A Time to Kill

40

Clanton returned to normal Monday morning as the barricades were put in place around the square and the ranks of the soldiers swelled to preserve the public peace. They loitered about in loose formation, watching as the Kluxers returned to their appointed ground on one side, and the black protestors on the other. The day of rest brought renewed energy to both groups, and by eight-thirty they were in full chorus. The collapse of Dr. Bass had been big news, and the Kluxers smelled victory. Plus they had scored a direct hit on Adams Street. They appeared to be louder than normal.

At nine, Noose summoned the attorneys to chambers. “Just wanted to make sure you were all alive and well.” He grinned at Jake.

“Why don’t you kiss my ass, Judge?” Jake said under his breath, but loud enough to be heard. The prosecutors froze. Mr. Pate cleared his throat.

Noose cocked his head sideways as if hard of hearing. “What did you say, Mr. Brigance?”

“I said, ‘Why don’t we get started, Judge?’ ”

“Yes, that’s what I thought you said. How’s your clerk, Ms. Roark?”

“She’ll be fine.”

“Was it the Klan?”

“Yes, Judge. The same Klan that tried to kill me. Same Klan that lit up the county with crosses and who knows what else for our jury panel. Same Klan that’s probably intimidated most of those jurors sitting out there. Yes, sir, it’s the same Klan.”

Noose ripped off his glasses. “Can you substantiate that?”

“You mean, do I have written, signed, notarized confessions from the Klansmen? No, sir. They’re most uncooperative.”

“If you can’t prove it, Mr. Brigance, then leave it alone.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Jake left chambers and slammed the door. Seconds later Mr. Pate called the place to order and everyone rose. Noose welcomed his jury back and promised the ordeal was almost over. No one smiled at him. It had been a lonely weekend at the Temple Inn.

“Does the State have any rebuttal?” he asked Buckley.

“One witness, Your Honor.”

Dr. Rodeheaver was fetched from the witness room. He carefully situated himself in the witness chair and nodded warmly at the jury. He looked like a psychiatrist. Dark suit, no boots.

Buckley assumed the podium and smiled at the jury. “You are Dr. Wilbert Rodeheaver?” he thundered, looking at the jury as if to say, “Now you’ll meet a real psychiatrist.”

“Yes, sir.”

Buckley asked questions, a million questions, about his educational and professional background. Rodeheaver was confident, relaxed, prepared, and accustomed to the witness chair. He talked at great length about his broad educational training, his vast experience as a practicing physician, and more recently, the enormous magnitude of his job as head of staff at the state mental hospital. Buckley asked him if he had written any articles in his field. He said yes, and for thirty minutes they discussed the writings of this very learned man. He had received research grants from the federal government and from various states. He was a member of all the organizations Bass belonged to, and a few more. He had been certified by every association remotely touching the study of the human mind. He was polished, and sober.

Buckley tendered him as an expert, and Jake had no questions.

Buckley continued. “Dr. Rodeheaver, when did you first examine Carl Lee Hailey?”

The expert checked his notes. “June 19.”

“Where did the examination take place?”

“In my office at Whitfield.”

“How long did you examine him?”

“Couple of hours.”

“What was the purpose of this examination?”

“To try and determine his mental condition at that time and also at the time he killed Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard.”

“Did you obtain his medical history?”

“Most of the information was taken by an associate at the hospital. I reviewed it with Mr. Hailey.”

“What did the history reveal?”

“Nothing remarkable. He talked a lot about Vietnam, but nothing remarkable.”

“Did he talk freely about Vietnam?”

“Oh yes. He wanted to talk about it. It was almost like he had been told to discuss it as much as possible.”

“What else did you discuss at the first examination?”

“We covered a wide variety of topics. His childhood, family, education, various jobs, just about everything.”

“Did he discuss the rape of his daughter?”

“Yes, in great detail. It was painful for him to talk about it, the same as it would have been for me had it been my daughter.”

“Did he discuss with you the events leading up to the shootings of Cobb and Willard?”

“Yes, we talked about that for quite a while. I tried to ascertain the degree of knowledge and understanding he had about those events.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Initially, not much. But with time, he opened up and explained how he inspected the courthouse three days before the shooting and picked a good place to attack.”

“What about the shootings?”

“He never told me much about the actual killings. Said he didn’t remember much, but I suspect otherwise.”

Jake sprang to his feet. “Objection! The witness can only testify as to what he actually knows. He cannot speculate.”

“Sustained. Please continue, Mr. Buckley.”

“What else did you observe concerning his mood, attitude, and manner of speech?”

Rodeheaver crossed his legs and rocked gently. He lowered his eyebrows in deep thought. “Initially, he was distrustful of me and had difficulty looking me in the eye. He gave short answers to my questions. He was very resentful of the fact that he was guarded and sometimes handcuffed while at our facility. He questioned the padded walls. But after a while, he opened up and talked freely about most everything. He flatly refused to answer a few questions, but other than that I would say he was fairly cooperative.”

“When and where did you examine him again?”

“The next day, same place.”

“What was his mood and attitude?”

“About the same as the day before. Cool at first, but he opened up eventually. He discussed basically the same topics as the day before.”

“How long did this examination last?”

“Approximately four hours.”

Buckley reviewed something on a legal pad, then whispered to Musgrove. “Now, Dr. Rodeheaver, as a result of your examinations of Mr. Hailey on June 19 and 20, were you able to arrive at a medical diagnosis of the defendant’s psychiatric condition on those dates?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what is that diagnosis?”

“On June 19 and 20, Mr. Hailey appeared to be of sound mind. Perfectly normal, I would say.”

“Thank you. Based on your examinations, were you able to arrive at a diagnosis of Mr. Hailey’s mental condition on the day he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that diagnosis?”

“At that time his mental condition was sound, no defects of any nature.”

“Upon what factors do you base this?”

Rodeheaver turned to the jury and became a professor. “You must look at the level of premeditation involved in this crime. Motive is an element of premeditation. He certainly had a motive for doing what he did, and his mental condition at that time did not prevent him from entertaining the requisite premeditation. Frankly, Mr. Hailey carefully planned what he did.”

“Doctor, you are familiar with the M’Naghten Rule as a test for criminal responsibility?”

“Certainly.”

“And you are aware that another psychiatrist, a Dr. W.T. Bass, has told this jury that Mr. Hailey was incapable of knowing the difference between right and wrong, and, further, that he was unable to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

“Do you agree with that testimony?”

“No. I find it preposterous, and I am personally offended by it. Mr. Hailey himself has testified he planned the murders. He’s admitted, in effect, that his mental condition at the time did not prevent him from possessing the ability to plan. That’s called premeditation in every legal and medical book. I’ve never heard of someone planning a murder, admitting he planned it, then claiming he did not know what he was doing. It’s absurd.”

At that moment, Jake felt it was absurd too, and as it echoed around the courtroom it sounded mighty absurd. Rodeheaver sounded good and infinitely credible. Jake thought of Bass and cursed to himself.

Lucien sat with the blacks and agreed with every word of Rodeheaver’s testimony. When compared to Bass, the State’s doctor was terribly believable. Lucien ignored the jury box. From time to time he would cut his eyes without moving his head and catch Clyde Sisco blatantly and openly staring directly at him. But Lucien would not allow their eyes to meet. The messenger had not called Monday morning as instructed. An affirmative nod or wink from Lucien would consummate the deal, with payment to be arranged later, after the verdict. Sisco knew the rules, and he watched for an answer. There was none. Lucien wanted to discuss it with Jake.

“Now, Doctor, based upon these factors and your diagnosis of his mental condition as of May 20, do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, as to whether Mr. Hailey was capable of knowing the difference between right and wrong when he shot Billy Ray Cobb, Pete Willard, and Deputy DeWayne Looney?”

“I have.”

“And what is that opinion?”

“His mental condition was sound, and he was very capable of distinguishing right from wrong.”

“And do you have an opinion, based upon the same factors, as to whether Mr. Hailey was able to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions?”

“I have.”

“And what is that opinion?”

“That he fully appreciated what he was doing.”

Buckley snatched his legal pad and bowed politely. “Thank you, Doctor. I have no further questions.”

“Any cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?” Noose asked.

“Just a few questions.”

“I thought so. Let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”

Jake ignored Carl Lee, and moved quickly out of the courtroom, up the stairs, and into the law library on the third floor. Harry Rex was waiting, and smiling.

“Relax, Jake. I’ve called every newspaper in North Carolina, and there’s no story about the house. There’s nothing about Row Ark. The Raleigh morning paper ran a story about the trial, but it was in real general terms. Nothing else. Carla doesn’t know about it, Jake. As far as she knows, her pretty little landmark is still standing. Isn’t that great?”

“Wonderful. Just wonderful. Thanks, Harry Rex.”

“Don’t mention it. Look, Jake, I sorta hate to bring this up.”

“I can’t wait.”

“You know I hate Buckley. Hate him worse than you do. But me and Musgrove get along okay. I can talk to Musgrove. I was thinking last night that it might be a good idea to approach them — me through Musgrove — and explore the possibilities of a plea bargain.”

“No!”

“Listen, Jake. What harm will it do? None! If you can plead him guilty to murder with no gas chamber, then you know you have saved his life.”

“No!”

“Look, Jake. Your man is about forty-eight hours away from a death penalty conviction. If you don’t believe that, then you’re blind, Jake. My blind friend.”

“Why should Buckley cut a deal? He’s got us on the ropes.”

“Maybe he won’t. But let me at least find out.”

“No, Harry Rex. Forget it.”

Rodeheaver returned to his seat after the recess, and Jake looked at him from behind the podium. In his brief legal career, he had never won an argument, in court or out, with an expert witness. And the way his luck was running, he decided not to argue with this one.

“Dr. Rodeheaver, psychiatry is the study of the human mind, is it not?”

“It is.”

“And it is an inexact science at best, is it not?”

“That is correct.”

“You might examine a person and reach a diagnosis, and the next psychiatrist might reach a completely different diagnosis?”

“That’s possible, yes.”

“In fact, you could have ten psychiatrists examine a mental patient, and arrive at ten different opinions about what’s wrong with the patient.”

“That’s unlikely.”

“But it could happen, couldn’t it, Doctor?”

“Yes, it could. Just like legal opinions, I guess.”

“But we’re not dealing with legal opinions in this case, are we, Doctor?”

“No.”

“The truth is, Doctor, in many cases psychiatry cannot tell us what is wrong with a person’s mind?”

“That is true.”

“And psychiatrists disagree all the time, don’t they, Doctor?”

“Of course.”

“Now, who do you work for, Doctor?”

“The State of Mississippi.”

“And for how long?”

“Eleven years.”

“And who is prosecuting Mr. Hailey?”

“The State of Mississippi.”

“During your eleven-year career with the State, how many times have you testified in trials where the insanity defense was used?”

Rodeheaver thought for a moment. “I think this is my forty-third trial.”

Jake checked something in a file and eyed the doctor with a nasty little smile. “Are you sure it’s not your forty-sixth?”

“It could be, yes. I’m not certain.”

The courtroom became still. Buckley and Musgrove hovered over their legal pads, but watched their witness carefully.

“Forty-six times you’ve testified for the State in insanity trials?”

“If you say so.”

“And forty-six times you’ve testified that the defendant was not legally insane. Correct, Doctor?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, let me make it simple. You’ve testified forty-six times, and forty-six times it has been your opinion the defendant was not legally insane. Correct?”

Rodeheaver squirmed just a little, and a hint of discomfort broke around his eyes. “I’m not sure.”

“You’ve never seen a legally insane criminal defendant, have you, Doctor?”

“Of course I have.”

“Good. Would you then, please, sir, tell us the name of the defendant and where he was tried?”

Buckley rose and buttoned his coat. “Your Honor, the State objects to these questions. Dr. Rodeheaver cannot be required to remember the names and places of the trials he has testified in.”

“Overruled. Sit down. Answer the question, Doctor.”

Rodeheaver breathed deeply and studied the ceiling. Jake glanced at the jurors. They were awake and waiting on an answer.

“I can’t remember,” he finally said.

Jake lifted a thick stack of papers and waved it at the witness. “Could it be, Doctor, that the reason you can’t remember is that in eleven years, forty-six trials, you have never testified in favor of the defendant?”

“I honestly can’t remember.”

“Can you honestly name us one trial in which you found the defendant to be legally insane?”

“I’m sure there are some.”

“Yes or no, Doctor. One trial?”

The expert looked briefly at the D.A. “No. My memory fails me. I cannot at this time.”

Jake walked slowly to the defense table and picked up a thick file.

“Dr. Rodeheaver, do you recall testifying in the trial of a man by the name of Danny Booker in McMurphy County in December of 1975? A rather gruesome double homicide?”

“Yes, I recall that trial.”

“And you testified to the effect that he was not legally insane, did you not?”

“That is correct.”

“Do you recall how many psychiatrists testified in his behalf?”

“Not exactly. There were several.”

“Do the names Noel McClacky, M.D.; O.G. McGuire, M.D.; and Lou Watson, M.D., ring a bell?”

“Yes.”

“They’re all psychiatrists, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“They’re all qualified, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And they all examined Mr. Booker and testified at trial that in their opinions the poor man was legally insane?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you testified he was not legally insane?”

“That’s correct.”

“How many other doctors supported your position?”

“None, that I recall.”

“So it was three against one?”

“Yes, but I’m still convinced I was right.”

“I see. What did the jury do, Doctor?”

“He, uh, was found not guilty by reason of insanity.”

“Thank you. Now, Dr. Rodeheaver, you’re the head doctor at Whitfield, aren’t you?”

“Yes, so to speak.”

“Are you directly or indirectly responsible for the treatment of every patient at Whitfield?”

“I’m directly responsible, Mr. Brigance. I may not personally see every patient, but their doctors are under my supervision.”

“Thank you. Doctor, where is Danny Booker today?”

Rodeheaver shot a desperate look at Buckley, and immediately covered it with a warm, relaxed grin for the jury. He hesitated for a few seconds, then hesitated one second too long.

“He’s at Whitfield, isn’t he?” Jake asked in a tone of voice that informed everyone that the answer was yes.

“I believe so,” Rodeheaver said.

“So, he’s directly under your care, then, Doctor?”

“I suppose.”

“And what is his diagnosis, Doctor?”

“I really don’t know. I have a lot of patients and—”

“Paranoid schizophrenic?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

Jake walked backward and sat on the railing. He turned up the volume. “Now, Doctor, I want to make this clear for the jury. In 1975 you testified that Danny Booker was legally sane and understood exactly what he was doing when he committed his crime, and the jury disagreed with you and found him not guilty, and since that time he has been a patient in your hospital, under your supervision, and treated by you as a paranoid schizophrenic. Is that correct?”

The smirk on Rodeheaver’s face informed the jury that it was indeed correct.

Jake picked up another piece of paper and seemed to review it. “Do you recall testifying in the trial of a man by the name of Adam Couch in Dupree County in May of 1977?”

“I remember that case.”

“It was a rape case, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you testified on behalf of the State against Mr. Couch?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you told the jury that he was not legally insane?”

“That was my testimony.”

“Do you recall how many doctors testified on his behalf and told the jury he was a very sick man, that he was legally insane?”

“There were several.”

“Have you ever heard of the following doctors: Felix Perry, Gene Shumate, and Hobny Wicker?”

“Yes.”

“Are they all qualified psychiatrists?”

“They are.”

“And they all testified on behalf of Mr. Couch, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And they all said he was legally insane, didn’t they?”

“They did.”

“And you were the only doctor in the trial who said he was not legally insane?”

“As I recall, yes.”

“And what did the jury do, Doctor?”

“He was found not guilty.”

“By reason of insanity?”

“Yes.”

“And where is Mr. Couch today, Doctor?”

“I think he’s at Whitfield.”

“And how long has he been there?”

“Since the trial, I believe.”

“I see. Do you normally admit patients and keep them for several years if they are of perfectly sound mind?”

Rodeheaver shifted his weight and began a slow burn. He looked at his lawyer, the people’s lawyer, as if to say he was tired of this, do something to stop it.

Jake picked up more papers. “Doctor, do you recall the trial of a man by the name of Buddy Wooddall in Cleburne County, May of 1979?”

“Yes, I certainly do.”

“Murder, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you testified as an expert in the field of psychiatry and told the jury that Mr. Wooddall was not insane?”

“I did.”

“Do you recall how many psychiatrists testified on his behalf and told the jury the poor man was legally insane?”

“I believe there were five, Mr. Brigance.”

“That’s correct, Doctor. Five against one. Do you recall what the jury did?”

The anger and frustration was building in the witness stand. The wise old grandfather/professor with all the right answers was becoming rattled. “Yes, I recall. He was found not guilty by reason of insanity.”

“How do you explain that, Dr. Rodeheaver? Five against one, and the jury finds against you?”

“You just can’t trust juries,” he blurted, then caught himself. He fidgeted and grinned awkwardly at the jurors.

Jake stared at him with a wicked smile, then looked at the jury in disbelief. He folded his arms and allowed the last words to sink in. He waited, staring and grinning at the witness.

“You may proceed, Mr. Brigance,” Noose finally said.

Moving slowly and with great animation, Jake gathered his files and notes while staring at Rodeheaver. “I think we’ve heard enough from this witness, Your Honor.”

“Any redirect, Mr. Buckley?”

“No, sir. The State rests.”

Noose addressed the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, this trial is almost over. There will be no more witnesses. I will now meet with the attorneys to cover some technical areas, then they will be allowed to make their final arguments to you. That will begin at two o’clock and take a couple of hours. You will finally get the case around four, and I will allow you to deliberate until six. If you do not reach a verdict today, you will be taken back to your rooms until tomorrow. It is now almost eleven, and we’ll recess until two. I need to see the attorneys in chambers.”

Carl Lee leaned over and spoke to his lawyer for the first time since Saturday’s adjournment. “You tore him up pretty good, Jake.”

“Wait till you hear the closing argument.”

Jake avoided Harry Rex, and drove to Karaway. His childhood home was an old country house in downtown, surrounded by ancient oaks and maples and elms that kept it cool in spite of the summer heat. In the back, past the trees, was a long open field which ran for an eighth of a mile and disappeared over a small hill. A chickenwire backstop stood over the weeds in one corner. Here, Jake had taken his first steps, rode his first bike, thrown his first football and baseball. Under an oak beside the field, he had buried three dogs, a raccoon, a rabbit, and some ducks. A tire from a ’54 Buick swung not far from the small cemetery.

The house had been locked and deserted for two months. A neighborhood kid cut the grass and tended the lawn. Jake checked the house once a week. His parents were somewhere in Canada in a camper — the summer ritual. He wished he were with them.

He unlocked the door and walked upstairs to his room. It would never change. The walls were covered with team pictures, trophies, baseball caps, posters of Pete Rose, Archie Manning, and Hank Aaron. A row of baseball gloves hung above the closet door. A cap and gown picture sat on the dresser. His mother still cleaned it weekly. She once told him she often went to his room and expected to find him doing homework or sorting baseball cards. She would flip through his scrapbooks, and get all teary eyed.

He thought of Hanna’s room, with the stuffed animals and Mother Goose wallpaper. A thick knot formed in his throat.

He looked out the window, past the trees, and saw himself swinging in the tire near the three white crosses where he buried his dogs. He remembered each funeral, and his father’s promises to get another dog. He thought of Hanna and her dog, and his eyes watered.

The bed was much smaller now. He removed his shoes and lay down. A football helmet hung from the ceiling. Eighth grade, Karaway Mustangs. He scored seven touchdowns in five games. It was all on film downstairs under the bookshelves. The butterflies floated wildly through his stomach.

He carefully placed his notes — his notes, not Lucien’s — on the dresser. He studied himself in the mirror.

He addressed the jury. He began by facing his biggest problem, Dr. W.T. Bass. He apologized. A lawyer walks into a courtroom, faces a strange jury, and has nothing to offer but his credibility. And if he does anything to hurt his credibility, he has hurt his cause, his client. He asked them to believe that he would never put a convicted felon on the stand as an expert witness in any trial. He did not know of the conviction, he raised his hand and swore to this. The world is full of psychiatrists, and he could easily have found another if he had known Bass had a problem, but he simply did not know. And he was sorry.

But what about Bass’s testimony. Thirty years ago he had sex with a girl under eighteen in Texas. Does that mean he is lying now in this trial? Does that mean you cannot trust his professional opinion? Please be fair to Bass the psychiatrist, forget Bass the person. Please be fair to his patient, Carl Lee Hailey. He knew nothing of the doctor’s past.

There was something about Bass they might like to know. Something that was not mentioned by Mr. Buckley when he was ripping the doctor to pieces. The girl he had sex with was seventeen. She later became his wife, bore him a son, and was pregnant when she and the boy were killed in a train—

“Objection!” Buckley shouted. “Objection, Your Honor. That evidence is not in the record!”

“Sustained. Mr. Brigance, you are not to refer to facts not in evidence. The jury will disregard the last statements by Mr. Brigance.”

Jake ignored Noose and Buckley and stared painfully at the jury.

When the shouting died, he continued. What about Rodeheaver? He wondered if the State’s doctor had ever engaged in sex with a girl under eighteen. Seemed silly to think about such things, didn’t it? Bass and Rodeheaver in their younger days — it seemed so unimportant now in this courtroom almost thirty years later.

The State’s doctor is a man with an obvious bias. A highly trained specialist who treats thousands for all sorts of mental illnesses, yet when crimes are involved he cannot recognize insanity. His testimony should be carefully weighed.

They watched him, listened to every word. He was not a courtroom preacher, like his opponent. He was quiet, sincere. He looked tired, almost hurt.

Lucien was sober, and he sat with folded arms and watched the jurors, all except Sisco. It was not his closing, but it was good. It was coming from the heart.

Jake apologized for his inexperience. He had not been in many trials, not nearly as many as Mr. Buckley. And if he seemed a little green, or if he made mistakes, please don’t hold it against Carl Lee. It wasn’t his fault. He was just a rookie trying his best against a seasoned adversary who tried murder cases every month. He made a mistake with Bass, and he made other mistakes, and he asked the jury to forgive him.

He had a daughter, the only one he would ever have. She was four, almost five, and his world revolved around her. She was special; she was a little girl, and it was up to him to protect her. There was a bond there, something he could not explain. He talked about little girls.

Carl Lee had a daughter. Her name was Tonya. He pointed to her on the front row next to her mother and brothers. She’s a beautiful little girl, ten years old. And she can never have children. She can never have a daughter because—”

“Objection,” Buckley said without shouting.

“Sustained,” Noose said.

Jake ignored the commotion. He talked about rape for a while, and explained how rape is much worse than murder. With murder, the victim is gone, and not forced to deal with what happened to her. The family must deal with it, but not the victim. But rape is much worse. The victim has a lifetime of coping, of trying to understand, of asking questions, and, the worst part, of knowing the rapist is still alive and may someday escape or be released. Every hour of every day, the victim thinks of the rape and asks herself a thousand questions. She relives it, step by step, minute by minute, and it hurts just as bad.

Perhaps the most horrible crime of all is the violent rape of a child. A woman who is raped has a pretty good idea why it happened. Some animal was filled with hatred, anger, and violence. But a child? A ten-year-old child? Suppose you’re a parent. Imagine yourself trying to explain to your child why she was raped. Imagine yourself trying to explain why she cannot bear children.

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Please disregard that last statement, ladies and gentlemen.”

Jake never missed a beat. Suppose, he said, your ten-year-old daughter is raped, and you’re a Vietnam vet, very familiar with an M-16, and you get your hands on one while your daughter is lying in the hospital fighting for her life. Suppose the rapist is caught, and six days later you manage to maneuver to within five feet of him as he leaves court. And you’ve got the M-16.

What do you do?

Mr. Buckley has told you what he would do. He would mourn for his daughter, turn the other cheek, and hope the judicial system worked. He would hope the rapist would receive justice, be sent to Parchman, and hopefully never paroled. That’s what he would do, and they should admire him for being such a kind, compassionate, and forgiving soul. But what would a reasonable father do?

What would Jake do? If he had the M-16? Blow the bastard’s head off!

It was simple. It was justice.

Jake paused for a drink of water, then shifted gears. The pained and humble look was replaced with an air of indignation. Let’s talk about Cobb and Willard. They started this mess. It was their lives the State was attempting to justify. Who would miss them except their mothers? Child rapists. Drug pushers. Would society miss such productive citizens? Wasn’t Ford County safer without them? Were not the other children in the county better off now that two rapists and pushers had been removed? All parents should feel safer. Carl Lee deserves a medal, or at least a round of applause. He was a hero. That’s what Looney said. Give the man a trophy. Send him home to his family.

He talked about Looney. He had a daughter. He also had one leg, thanks to Carl Lee Hailey. If anyone had a right to be bitter, to want blood, it was DeWayne Looney. And he said Carl Lee should be sent home to his family.

He urged them to forgive as Looney had forgiven. He asked them to follow Looney’s wishes.

He became much quieter, and said he was almost through. He wanted to leave them with one thought. Picture this if they could. When she was lying there, beaten, bloodied, legs spread and tied to trees, she looked into the woods around her. Semiconscious and hallucinating, she saw someone running toward her. It was her daddy, running desperately to save her. In her dreams she saw him when she needed him the most. She cried out for him, and he disappeared. He was taken away.

She needs him now, as much as she needed him then. Please don’t take him away. She waits on the front row for her daddy.

Let him go home to his family.

The courtroom was silent as Jake sat next to his client. He glanced at the jury, and saw Wanda Womack brush away a tear with her finger. For the first time in two days he felt a flicker of hope.

At four, Noose bid farewell to his jury. He told them to elect a foreman, get organized, and get busy. He told them they could deliberate until six, maybe seven, and if no verdict was reached he would recess until nine Tuesday morning. They stood and filed slowly from the courtroom. Once out of sight, Noose recessed until six and instructed the attorneys to remain close to the courtroom or leave a number with the clerk.

The spectators held their seats and chatted quietly. Carl Lee was allowed to sit on the front row with his family. Buckley and Musgrove waited in chambers with Noose. Harry Rex, Lucien, and Jake left for the office and a liquid supper. No one expected a quick verdict.

The bailiff locked them in the jury room and instructed the two alternates to take a seat in the narrow hallway. Inside, Barry Acker was elected foreman by acclamation. He laid the jury instructions and exhibits on a small table in a corner. They sat anxiously around two folding tables placed end to end.

“I suggest we take an informal vote,” he said. “Just to see where we are. Any objections to that?”

There were none. He had a list of twelve names.

“Vote guilty, not guilty, or undecided. Or you can pass for now.”

“Reba Betts.”

“Undecided.”

“Bernice Toole.”

“Guilty.”

“Carol Corman.”

“Guilty.”

“Donna Lou Peck.”

“Undecided.”

“Sue Williams.”

“Pass.”

“Jo Ann Gates.”

“Guilty.”

“Rita Mae Plunk.”

“Guilty.”

“Frances McGowan.”

“Guilty.”

“Wanda Womack.”

“Undecided.”

“Eula Dell Yates.”

“Undecided, for now. I wanna talk about it.”

“We will. Clyde Sisco.”

“Undecided.”

“That’s eleven. I’m Barry Acker, and I vote not guilty.”

He tallied for a few seconds and said, “That’s five guilties, five undecideds, one pass, and one not guilty. Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

They worked through the exhibits, photographs, fingerprints, and ballistics reports. At six, they informed the judge they had not reached a verdict. They were hungry and wanted to go. He recessed until Tuesday morning.