handed Tank a copy of the list.

“Look at each name. See how many of these folks you know. Ask around and find out what you can.”

Tank held the list near his eyes. The light from the Michelob sign in the window glowed over his shoulder. “How many are black?”

“You tell me. That’s one reason I want you to look at it. Circle the black ones. If you’re not sure, find out. If you know any of the white folks, make a note.”

“I’ll be glad to, Jake. This ain’t illegal, is it?”

“Naw, but don’t tell anybody. I need it back by Wednesday morning.”

“You’re the boss.”

Tank got the last list, and Jake headed for the office. It was almost ten. Ethel had retyped the list from the initial one provided by Harry Rex, and a dozen copies had been hand-delivered to selected, trusted friends. Lucien, Stan Atcavage, Tank, Dell at the Coffee Shop, a lawyer in Karaway named Roland Isom, and a few others. Even Ozzie got a list.

Less than three miles from the tonk was a small, neat white-framed country house where Ethel and Bud Twitty had lived for almost forty years. It was a pleasant house with pleasant memories of raising children who were now scattered up North. The retarded son, the one who greatly resembled Lucien, lived in Miami for some reason. The house was quieter now. Bud hadn’t worked in years, not since his first stroke in ’75. Then a heart attack, followed by two more major strokes and several small ones. His days were numbered, and he had long since accepted the fact that he would most likely catch the big one and die on his front porch shelling butterbeans. That’s what he hoped for, anyway.

Monday night he sat on the porch shelling butter-beans and listening to the Cardinals on the radio. Ethel was working in the kitchen. In the bottom of the eighth with the Cards at bat and two on, he heard a noise from the side of the house. He turned the volume down. Probably just a dog. Then another noise. He stood and walked to the end of the porch. Suddenly, a huge figure dressed in solid black with red, white, and black war paint smeared wickedly across his face jumped from the bushes, grabbed Bud and yanked him off the porch. Bud’s anguished cry was not heard in the kitchen. Another warrior joined in and they dragged the old man to the foot of the steps leading up to the front porch. One maneuvered him into a half-nelson while the other pounded his soft belly and bloodied his face. Within seconds, he was unconscious.

Ethel heard noises and scurried through the front door. She was grabbed by a third member of the gang, who twisted her arm tightly behind her and wrapped a huge arm around her throat. She couldn’t scream or talk or move, and was held there on the porch, terrified, watching below as the two thugs took turns with her husband. On the front sidewalk ten feet behind the violence stood three figures, each garbed in a full, flowing, white robe with red garnishment, each with a tall, white, pointed headdress from which fell a red and white mask that loosely covered each face. They emerged from the darkness and watched over the scene as though they were the three wise men attending the manger.

After a long, agonizing minute, the beating grew monotonous. “Enough,” said the ruler in the middle. The three terrorists in black ran. Ethel rushed down the steps and slumped over her battered husband. The three in white disappeared.

Jake left the hospital after midnight with Bud still alive but everyone pessimistic. Along with the broken bones he had suffered another major heart attack. Ethel had made a scene and blamed it all on Jake.

“You said there was no danger!” she screamed. “Tell that to my husband! It’s all your fault!”

He had listened to her rant and rave, and the embarrassment turned to anger. He glanced around the small waiting room at the friends and relatives. All eyes were on him. Yes, they seemed to say, it was all his fault.