A Time to Kill (Jake Brigance #1)

A Time to Kill (Jake Brigance #1) Page 26

The abandoned feed mill sat near the abandoned railroad tracks halfway down the tallest hill in Clanton, two blocks north and east of the square. Beside it was a neglected asphalt and gravel street that ran downhill and intersected Cedar Street, after which it became much smoother and wider and continued downward until finally it terminated and merged into Quincy Street, the eastern boundary of the Clanton square.

From his position inside an abandoned silo, the marksman had a clear but distant view of the rear of the courthouse. He crouched in the darkness and aimed through a small opening, confident no one in the world could see him. The whiskey helped the confidence, and the aim, which he practiced a thousand times from seven-thirty until eight, when he noticed activity around the nigger's lawyer's office.

A comrade waited in a pickup hidden in a run-down warehouse next to the silo. The engine was running and the driver chain-smoked Lucky Strikes, waiting anxiously to hear the clapping sounds from the deer rifle.

As the armored mass stepped its way across Washington, the marksman panicked. Through the scope he could barely see the head of the nigger's lawyer as it bobbed and weaved awkwardly among the sea of green, which was surrounded and chased by a dozen reporters. Go ahead, the whiskey said, create some excitement. He timed the bobbing and weaving as best he could, and pulled the trigger as the target approached the rear door of the courthouse.

The rifle shot was clear and unmistakable.

Half the soldiers hit the ground rolling and the other half grabbed Jake and threw him violently under the veranda/A guardsman screamed in anguish. The reporters and

TV people crouched and stumbled to the ground, but valiantly kept the cameras rolling to record the carnage. The soldier clutched his throat and screamed again. Another shot. Then another.

"He's hit!" someone yelled. The soldiers scrambled on all fours across the driveway to the fallen one. Jake escaped through the doors to the safety of the courthouse. He fell onto the floor of the rear entrance and buried his head in his hands. Ozzie stood next to him, watching the soldiers through the door.

The gunman dropped from the silo, threw his gun behind the back seat, and disappeared with his comrade into the countryside. They had a funeral to attend in south Mississippi.

"He's hit in the throat!" someone screamed as his buddies waded around the reporters. They lifted him and dragged him to a jeep.

"Who got hit?" Jake asked without removing his palms from his eyes.

"One of the guardsmen," Ozzie said. "You okay?"

"I guess," he answered as he clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the floor. "Where's my briefcase?"

"It's out there on the driveway. We'll get it in a min-* ute." Ozzie removed his radio from his belt and barked orders to the dispatcher, something about all men to the courthouse.

When it was apparent the shooting was over, Ozzie joined the mass of soldiers outside. Nesbit stood next to Jake. "You okay?" he asked.

The colonel rounded the corner, yelling and swearing. "What the hell happened?" he demanded. "I heard some shots."

"Mackenvale got hit."

"Where is he?" the colonel said. -

"Off to the hospital," a sergeant replied, pointing at a jeep flying away in the distance.

"How bad is he?"

"Looked pretty bad. Got him in the throat."

"Throat! Why did they move him?"

No one answered.

"Did anybody see anything?" the colonel demanded.

Sounded like it came from up, Ozzie said the looking up past Cedar Street. "Why don't you send a jeep up there to look around."

"Good idea." The colonel addressed his eager men with a string of terse commands, punctuated liberally with obscenities. The soldiers scattered in all directions, guns drawn and ready for combat, in search of an assassin they could not identify, who was, in fact, in the next county when the foot patrol began exploring the abandoned feed mill.

Ozzie laid the briefcase on the floor next to Jake. "Is Jake okay?" he whispered to Nesbit. Harry Rex and Ellen stood on the stairs where Cobb and Willard had fallen.

"I don't know. He ain't moved in ten minutes," Nesbit said.

"Jake, are you all right?" the sheriff asked.

"Yes," he said slowly without opening his eyes. The soldier had been on Jake's left shoulder. "This is kinda silly, ain't it?" he had just said to Jake when a bullet ripped through his throat. He fell into Jake, grabbing at his neck, gurgling blood and screaming. Jake fell, and was tossed to safety.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Jake asked softly.

"We don't know yet," replied Ozzie. "He's at the hospital."

"He's dead. I know he's dead. I heard his neck pop."

Ozzie looked at Nesbit, then at Harry Rex. Four or five coin-sized drops of blood were splattered on Jake's light gray suit. He hadn't noticed them yet, but they were apparent to everyone else.

"Jake, you've got blood on your suit," Ozzie finally said. "Let's go back to your office so you can change clothes."

"Why is that important?" Jake mumbled to the floor. They stared at each other.

Dell and the others from the Coffee Shop stood on the sidewalk and watched as they led Jake from the courthouse, across the street, and into his office, ignoring the absurdities thrown by the reporters. Harry Rex locked the front door, leaving the bodyguards on the sidewalk. Jake went upstairs and removed his coat.

"Row Ark, why don't you make some margaritas," Harry Rex said. "I'll go upstairs and stay with him."

"Judge, we've had some excitement," Ozzie explained as Noose unpacked his briefcase and removed his coat.

"What is it?" Buckley asked.

"They tried to kill Jake this mornin'."

"What!"

"When?" asked Buckley.

" 'Bout an hour ago, somebody shot at Jake as he was comin' into the courthouse. It was a rifle at long range. We have no idea who did it. They missed Jake and hit a guardsman. He's in surgery now."

"Where's Jake?" asked His Honor.

"Over in his office. He's pretty shook up."

"I would be too," Noose said sympathetically.

"He wanted you to call him when you got here."

"Sure." Ozzie dialed the number and handed the phone to the judge.

"It's Noose," Harry Rex said, handing the phone to Jake.

"Hello."

"Are you okay, Jake?"

"Not really. I won't be there today."

Noose struggled for a response. "Do what?"

"I said I won't be in court today. I'm not up to it."

"Well, uh, Jake, where does that leave the rest of us?"

"I don't care, really," Jake said, sipping on his second margarita.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I said I don't care, Judge. I don't care what you do, I won't be there."

Noose shook his head and looked at the receiver. "Are you hurt?" he asked with feeling.

"You ever been shot at, Judge?"

"No, Jake."

"You ever seen a man get shot, hear him scream?"

"No, Jake."

"You ever had somebody else's blood splashed on your suit?"

"No, Jake."

"I won't be there."

Noose paused and thought for a moment. Come on over, Jake, and let's talk about it."

"No. I'm not leaving my office. It's dangerous out there."

"Suppose we stand in recess until one. Will you feel better then?"

"I'll be drunk by then."

"What!"

"I said I'll be drunk by then,"

Harry Rex covered his eyes. Ellen left for the kitchen.

"When do you think you might be sober?" Noose asked sternly. Ozzie and Buckley looked at each other.

"Monday."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

"Yes, I know, and I'd planned to hold court tomorrow. We've got a jury sequestered, remember?"

"Okay, I'll be ready in the morning."

"That's good to hear. What do I tell the jury right now? They're sitting in the jury room waiting on us. The courtroom is packed. Your client is sitting out there by himself waiting on you. What do I tell these people?"

"You'll think of something, Judge. I've got faith in you." Jake hung up. Noose listened to the unbelievable until it was evident that he had in fact been hung up on. He handed the phone to Ozzie.

His Honor looked out the window and removed his glasses. "He says he ain't comin' today."

Uncharacteristically, Buckley remained silent.

Ozzie was defensive. "It really got to him, Judge."

"Has he been drinking?"

"Naw, not Jake," Ozzie replied. "He's just tore up over that boy gettin' shot like he did. He was right next to Jake, and caught the bullet that was aimed for him. It would upset anybody, Judge."

"He wants us to remain in recess until tomorrow morning," Noose said to Buckley, who shrugged and again said nothing.

As word spread, a regular carnival developed on the sidewalk outside Jake's office. The press set up camp and pawed at the front window in hopes of seeing someone or something newsworthy inside. Friends stopped by to check on Jake, but were informed by various of the reporters that he was locked away inside and would not come out. Yes, he was unhurt.

Dr. Bass had been scheduled to testify Friday morning. He and Lucien entered the office through the rear door a few minutes after ten, and Harry Rex left for the liquor store.

With all the crying, the conversation with Carla had been difficult. He called after three drinks, and things did not go well. He talked to her father, told him he was safe, unhurt, and that half of the Mississippi National Guard had been assigned to protect him. Settle her down, he said, and he would call back later.

Lucien was furious. He had fought with Bass to keep him sober Thursday night so he could testify Friday. Now that he would testify Saturday, there was no way to keep him sober two days in a row. He thought of all the drinking they had missed Thursday, and was furious.

Harry Rex returned with a gallon of liquor. He and Ellen mixed drinks and argued over the ingredients. She rinsed the coffeepot, filled it with Bloody Mary mix and a disproportionate helping of Swedish vodka. Harry Rex added a lavish dose of Tabasco. He made the rounds in the conference room and refilled each cup with the delightful mixture.

Dr. Bass gulped frantically and ordered more. Lucien and Harry Rex debated the likely identity of the gunman. Ellen silently watched Jake, who sat in the corner and stared at the bookshelves.

The phone rang. Harry Rex grabbed it and listened intently. He hung up and said, "That was Ozzie. The soldier's outta surgery. Bullet's lodged in the spine. They think he'll be paralyzed."

They all sipped in unison and said nothing. They made great efforts to ignore Jake as he rubbed his forehead with one hand and sloshed his drink with the other. The faint

sound of someone knocking at me rear door interrupted brief memorial.

"Go see who it is," Lucien ordered Ellen, who left to see who was knocking.

"It's Lester Hailey," she reported to the conference room.

"Let him in," Jake mumbled, almost incoherently.

Lester was introduced to the parry and offered a Bloody Mary. He declined and asked for something with whiskey in it.

"Good idea," said Lucien. "I'm tired of light stuff. Let's get some Jack Daniel's."

"Sounds good to me," added Bass as he gulped the remnants in his cup.

Jake managed a weak smile at Lester, then returned to the study of the bookshelves. Lucien threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and Harry Rex left for the liquor store.

When she awoke hours later, Ellen was on the couch in Jake's office. The room was dark and deserted, with an acrid, intoxicating smell to it. She moved cautiously. She found her boss peacefully snoring away in the war room, on the floor, partially under the war desk. There were no lights to extinguish, so she carefully walked down the stairs. The conference room was littered with empty liquor bottles, beer cans, plastic cups and chicken dinner boxes. It was 9:30 P.M. She had slept five hours.

She could stay at Lucien's, but needed to change clothes. Her friend Nesbit would drive her to Oxford, but she was sober. Plus, Jake needed all the protection he could get. She locked the front door and walked to her car.

Ellen almost made it to Oxford when she saw the blue lights behind her. As usual, she was driving seventy-five. She parked on the shoulder and walked to her taillights, where she searched her purse and waited on the trooper.

Two plainsclothesmen approached from the blue lights.

"You drunk, ma'am?" one of them asked, spewing tobacco juice.

"No, sir. I'm trying to find my license."

She crouched before the taillights and fished for the

license. Suddenly, she was knocked to the ground. A heavy quilt was thrown over her and both men held her down. A rope was wrapped around her chest and waist. She kicked and cursed, but could offer little resistance. The quilt covered her head and trapped her arms underneath. They pulled the rope tightly.

"Be still, bitch! Be still!"

One of them removed her keys from the ignition and opened the trunk. They threw her inside and slammed it shut. The blue lights were unplugged in the old Lincoln and it roared away, trailed by the BMW. They found a gravel road and followed it deep into the woods. It turned into a dirt road that led to a small pasture where a large cross was being burned by a handful of Kluxers.

The two assailants quickly donned their robes and masks and removed her from the trunk. She was thrown to the ground and the quilt removed. They bound and gagged her, and dragged her to a large pole a few feet from the cross where she was tied, her back to the Kluxers, her face to the pole.

She saw the white robes and pointed hats, and tried desperately to spit out the oily, cotton rag crammed in her mouth. She managed only to gag and cough.

The flaming cross illuminated the small pasture, discharging a glowing wave of heat that began to roast her as she wrestled with the pole and emitted strange, guttural noises.

A hooded figure left the others and approached her. She could hear him walking and breathing. "You nigger-loving bitch," he said in a crisp Midwestern voice. He grabbed the rear of her collar and ripped the white silk blouse until it hung in shreds around her neck and shoulders. Her hands were tied firmly around the pole. He removed a bowie knife from under the robe, and began cutting the remainder of the blouse from her body. "You nigger-loving bitch. You nigger-loving bitch."

Ellen cursed him, but her words were muffled groans.

He unzipped the navy linen skirt on the right side. She tried to kick, but the heavy rope around her ankles held her feet to the pole. He placed the tip of the knife at the bottom of the zipper, and cut downward through the hem. He

grabbed around the waist and pulled it off like a magician. The Kluxers stepped forward.

He slapped her on the butt, and said, "Nice, very nice." He stepped back to admire his handiwork. She grunted and twisted but could not resist. The slip fell to mid-thigh. With great ceremony, he cut the straps, then sliced it neatly down the back. He yanked it off and threw it at the foot of the burning cross. He cut the bra straps and removed it. She jerked and the moans became louder. The silent semicircle inched forward and stopped ten feet away.

The fire was hot now. Her bare back and legs were covered with sweat. The light red hair was drenched around her neck and shoulders. He reached under his robe again and brought out a bullwhip. He popped it loudly near her and she flinched. He marched backward, carefully measur ing the distance to the pole.

He cocked the bullwhip and aimed at the bare back. The tallest one stepped forward with his back to her. He shook his head. Nothing was said, but the whip disappeared.

He walked to her and grabbed her head. With his knife, he cut her hair. He grabbed handfuls and hacked away until her scalp was gapped and ugly. It piled gently around her feet. She moaned and did not move.

They headed for their cars. A gallon of gasoline was splashed inside the BMW with Massachusetts tags and somebody threw a match.

When he was certain they were gone, Mickey Mouse slid from the bushes. He untied her and carried her to a small clearing away from the pasture. He gathered the remains of her clothing and tried to cover her. When her car finished burning beside the dirt road, he left her. He drove to Oxford, to a pay phone, and called the Lafayette County sheriff.

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 first-hand. 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 Lucieh 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 resume, and though unim-

pressive, 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 ot me oencn 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. Bri-gance."

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?"