A Time to Kill

29

A convoy of converted school buses, each with an original paint job of white and red or green and black or a hundred other combinations and the name of a church emblazoned along the sides under the windows, rolled slowly around the Clanton square after lunch Wednesday. There were thirty-one in all, each packed tightly with elderly black people who waved paper fans and handkerchiefs in a futile effort to overcome the stifling heat. After three trips around the courthouse, the lead bus stopped by the post office and thirty-one doors flew open. The buses emptied in a frenzy. The people were directed to a gazebo on the courthouse lawn, where Reverend Ollie Agee was shouting orders and handing out blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards.

The side streets leading into the square became congested as cars from all directions inched toward the courthouse and finally parked when they could move no closer. Hundreds of blacks left their vehicles in the streets and walked solemnly toward the square. They mingled around the gazebo and waited for their placards, then wandered through the oaks and magnolias looking for shade and greeting friends. More church buses arrived and were unable to circle the square because of the traffic. They unloaded next to the Coffee Shop.

For the first time that year the temperature hit a hundred and promised to go higher. The sky produced no clouds for protection, and there were no winds or breezes to weaken the burning rays or to blow away the humidity. A man’s shirt would soak and stick to his back in fifteen minutes under a shade tree; five minutes without shade. Some of the weaker old folks found refuge inside the courthouse.

The crowd continued to grow. It was predominantly elderly, but there were many younger, militant, angry-looking blacks who had missed the great civil rights marches and demonstrations of the sixties and now realized that this might be a rare opportunity to shout and protest and sing “We Shall Overcome,” and in general celebrate being black and oppressed in a white world. They meandered about waiting for someone to take charge. Finally, three students marched to the front steps of the courthouse, lifted their placards, and shouted, “Free Carl Lee. Free Carl Lee.”

Instantly, the mob repeated the war cry:

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

They left the shade trees and courthouse and moved closer together near the steps where a make shift podium and PA system had been set up. They yelled in unison at no one or no place or nothing in particular, just howled the newly established battle cry in a perfect chorus:

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

The windows of the courthouse flew open as the clerks and secretaries gawked at the happening be low. The roar could be heard for blocks and the small shops and offices around the square emptied. The owners and customers filled the sidewalks and watched in astonishment. The demonstrators noticed their spectators, and the attention fueled the chanting, which increased in tempo and volume. The vultures had loitered about waiting and watching, and the noise excited them. They descended upon the front lawn of the courthouse with cameras and microphones.

Ozzie and his men directed traffic until the highway and the streets were hopelessly gridlocked. They maintained a presence, although there was no hint they would be needed.

Agee and every full-time, part-time, retired, and prospective black preacher in three counties paraded through the dense mass of black screaming faces and made their way to the podium. The sight of the ministers pumped up the celebrants, and their unified chants reverberated around the square, down the side streets into the sleepy residential districts and out into the countryside. Thousands of blacks waved their placards and yelled their lungs out. Agee swayed with the crowd. He danced across the small podium. He slapped hands with the other ministers. He led the rhythmic noise like a choir director. He was a sight.

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

For fifteen minutes, Agee whipped the crowd into a frenzied, coalescent mob. Then, when with his finely trained ear he detected the first hint of fatigue, he walked to the microphones and asked for quiet. The panting, sweating faces yelled on but with less volume.

The chants of freedom died quickly. Agee asked for room near the front so the press could congregate and do its job. He asked for stillness so they could go to the Lord in prayer. Reverend Roosevelt offered a marathon to the Lord, an eloquent, alliterative oratorical fiesta that brought tears to the eyes of many.

When he finally said “Amen,” an enormous black woman with a sparkling red wig stepped to the microphones and opened her vast mouth. The opening stanza of “We Shall Overcome” flowed forth in a deep, rich, mellow river of glorious a cappella. The ministers behind her immediately clasped hands and began to sway. Spontaneity swept the crowd and two thousand voices joined her in surprising harmony. The mournful, promising anthem rose above the small town.

When they finished, someone shouted “Free Carl Lee!” and ignited another round of chanting. Agee quieted them again, and stepped to the microphones. He pulled an index card from his pocket, and began his sermon.

As expected, Lucien arrived late and half loaded. He brought a bottle and offered a drink to Jake, Atcavage, and Harry Rex, and each declined.

“It’s a quarter till nine, Lucien,” Jake said. “We’ve been waiting for almost an hour.”

“I’m being paid for this, am I?” he asked.

“No, but I asked you to be here at eight sharp.”

“And you also told me not to bring a bottle. And I informed you this was my building, built by my grandfather, leased to you as my tenant, for a very reasonable rent I might add, and I will come and go as I please, with or without a bottle.”

“Forget it. Did you—”

“What’re those blacks doing across the street walking around the courthouse in the dark?”

“It’s called a vigil,” explained Harry Rex. “They’ve vowed to walk around the courthouse with candles, keeping a vigil until their man is free.”

“That could be an awfully long vigil. I mean, those poor people could be walking until they die. I mean, this could be a twelve-, fifteen-year vigil. They might set a record. They might have candle wax up to their asses. Evenin’, Row Ark.”

Ellen sat at the rolltop desk under William Faulkner. She looked at a well-marked copy of the jury list. She nodded and smiled at Lucien.

“Row Ark,” Lucien said, “I have all the respect in the world for you. I view you as an equal. I believe in your right to equal pay for equal work. I believe in your right to choose whether to have a child or abort. I believe in all that crap. You are a woman and entitled to no special privileges because of your gender. You should be treated just like a man.” Lucien reached in his pocket and pulled out a clip of cash. “And since you are a law clerk, genderless in my eyes, I think you should be the one to go buy a case of cold Coors.”

“No, Lucien,” Jake said.

“Shut up, Jake.”

Ellen stood and stared at Lucien. “Sure, Lucien. But I’ll pay for the beer.”

She left the office.

Jake shook his head and fumed at Lucien. “This could be a long night.”

Harry Rex changed his mind and poured a shot of whiskey into his coffee cup.

“Please don’t get drunk,” Jake begged. “We’ve got work to do.”

“I work better when I’m drunk,” said Lucien.

“Me too,” said Harry Rex.

“This could be interesting,” said Atcavage.

Jake laid his feet on his desk and puffed on a cigar. “Okay, the first thing I want to do is decide on a model juror.”

“Black,” said Lucien.

“Black as old Coaly’s ass,” said Harry Rex.

“I agree,” said Jake. “But we won’t get a chance. Buckley will save his peremptory challenges for the blacks. We know that. We’ve got to concentrate on white people.”

“Women,” said Lucien. “Always pick women for criminal trials. They have bigger hearts, bleeding hearts, and they’re much more sympathetic. Always go for women.”

“Naw,” said Harry Rex. “Not in this case. Women don’t understand things like taking a gun and blowing people away. You need fathers, young fathers who would want to do the same thing Hailey did. Daddies with little girls.”

“Since when did you get to be such an expert on picking juries?” asked Lucien. “I thought you were a sleazy divorce lawyer.”

“I am a sleazy divorce lawyer, but I know how to pick juries.”

“And listen to them through the wall.”

“Cheap shot.”

Jake raised his arms. “Fellas, please. How about Victor Onzell? You know him, Stan?”

“Yeah, he banks with us. He’s about forty, married, three or four kids. White. From somewhere up North. Runs the truck stop on the highway north of town. He’s been here about five years.”

“I wouldn’t take him,” Lucien said. “If he’s from up North, he doesn’t think like we do. Probably in favor of gun control and all that crap. Yankees always scare me in criminal cases. I’ve always thought we should have a law in Mississippi that no certified yankee could sit on a jury down here regardless of how long he’s lived here.”

“Thank you so much,” said Jake.

“I’d take him,” said Harry Rex.

“Why?”

“He’s got kids, probably a daughter. If he’s from the North he’s probably not as prejudiced. Sounds good to me.”

“John Tate Aston.”

“He’s dead,” said Lucien.

“What?”

“I said he’s dead. Been dead for three years.”

“Why’s he on the list?” asked Atcavage, the non-lawyer.

“They don’t purge the voter registration list,” explained Harry Rex, between drinks. “Some die and some move away, and it’s impossible to keep the list up to date. They’ve issued a hundred and fifty summonses, and you can expect a hundred to a hundred and twenty to show up. The rest have died or moved away.”

“Caroline Baxter. Ozzie says she’s black,” Jake said flipping through his notes. “Works at the carburetor plant in Karaway.”

“Take her,” said Lucien.

“I wish,” said Jake.

Ellen returned with the beer. She dropped it in Lucien’s lap and tore a sixteen-ounce can out of a six-pack. She popped the top and returned to the rolltop desk. Jake declined, but Atcavage decided he was thirsty. Jake remained the non-drinker.

“Joe Kitt Shepherd.”

“Sounds like a redneck,” said Lucien.

“Why do you say that?” asked Harry Rex.

“The double first name,” Lucien explained. “Most rednecks have double first names. Like Billy Ray, Johnny Ray, Bobby Lee, Harry Lee, Jesse Earl, Billy Wayne, Jerry Wayne, Eddie Mack. Even their women have double first names. Bobbie Sue, Betty Pearl, Mary Belle, Thelma Lou, Sally Faye.”

“What about Harry Rex?” asked Harry Rex.

“Never heard of a woman named Harry Rex.”

“I mean for a male redneck.”

“I guess it’ll do.”

Jake interrupted. “Dell Perry said he used to own a bait shop down by the lake. I take it no one knows him.”

“No, but I bet he’s a redneck,” said Lucien. “Because of his name. I’d scratch him.”

“Aren’t you given their addresses, ages, occupations, basic information like that?” asked Atcavage.

“Not until the day of trial. On Monday each prospective juror fills out a questionnaire in the courtroom. But until then we have only the names.”

“What kind of juror are we looking for, Jake?” Ellen asked.

“Young to middle-aged men with families. I would prefer to have no one over fifty.”

“Why?” Lucien asked belligerently.

“Younger whites are more tolerant of blacks.”

“Like Cobb and Willard,” Lucien said.

“Most of the older folks will always dislike blacks, but the younger generation has accepted an integrated society. Less bigotry, as a rule, with youth.”

“I agree,” said Harry Rex, “and I would stay away from women and rednecks.”

“That’s my plan.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Lucien. “Women are more sympathetic. Just look at Row Ark. She’s sympathetic toward everyone. Right, Row Ark?”

“Right, Lucien.”

“She has sympathy for criminals, child pornographers, atheists, illegal immigrants, gays. Don’t you, Row Ark?”

“Right, Lucien.”

“She and I hold the only two ACLU cards existing at this very moment in Ford County, Mississippi.”

“That’s sick,” said Atcavage, the banker.

“Clyde Sisco,” Jake said loudly, trying to minimize controversy.

“He can be bought,” Lucien said smugly.

“What do you mean ‘He can be bought’?” Jake asked.

“Just what I said. He can be bought.”

“How do you know?” asked Harry Rex.

“Are you kidding? He’s a Sisco. Biggest bunch of crooks in the eastern part of the county. They all live around the Mays community. They’re professional thieves and insurance defrauders. They burn their houses every three years. You’ve never heard of them?” He was shouting at Harry Rex.

“No. How do you know he can be bought?”

“Because I bought him once. In a civil case, ten years ago. He was on the jury list, and I got word to him that I’d give him ten percent of the jury verdict. He’s very persuasive.”

Jake dropped the jury lists and rubbed his eyes. He knew this was probably true, but didn’t want to believe it.

“And?” asked Harry Rex.

“And he was selected for the jury, and I got the largest verdict in the history of Ford County. It’s still the record.”

“Stubblefield?” Jake asked in disbelief.

“That’s it, my boy. Stubblefield versus North Texas Pipeline. September 1974. Eight hundred thousand dollars. Appealed and affirmed by the Supreme Court.”

“Did you pay him?” asked Harry Rex.

Lucien finished a long drink and smacked his lips. “Eighty thousand cash, in one-hundred-dollar bills,” he said proudly. “He built a new house, then burned it down.”

“What was your cut?” asked Atcavage.

“Forty percent, minus eighty thousand.”

The room was silent as everybody but Lucien made the calculation.

“Wow,” Atcavage mumbled.

“You’re kidding, aren’t you, Lucien?” Jake asked halfheartedly.

“You know I’m serious, Jake. You know I lie compulsively, but never about things like this. I’m telling the truth, and I’m telling you this guy can be bought.”

“How much?” asked Harry Rex.

“Forget it!” said Jake.

“Five thousand cash, just guessing.”

“Forget it!”

There was a pause as each one looked at Jake to make sure he was not interested in Clyde Sisco, and when it was obvious he was not interested, they took a drink and waited for the next name. Around ten-thirty Jake had his first beer, and an hour later the case was gone and forty names remained. Lucien staggered to the balcony and watched the blacks carry their candles along the sidewalks next to the streets around the courthouse.

“Jake, why is this deputy sitting in his car in front of my office?” he asked.

“That’s my bodyguard.”

“What’s his name?”

“Nesbit.”

“Is he awake?”

“Probably not.”

Lucien leaned dangerously over the railing. “Hey, Nesbit,” he yelled.

Nesbit opened the door of his patrol car. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Jake here wants you to go to the store and get us some more beer. He’s very thirsty. Here’s a twenty. He’d like a case of Coors.”

“I can’t buy it when I’m on duty,” Nesbit pro tested.

“Since when?” Lucien laughed at himself.

“I can’t do it.”

“It’s not for you, Nesbit. It’s for Mr. Brigance, and he really needs it. He’s already called the sheriff, and it’s okay.”

“Who called the sheriff?”

“Mr. Brigance,” lied Lucien. “Sheriff said he didn’t care what you did as long as you didn’t drink any.”

Nesbit shrugged and appeared satisfied. Lucien dropped a twenty from the balcony. Within minutes Nesbit was back with a case minus one which had been opened and was sitting on his radar gun. Lucien ordered Atcavage to fetch the beer from below and distribute the first six-pack.

An hour later the list was finished and the party was over. Nesbit loaded Harry Rex, Lucien, and Atcavage into his patrol car and took them home. Jake and his clerk sat on the balcony, sipping and watching the candles flicker and move slowly around the court-house.

Several cars were parked on the west side of the square, and a small group of blacks sat nearby in lawn chairs waiting to take their turns with the candles.

“We didn’t do bad,” Jake said quietly, staring at the vigil. “We made notes on all but twenty of the hundred and fifty.”

“What’s next?”

“I’ll try to find something on the other twenty, then we’ll make an index card for each juror. We’ll know them like family by Monday.”

Nesbit returned to the square and circled twice, watching the blacks. He parked between the Saab and the BMW.

“The M’Naghten brief is a masterpiece. Our psychiatrist, Dr. Bass, will be here tomorrow, and I want you to review M’Naghten with him. You need to outline in detail the necessary questions to ask him at trial, and cover these with him. He worries me. I don’t know him, and I’m relying on Lucien. Get his résumé and investigate his background. Make whatever phone calls are necessary. Check with the state medical association to make sure he has no history of disciplinary problems. He is very important to our case, and I don’t want any surprises.”

“Okay, boss.”

Jake finished his last beer. “Look, Row Ark, this is a very small town. My wife left five days ago, and I’m sure people will know it soon. You look suspicious. People love to talk, so be discreet. Stay in the office and do your research and tell anyone who asks that you’re Ethel’s replacement.”

“That’s a big bra to fill.”

“You could do it if you wanted to.”

“I hope you know that I’m not nearly as sweet as I’m being forced to act.”

“I know that.”

They watched the blacks change shifts and a new crew take up the candles. Nesbit threw an empty beer can onto the sidewalk.

“You’re not driving home, are you?” Jake asked.

“It would not be a good idea. I’d register at least .20.”

“You can sleep on the couch in my office.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Jake said good night, locked the office, and spoke briefly to Nesbit. Then he placed himself carefully behind the wheel of the Saab. Nesbit followed him to his home on Adams. He parked under the carport, next to Carla’s car, and Nesbit parked in the driveway. It was 1:00 A.M., Thursday, July 18.