A Time to Kill

30

They arrived in groups of two and three and came from all over the state. They parked along the gravel road by the cabin deep in the woods. They entered the cabin dressed as normal working men, but once inside they slowly and meticulously changed into their neatly pressed and neatly folded robes and headdresses. They admired one another’s uniforms and helped each other into the bulky outfits. Most of them knew each other, but a few introductions were necessary. They were forty in number; a good turnout.

Stump Sisson was pleased. He sipped whiskey and moved around the room like a head coach reassuring his team before the kickoff. He inspected the uniforms and made adjustments. He was proud of his men, and told them so. It was the biggest meeting of its kind in years, he said. He admired them and their sacrifices in being there. He knew they had jobs and families, but this was important. He talked about the glory days when they were feared in Mississippi and had clout. Those days must return, and it was up to this very group of dedicated men to take a stand for white people. The march could be dangerous, he explained. Niggers could march and demonstrate all day long and no one cared. But let white folks try and march and it was dangerous. The city had issued a permit, and the nigger sheriff promised order, but most Klan marches nowadays were disrupted by roving bands of young wild nigger punks. So be careful, and keep ranks. He, Stump, would do the talking.

They listened intently to Stump’s pep talk, and when he finished they loaded into a dozen cars and followed him to town.

Few if any people in Clanton had ever seen the Klan march, and as 2:00 P.M. approached a great wave of excitement rippled around the square. The merchants and their customers found excuses to inspect the sidewalks. They milled about importantly and watched the side streets. The vultures were out in full force and had congregated near the gazebo on the front lawn. A group of young blacks gathered nearby under a massive oak. Ozzie smelled trouble. They assured him they had only come to watch and listen. He threatened them with jail if trouble started. He stationed his men at various points around the courthouse.

“Here they come!” someone yelled, and the spectators strained to get a glimpse of the marching Klansmen as they strutted importantly from a small street onto Washington Avenue, the north border of the square. They walked cautiously, but arrogantly, their faces hidden by the sinister red and white masks hanging from the royal headdresses. The spectators gawked at the faceless figures as the procession moved slowly along Washington, then south along Caffey Street, then east along Jackson Street. Stump waddled proudly in front of his men. When he neared the front of the courthouse, he made a sharp left turn and led his troops down the long sidewalk in the center of the front lawn. They closed ranks in a loose semicircle around the podium on the courthouse steps.

The vultures had scrambled and fallen over themselves following the march, and when Stump stopped his men the podium was quickly adorned with a dozen microphones trailing wires in all directions to the cameras and recorders. Under the tree the group of blacks had grown larger, much larger, and some of them walked to within a few feet of the semicircle. The sidewalks emptied as the merchants and shopkeepers, their customers, and the other curious streamed across the streets onto the lawn to hear what the leader, the short fat one, was about to say. The deputies walked slowly through the crowd, paying particular attention to the group of blacks. Ozzie placed himself under the oak, in the midst of his people.

Jake watched intently from the window in Jean Gillespie’s second-floor office. The sight of the Klansmen, in full regalia, their cowardly faces hidden behind the ominous masks, gave him a sick feeling. The white hood, for decades a symbol of hatred and violence in the South, was back. Which one of those men had burned the cross in his yard? Were they all active in planning the bombing of his home? Which one would try something next? From the second floor, he could see the blacks inch closer.

“You niggers were not invited to this rally!” Stump screamed into the microphone, pointing at the blacks. “This is a Klan meetin’, not a meetin’ for a buncha niggers!”

From the side streets and small alleys behind the rows of red brick buildings, a steady stream of blacks moved toward the courthouse. They joined the others, and in seconds Stump and his boys were outnumbered ten to one. Ozzie radioed for backup.

“My name’s Stump Sisson,” he said as he removed his mask. “And I’m proud to say I’m the Mississippi Imperial Wizard for the Invisible Empire of the Ku Klux Klan. I’m here to say that the law-abidin’ white folks of Mississippi are sick and tired of niggers stealin’, rapin’, killin’, and gettin’ by with it. We demand justice, and we demand that this Hailey nigger be convicted and his black ass sent to the gas chamber!”

“Free Carl Lee!” screamed one of the blacks.

“Free Carl Lee!” they repeated in unison.

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Shut up, you wild niggers!” Stump shrieked back. “Shut up, you animals!” His troops stood facing him, frozen, with their backs to the screaming crowd. Ozzie and six deputies moved between the groups.

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

Stump’s naturally colorful face had turned an even deeper red. His teeth nearly touched the microphones. “Shut up, you wild niggers! You had your rally yesterday and we didn’t disturb you. We have a right to assemble in peace, just like you do! Now, shut up!”

The chanting intensified. “Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!”

“Where’s the sheriff? He’s supposed to keep law and order. Sheriff, do your job. Shut those niggers up so we can assemble in peace. Can’t you do your job, Sheriff? Can’t you control your own people? See, folks, that’s what you get when you elect niggers to public office.”

The shouting continued and Stump stepped back from the microphones and watched the blacks. The photographers and TV crews spun in circles trying to record it all. No one noticed a small window on the third floor of the courthouse. It opened slowly, and from the darkness within a crude firebomb was thrown onto the podium below. It landed perfectly at Stump’s feet and exploded, engulfing the wizard in flames.

The riot was on. Stump screamed and rolled wildly down the front steps. Three of his men shed their heavy robes and masks and attempted to cover him and smother the flames. The wooden podium and platform burned with the thick, unmistakable smell of gasoline. The blacks charged, wielding sticks and knives and hacking at anything with a white face or white robe. Under each white robe was a short black nightstick, and the Klansmen proved ready for the assault. Within seconds of the explosion, the front lawn of the Ford County Courthouse was a battlefield as men screamed and cursed and howled in pain through thick, heavy smoke. The air was filled with rocks and stones and nightsticks as the two groups brawled in hand-to-hand combat.

Bodies began falling on the lush, green grass. Ozzie fell first; the victim of a wicked smash to the base of his skull with a wrecking bar. Nesbit, Prather, Hastings, Pirtle, Tatum, and other deputies ran here and there attempting unsuccessfully to separate various combatants before they killed each other. Instead of running for cover, the vultures darted crazily through the midst of the smoke and violence valiantly trying to capture yet a better shot of the blood and gore. They were sitting ducks. One cameraman, his right eye buried deep in his camera, caught a jagged piece of brick with his left eye. He and his camera dropped quickly to the sidewalk, where, after a few seconds, another cameraman appeared and filmed his fallen comrade. A fearless, busy female reporter from a Memphis station charged into the melee with her microphone in hand and her cameraman at her heels. She dodged a brick, then maneuvered too close to a large Klansman who was just finishing off a couple of black teenagers, when, with a loud piercing scream, he slapped her pretty head with his nightstick, kicked her as she fell, then brutally attacked her cameraman.

Fresh troops from the Clanton City Police arrived. In the center of the battle, Nesbit, Prather, and Hastings came together, stood with their backs to each other, and began firing their Smith & Wesson .357 magnum service revolvers into the air. The sound of the gunfire quelled the riot. The warriors froze and searched for the gunfire, then quickly separated and glared at each other. They retreated slowly to their own groups. The officers formed a dividing line between the blacks and the Klansmen, all of whom were thankful for the truce.

A dozen wounded bodies were unable to retreat. Ozzie sat dazed, rubbing his neck. The lady from Memphis was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the head. Several Klansmen, their white robes soiled and bloody, lay sprawled near the sidewalk. The fire continued to burn.

The sirens drew closer and finally the fire trucks and ambulances arrived and drove onto the battlefield. Firemen and medics attended the wounded. None were dead. Stump Sisson was taken away first. Ozzie was half dragged and half carried to a patrol car. More police arrived and broke up the crowd.

Jake, Harry Rex, and Ellen ate a lukewarm pizza and watched intently as the small television in the conference room broadcasted the day’s events in Clanton, Mississippi. CBS ran the story halfway through the news. The reporter had apparently escaped the riot unscathed, and he narrated the video with a play by play of the march, the shouting, the firebomb, and the melee. “As of late this afternoon,” he reported, “the exact number of casualties is unknown. The most serious injuries are believed to be the extensive burns suffered by a Mr. Sisson, who identified himself as an imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. He is listed in serious condition at the Mid South Burn Hospital in Memphis.”

The video showed a closeup of Stump burning while all hell broke loose. He continued: “The trial of Carl Lee Hailey is scheduled to start Monday here in Clanton. It is unknown at this time what effect, if any, today’s riot will have on this trial. There is some speculation the trial will be postponed and/or moved to another county.”

“That’s news to me,” said Jake.

“You haven’t heard anything?” asked Harry Rex.

“Not a word. And I presume I would be notified before CBS.”

The reporter disappeared and Dan Rather said he would return in a moment.

“What does this mean?” asked Ellen.

“It means Noose is stupid for not changing venue.”

“Be glad he didn’t,” said Harry Rex. “It’ll give you something to argue on appeal.”

“Thanks, Harry Rex. I appreciate your confidence in my ability as a trial lawyer.”

The phone rang. Harry Rex grabbed it and said hello to Carla. He handed it to Jake. “It’s your wife. Can we listen?”

“No! Go get another pizza. Hello, dear.”

“Jake, are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.”

“I just saw it on the news. It’s awful. Where were you?”

“I was wearing one of those white robes.”

“Jake, please. This is not funny.”

“I was in Jean Gillespie’s office on the second floor. We had wonderful seats. Saw the whole thing. It was very exciting.”

“Who are those people?”

“Same ones who burned the cross in our front yard and tried to blow up the house.”

“Where are they from?”

“Everywhere. Five are in the hospital and their addresses are scattered all over the state. One is a local boy. How’s Hanna?”

“She’s fine. She wants to come home. Will the trial be postponed?”

“I doubt it.”

“Are you safe?”

“Sure. I’ve got a full-time bodyguard and I carry a .38 in my briefcase. Don’t worry.”

“But I’m worried, Jake. I need to be home with you.”

“No.”

“Hanna can stay here until it’s over, but I want to come home.”

“No, Carla. I know you’re safe out there. You won’t be safe if you’re here.”

“Then you’re not safe either.”

“I’m as safe as I can get. But I’m not taking chances with you and Hanna. It’s out of the question. That’s final. How are your parents?”

“I didn’t call to talk about my parents. I called because I’m scared and I want to be with you.”

“And I want to be with you, but not now. Please understand.”

She hesitated. “Where are you staying?”

“At Lucien’s most of the time. Occasionally at home, with my bodyguard in the driveway.”

“How’s my house?”

“It’s still there. Dirty, but still there.”

“I miss it.”

“Believe me, it misses you.”

“I love you, Jake, and I’m scared.”

“I love you, and I’m not scared. Just relax and take care of Hanna.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Jake handed the receiver to Ellen. “Where is she?”

“Wilmington, North Carolina. Her parents spend the summers there.”

Harry Rex had left for another pizza.

“You miss her, don’t you?” asked Ellen.

“In more ways than you can imagine.”

“Oh, I can imagine.”

At midnight they were in the cabin drinking whiskey, cussing niggers, and comparing wounds. Several had returned from the hospital in Memphis where they had visited briefly with Stump Sisson. He told them to proceed as planned. Eleven had been released from the Ford County Hospital with various cuts and bruises, and the others admired their wounds as each took his turn describing to the last detail how he had gallantly battled multiple niggers before being wounded, usually from the rear or blind side. They were the heroes, the ones with the bandages. Then the others told their stories and the whiskey flowed. They heaped praise upon the largest one when he told of his attack on the pretty television reporter and her nigger cameraman.

After a couple of hours of drinking and storytelling the talk turned to the task at hand. A map of the county was produced, and one of the locals pinpointed the targets. There were twenty homes this night — twenty names taken from the list of prospective jurors someone had furnished.

Five teams of four each left the cabin in pickups and headed into the darkness to further their mischief. In each pickup were four wooden crosses, the smaller models, nine feet by four feet, each soaked with kerosene. They avoided Clanton and the small towns in the county and instead kept to the dark countryside. The targets were in isolated areas, away from traffic and neighbors, out in the country where things go unnoticed and people go to bed early and sleep soundly.

The plan of attack was simple: a truck would stop a few hundred feet down the road, out of sight, no headlights, and the driver remained with engine running while the other three carried the cross to the front yard, stuck it in the ground, and threw a torch on it. The pickup then met them in front of the house for a quiet getaway and joyride to the next target.

The plan worked simply and with no complications at nineteen of the twenty targets. But at Luther Pickett’s residence a strange noise earlier in the night had aroused Luther, and he sat in the darkness of his front porch waiting for nothing in particular when he saw a strange pickup move suspiciously along the gravel road out beyond his pecan tree. He grabbed his shotgun and listened as the truck turned around and stopped down the road. He heard voices, and then saw three figures carrying a pole or something into his front yard, next to the gravel road. Luther crouched behind a shrub next to the porch, and aimed.

The driver took a slug of cold beer and watched to see the cross go up in flames. He heard a shotgun instead. His buddies abandoned the cross and the torch and the front yard, and jumped into a small ditch next to the road. Another shotgun blast. The driver could hear the screams and obscenities. They had to be rescued! He threw down his beer and stepped on the gas.

Old Luther fired again as he came off the porch, and again as the truck appeared and stopped by the shallow ditch. The three scrambled desperately from the mud, stumbling and sliding, cussing and yelling as they attacked the truck and furiously fought to jump into the bed.

“Hang on!” yelled the driver just as old Luther fired again, this time spraying the pickup. He watched with a smile as the truck sped away, spinning gravel and fishtailing from ditch to ditch. Just a bunch of drunk kids, he thought.

From a pay phone, a Kluxer held the list of twenty names and twenty phone numbers. He called them all, simply to ask them to take a look in their front yards.