A Time to Kill

42

At hundreds of small black churches across north Mississippi, the faithful gathered before dawn and loaded picnic baskets, coolers, lawn chairs, and water jugs into converted school buses and church vans. They greeted friends and chatted nervously about the trial. For weeks they had read and talked about Carl Lee Hailey; now, they were about to go help. Many were old and retired, but there were entire families with children and playpens. When the buses were full, they piled into cars and followed their preachers. They sang and prayed. The preachers met other preachers in small towns and county seats, and they set out in force down the dark highways. When daylight materialized, the highways and roads leading to Ford County were filled with caravans of pilgrims.

They jammed the side streets for blocks around the square. They parked where they stopped and unloaded.

The fat colonel had just finished breakfast and stood in the gazebo watching intently. Buses and cars, many with horns honking, were coming from all directions to the square. The barricades held firm. He barked commands and the soldiers jumped into high gear. More excitement. At seven-thirty, he called Ozzie and told him of the invasion. Ozzie arrived immediately and found Agee, who assured him it was a peaceful march. Sort of like a sit-in. How many were coming? Ozzie asked. Thousands, said Agee. Thousands.

They set up camp under the stately oaks, and milled around the lawn inspecting things. They arranged tables and chairs and playpens. They were indeed peaceful, until a group began the familiar cry of “Free Carl Lee!” They cleared their throats and joined in. It was not yet eight o’clock.

A black radio station in Memphis flooded the airwaves early Tuesday with a call for help. Black bodies were needed to march and demonstrate in Clanton, Mississippi, an hour away. Hundreds of cars met at a mall and headed south. Every civil rights activist and black politician in the city made the trip.

Agee was a man possessed. He used a bullhorn to shout orders here and there. He herded new arrivals into their places. He organized the black preachers. He assured Ozzie and the colonel everything was okay.

Everything was okay until a handful of Klansmen made their routine appearance. The sight of the white robes was new to many of the blacks, and they reacted loudly. They inched forward, screaming and jeering. The troops surrounded the robes and protected them. The Kluxers were stunned and scared, and did not yell back.

By eight-thirty, the streets of Clanton were grid-locked. Deserted cars, vans, and buses were scattered haphazardly through parking lots and along the quiet residential streets. A steady stream of blacks walked toward the square from all directions. Traffic did not move. Driveways were blocked. Merchants parked blocks away from their shops. The mayor stood in the center of the gazebo, wringing his hands and begging Ozzie to do something. Around him thousands of blacks swarmed and yelled in perfect unison. Ozzie asked the mayor if he wanted him to start arresting everybody on the courthouse lawn.

Noose parked at a service station a half mile south of the jail, and walked with a group of blacks to the courthouse. They watched him curiously, but said nothing. No one would suspect he was a person of authority. Buckley and Musgrove parked in a driveway on Adams Street. They cursed and walked toward the square. They noticed the pile of rubble that had been Jake’s house but said nothing. They were too busy cursing. With state troopers leading the way, the Greyhound from Temple reached the square at twenty minutes after nine. Through the dark windows, the fourteen passengers stared in disbelief at the carnival around the courthouse.

Mr. Pate called the packed courtroom to order, and Noose welcomed his jury. He apologized for the trouble outside, but there was nothing he could do. If there were no problems to report, they could continue deliberations.

“Very well, you may retire to the jury room and get to work. We will meet again just before lunch.”

The jurors filed out and went to the jury room. The Hailey children sat with their father at the defense table. The spectators, now predominantly black, remained seated and struck up conversations. Jake returned to his office.

Foreman Acker sat at the end of the long, dusty table and thought of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Ford Countians who had served in this room and sat around this table and argued about justice over the past century. Any pride he may have felt for serving on the jury of the most famous case was greatly overshadowed by what happened last night. He wondered how many of his predecessors had been threatened with death. Probably a few, he decided.

The others fixed their coffee and slowly found seats around the tables. The room brought back fond memories for Clyde Sisco. Prior jury duty had proved lucrative for him, and he relished the thought of another handsome payoff for another just and true verdict. His messenger had not contacted him.

“How would y’all like to proceed?” the foreman asked.

Rita Mae Plunk had an especially hard and unforgiving look about her. She was a rough woman with a house trailer, no husband, and two outlaws for sons, both of whom had expressed hatred for Carl Lee Hailey. She had a few things she wanted to get off her large chest.

“I got a few things I wanna say,” she informed Acker.

“Fine. Why don’t we start with you, Miss Plunk, and go around the table.”

“I voted guilty yesterday in the first vote, and I’ll vote guilty next time. I don’t see how anybody could vote not guilty, and I want just one of you to explain to me how you could vote in favor of this nigger!”

“Don’t say that word again!” yelled Wanda Womack.

“I’ll say ‘nigger’ if I wanna say ‘nigger,’ and there ain’t a damned thing you can do,” replied Rita Mae.

“Please don’t use that word,” said Frances McGowan.

“I find it personally offensive,” said Wanda Womack.

“Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger,” Rita Mae yelled across the table.

“Come on,” said Clyde Sisco.

“Oh boy,” said the foreman. “Look, Miss Plunk, let’s be honest, okay. Most of us use that word, from time to time. I’m sure some of us use it more than others. But it’s offensive to many people, and I think it’d be a good idea not to use it during our deliberations. We’ve got enough to worry about as it is. Can we all agree not to use that word?”

Everyone nodded but Rita Mae.

Sue Williams decided to answer. She was well dressed, attractive, about forty. She worked for the county welfare department. “I didn’t vote yesterday. I passed. But I tend to sympathize with Mr. Hailey. I have a daughter, and if she was raped, it would greatly affect my mental stability. I can understand how a parent might crack in that situation, and I think it’s unfair for us to judge Mr. Hailey as if he was supposed to act completely rational.”

“You think he was legally insane?” asked Reba Betts, an undecided.

“I’m not sure. But I know he wasn’t stable. He couldn’t have been.”

“So you believe that nut of a doctor who testified for him?” asked Rita Mae.

“Yes. He was as believable as the State’s doctor.”

“I liked his boots,” said Clyde Sisco. No one laughed.

“But he’s a convict,” said Rita Mae. “He lied and tried to cover it up. You can’t believe a word he said.”

“He had sex with a girl under eighteen,” Clyde said. “If that’s a crime, then a bunch of us should’ve been indicted.”

Again, no one appreciated the attempt at humor. Clyde decided to stay quiet for a while.

“He later married the girl,” said Donna Lou Peck, an undecided.

They went around the table, one at a time, expressing opinions and answering questions. The N word was carefully avoided by those wanting a conviction. The battle lines became clearer. Most of the undecideds leaned toward guilty, it seemed. The careful planning by Carl Lee, knowing the exact movements of the boys, the M-16 — it all seemed so premeditated. If he had caught them in the act and killed them on the spot, he would not be held accountable. But to plan it so carefully for six days did not indicate an insane mind.

Wanda Womack, Sue Williams, and Clyde Sisco leaned toward acquittal — the rest toward conviction. Barry Acker was noticeably noncommittal.

Agee unfurled a long blue and white FREE CARL LEE banner. The ministers gathered fifteen abreast behind it, and waited for the parade to form behind them. They stood in the center of Jackson Street, in front of the courthouse, while Agee screamed instructions to the masses. Thousands of blacks packed tightly behind them, and off they went. They inched down Jackson, and turned left on Caffey, up the west side of the square. Agee led the marchers in their now familiar battle cry of “Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!” They screamed it in an endless, repetitive, numbing chorus. As the crowd moved around the square, it grew in number and volume.

Smelling trouble, the merchants locked up and headed for home and safety. They checked their policies to see if they were insured for riot damage. The green soldiers were lost in a sea of black. The colonel, sweating and nervous, ordered his troops to circle the courthouse and stand firm. While Agee and the marchers were turning onto Washington Street, Ozzie met with the handful of Kluxers. In a sincere and diplomatic way, he convinced them things could get out of hand, and he could no longer guarantee their safety. He acknowledged their right to assemble, said they had made their point, and asked them to get away from the square before there was trouble. They huddled quickly, and disappeared.

When the banner passed under the jury room, all twelve gaped from the window. The incessant chanting rattled the glass panes. The bullhorn sounded like a loudspeaker hanging from the ceiling. The jurors stared in disbelief at the mob, the black mob which filled the street and trailed around the corner onto Caffey. A varied assortment of homemade signs bobbed above the masses and demanded that the man be freed.

“I didn’t know there were this many niggers in Ford County,” Rita Mae Plunk said. At that moment, the other eleven held the same thought.

Buckley was furious. He and Musgrove watched from a third-floor window in the library. The roar below had disrupted their quiet conversation.

“I didn’t know there were this many niggers in Ford County,” Musgrove said.

“There ain’t. Somebody shipped these niggers in here. I wonder who put them up to it.”

“Probably Brigance.”

“Yeah, probably so. It’s mighty convenient that they start all this hell-raising when the jury is deliberating. There must be five thousand niggers down there.”

“At least.”

Noose and Mr. Pate watched and listened from a second-floor window in chambers. His Honor was not happy. He worried about his jury. “I don’t see how they can concentrate on much with all this going on.”

“Pretty good timing, ain’t it, Judge?” Mr. Pate said.

“It certainly is.”

“I didn’t know we had that many blacks in the whole county.”

It took twenty minutes for Mr. Pate and Jean Gillespie to find the attorneys and bring the courtroom to order. When it was quiet, the jurors filed into their seats. There were no smiles.

Noose cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for lunch. I don’t suppose you have anything to report.”

Barry Acker shook his head.

“That’s what I figured. Let’s break for lunch, until one-thirty. I realize you cannot leave the courthouse, but I want you to eat for a while without working on the case. I apologize for the disturbance outside, but, frankly, I can’t do anything about it. We’ll be in recess until one-thirty.”

In chambers, Buckley went wild. “This is crazy, Judge! There’s no way the jury can concentrate on this case with all that noise out there. This is a deliberate effort to intimidate the jury.”

“I don’t like it,” Noose said.

“It was planned, Judge! It’s intentional!” Buckley yelled.

“It looks bad,” Noose added.

“I’m almost ready for a mistrial!”

“I won’t grant one. What do you say, Jake?”

Jake grinned for a moment, and said, “Free Carl Lee.”

“Very funny,” Buckley growled. “You probably planned all this.”

“No. If you will recall, Mr. Buckley, I tried to prevent it. I have repeatedly asked for a change of venue. I have repeatedly said the trial should not be held in this courthouse. You wanted it here, Mr. Buckley, and you kept it here, Judge Noose. You both now look foolish complaining.”

Jake was impressed with his arrogance. Buckley growled and stared out the window. “Look at them. Wild niggers. Must be ten thousand out there.”

During lunch the ten thousand grew to fifteen thousand. Cars from a hundred miles away — some with Tennessee plates — parked on the shoulders of the highways outside the city limits. The people hiked for two and three miles under a blistering sun to join the festivities around the courthouse. Agee broke for lunch, and the square quieted.

The blacks were peaceful. They opened their coolers and picnic baskets, and shared with each other. They congregated in the shade, but there were not enough trees to go around. They filled the courthouse in search of cold water and restrooms. They walked the sidewalks and gazed in the windows of the closed shops and stores. Fearing trouble from the horde, the Coffee Shop and the Tea Shoppe had closed during lunch. Outside of Claude’s, they lined the sidewalk for a block and a half.

Jake, Harry Rex, and Lucien relaxed on the balcony and enjoyed the circus below. A pitcher of fresh, slushy margaritas sat on the table and slowly disappeared. At times they participated in the rally, yelling “Free Carl Lee” or humming along with “We Shall Overcome.” No one knew the words but Lucien. He had learned them during the glorious civil rights days of the sixties, and still claimed to be the only white in Ford County who knew all the words to every stanza. He had even joined a black church back then, he explained between drinks, after his church voted to exclude black members. He dropped out after a three-hour sermon ruptured a disk. He had decided white people were not cut out for that kind of worship. He still contributed, however.

Occasionally, a crew of TV people would stray near Jake’s office and serve up a question. Jake would pretend not to hear, then finally yell “Free Carl Lee.”

Precisely at one-thirty, Agee found his bullhorn, unfurled his banner, lined up the ministers and gathered his marchers. He started with the hymn, sung directly into the bullhorn, and the parade crawled down Jackson, then onto Caffey, and around and around the square. Each lap attracted more people and made more noise.

The jury room was silent for fifteen minutes after Reba Betts was converted from an undecided to a not guilty. If a man raped her, she just might blow his head off if she got the chance. It was now five to five with two undecideds, and a compromise looked hopeless. The foreman continued to straddle the fence. Poor old Eula Dell Yates had cried one way, then cried the other, and everyone knew she would eventually go with the majority. She had burst into tears at the window, and was led to her seat by Clyde Sisco. She wanted to go home. Said she felt like a prisoner.

The shouting and marching had taken its toll. When the bullhorn passed nearby, the anxiety level in the small room reached a frenzied peak. Acker would ask for quiet, and they would wait impatiently until the racket faded to the front of the courthouse. It never disappeared completely. Carol Corman was the first to inquire about their safety. For the first time in a week, the quiet motel was awfully attractive.

Three hours of nonstop chanting had unraveled whatever nerves were left. The foreman suggested they talk about their families and wait until Noose sent for them at five.

Bernice Toole, a soft guilty, suggested something they had all thought about but no one had mentioned. “Why don’t we just tell the judge we are hopelessly deadlocked?”

“He’d declare a mistrial, wouldn’t he?” asked Jo Ann Gates.

“Yes,” answered the foreman. “And he would be retried in a few months. Why don’t we call it a day, and try again tomorrow?”

They agreed. They were not ready to quit. Eula Dell cried softly.

At four, Carl Lee and the kids walked to one of the tall windows lining each side of the courtroom. He noticed a small knob. He turned it, and the windows swung open to a tiny platform hanging over the west lawn. He nodded at a deputy, and stepped outside. He held Tonya and watched the crowd.

They saw him. They yelled his name and rushed to the building under him. Agee led the marchers off the street and across the lawn. A wave of black humanity gathered under the small porch and pressed forward for a closer look at their champion.

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

He waved at his fans below him. He kissed his daughter and hugged his sons. He waved and told the kids to wave.

Jake and his small band of hombres used the diversion to stagger across the street to the courthouse. Jean Gillespie had called. Noose wanted to see the lawyers in chambers. He was disturbed. Buckley was raging.

“I demand a mistrial! I demand a mistrial!” he yelled at Noose the second Jake walked in.

“You move for a mistrial, Governor. You don’t demand,” Jake said through glassy eyes.

“You go to hell, Brigance! You planned all this. You plotted this insurrection. Those are your niggers out there.”

“Where’s the court reporter?” Jake asked. “I want this on the record.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Noose said. “Let’s be professionals.”

“Judge, the State moves for a mistrial,” Buckley said, somewhat professionally.

“Overruled.”

“All right, then. The State moves to allow the jury to deliberate at someplace other than the courthouse.”

“Now that’s an interesting idea,” Noose said.

“I see no reason why they can’t deliberate at the motel. It’s quiet and few people know where it is,” Buckley said confidently.

“Jake?” Noose said.

“Nope, it won’t work. There is no statutory provision giving you the authority to allow deliberations outside the courthouse.” Jake reached in his pocket and found several folded papers. He threw them on the desk. “State versus Dubose, 1963 case from Linwood County. The air conditioning in the Linwood County Courthouse quit during a heat wave. The circuit judge allowed the jury to deliberate in a local library. The defense objected. Jury convicted. On appeal, the Supreme Court ruled the judge’s decision was improper and an abuse of discretion. The court went on to hold that the jury deliberations must take place in the jury room in the courthouse where the defendant is being tried. You can’t move them.”

Noose studied the case and handed it to Musgrove.

“Get the courtroom ready,” he said to Mr. Pate.

With the exception of the reporters, the courtroom was solid black. The jurors looked haggard and strained.

“I take it you do not have a verdict,” Noose said.

“No, sir,” replied the foreman.

“Let me ask you this. Without indicating any numerical division, have you reached a point where you can go no further?”

“We’ve talked about that, Your Honor. And we’d like to leave, get a good night’s rest, and try again tomorrow. We’re not ready to quit.”

“That’s good to hear. I apologize for the distractions, but, again, there’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to do your best. Anything further?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well. We’ll stand adjourned until nine A.M. tomorrow.”

Carl Lee pulled Jake’s shoulder. “What does all this mean?”

“It means they’re deadlocked. It could be six to six, or eleven to one against you, or eleven to one for acquittal. So don’t get excited.”

Barry Acker cornered the bailiff and handed him a folded sheet of paper. It read:

“Can you get this to my wife today? Our number is 881–0774.”

“Sure,” said the bailiff.

Tim Nunley, mechanic down at the Chevrolet place, former client of Jake Brigance, and Coffee Shop regular, sat on a couch in the cabin deep in the woods and drank a beer. He listened to his Klan brothers as they got drunk and cursed niggers. Occasionally, he cursed them too. He had noticed whispering for the past two nights now, and felt something was up. He listened carefully.

He stood to get another beer. Suddenly, they jumped him. Three of his comrades pinned him against the wall and pounded him with fists and feet. He was beaten badly, then gagged, bound, and dragged outside, across the gravel road, and into the field where he had been inducted as a member. A cross was lit as he was tied to a pole and stripped. A bull-whip lashed him until his shoulders, back, and legs were solid crimson.

Two dozen of his ex-brethren watched in mute horror as the pole and limp body were soaked with kerosene. The leader, the one with the bullwhip, stood next to him for an eternity. He pronounced the death sentence, then threw a match.

Mickey Mouse had been silenced.

They packed their robes and belongings, and left for home. Most would never return to Ford County.