A Time to Kill

3

Jake Brigance rolled across his wife and staggered to the small bathroom a few feet from his bed, where he searched and groped in the dark for the screaming alarm clock. He found it where he had left it, and killed it with a quick and violent slap. It was 5:30 A.M., Wednesday, May 15.

He stood in the dark for a moment, breathless, terrified, his heart pounding rapidly, staring at the fluorescent numbers glowing at him from the face of the clock, a clock he hated. Its piercing scream could be heard down the street. He flirted with cardiac arrest every morning at this time when the thing erupted. On occasion, about twice a year, he was successful in shoving Carla onto the floor, and she would maybe turn it off before returning to bed. Most of the time, however, she was not sympathetic. She thought he was crazy for getting up at such an hour.

The clock sat on the windowsill so that Jake was required to move around a bit before it was silenced. Once up, Jake would not permit himself to crawl back under the covers. It was one of his rules. At one time the alarm was on the nightstand, and the volume was reduced. Carla would reach and turn it off before Jake heard anything. Then he would sleep until seven or eight and ruin his entire day. He would miss being in the office by seven, which was another rule. The alarm stayed in the bathroom and served its purpose.

Jake stepped to the sink and splashed cold water on his face and hair. He switched on the light and gasped in horror at the sight in the mirror. His straight brown hair shot in all directions, and the hairline had receded at least two inches during the night. Either that or his forehead had grown. His eyes were matted and swollen with the white stuff packed in the corners. A seam in a blanket left a bright red scar along the left side of his face. He touched, then rubbed it and wondered if it would go away. With his right hand he pushed his hair back and inspected the hairline. At thirty-two, he had no gray hair. Gray hair was not the problem. The problem was pattern baldness, which Jake had richly inherited from both sides of his family. He longed for a full, thick hairline beginning an inch above his eyebrows. He still had plenty of hair, Carla told him. But it wouldn’t last long at the rate it was disappearing. She also assured him he was as handsome as ever, and he believed her. She had explained that a receding hairline gave him a look of maturity that was essential for a young attorney. He believed that too.

But what about old, bald attorneys, or even mature, middle-aged bald attorneys? Why couldn’t the hair return after he grew wrinkles and gray sideburns and looked very mature?

Jake pondered these things in the shower. He took quick showers, and he shaved and dressed quickly. He had to be at the Coffee Shop at 6:00 A.M. — another rule. He turned on lights and slammed and banged drawers and closet doors in an effort to arouse Carla. This was the morning ritual during the summer when she was not teaching school. He had explained to her numerous times that she had all day to catch up on any lost sleep, and that these early moments should be spent together. She moaned and tunneled deeper under the covers. Once dressed, Jake jumped on the bed with all fours and kissed her in the ear, down the neck, and all over the face until she finally swung at him. Then he yanked the covers off the bed and laughed as she curled up and shivered and begged for the blankets. He held them and admired her dark, tanned, thin, almost perfect legs. The bulky nightshirt covered nothing below the waist, and a hundred lewd thoughts danced before him.

About once a month this ritual would get out of hand. She would not protest, and the blankets would be jointly removed. On those mornings Jake undressed even quicker and broke at least three of his rules. That’s how Hanna was conceived.

But not this morning. He covered his wife, kissed her gently, and turned out the lights. She breathed easier, and fell asleep.

Down the hall he quietly opened Hanna’s door and knelt beside her. She was four, the only child, and there would be no others. She lay in her bed surrounded by dolls and stuffed animals. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. She was as beautiful as her mother, and the two were identical in looks and manners. They had large bluish-gray eyes that could cry instantly, if necessary. They wore their dark hair the same way — had it cut by the same person at the same time. They even dressed alike.

Jake adored the two women in his life. He kissed the second one goodbye and went to the kitchen to make coffee for Carla. On his way out he released Max, the mutt, into the backyard, where she simultaneously relieved herself and barked at Mrs. Pickle’s cat next door.

Few people attacked the morning like Jake Brigance. He walked briskly to the end of the driveway and got the morning papers for Carla. It was dark, clear, and cool with the promise of summer rapidly approaching.

He studied the darkness up and down Adams Street, then turned and admired his house. Two homes in Ford County were on the National Register of Historic Places, and Jake Brigance owned one of them. Although it was heavily mortgaged, he was proud of it nonetheless. It was a nineteenth-century Victorian built by a retired railroad man who died on the first Christmas Eve he spent in his new home. The facade was a huge, centered gable with hipped roof over a wide, inset front porch. Under the gable a small portico covered with bargeboard hung gently over the porch. The five supporting pillars were round and painted white and slate blue. Each column bore a handmade floral carving, each with a different flower — daffodils, irises, and sunflowers. The railing between the pillars was filled with lavish lacework. Upstairs, three bay windows opened onto a small balcony, and to the left of the balcony an octagonal tower with stained-glass windows protruded and rose above the gable until it peaked with an iron-crested finial. Below the tower and to the left of the porch, a wide, graceful veranda with ornamental railing extended from the house and served as a carport. The front panels were a collage of gingerbread, cedar shingles, scallops, fish scales, tiny intricate gables, and miniature spindles.

Carla had located a paint consultant in New Orleans, and the fairy chose six original colors — mostly shades of blue, teal, peach, and white. The paint job took two months and cost Jake five thousand dollars, and that did not include the countless hours he and Carla had spent dangling from ladders and scraping cornices. And although he was not wild about some of the colors, he had never dared suggest repainting.

As with every Victorian, the house was gloriously unique. It had a piquant, provocative, engaging quality derived from an ingenuous, joyous, almost childlike bearing. Carla had wanted it since before they married, and when the owner in Memphis finally died and the estate was closed, they bought it for a song because no one else would have it. It had been abandoned for twenty years. They borrowed heavily from two of the three banks in Clanton, and spent the next three years sweating and doting over their landmark. Now people drove by and took pictures of it.

The third local bank held the mortgage on Jake’s car, the only Saab in Ford County. And a red Saab at that. He wiped the dew from the windshield and unlocked the door. Max was still barking and had awakened the army of bluejays that lived in Mrs. Pickle’s maple tree. They sang to him and called farewell as he smiled and whistled in return. He backed into Adams Street. Two blocks east he turned south on Jefferson, which two blocks later ran dead end into Washington Street. Jake had often wondered why every small Southern town had an Adams, a Jefferson, and a Washington, but no Lincoln or Grant. Washington Street ran east and west on the north side of the Clanton square.

Because Clanton was the county seat it had a square, and the square quite naturally had a courthouse in the center of it. General Clanton had laid out the town with much thought, and the square was long and wide and the courthouse lawn was covered with massive oak trees, all lined neatly and spaced equally apart. The Ford County courthouse was well into its second century, built after the Yankees burned the first one. It defiantly faced south, as if telling those from the North to politely and eternally kiss its ass. It was old and stately, with white columns along the front and black shutters around the dozens of windows. The original red brick had long since been painted white, and every four years the Boy Scouts added a thick layer of shiny enamel for their traditional summer project. Several bond issues over the years had allowed additions and renovations. The lawn around it was clean and neatly trimmed. A crew from the jail manicured it twice a week.

Clanton had three coffee shops — two for the whites and one for the blacks, and all three were on the square. It was not illegal or uncommon for whites to eat at Claude’s, the black cafe on the west side. And it was safe for the blacks to eat at the Tea Shoppe, on the south side, or the Coffee Shop on Washington Street. They didn’t, however, since they were told they could back in the seventies. Jake ate barbecue every Friday at Claude’s, as did most of the white liberals in Clanton. But six mornings a week he was a regular at the Coffee Shop.

He parked the Saab in front of his office on Washington Street and walked three doors to the Coffee Shop. It had opened an hour earlier and by now was bustling with action. Waitresses scurried about serving coffee and breakfast and chatting incessantly with the farmers and mechanics and deputies who were the regulars. This was no white-collar cafe. The white collars gathered across the square at the Tea Shoppe later in the morning and discussed national politics, tennis, golf, and the stock market. At the Coffee Shop they talked about local politics, football, and bass fishing. Jake was one of the few white collars allowed to frequent the Coffee Shop. He was well liked and accepted by the blue collars, most of whom at one time or another had found their way to his office for a will, a deed, a divorce, a defense, or any one of a thousand other problems. They picked at him and told crooked lawyer jokes, but he had a thick skin. They asked him to explain Supreme Court rulings and other legal oddities during breakfast, and he gave a lot of free legal advice at the Coffee Shop. Jake had a way of cutting through the excess and discussing the meat of any issue. They appreciated that. They didn’t always agree with him, but they always got honest answers. They argued at times, but there were never hard feelings.

He made his entrance at six, and it took five minutes to greet everyone, shake hands, slap backs, and say smart things to the waitresses. By the time he sat at his table his favorite girl, Dell, had his coffee and regular breakfast of toast, jelly, and grits. She patted him on the hand and called him honey and sweetheart and generally made a fuss over him. She griped and snapped at the others, but had a different routine for Jake.

He ate with Tim Nunley, a mechanic down at the Chevrolet place, and two brothers, Bill and Bert West, who worked at the shoe factory north of town. He splashed three drops of Tabasco on his grits and stirred them artfully with a slice of butter. He covered the toast with a half inch of homemade strawberry jelly. Once his food was properly prepared, he tasted the coffee and started eating. They ate quietly and discussed how the crappie were biting.

In a booth by the window a few feet from Jake’s table, three deputies talked among themselves. The big one, Marshall Prather, turned to Jake and asked loudly, “Say, Jake, didn’t you defend Billy Ray Cobb a few years ago?”

The cafe was instantly silent as everyone looked at the lawyer. Startled not by the question but by its response, Jake swallowed his grits and searched for the name.

“Billy Ray Cobb,” he repeated aloud. “What kind of case was it?”

“Dope,” Prather said. “Caught him sellin’ dope about four years ago. Spent time in Parchman and got out last year.”

Jake remembered. “Naw, I didn’t represent him. I think he had a Memphis lawyer.”

Prather seemed satisfied and returned to his pancakes. Jake waited.

Finally he asked, “Why? What’s he done now?”

“We picked him up last night for rape.”

“Rape!”

“Yeah, him and Pete Willard.”

“Who’d they rape?”

“You remember that Hailey nigger you got off in that murder trial a few years ago?”

“Lester Hailey. Of course I remember.”

“You know his brother Carl Lee?”

“Sure. Know him well. I know all the Haileys. Represented most of them.”

“Well, it was his little girl.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope.”

“How old is she?”

“Ten.”

Jake’s appetite disappeared as the cafe returned to normal. He played with his coffee and listened to the conversation change from fishing to Japanese cars and back to fishing. When the West brothers left, he slid into the booth with the deputies.

“How is she?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The Hailey girl.”

“Pretty bad,” said Prather. “She’s in the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“We don’t know everything. She ain’t been able to talk much. Her momma sent her to the store. They live on Craft Road behind Bates Grocery.”

“I know where they live.”

“Somehow they got her in Cobb’s pickup and took her out in the woods somewhere and raped her.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah, several times. And they kicked her and beat her real bad. Some of her kinfolks didn’t know her, she was beat so bad.”

Jake shook his head. “That’s sick.”

“Sure is. Worst I’ve ever seen. They tried to kill her. Left her for dead.”

“Who found her?”

“Buncha niggers fishin’ down by Foggy Creek. Saw her floppin’ out in the middle of the road. Had her hands tied behind her. She was talkin’ a little — told them who her daddy was and they took her home.”

“How’d you know it was Billy Ray Cobb?”

“She told her momma it was a yellow pickup truck with a rebel flag hangin’ in the rear window. That’s about all Ozzie needed. He had it figured out by the time she got to the hospital.”

Prather was careful not to say too much. He liked Jake, but he was a lawyer and he handled a lot of criminal cases.

“Who is Pete Willard?”

“Some friend of Cobb’s.”

“Where’d y’all find them?”

“Huey’s.”

“That figures.” Jake drank his coffee and thought of Hanna.

“Sick, sick, sick,” Looney mumbled.

“How’s Carl Lee?”

Prather wiped syrup from his mustache. “Personally, I don’t know him, but I ain’t ever heard anything bad about him. They’re still at the hospital. I think Ozzie was with them all night. He knows them real well, of course, he knows all those folks real well. Hastings is kin to the girl somehow.”

“When’s the preliminary hearing?”

“Bullard set it for one P.M. today. Ain’t that right, Looney?”

Looney nodded.

“Any bond?”

“Ain’t been set yet. Bullard’s gonna wait till the hearing. If she dies, they’ll be lookin’ at capital murder, won’t they?”

Jake nodded.

“They can’t have a bond for capital murder, can they, Jake?” Looney asked.

“They can but I’ve never seen one. I know Bullard won’t set a bond for capital murder, and if he did, they couldn’t make it.”

“If she don’t die, how much time can they get?” asked Nesbit, the third deputy.

Others listened as Jake explained. “They can get life sentences for the rape. I assume they will also be charged with kidnapping and aggravated assault.”

“They already have.”

“Then they can get twenty years for the kidnapping and twenty years for the aggravated assault.”

“Yeah, but how much time will they serve?” asked Looney.

Jake thought a second. “They could conceivably be paroled in thirteen years. Seven for the rape, three for the kidnapping, and three for the aggravated assault. That’s assuming they’re convicted on all charges and sentenced to the maximum.”

“What about Cobb? He’s got a record.”

“Yeah, but he’s not habitual unless he’s got two prior convictions.”

“Thirteen years,” Looney repeated, shaking his head.

Jake stared through the window. The square was coming to life as pickups full of fruits and vegetables parked next to the sidewalk around the courthouse lawn, and the old farmers in faded overalls neatly arranged the small baskets of tomatoes and cucumbers and squash on the tailgates and hoods. Water melons from Florida were placed next to the dusty slick tires, and the farmers left for an early-morning meeting under the Vietnam monument, where they sat on benches and chewed Red Man and whittled while they caught up on the gossip. They’re probably talking about the rape, Jake thought. It was daylight now, and time for the office. The deputies were finished with their food, and Jake excused himself. He hugged Dell, paid his check, and for a second thought of driving home to check on Hanna.

At three minutes before seven, he unlocked his office and turned on the lights.

Carl Lee had difficulty sleeping on the couch in the waiting room. Tonya was serious but stable. They had seen her at midnight, after the doctor warned that she looked bad. She did. Gwen had kissed the little bandaged face while Carl Lee stood at the foot of the bed, subdued, motionless, unable to do anything but stare blankly at the small figure surrounded by machines, tubes, and nurses. Gwen was later sedated and taken to her mother’s house in Clanton. The boys went home with Gwen’s brother.

The crowd had dispersed around one, leaving Carl Lee alone on the couch. Ozzie brought coffee and doughnuts at two, and told Carl Lee all he knew about Cobb and Willard.

Jake’s office was a two-story building in a row of two-story buildings overlooking the courthouse on the north side of the square, just down from the Coffee Shop. The building was built by the Wilbanks family back in the 1890s, back when they owned Ford County. And there had been a Wilbanks practicing law in the building from the day it was built until 1979, the year of the disbarment. Next door to the east was an insurance agent Jake had sued for botching a claim for Tim Nunley, the mechanic down at the Chevrolet place. To the west was the bank with the mortgage on the Saab. All the buildings around the square were two-story brick except the banks. The one next door had also been built by the Wilbankses and had just two floors, but the one on the southeast corner of the square had three floors, and the newest one, on the southwest corner, had four floors.

Jake practiced alone, and had since 1979, the year of the disbarment. He liked it that way, especially since there was no other lawyer in Clanton competent enough to practice with him. There were several good lawyers in town, but most were with the Sullivan firm over in the bank building with four floors. Jake detested the Sullivan firm. Every lawyer detested the Sullivan firm except those in it. There were eight in all, eight of the most pompous and arrogant jerks Jake had ever met. Two had Harvard degrees. They had the big farmers, the banks, the insurance companies, the railroads, everybody with money. The other fourteen lawyers in the county picked up the scraps and represented people — living, breathing human souls, most of whom had very little money. These were the “street lawyers” — those in the trenches helping people in trouble. Jake was proud to be a street lawyer.

His offices were huge. He used only five of the ten rooms in the building. Downstairs there was a reception room, a large conference room, a kitchen, and a smaller storage and junk room. Upstairs, Jake had his vast office and another smaller office he referred to as the war room. It had no windows, no telephones, no distractions. Three offices sat empty upstairs and two downstairs. In years past these had been occupied by the prestigious Wilbanks firm, long before the disbarment. Jake’s office upstairs, the office, was immense; thirty by thirty with a ten-foot hardwood ceiling, hardwood floors, huge fireplace, and three desks — his work desk, a small conference desk in one corner, and a roll-top desk in another corner under the portrait of William Faulkner. The antique oak furniture had been there for almost a century, as had the books and shelves that covered one wall. The view of the square and courthouse was impressive, and could be enhanced by opening the French doors and walking onto a small balcony over hanging the sidewalk next to Washington Street. Jake had, without a doubt, the finest office in Clanton. Even his bitter enemies in the Sullivan firm would concede that much.

For all the opulence and square footage, Jake paid the sum of four hundred dollars a month to his landlord and former boss, Lucien Wilbanks, who had been disbarred in 1979.

For decades the Wilbanks family ruled Ford County. They were proud, wealthy people, prominent in farming, banking, politics, and especially law. All the Wilbanks men were lawyers, and were educated at Ivy League schools. They founded banks, churches, schools, and several served in public office. The firm of Wilbanks & Wilbanks had been the most powerful and prestigious in north Mississippi for many years.

Then came Lucien. He was the only male Wilbanks of his generation. There was a sister and some nieces, but they were expected only to marry well. Great things were expected of Lucien as a child, but by the third grade it was evident he would be a different Wilbanks. He inherited the law firm in 1965 when his father and uncle were killed in a plane crash. Although he was forty, he had just recently, several months prior to their deaths, completed his study of the law by correspondence courses. Some how he passed the bar exam. He took control of the firm and clients began disappearing. Big clients, like insurance companies, banks, and farmers, all left and went to the newly established Sullivan firm. Sullivan had been a junior partner in the Wilbanks firm until Lucien fired him and evicted him, after which he left with the other junior partners and most of the clients. Then Lucien fired everyone else — associates, secretaries, clerks — everyone but Ethel Twitty, his late father’s favorite secretary.

Ethel and John Wilbanks had been very close through the years. In fact she had a younger son who greatly resembled Lucien. The poor fellow spent most of his time in and out of various nut houses. Lucien jokingly referred to him as his retarded brother. After the plane crash, the retarded brother appeared in Clanton and started telling folks he was the illegitimate son of John Wilbanks. Ethel was humiliated, but couldn’t control him. Clanton seethed with scandal. A lawsuit was filed by the Sullivan firm as counsel for the retarded brother seeking a portion of the estate. Lucien was furious. A trial ensued, and Lucien vigorously defended his honor and pride and family name. He also vigorously defended his father’s estate, all of which had been left to Lucien and his sister. At trial the jury noted the striking resemblance between Lucien and Ethel’s son, who was several years younger. The retarded brother was strategically seated as close as possible to Lucien. The Sullivan lawyers instructed him to walk, talk, sit, and do everything just like Lucien. They even dressed him like Lucien. Ethel and her husband denied the boy was any kin to the Wilbanks, but the jury felt otherwise. He was found to be an heir of John Wilbanks, and was awarded one third of the estate. Lucien cursed the jury, slapped the poor boy, and was carried screaming from the courtroom and taken to jail. The jury’s decision was reversed and dismissed on appeal, but Lucien feared more litigation if Ethel ever changed her story. Thus, Ethel Twitty remained with the Wilbanks firm.

Lucien was satisfied when the firm disintegrated. He never intended to practice law like his ancestors. He wanted to be a criminal lawyer, and the old firm’s clientele had become strictly corporate. He wanted the rapes, the murders, the child abuses, the ugly cases no one else wanted. He wanted to be a civil rights lawyer and litigate civil liberties. But most of all, Lucien wanted to be a radical, a flaming radical of a lawyer with unpopular cases and causes, and lots of attention.

He grew a beard, divorced his wife, renounced his church, sold his share of the country club, joined the NAACP and ACLU, resigned from the bank board, and in general became the scourge of Clanton. He sued the schools because of segregation, the governor because of the prison, the city because it refused to pave streets in the black section, the bank because there were no black tellers, the state because of capital punishment, and the factories because they would not recognize organized labor. He fought and won many criminal cases, and not just in Ford County. His reputation spread, and a large following developed among blacks, poor whites, and the few unions in north Mississippi. He stumbled into some lucrative personal injury and wrongful death cases. There were some nice settlements. The firm, he and Ethel, was more profitable than ever. Lucien did not need the money. He had been born with it and never thought about it. Ethel did the counting.

The law became his life. With no family, he became a workaholic. Fifteen hours a day, seven days a week, Lucien practiced law with a passion. He had no other interests, except alcohol. In the late sixties he noticed an affinity for Jack Daniel’s. By the early seventies he was a drunk, and when he hired Jake in 1978 he was a full-fledged alcoholic. But he never let booze interfere with his work; he learned to drink and work at the same time. Lucien was always half drunk, and he was a dangerous lawyer in that condition. Bold and abrasive by nature, he was downright frightening when he was drinking. At trial he would embarrass the opposing attorneys, insult the judge, abuse the witnesses, then apologize to the jury. He respected no one and could not be intimidated. He was feared because he would say and do anything. People walked lightly around Lucien. He knew it and loved it. He became more and more eccentric. The more he drank, the crazier he acted, then people talked about him even more, so he drank even more.

Between 1966 and 1978 Lucien hired and disposed of eleven associates. He hired blacks, Jews, Hispanics, women, and not one kept the pace he demanded. He was a tyrant around the office, constantly cursing and berating the young lawyers. Some quit the first month. One lasted two years. It was difficult to accept Lucien’s craziness. He had the money to be eccentric — his associates did not.

He hired Jake in 1978 fresh from law school. Jake was from Karaway, a small town of twenty-five hundred, eighteen miles west of Clanton. He was clean-cut, conservative, a devout Presbyterian with a pretty wife who wanted babies. Lucien hired him to see if he could corrupt him. Jake took the job with strong reservations because he had no other offers close to home.

A year later Lucien was disbarred. It was a tragedy for those very few who liked him. The small union at the shoe factory north of town had called a strike. It was a union Lucien had organized and represented. The factory began hiring new workers to replace the strikers, and violence followed. Lucien appeared on the picket line to rally his people. He was drunker than normal. A group of scabs attempted to cross the line and a brawl erupted. Lucien led the charge, was arrested and jailed. He was convicted in city court of assault and battery and dis orderly conduct. He appealed and lost, appealed and lost.

The State Bar Association had grown weary of Lucien over the years. No other attorney in the state had received as many complaints as had Lucien Wil banks. Private reprimands, public reprimands, and suspensions had all been used, all to no avail. The Complaints Tribunal and Disciplinary Committee moved swiftly. He was disbarred for outrageous conduct unbecoming a member of the bar. He appealed and lost, appealed and lost.

He was devastated. Jake was in Lucien’s office, the big office upstairs, when word came from Jackson that the Supreme Court had upheld the disbarment. Lucien hung up the phone and walked to the doors overlooking the square. Jake watched him closely, waiting for the tirade. But Lucien said nothing. He walked slowly down the stairs, stopped and stared at Ethel, who was crying, and then looked at Jake. He opened the door and said, “Take care of this place. I’ll see you later.”

They ran to the front window and watched him speed away from the square in his ragged old Porsche. For several months there was no word from him. Jake labored diligently on Lucien’s cases while Ethel kept the office from chaos. Some of the cases were settled, some left for other lawyers, some went to trial.

Six months later Jake returned to his office after a long day in court and found Lucien asleep on the Persian rug in the big office. “Lucien! Are you all right?” he asked.

Lucien jumped up and sat in the big leather chair behind the desk. He was sober, tanned, relaxed.

“Jake, my boy, how are you?” he asked warmly.

“Fine, just fine. Where have you been?”

“Cayman Islands.”

“Doing what?”

“Drinking rum, lying on the beach, chasing little native girls.”

“Sounds like fun. Why did you leave?”

“It got boring.”

Jake sat across the desk. “It’s good to see you, Lucien.”

“Good to see you, Jake. How are things around here?”

“Hectic. But okay, I guess.”

“Did you settle Medley?”

“Yeah. They paid eighty thousand.”

“That’s very good. Was he happy?”

“Yes, seemed to be.”

“Did Cruger go to trial?”

Jake looked at the floor. “No, he hired Fredrix. I think it’s set for trial next month.”

“I should’ve talked to him before I left.”

“He’s guilty, isn’t he?”

“Yes, very. It doesn’t matter who represents him. Most defendants are guilty. Remember that.” Lucien walked to the French doors and gazed at the courthouse. “What are your plans, Jake?”

“I’d like to stay here. What are your plans?”

“You’re a good man, Jake, and I want you to stay. Me, I don’t know. I thought about moving to the Caribbean, but I won’t. It’s a nice place to visit, but it gets old. I have no plans really. I may travel. Spend some money. I’m worth a ton, you know.”

Jake agreed. Lucien turned and waved his arms around the room. “I want you to have all this, Jake. I want you to stay here and keep some semblance of a firm going. Move into this office; use this desk that my grandfather brought from Virginia after the Civil War. Keep the files, cases, clients, books, everything.”

“That’s very generous, Lucien.”

“Most of the clients will disappear. No reflection on you — you’ll be a great lawyer someday. But most of my clients have followed me for years.”

Jake didn’t want most of his clients. “How about rent?”

“Pay me what you can afford. Money will be tight at first, but you’ll make it. I don’t need money, but you do.”

“You’re being very kind.”

“I’m really a nice guy.” They both laughed awkwardly.

Jake quit smiling. “What about Ethel?”

“It’s up to you. She’s a good secretary who’s forgotten more law than you’ll ever know. I know you don’t like her, but she would be hard to replace. Fire her if you want to. I don’t care.”

Lucien headed for the door. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be around. I want you to move into this office. It was my father’s and grandfather’s. Put my junk in some boxes, and I’ll pick it up later.”

Cobb and Willard awoke with throbbing heads and red, swollen eyes. Ozzie was yelling at them. They were in a small cell by themselves. Through the bars to the right was a cell where the state prisoners were held awaiting the trip to Parchman. A dozen blacks leaned through the bars and glared at the two white boys as they struggled to clear their eyes. To the left was a smaller cell, also full of blacks. Wake up, Ozzie yelled, and stay quiet, or he would integrate his jail.

Jake’s quiet time was from seven until Ethel arrived at eight-thirty. He was jealous with this time. He locked the front door, ignored the phone, and refused to make appointments. He meticulously planned his day. By eight-thirty he would have enough work dictated to keep Ethel busy and quiet until noon. By nine he was either in court or seeing clients. He would not take calls until eleven, when he methodically returned the morning’s messages — all of them. He never delayed returning a phone call — another rule. Jake worked systematically and efficiently with little wasted time. These habits he had not learned from Lucien.

At eight-thirty Ethel made her usual noisy entrance downstairs. She made fresh coffee and opened the mail as she had every day for the past forty-one years. She was sixty-four and looked fifty. She was plump, but not fat, well kept, but not attractive. She chomped on a greasy sausage and biscuit brought from home and read Jake’s mail.

Jake heard voices. Ethel was talking to another woman. He checked his appointment book — none until ten.

“Good morning, Mr. Brigance,” Ethel announced through the intercom.

“Morning, Ethel.” She preferred to be called Mrs. Twitty. Lucien and everyone else called her that. But Jake had called her Ethel since he had fired her shortly after the disbarment.

“There’s a lady here to see you.”

“She doesn’t have an appointment.”

“Yes, sir, I know.”

“Make one for tomorrow morning after ten-thirty. I’m busy now.”

“Yes, sir. But she says it’s urgent.”

“Who is it?” he snapped. It was always urgent when they dropped in unannounced, like dropping by a funeral home or a Laundromat. Probably some urgent question about Uncle Luke’s will or the case set for trial in three months.

“A Mrs. Willard,” Ethel replied.

“First name?”

“Earnestine Willard. You don’t know her, but her son’s in jail.”

Jake saw his appointments on time, but drop-ins were another matter. Ethel either ran them off or made appointments for the next day or so. Mr. Brigance was very busy, she would explain, but he could work you in day after tomorrow. This impressed people.

“Tell her I’m not interested.”

“But she says she must find a lawyer. Her son has to be in court at one this afternoon.”

“Tell her to see Drew Jack Tyndale, the public defender. He’s good and he’s free.”

Ethel relayed the message. “But, Mr. Brigance, she wants to hire you. Someone told her you’re the best criminal lawyer in the county.” The amusement was obvious in Ethel’s voice.

“Tell her that’s true, but I’m not interested.”

Ozzie handcuffed Willard and led him down the hall to his office in the front section of the Ford County jail. He removed the handcuffs and seated him in a wooden chair in the center of the cramped room. Ozzie sat in the big chair across the desk and looked down at the defendant.

“Mr. Willard, this here is Lieutenant Griffin with the Mississippi Highway Patrol. Over here is Investigator Rady with my office, and this here is Deputy Looney and Deputy Prather, whom you met last night but I doubt if you remember it. I’m Sheriff Walls.”

Willard jerked his head fearfully to look at each one. He was surrounded. The door was shut. Two tape recorders sat side by side near the edge of the sheriff’s desk.

“We’d like to ask you some questions, okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Before I start, I wanna make sure you understand your rights. First of all, you have the right to remain silent. Understand?”

“Uh huh.”

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but if you do, anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Understand?”

“Uh huh.”

“Can you read and write?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, then read this and sign it. It says you’ve been advised of your rights.”

Willard signed. Ozzie pushed the red button on one of the tape recorders.

“You understand this tape recorder is on?”

“Uh huh.”

“And it’s Wednesday, May 15, at eight forty-three in the mornin’.”

“If you say so.”

“What’s your full name?”

“James Louis Willard.”

“Nickname?”

“Pete. Pete Willard.”

“Address?”

“Route 6, Box 14, Lake Village, Mississippi.”

“What road?”

“Bethel Road.”

“Who do you live with?”

“My momma, Earnestine Willard. I’m divorced.”

“You know Billy Ray Cobb?”

Willard hesitated and noticed his feet. His boots were back in the cell. His white socks were dirty and did not hide his two big toes. Safe question, he thought.

“Yeah, I know him.”

“Was you with him yesterday?”

“Uh huh.”

“Where were y’all?”

“Down at the lake.”

“What time did you leave?”

“ ’Bout three.”

“What were you drivin’?”

“I wasn’t.”

“What were you ridin’ in?”

Hesitation. He studied his toes. “I don’t think I wanna talk no more.”

Ozzie pushed another button and the recorder stopped. He breathed deeply at Willard. “You ever been to Parchman?”

Willard shook his head.

“You know how many niggers at Parchman?”

Willard shook his head.

“ ’Bout five thousand. You know how many white boys are there?”

“No.”

“ ’Bout a thousand.”

Willard dropped his chin to his chest. Ozzie let him think for a minute, then winked at Lieutenant Griffin.

“You got any idea what those niggers will do to a white boy who raped a little black girl?”

No response.

“Lieutenant Griffin, tell Mr. Willard how white boys are treated at Parchman.”

Griffin walked to Ozzie’s desk and sat on the edge.

He looked down at Willard. “About five years ago a young white man in Helena County, over in the delta, raped a black girl. She was twelve. They were waiting on him when he got to Parchman. Knew he was coming. First night about thirty blacks tied him over a fifty-five-gallon drum and climbed on. The guards watched and laughed. There’s no sympathy for rapists. They got him every night for three months, and then killed him. They found him castrated, stuffed in the drum.”

Willard cringed, then threw his head back and breathed heavily toward the ceiling.

“Look, Pete,” Ozzie said, “we’re not after you. We want Cobb. I’ve been after that boy since he left Parchman. I want him real bad. You help us get Cobb and I’ll help you as much as I can. I ain’t promisin’ nothin’, but me and the D.A. work close together. You help me get Cobb, and I’ll help you with the D.A. Just tell us what happened.”

“I wanna lawyer,” Willard said.

Ozzie dropped his head and groaned. “What’s a lawyer gonna do, Pete? Get the niggers off of you? I’m tryin’ to help you and you’re bein’ a wiseass.”

“You need to listen to the sheriff, son. He’s trying to save your life,” Griffin said helpfully.

“There’s a good chance you could get off with just a few years here in this jail,” Rady said.

“It’s much safer than Parchman,” Prather said.

“Choice is yours, Pete,” Ozzie said. “You can die at Parchman or stay here. I’ll even consider makin’ you a trusty if you behave.”

Willard dropped his head and rubbed his temples. “Okay, okay.”

Ozzie punched the red button.

“Where’d you find the girl?”

“Some gravel road.”

“Which road?”

“I don’t know. I’s drunk.”

“Where’d you take her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just you and Cobb?”

“Yeah.”

“Who raped her?”

“We both did. Billy Ray went first.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t remember. I’s smokin’ weed and drinkin’.”

“Both of you raped her?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you dump her?”

“Don’t remember. I swear I don’t remember.”

Ozzie pushed another button. “We’ll type this up and get you to sign it.”

Willard shook his head. “Just don’t tell Billy Ray.”

“We won’t,” promised the sheriff.