A Time to Kill

38

Saturday court was unusual but not unheard of, especially in capital cases where the jury was locked up. The participants didn’t mind because Saturday brought the end one day nearer.

The locals didn’t mind either. It was their day off, and for most Ford Countians it was their only chance to watch the trial, or if they couldn’t get a seat, at least hang around the square and see it all firsthand. Who knows, there may even be some more shooting.

By seven, the cafes downtown were at full capacity serving nonregulars. For every customer who was awarded a seat, two were turned away and left to loiter around the square and the courthouse and wait for a seat in the courtroom. Most of them paused for a moment in front of the lawyer’s office, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one they tried to kill. The braggarts told of being clients of this famous man.

Upward, a few feet, the target sat at his desk and sipped a bloody concoction left from yesterday’s party. He smoked a Roi-Tan, ate headache powders, and rubbed the cobwebs from his brain. Forget about the soldier, he had told himself for the past three hours. Forget about the Klan, the threats, forget everything but the trial, and specifically Dr. W.T. Bass. He uttered a short prayer, something about Bass being sober on the witness stand. The expert and Lucien had stayed through the afternoon, drinking and arguing, accusing each other of being a drunk and receiving a dishonorable discharge from their respective professions. Violence flared briefly at Ethel’s desk when they were leaving. Nesbit intervened and escorted them to the patrol car for the ride home. The reporters burned with curiosity as the two blind drunks were led from Jake’s office by the deputy and put in the car, where they continued to rage and cuss at each other, Lucien in the back seat, Bass in the front.

He reviewed Ellen’s masterpiece on the insanity defense. Her outline of questions for Bass needed only minor changes. He studied his expert’s résumé, and though unimpressive, it would suffice for Ford County. The nearest psychiatrist was eighty miles away.

Judge Noose glanced at the D.A. and looked sympathetically at Jake, who sat next to the door and watched the faded portrait of some dead judge hanging over Buckley’s shoulder.

“How do you feel this morning, Jake?” Noose asked warmly.

“I’m fine.”

“How’s the soldier?” asked Buckley.

“Paralyzed.”

Noose, Buckley, Musgrove, and Mr. Pate looked at the same spot on the carpet and grimly shook their heads in a quiet moment of respect.

“Where’s your law clerk?” Noose asked, looking at the clock on the wall.

Jake looked at his watch. “I don’t know. I expected her by now.”

“Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

“Is the courtroom ready, Mr. Pate?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Let’s proceed.”

Noose seated the courtroom, and for ten minutes offered a rambling apology to the jurors for yesterday’s delay. They were the only fourteen in the county who did not know what happened Friday morning, and it might be prejudicial to tell them. Noose droned on about emergencies and how sometimes during trials things conspire to cause delays. When he finally finished, the jurors were completely bewildered and praying that somebody would call a witness.

“You may call your first witness,” Noose said in Jake’s direction.

“Dr. W.T. Bass,” Jake announced as he moved to the podium. Buckley and Musgrove exchanged winks and silly grins.

Bass was seated next to Lucien on the second row in the middle of the family. He stood noisily and made his way to the center aisle, stepping on feet and assaulting people with his heavy, leather, empty briefcase. Jake heard the commotion behind him and continued smiling at the jury.

“I do, I do,” Bass said rapidly at Jean Gillespie during his swearing in.

Mr. Pate led him to the witness stand and delivered the standard orders to speak up and use the microphone. Though mortified and hung over, the expert looked remarkably arrogant and sober. He wore his most expensive dark gray hand-sewn wool suit, a perfectly starched white button-down, and a cute little red paisley bow tie that made him appear rather cerebral. He looked like an expert, in something. He also wore, over Jake’s objections, a pair of light gray ostrich skin cowboy boots that he had paid over a thousand for and worn less than a dozen times. Lucien had insisted on the boots eleven years earlier in the first insanity case. Bass wore them, and the very sane defendant went to Parchman. He wore them in the second insanity trial, again at Lucien’s behest; again, Parchman. Lucien referred to them as Bass’s good luck charm.

Jake wanted no part of the damned boots. But the jury could relate to them, Lucien had argued. Not expensive ostrich skin, Jake countered. They’re too dumb to know the difference, replied Lucien. Jake could not be swayed. The rednecks will trust someone with boots, Lucien had explained. Fine, said Jake, let him wear a pair of those camouflage squirrel-hunting boots with a little mud on the heels and soles, some boots they could really identify with. Those wouldn’t complement his suit, Bass had inserted.

He crossed his legs, laying the right boot on his left knee, flaunting it. He grinned at it, then grinned at the jury. The ostrich would have been proud.

Jake looked from his notes on the podium and saw the boot, which was plainly visible above the rail of the witness stand. Bass was admiring it, the jurors pondering it. He choked and returned to his notes.

“State your name, please.”

“Dr. W.T. Bass,” he replied, his attention suddenly diverted from the boot. He looked grimly, importantly at Jake.

“What is your address?”

“Nine-oh-eight West Canterbury, Jackson, Mississippi.”

“What is your profession?”

“I am a physician.”

“Are you licensed to practice in Mississippi?”

“Yes.”

“When were you licensed?”

“February 8, 1963.”

“Are you licensed to practice medicine in any other state?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Texas.”

“When did you obtain that license?”

“November 3, 1962.”

“Where did you go to college?”

“I received my bachelor’s degree from Millsaps College in 1956, and received my M.D., or Doctor of Medicine, from the University of Texas Health Science Center in Dallas, Texas, in 1960.”

“Is that an accredited medical school?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“By the Council of Medical Education and Hospitals of the American Medical Association, the recognized accrediting agency of our profession, and by the educational authority of the State of Texas.”

Bass relaxed a bit, uncrossed and recrossed his legs, and displayed his left boot. He rocked gently and turned the comfortable swivel chair partially toward the jury.

“Where did you intern and for how long?”

“After graduation from medical school, I spent twelve months as an intern at the Rocky Mountain Medical Center in Denver.”

“What is your medical specialty?”

“Psychiatry.”

“Explain to us what that means.”

“Psychiatry is that branch of medicine concerned with the treatment of disorders of the mind. It usually, but not always, deals with mental malfunction, the organic basis of which is unknown.”

Jake breathed for the first time since Bass took the stand. His man was sounding good.

“Now, Doctor,” he said as he casually walked to within a foot of the jury box, “describe to the jury the specialized training you received in the field of psychiatry.”

“My specialized training in psychiatry consisted of two years as a resident in psychiatry at the Texas State Mental Hospital, an approved training center. I engaged in clinical work with psychoneurotic and psychotic patients. I studied psychology, psychopathology, psychotherapy, and the physiological therapies. This training, supervised by competent psychiatric teachers, included instruction in the psychiatric aspects of general medicine, the behavior aspects of children, adolescents, and adults.”

It was doubtful if a single person in the courtroom comprehended any of what Bass had just said, but it came from the mouth of a man who suddenly appeared to be a genius, an expert, for he had to be a man of great wisdom and intelligence to pronounce those words. With the bow tie and vocabulary, and in spite of the boots, Bass was gaining credibility with each answer.

“Are you a diplomate of the American Board of Psychiatry?”

“Of course,” he answered confidently.

“In which branch are you certified?”

“I am certified in psychiatry.”

“And when were you certified?”

“April of 1967.”

“What does it take to become certified by the American Board of Psychiatry?”

“A candidate must pass oral and practical exams, as well as a written test at the direction of the Board.”

Jake glanced at his notes and noticed Musgrove winking at Buckley.

“Doctor, do you belong to any professional groups?”

“Yes.”

“Name them please.”

“I am a member of the American Medical Association, American Psychiatric Association, and the Mississippi Medical Association.”

“How long have you been engaged in the practice of psychiatry?”

“Twenty-two years.”

Jake walked three steps in the direction of the bench and eyed Noose, who was watching intently.

“Your Honor, the defense offers Dr. Bass as an expert in the field of psychiatry.”

“Very well,” replied Noose. “Do you wish to examine this witness, Mr. Buckley?”

The D.A. stood with his legal pad. “Yes, Your Honor, just a few questions.”

Surprised but not worried, Jake took his seat next to Carl Lee. Ellen was still not in the courtroom.

“Dr. Bass, in your opinion, are you an expert in the field of psychiatry?” asked Buckley.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever taught psychiatry?”

“No.”

“Have you ever published any articles on psychiatry?”

“No.”

“Have you ever published any books on psychiatry?”

“No.”

“Now, I believe you testified that you are a member of the A.M.A., M.M.A., and the American Psychiatric Association?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever served as an officer in any of these organizations?”

“No.”

“What hospital positions do you currently hold, as of today?”

“None.”

“Has your experience in psychiatry included any work under the auspices of the federal government or any state government?”

“No.”

The arrogance was beginning to fade from his face, and the confidence from his voice. He shot a glance at Jake, who was digging through a file.

“Dr. Bass, are you now engaged in the practice of psychiatry full-time?”

The expert hesitated, and looked briefly at Lucien on the second row. “I see patients on a regular basis.”

“How many patients and how regular?” Buckley retorted with an enormous air of confidence.

“I see from five to ten patients per week.”

“One or two a day?”

“Something like that.”

“And you consider that a full-time practice?”

“I’m as busy as I want to be.”

Buckley threw his legal pad on the table and looked at Noose. “Your Honor, the State objects to this man testifying as an expert in the field of psychiatry. It’s obvious he’s not qualified.”

Jake was on his feet with his mouth open.

“Overruled, Mr. Buckley. You may proceed, Mr. Brigance.”

Jake gathered his legal pads and returned to the podium, well aware of the suspicion the D.A. had just artfully thrown over his star witness. Bass shifted boots.

“Now, Dr. Bass, have you examined the defendant, Carl Lee Hailey?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Three.”

“When was your first examination?”

“June 10.”

“What was the purpose of this examination?”

“I examined him to determine his current mental condition as well as his condition on May 20, when he allegedly shot Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard.”

“Where did this examination take place?”

“Ford County Jail.”

“Did you conduct this examination alone?”

“Yes. Just Mr. Hailey and myself.”

“How long did the examination last?”

“Three hours.”

“Did you review his medical history?”

“In a roundabout way, you could say. We talked at great length about his past.”

“What did you learn?”

“Nothing remarkable, except for Vietnam.”

“What about Vietnam?”

Bass folded his hands over his slightly overweight stomach and frowned intelligently at the defense attorney. “Well, Mr. Brigance, like many Vietnam vets I’ve worked with, Mr. Hailey had some rather horrible experiences over there.”

War is hell, thought Carl Lee. He listened intently. Now, Vietnam was bad. He’d been shot. He’d lost friends. He’d killed people, many people. He’d killed children, Vietnamese children carrying guns and grenades. It was bad. He wished he’d never seen the place. He dreamed about it, had flashbacks and nightmares occasionally. But he didn’t feel warped or insane because of it. He didn’t feel warped or insane because of Cobb and Willard. In fact, he felt quite satisfied because they were dead. Just like those in Vietnam.

He had explained all this to Bass once at the jail, and Bass had seemed unimpressed by it. And they had talked only twice, and never more than an hour.

Carl Lee eyed the jury and listened suspiciously to the expert, who talked at length of Carl Lee’s dreadful experiences in the war. Bass’s vocabulary jumped several octaves as he explained to the laymen in non-laymen terms the effects of Vietnam on Carl Lee. It sounded good. There had been nightmares over the years, dreams Carl Lee had never worried much about, but to hear Bass explain it, were extremely significant events.

“Did he talk freely of Vietnam?”

“Not really,” replied Bass, then explaining in great detail the tremendous task he confronted in dragging out the war from this complex, burdened, probably unstable mind. Carl Lee didn’t remember it that way. But he dutifully listened with a pained expression, wondering for the first time in his life if perhaps he could be a little off.

After an hour, the war had been refought and its effects flogged thoroughly. Jake decided to move on.

“Now, Dr. Bass,” Jake said, scratching his head. “Other than Vietnam, what other significant events did you note regarding his mental history?”

“None, except the rape of his daughter.”

“Did you discuss the rape with Carl Lee?”

“At great length, during each of the three examinations.”

“Explain to the jury what the rape did to Carl Lee Hailey.”

Bass stroked his chin and looked perplexed. “Quite frankly, Mr. Brigance, it would take a great deal of time to explain what the rape did to Mr. Hailey.”

Jake thought a moment, and seemed to thoroughly analyze this last statement. “Well, could you summarize it for the jury?”

Bass nodded gravely. “I’ll try.”

Lucien grew weary of listening to Bass, and began watching the jury in hopes of eyeing Clyde Sisco, who had also lost interest but appeared to be admiring the boots. Lucien watched intently from the corner of his eye, waiting for Sisco to gaze around the courtroom.

Finally, as Bass rambled on, Sisco left the testimony and looked at Carl Lee, then Buckley, then one of the reporters on the front row. Then his line of vision locked solidly into a wild-eyed, bearded old man who had once handed him eighty thousand cash for performing his civic duty and returning a just verdict. They focused unmistakably on each other, and both managed a slight grin. How much? was the look in Lucien’s eyes. Sisco returned to the testimony, but seconds later he was staring at Lucien. How much? Lucien said, his lips actually moving but with no sound.

Sisco looked away and watched Bass, thinking of a fair price. He looked in Lucien’s direction, scratched his beard, then suddenly, while staring at Bass, flashed five fingers across his face and coughed. He coughed again and studied the expert.

Five hundred or five thousand? Lucien asked himself. Knowing Sisco, it was five thousand, maybe fifty thousand. It made no difference; Lucien would pay it. He was worth a ton.

By ten-thirty, Noose had cleaned his glasses a hundred times and consumed a dozen cups of coffee. His bladder pressed forward toward the spillway. “Time for the morning recess. We’ll adjourn until eleven.” He rapped the gavel and disappeared.

“How’m I doing?” Bass asked nervously. He followed Jake and Lucien to the law library on the third floor.

“You’re doing fine,” Jake said. “Just keep those boots outta sight.”

“The boots are critical,” Lucien protested.

“I needa drink,” Bass said desperately.

“Forget it,” Jake said.

“So do I,” Lucien added. “Let’s run over to your office for a quick one.”

“Great idea!” Bass said.

“Forget it,” Jake repeated. “You’re sober and you’re doing great.”

“We got thirty minutes,” Bass said as he and Lucien were leaving the library and heading for the stairs.

“No! Don’t do it, Lucien!” Jake demanded.

“Just one,” Lucien replied, pointing a finger at Jake. “Just one.”

“You’ve never had just one.”

“Come with us, Jake. It’ll settle your nerves.”

“Just one,” Bass yelled as he disappeared down the steps.

At eleven, Bass sat himself in the witness chair and looked through glazed eyes at the jury. He smiled, and almost giggled. He was aware of the artists on the front row, so he looked as expert as possible. His nerves were indeed settled.

“Dr. Bass, are you familiar with the criminal responsibility test relative to the M’Naghten Rule?” Jake asked.

“I certainly am!” Bass replied with a sudden air of superiority.

“Would you explain this rule to the jury?”

“Of course. The M’Naghten Rule is the standard for criminal responsibility in Mississippi, as in fifteen other states. It goes back to England, in the year 1843, when a man by the name of Daniel M’Naghten attempted to assassinate the prime minister, Sir Robert Peel. He mistakenly shot and killed the prime minister’s secretary, Edward Drummond. During his trial the evidence plainly showed M’Naghten was suffering from what we would call paranoid schizophrenia. The jury returned a verdict of not guilty, by reason of insanity. From this the M’Naghten Rule was established. It is still followed in England and sixteen states.”

“What does the M’Naghten Rule mean?”

“The M’Naghten Rule is fairly simple. Every man is presumed to be sane, and to establish a defense on the ground of insanity, it must be clearly proven that when the defendant did what he did he was labouring under such a defect of reason, from a mental disease, that he did not know the nature and quality of the act he was doing, or if he did know what he was doing, he did not know it was wrong.”

“Could you simplify that?”

“Yes. If a defendant cannot distinguish right from wrong, he is legally insane.”

“Define insanity, please.”

“It has no significance, medically. It is strictly a legal standard for a person’s mental state or condition.”

Jake breathed deeply and plowed forward. “Now, Doctor, based upon your examination of the defendant, do you have an opinion as to the mental condition of Carl Lee Hailey on May 20 of this year, at the time of the shooting?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what is that opinion?”

“It is my opinion,” Bass said slowly, “that the defendant had a total break with reality when his daughter was raped. When he saw her immediately after the rape he didn’t recognize her, and when someone told him she’d been gang-raped, and beaten, and almost hanged, something just snapped in Carl Lee’s mind. That’s a very elementary way of putting it, but that’s what happened. Something snapped. He broke with reality.

“They had to be killed. He told me once that when he first saw them in court, he could not understand why the deputies were protecting them. He kept waiting for one of the cops to pull a gun and blow their heads off. A few days went by and nobody killed them, so he figured it was up to him. I mean, he felt as though someone in the system would execute the two for raping his little girl.

“What I’m saying, Mr. Brigance, is that, mentally, he left us. He was in another world. He was suffering from delusions. He broke.”

Bass knew he was sounding good. He was talking to the jury now, not the lawyer.

“The day after the rape he spoke with his daughter in the hospital. She could barely talk, with the broken jaws and all, but she said she saw him in the woods running to save her, and she asked him why he disappeared. Now, can you imagine what that would do to a father? She later told him she begged for her daddy, and the two men laughed at her and told her she didn’t have a daddy.”

Jake let those words sink in. He studied Ellen’s outline and saw only two more questions.

“Now, Dr. Bass, based upon your observations of Carl Lee Hailey, and your diagnosis of his mental condition at the time of the shooting, do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was capable of knowing the difference between right and wrong when he shot these men?”

“I have.”

“And what is that opinion?”

“That due to his mental condition, he was totally incapable of distinguishing right from wrong.”

“Do you have an opinion, based upon the same factors, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was able to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions?”

“I do.”

“And what is that opinion?”

“In my opinion, as an expert in the field of psychiatry, Mr. Hailey was totally incapable of understanding and appreciating the nature and quality of what he was doing.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I tender the witness.”

Jake gathered his legal pad and strolled confidently back to his seat. He glanced at Lucien, who was smiling and nodding. He glanced at the jury. They were watching Bass and thinking about his testimony. Wanda Womack, a young woman with a sympathetic glow about her, looked at Jake and smiled ever so slightly. It was the first positive signal he received from the jury since the trial started.

“So far so good,” Carl Lee whispered.

Jake smiled at his client. “You’re a real psycho, big man.”

“Any cross-examination?” Noose asked Buckley.

“Just a few questions,” Buckley said as he grabbed the podium.

Jake could not imagine Buckley arguing psychiatry with an expert, even if it was W.T. Bass.

But Buckley had no plans to argue psychiatry. “Dr. Bass, what is your full name?”

Jake froze. The question had an ominous hint to it. Buckley asked it with a great deal of suspicion.

“William Tyler Bass.”

“What do you go by?”

“W.T. Bass.”

“Have you ever been known as Tyler Bass?”

The expert hesitated. “No,” he said meekly.

An immense feeling of anxiety hit Jake and felt like a hot spear tearing into his stomach. The question could only mean trouble.

“Are you positive?” Buckley asked with raised eyebrows and an enormous amount of distrust in his voice.

Bass shrugged. “Maybe when I was younger.”

“I see. Now, I believe you testified that you studied medicine at the University of Texas Health Science Center?”

“That’s correct.”

“And where is that?”

“Dallas.”

“And when were you a student there?”

“From 1956 to 1960.”

“And under what name were you registered?”

“William T. Bass.”

Jake was numb with fear. Buckley had something, a dark secret from the past known only to Bass and himself.

“Did you ever use the name Tyler Bass while you were a medical student?”

“No.”

“Are you positive?”

“I certainly am.”

“What is your social security number?”

“410-96-8585.”

Buckley made a check mark beside something on his legal pad.

“And what is your date of birth?” he asked carefully.

“September 14, 1934.”

“And what was your mother’s name?”

“Jonnie Elizabeth Bass.”

“And her maiden name?”

“Skidmore.”

Another check mark. Bass looked nervously at Jake.

“And your place of birth?”

“Carbondale, Illinois.”

Another check mark.

An objection to the relevance of these questions was in order and sustainable, but Jake’s knees were like Jell-O and his bowels were suddenly fluid. He feared he would embarrass himself if he stood and tried to speak.

Buckley studied his check marks and waited a few seconds. Every ear in the courtroom waited for the next question, knowing it would be brutal. Bass watched the D.A. like a prisoner watching the firing squad, hoping and praying the guns would somehow misfire.

Finally, Buckley smiled at the expert. “Dr. Bass, have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

The question echoed throughout the silence and landed from all directions on the trembling shoulders of Tyler Bass. Even a cursory look at his face revealed the answer.

Carl Lee squinted and looked at his lawyer.

“Of course not!” Bass answered loudly, desperately.

Buckley just nodded and walked slowly to the table, where Musgrove, with much ceremony, handed him some important-looking papers.

“Are you certain?” Buckley thundered.

“Of course I’m certain,” Bass protested as he eyed the important-looking papers.

Jake knew he needed to rise and say something or do something to stop the carnage that was seconds away, but his mind was paralyzed.

“You’re certain?” Buckley asked.

“Yes,” Bass answered through clenched teeth.

“You’ve never been convicted of a felony?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you as certain of that as you are the rest of your testimony before this jury?”

That was the trap, the killer, the deadliest question of all; one Jake had used many times, and when he heard it, he knew Bass was finished. And so was Carl Lee.

“Of course,” Bass answered with feigned arrogance.

Buckley moved in for the kill. “You’re telling this jury that on October 17, 1956, in Dallas, Texas, you were not convicted of a felony under the name of Tyler Bass?”

Buckley asked the question while looking at the jury and reading from the important-looking documents.

“That’s a lie,” Bass said quietly, and unconvincingly.

“Are you sure it’s a lie?” Buckley asked.

“A bald-faced lie.”

“Do you know a lie from the truth, Dr. Bass?”

“Damn right I do.”

Noose placed his glasses on his nose and leaned forward. The jurors quit rocking. The reporters quit scribbling. The deputies along the back wall stood still and listened.

Buckley picked out one of the important-looking documents and studied it. “You’re telling this jury that on October 17, 1956, you were not convicted of statutory rape?”

Jake knew it was important, in the midst of any great courtroom crisis, even this one, to maintain a straight, poker face. It was important for the jurors, who missed nothing, to see the defendant’s lawyer with a positive look about him. Jake had practiced this positive, everything’s-wonderful, I’m-in-control look through many trials and many surprises, but with the “statutory rape” the positive and confident and certain look was immediately replaced by a sickly, pale, pained expression that was being scrutinized by at least half of those in the jury box.

The other half scowled at the witness on the stand.

“Were you convicted of statutory rape, Doctor?” Buckley asked again after a lengthy silence.

No answer.

Noose uncoiled and leaned downward in the direction of the witness. “Please answer the question, Dr. Bass.”

Bass ignored His Honor and stared at the D.A., then said, “You’ve got the wrong man.”

Buckley snorted and walked to Musgrove, who was holding some more important-looking papers. He opened a large white envelope and removed something that resembled an 8 × 10 photograph.

“Well, Dr. Bass, I’ve got some photographs of you taken by the Dallas Police Department on September 11, 1956. Would you like to see them?”

No answer.

Buckley held them out to the witness. “Would you like to see these, Dr. Bass? Perhaps they could refresh your memory.”

Bass slowly shook his head, then lowered it and stared blankly at his boots.

“Your Honor, the State would introduce into evidence these copies, certified under the Acts of Congress, of the Final Judgment and Sentencing Order in the case styled State of Texas versus Tyler Bass, said records being obtained by the State from the proper officials in Dallas, Texas, and showing that on October 17, 1956, a one Tyler Bass pled guilty to the charge of statutory rape, a felony under the laws of the State of Texas. We can prove that Tyler Bass and this witness, Dr. W.T. Bass, are one and the same.”

Musgrove politely handed Jake a copy of everything Buckley was waving.

“Any objections to this introduction into evidence?” Noose asked in Jake’s direction.

A speech was needed. A brilliant, emotional explanation that would touch the hearts of the jurors and make them weep with pity for Bass and his patient. But the rules of procedure did not permit one at this point. Of course the evidence was admissible. Unable to stand, Jake waved in the negative. No objections.

“We have no further questions,” Buckley announced.

“Any redirect, Mr. Brigance?” Noose asked.

In the split second available, Jake could not think of a single thing he could ask Bass to improve the situation. The jury had heard enough from the defense expert.

“No,” Jake said quietly.

“Very well, Dr. Bass, you are excused.”

Bass made a quick exit through the small gate in the railing, down the center aisle, and out of the courtroom. Jake watched his departure intently, conveying as much hatred as possible. It was important for the jury to see how shocked the defendant and his lawyer were. The jury had to believe a convicted felon was not knowingly put on the stand.

When the door closed and Bass was gone, Jake scanned the courtroom in hopes of finding an encouraging face. There were none. Lucien stroked his beard and stared at the floor. Lester sat with his arms folded and a disgusted look on his face. Gwen was crying.

“Call your next witness,” Noose said.

Jake continued searching. In the third row, between Reverend Ollie Agee and Reverend Luther Roosevelt, sat Norman Reinfeld. When his eyes met Jake’s, he frowned and shook his head as if to say “I told you so.” On the other side of the courtroom, most of the whites looked relaxed and a few even grinned at Jake.

“Mr. Brigance, you may call your next witness.”

Against his better judgment, Jake attempted to stand. His knees buckled and he leaned forward with his palms flat against the table. “Your Honor,” he said in a high-pitched, shrill, defeated voice, “could we recess till one?”

“But Mr. Brigance, it’s only eleven-thirty.”

A lie seemed appropriate. “Yes, Your Honor, but our next witness is not here, and will not arrive until one.”

“Very well. We’ll stand in recess until one. I need to see the attorneys in chambers.”

Next to chambers was a coffee room where the lawyers loitered and gossiped by the hour, and next to it was a small restroom. Jake closed and locked the restroom door and removed his coat, throwing it to the floor. He knelt beside the toilet, waited momentarily, then vomited.

Ozzie stood before the judge and attempted small talk while Musgrove and the D.A. smiled at each other. They waited on Jake. Finally, he entered chambers and apologized.

“Jake, I have some bad news,” Ozzie said.

“Let me sit down.”

“I got a call an hour ago from the sheriff of Lafayette County. Your law clerk, Ellen Roark, is in the hospital.”

“What happened!”

“The Klan got her last night. Somewhere between here and Oxford. They tied her to a tree and beat her.”

“How is she?” Jake asked.

“Stable but serious.”

“What happened?” Buckley asked.

“We ain’t sure. They stopped her car somehow and took her out in the woods. Cut her clothes off her and cut her hair. She’s got a concussion and cuts on the head, so they figure she was beat.”

Jake needed to vomit again. He couldn’t speak. He massaged his temples and thought how nice it would be to tie Bass to a tree and beat him.

Noose studied the defense attorney with compassion. “Mr. Brigance, are you okay?”

No response.

“Let’s recess until two. I think we could all use the break,” Noose said.

Jake walked slowly up the front steps with an empty Coors bottle and for a moment gave serious thought to smashing it against Lucien’s head. He realized the injury would not be felt.

Lucien rattled his ice cubes and stared off in the distance, in the direction of the square, which had long been deserted except for the soldiers and the regular crowd of teenagers flocking to the theater for the Saturday night double feature.

They said nothing. Lucien stared away. Jake glared at him with the empty bottle. Bass was hundreds of miles away.

After a minute or so, Jake asked, “Where’s Bass?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Gone home.”

“Where’s his home?”

“Why do you wanna know?”

“I’d like to see his home. I’d like to see him in his home. I’d like to beat him to death with a baseball bat in his home.”

Lucien rattled some more. “I don’t blame you.”

“Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About the conviction?”

“Hell no. No one knew. The record was expunged.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Bass told me the record of the conviction in Texas was expunged three years after it was entered.”

Jake placed the beer bottle on the porch beside his chair. He grabbed a dirty glass, blew into it, then filled it with ice cubes and Jack Daniel’s.

“Do you mind explaining, Lucien?”

“According to Bass, the girl was seventeen, and the daughter of a prominent judge in Dallas. They fell in heat, and the judge caught them screwing on the couch. He pressed charges, and Bass didn’t have a chance. He pled guilty to the statutory rape. But the girl was in love. They kept seeing each other and she comes up pregnant. Bass married her, and gives the judge a perfect baby boy for his first grandchild. The old man has a change of heart, and the record is expunged.”

Lucien drank and watched the lights from the square.

“What happened to the girl?”

“According to Bass, a week before he finished medical school, his wife, who’s pregnant again, and the little boy were killed in a train wreck in Fort Worth. That’s when he started drinking, and quit living.”

“And he’s never told you this before?”

“Don’t interrogate me. I told you I knew nothing about it. I put him on the witness stand twice myself, remember. If I had known it, he would never have testified.”

“Why didn’t he ever tell you?”

“I guess because he thought the record was erased. I don’t know. Technically, he’s right. There is no record after the expungement. But he was convicted.”

Jake took a long, bitter drink of whiskey. It was nasty.

They sat in silence for ten minutes. It was dark and the crickets were in full chorus. Sallie walked to the screen door and asked Jake if he wanted supper. He said no thanks.

“What happened this afternoon?” Lucien asked.

“Carl Lee testified, and we adjourned at four. Buckley didn’t have his psychiatrist ready. He’ll testify Monday.”

“How’d he do?”

“Fair. He followed Bass, and you could feel the hatred from the jurors. He was stiff and sounded rehearsed. I don’t think he scored too many points.”

“What’d Buckley do?”

“Went wild. Screamed at Carl Lee for an hour. Carl Lee kept getting smart with him, and they sniped back and forth. I think they both got hurt. On redirect, I propped him up some and he came across pitiful and sympathetic. Almost cried at the end.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah, real nice. But they’ll convict him, won’t they?”

“I would imagine.”

“After we adjourned, he tried to fire me. Said I’d lost his case and he wanted a new lawyer.”

Lucien walked to the edge of the porch and unzipped his pants. He leaned on a column and sprayed the shrubs. He was barefoot and looked like a flood victim. Sallie brought him a fresh drink.

“How’s Row Ark?” he asked.

“Stable, they say. I called her room and a nurse said she couldn’t talk. I’ll go over tomorrow.”

“I hope she’s okay. She’s a fine girl.”

“She’s a radical bitch, but a very smart one. I feel like it’s my fault, Lucien.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s a crazy world, Jake. Full of crazy people. Right now I think half of them are in Ford County.”

“Two weeks ago, they planted dynamite outside my bedroom window. They beat to death my secretary’s husband. Yesterday they shot at me and hit a guardsman. Now they grab my law clerk, tie her to a pole, rip her clothes off, cut her hair, and she’s in the hospital with a concussion. I wonder what’s next.”

“I think you should surrender.”

“I would. I would march down to the courthouse right now and surrender my briefcase, lay down my arms, give up. But to whom? The enemy is invisible.”

“You can’t quit, Jake. Your client needs you.”

“To hell with my client. He tried to fire me today.”

“He needs you. This thing ain’t over till it’s over.”

Nesbit’s head hung halfway out the window and the saliva dripped down the left side of his chin, down the door, forming a small puddle over the “O” in the Ford of the Sheriff’s Department insignia on the side of the car. An empty beer can moistened his crotch. After two weeks of bodyguard duty he had grown accustomed to sleeping with the mosquitoes in his patrol car while protecting the nigger’s lawyer.

Moments after Saturday turned into Sunday, the radio violated his rest. He grabbed the mike while wiping his chin on his left sleeve.

“S.O. 8,” he responded.

“What’s your 10–20?”

“Same place it was two hours ago.”

“The Wilbanks house?”

“10-4.”

“Is Brigance still there?”

“10-4.”

“Get him and take him to his house on Adams. It’s an emergency.”

Nesbit walked past the empty bottles on the porch, through the unlocked door, where he found Jake sprawled on the couch in the front room.

“Get up, Jake! You gotta go home! It’s an emergency!”

Jake jumped to his feet and followed Nesbit. They stopped on the front steps and looked past the dome of the courthouse. In the distance a boiling funnel of black smoke rose above an orange glow and drifted peacefully toward the half moon.

Adams Street was blocked with an assortment of volunteer vehicles, mostly pickups. Each had a variety of red and yellow emergency lights, at least a thousand in all. They spun and flashed and streaked through the darkness in a silent chorus, illuminating the street.

The fire engines were parked haphazardly in front of the house. The firemen and volunteers worked frantically laying lines and getting organized, responding occasionally to the commands of the chief. Ozzie, Prather, and Hastings stood near an engine. Some guardsmen lingered benignly near a jeep.

The fire was brilliant. Flames roared from every window across the front of the house, upstairs and down. The carport was completely engulfed. Carla’s Cutlass burned inside and out — the four tires emitting a darker glow of their own. Curiously, another, smaller car, not the Saab, burned next to the Cutlass.

The thundering, crackling noise of the fire, plus the rumbling of the fire engines, plus the loud voices, attracted neighbors from several blocks. They crowded together in the lawns across the street and watched.

Jake and Nesbit ran down the street. The chief spotted them and came running.

“Jake! Is anybody in the house?”

“No!”

“Good. I didn’t think so.”

“Just a dog.”

“A dog!”

Jake nodded and watched the house.

“I’m sorry,” said the chief.

They gathered at Ozzie’s car in front of Mrs. Pickle’s house. Jake answered questions.

“That’s not your Volkswagen under there, is it, Jake?”

Jake stared in stunned silence at Carla’s landmark. He shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. Looks like that’s where it started.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jake.

“If it ain’t your car, then somebody parked it there, right? Notice how the floor of the carport is burnin’? Concrete don’t normally burn. It’s gasoline. Somebody loaded the VW with gasoline, parked it and ran away. Probably had some kinda device which set the thing off.”

Prather and two volunteers agreed.

“How long’s it been burning?” Jake asked.

“We got here ten minutes ago,” the chief said, “and it was well involved. I’d say thirty minutes. It’s a good fire. Somebody knew what they’s doin’.”

“I don’t suppose we could get anything out of there, could we?” Jake asked in general, knowing the answer.

“No way, Jake. It’s too involved. My men couldn’t go in there if people were trapped. It’s a good fire.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, look at it. It’s burnin’ evenly through the house. You can see flames in every window. Downstairs and up. That’s very unusual. In just a minute, it’ll burn through the roof.”

Two squads inched forward with the lines, shooting water in the direction of the windows by the front porch. A smaller line was aimed at a window upstairs. After watching for a minute or two as the water disappeared into the flames with no noticeable effect, the chief spat and said, “It’ll burn to the ground.” With that he disappeared around an engine and began shouting.

Jake looked at Nesbit. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Jake.”

“Drive over to Harry Rex’s and bring him back. I’d hate for him to miss this.”

“Sure.”

For two hours Jake, Ozzie, Harry Rex, and Nesbit sat on the patrol car and watched the fire fulfill the chief’s prediction. From time to time a neighbor would stop by and extend sympathies and ask about the family. Mrs. Pickle, the sweet old woman next door, cried loudly when informed by Jake that Max had been consumed.

By three, the deputies and other curious had disappeared, and by four the quaint little Victorian had been reduced to smoldering rubble. The last of the firemen smothered any sign of smoke from the ruins. Only the chimney and burnt frames of two cars stood above the remains as the heavy rubber boots kicked and plowed through the waste looking for sparks or hidden flames that might somehow leap from the dead and burn the rest of the wreckage.

They rolled up the last of the lines as the sun began to appear. Jake thanked them when they left. He and Harry Rex walked through the backyard and surveyed the damage.

“Oh well,” Harry Rex said. “It’s just a house.”

“Would you call Carla and tell her that?”

“No. I think you should.”

“I think I’ll wait.”

Harry Rex looked at his watch. “It’s about breakfast time, isn’t it?”

“It’s Sunday morning, Harry Rex. Nothing’s open.”

“Ah, Jake, you’re an amateur, and I’m a professional. I can find hot food at any time of any day.”

“The truck stop?”

“The truck stop!”

“Okay. And when we finish we’ll go to Oxford to check on Row Ark.”

“Great. I can’t wait to see her with a butch haircut.”

Sallie grabbed the phone and threw it at Lucien, who fumbled with it until it was arranged properly next to his head.

“Yeah, who is it?” he asked, squinting through the window into the darkness.

“Is this Lucien Wilbanks?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Do you know Clyde Sisco?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s fifty thousand.”

“Call me back in the morning.”