A Time to Kill (Jake Brigance #1)

A Time to Kill (Jake Brigance #1) Page 5

"Not really. You did do it?"

"You know I did."

Jake smiled, nodded, and crossed his arms. "How do you feel?"

Carl Lee relaxed and sat back in the folding chair. "Well, I feel better. I don't feel good 'bout the whole thing. I wish it didn't happen. But I wish my girl was okay too, you know. I didn't have nothin' against them boys till they messed with her. Now they got what they started. I feel sorry for their mommas and daddies, if they got daddies, which I doubt."

"Are you scared?"

"Of what?"

"How about the gas chamber?"

"Naw, Jake, that's why I got you. I don't plan to go to no gas chamber. I saw you get Lester off, now just get me off. You can do it, Jake."

"It's not quite that easy, Carl Lee."

"Say what?"

"You just don't shoot a person, or persons, in cold blood, and then tell the jury they needed killing, and expect to walk out of the courtroom."

"You did with Lester."

"But every case is different. And the big difference here is that you killed two white boys and Lester killed a nigger. Big difference."

"You scared, Jake?"

"Why should I be scared? I'm not facing the gas chamber."

"You don't sound too confident."

You big stupid idiot, thought Jake. How could he be confident at a time like this. The bodies were still warm. Sure, he was confident before the killings, but now it was different. His client was facing the gas for a crime which he admits he committed.

"Where'd you get the gun?"

"A friend in Memphis."

"Okay. Did Lester help?"

"Nope. He knew 'bout what Fs gonna do, and he wanted to help, but I wouldn't let him."

"How's Gwen?"

"She's pretty crazy right now, but tester's with her. She didn't know a thing about it."

"The kids?"

"You know how kids are. They don't want their daddy in jail. They upset, but they'll make it. Lester'll take care of them."

"Is he going back to Chicago?"

"Not for a while. Jake, when do we go to court?"

"The preliminary should be tomorrow or Wednesday, depends on Bullard."

"Is he the judge?"

"He will be for the preliminary hearing. But he won't hear the trial. That'll be in Circuit Court."

"Who's the judge there?"

"Omar Noose from Van Buren County; same judge who tried Lester."

"Good. He's okay, ain't he?"

"Yeah, he's a good judge."

"When will the trial be?"

"Late summer or early fall. Buckley will push for a quick trial."

"Who's Buckley?"

"Rufus Buckley. District attorney. Same D.A. who prosecuted Lester. You remember him. Big, loud guy-"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. Big bad Rufus Buckley. I'd forgot all about him. He's pretty mean, ain't he?"

"He's good, very good. He's corrupt and ambitious, and he'll eat this up because of the publicity."

"You've beat him, ain't you?"

"Yeah, and he's beat me."

Jake opened his briefcase and removed a file. Inside was a contract for legal services, which he studied although he had it memorized. His fees were based on the ability to pay, and the blacks generally could pay little unless there was a close and generous relative in St. Louis or Chicago with a good-paying job. Those were rare. In Lester's trial there had been a brother in California who worked for the post office but he'd been unwilling or unable to help. There were some sisters scattered around but they had their own problems and had offered only moral support for Lester. Gwen had a big family, and they stayed out of trouble, but

they were not prosperous. Carl Lee owned a few acres around his house and had mortgaged it to help Lester pay Jake before.

He had charged Lester five thousand for his murder trial; half was paid before trial and the rest in installments over three years.

Jake hated to discuss fees. It was the most difficult part of practicing law. Clients wanted to know up front, immediately, how much he would cost, and they all reacted differently. Some were shocked, some just swallowed hard, a few had stormed out of his office. Some negotiated, but most paid or promised to pay.

He studied the file and the contract and thought desperately of a fair fee. There were other lawyers out there who would take such a case for almost nothing. Nothing but publicity. He thought about the acreage, and the job at the paper mill, and the family, and finally said, "My fee is ten thousand."

Carl Lee was not moved. "You charged Lester five thousand."

Jake anticipated this. "You have three counts; Lester had one."

"How many times can I go to the gas chamber?"

"Good point. How much can you pay?"

"I can pay a thousand now," he said proudly. "And I'll borrow as much as I can on my land and give it all to you."

Jake thought a minute. "I've got a better idea. Let's agree on a fee. You pay a thousand now and sign a note for the rest. Borrow on your land and pay against the note."

"How much you want?" asked Carl Lee.

"Ten thousand."

"I'll pay five."

"You can pay more than that."

"And you can do it for less than ten."

"Okay, I can do it for nine."

"Then I can pay six."

"Eight?"

"Seven."

"Can we agree on seventy-five hundred?"

"Yeah, I think I can pay that much. Depends on how much they'll loan me on my land. You want me to pay a thousand now and sign a note for sixty-five hundred?"

"That's right."

"Okay, you got a deal."

Jake filled in the blanks in the contract and promissory note, and Carl Lee signed both.

"Jake, how much would you charge a man with plenty of money?"

"Fifty thousand."

"Fifty thousand! You serious?"

"Yep."

"Man, that's a lotta money. You ever get that much?"

"No, but I haven't seen too many people on trial for murder with that kind of money."

Carl Lee wanted to know about his bond, the grand jury, the trial, the witnesses, who would be on the jury, when could he get out of jail, could Jake speed up the trial, when could he tell his version, and a thousand other questions. Jake said they would have plenty of time to talk. He promised to call Gwen and his boss at the paper mill.

He left and Carl Lee was placed in his cell, the one next to the cell for state prisoners.

The Saab was blocked by a television van. Jake inquired as to who owned it. Most of the reporters had left but a few loitered about, expecting something. It was almost dark.

"Are you with the sheriffs department?" asked a reporter.

"No, I'm a lawyer," Jake answered nonchalantly, attempting to seem disinterested.

"Are you Mr. Hailey's attorney?"

Jake turned and stared at the reporter as the others listened. "Matter of fact, I am."

"Will you answer some questions?"

"You can ask some. I won't promise any answers."

"Will you step over here?"

Jake walked to the microphones and cameras and tried to act annoyed by the inconvenience. Ozzie and the deputies watched from inside. "Jake loves cameras," he said.

"All lawyers do," added Moss.

"What is your name, sir?"

"Jake Brigance,"

"You're Mr. Hailey's attorney."

"Correct," Jake answered coolly.

"Mr. Hailey is the father of the young girl raped by the two men who were killed today?"

"Correct."

"Who killed the two men?"

"I don't know."

"Was it Mr. Hailey?"

"I said I don't know."

"What's your client been charged with?"

"He's been arrested for the murders of Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard. He hasn't formally been charged with anything."

"Do you expect Mr. Hailey to be indicted for the two murders?"

"No comment."

"Why no comment?"

"Have you talked with Mr. Hailey?" asked another reporter.

"Yes, just a moment ago."

"How is he?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, uh, how is he?"

"You mean, how does he like jail?" Jake asked with a slight grin.

"Uh, yeah."

"No comment."

"When will he be in court?"

"Probably tomorrow or Wednesday."

"Will he plead guilty?"

Jake smiled and replied, "Of course not."

After a cold supper, they sat in the swing on the front porch and watched the lawn sprinkler and talked about the case. The killings were big news across the country, and Carla recorded as many television reports as possible. Two of the networks covered the story live through their Memphis affiliates, and the Memphis, Jackson, and Tupelo stations rehouse surrounded by deputies, and seconds later, being carried from the courthouse under white sheets. One of the stations played the actual audio of the gunfire over film of the deputies scrambling for cover.

Jake's interview was too late for the evening news, so he and Carla waited, with the recorder, for the ten o'clock, and there he was, briefcase in hand, looking trim, fit, handsome, and arrogant, and very disgusted with the reporters for the inconvenience. Jake thought he looked great on TV, and he was excited to be there. There had been one other brief appearance, after Lester's acquittal, and the regulars at the Coffee Shop had kidded him for months.

He felt good. He relished the publicity and anticipated much more. He could not think of another case, another set of facts, another setting which could generate as much publicity as the trial of Carl Lee Hailey. And the acquittal of Carl Lee Hailey, for the murder of the two white men who raped his daughter, before an all-white jury in rural Mississippi

"What're you smiling about?" Carla interrupted.

"Nothing."

"Sure. You're thinking about the trial, and the cameras, the reporters, the acquittal, and walking out of the courthouse, arm around Carl Lee, reporters chasing you with the cameras rolling, people slapping you on the back, congratulations everywhere. I know exactly what you're thinking about."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"To see if you'd admit it."

"Okay, I admit it. This case could make me famous and make us a million bucks, in the long run."

"If you win."

"Yes, if I win."

"And if you lose?"

"I'll win."

"But if you don't?"

"Think positive."

The phone rang and Jake spent ten minutes with the editor, owner, and only reporter of The Clanton Chronicle. It rang again, and Jake talked with a reporter with the Memphis morning paper. He hung up and called Lester ana Gwen, then the foreman at the paper mill.

At eleven-fifteen it rang again, and Jake received his first death threat, anonymous of course. He was called a nigger-loving son of a bitch, one who would not live if the nigger walked.

Dell Perkins served more coffee and grits than usual Tuesday morning after the killings. All the regulars and some extras had gathered early to read the papers and talk about the killings, which had taken place less than three hundred feet from the front door of the Coffee Shop. Claude's and the Tea Shoppe were also crowded earlier than usual. Jake's picture made the front page of the Tupelo paper, and the Memphis and Jackson papers had front-page photos of Cobb and Willard, both before the shootings and afterward as the bodies were loaded into the ambulance. There were no pictures of Carl Lee. All three papers ran detailed accounts of the past six days in Clanton.

It was widely accepted around town that Carl Lee had done the killing, but rumors of additional gunmen surfaced and flourished until one table at the Tea Shoppe had a whole band of wild niggers in on the attack. However, the deputies in the Coffee Shop, though not talkative, throttled the gossip and kept it pretty much under control. Deputy Looney was a regular, and there was concern for his wounds, which appeared to be more serious than originally reported. He remained in the hospital, and he had identified the gunman as Lester Hailey's brother.

Jake entered at six and sat near the front with some farmers. He nodded at Prather and the other deputy, but they pretended not to see him. They'll be okay once Looney is released, he thought. There were some remarks about the front-page picture, but no one questioned Jake about his new client or the killings. He detected a certain coolness among some of the regulars. He ate quickly and left.

At nine Ethel called Jake. Bullard was holding.

"Hello, Judge. How are you?"

"Terrible. You represent Carl Lee Hailey?"

"Yes, sir."

"When do you want the preliminary?"

"Why are you asking me, Judge?"

"Good question. Look, the funerals are tomorrow

morning sometime, and I think it would be best to wait till they bury those bastards, don't you?"

"Yeah, Judge, good idea."

"How 'bout tomorrow afternoon at two?"

"Fine."

Bullard hesitated. "Jake, would you consider waiving the preliminary and letting me send the case straight to the grand jury?"

"Judge, I never waive a preliminary, you know that."

"Yeah, I know. Just thought I'd ask a favor. I won't hear this trial, and I have no desire to get near it. See you tomorrow."

An hour later Ethel squawked through the intercom again: "Mr. Brigance, there are some reporters here to see you."

Jake was ecstatic. "From where?"

"Memphis and Jackson, I believe."

"Seat them in the conference room. I'll be down in a minute."

He straightened his tie and brushed his hair, and checked the street below for television vans. He decided to make them wait, and after a couple of meaningless phone calls he walked down the stairs, ignored Ethel, and entered the conference room. They asked him to sit at one end of the long table, because of the lighting. He declined, told himself he would control things, and sat at one side with his back to the rows of thick, expensive law books.

The microphones were placed before him and the camera lights adjusted, and finally an attractive lady from Memphis with streaks of bright orange across her forehead and under her eyes cleared her throat and asserted herself. "Mr. Brigance, you represent Carl Lee Hailey?"

"Yes, I do."

"And he's been charged with the murders of Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?"

"That's correct."

"And Cobb and Willard were charged with raping Mr. Hailey's daughter?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Does Mr. Hailey deny killing Cobb and Willard?"

"He will plead not guilty to the charges."

"Will he be charged for the shooting of the deputy, Mr. Looney?"

"Yes. We anticipate a third charge of aggravated assault against the officer."

"Do you anticipate a defense of insanity?"

"I'm not willing to discuss the defense at this time because he has not been indicted."

"Are you saying there's a chance he may not be indicted?"

A fat pitch, one Jake was hoping for. The grand jury would either indict him or not, and the grand jurors would not be selected until Circuit Court convened on Monday, May 27. So the future members of the grand jury were walking the streets of Clanton, tending their shops, working in the factories, cleaning house, reading newspapers, watching TV, and discussing whether or not he should be indicted.

"Yes, I think there's a chance he may not be indicted. It's up to the grand jury, or will be after the preliminary hearing."

"When's the preliminary hearing?"

"Tomorrow. Two P.M."

"You're assuming Judge Bullard will bind him over to the grand jury?"

"That's a pretty safe assumption," replied Jake, knowing Bullard would be thrilled with the answer.

"When will the grand jury meet?"

"A new grand jury will be sworn in Monday morning. It could look at the case by Monday afternoon."

"When do you anticipate a trial?"

"Assuming he's indicted, the case could be tried in late summer or early fall."

"Which court?"

"Circuit Court of Ford County."

"Who would be the judge?"

"Honorable Omar Noose."

"Where's he from?"

"Chester, Mississippi. Van Buren County."

"You mean the case will be tried here in Clanton?"

"Yes, unless venue is changed."

"Will you request a change of venue?"

"Very good question, and one I'm not prepared to answer at this time. It's a bit premature to talk defense strat-

egy."

"Why would you want a change of venue?"

To find a blacker county, Jake thought. He answered thoughtfully, "The usual reasons. Pretrial publicity, etc."

"Who makes the decision to change venue?"

"Judge Noose. The decision is within his sole discretion."

"Has bond been set?"

"No, and it probably won't be until after the indictments come down. He's entitled to a reasonable bond now, but as a matter of practice in this county bonds are not set in capital murder cases until after the indictment and arraignment in Circuit Court. At that point the bond will be set by Judge Noose."

"What can you tell us about Mr. Hailey?"

Jake relaxed and reflected a minute while the cameras continued. Another fat pitch, with a golden chance to plant some seeds. "He's thirty-seven years old. Married to the same woman for twenty years. Four kids-three boys and a girl. Nice guy with a clean record. Never been in trouble before. Decorated in Vietnam. Works fifty hours a week at the paper mill in Coleman. Pays his bills and owns a little land, does to church every Sunday with his family. Minds his own business and expects to be left alone."

"Will you allow us to talk to him?"

"Of course not."

"Wasn't his brother tried for murder several years ago?"

"He was, and he was acquitted."

"You were his attorney?"

"Yes, I was."

"You've handled several murder trials in Ford County, haven't you?"

"Three."

"How many acquittals?"

"All of them," he answered slowly.

"Doesn't the jury have several options in Mississippi?" asked the lady from Memphis.

"That's right. With a capital murder indictment, the jury at trial can find the defendant guilty of manslaughter, which carries twenty years, or capital murder, which carries life or death as determined by the jury. And the jury can find the defendant not guilty." Jake smiled at the cameras. "Again, you're assuming he'll be indicted."

"How's the Hailey girl?"

"She's at home. Went home Sunday. She's expected to be fine."

The reporters looked at each other and searched for other questions. Jake knew this was the dangerous part, when they ran out of things to ask and began serving up screwball questions.

He stood and buttoned his coat. "Look, I appreciate you folks stopping by. I'm usually available, just give a little more notice, and I'll be glad to talk to you anytime."

They thanked him and left.

At ten Wednesday morning, in a no-frills double service at the funeral home, the rednecks buried their dead. The minister, a freshly ordained Pentecostal, struggled desperately for comforting and reassuring thoughts to lay upon the small crowd and over the two closed caskets. The service was brief with few tears.

The pickups and dirty Chevrolets moved slowly behind the single hearse as the procession left town and crawled into the country. They parked behind a small red brick church. The bodies were laid to rest one at a time at opposite ends of the tiny, overgrown cemetery. After a few additional words of inspiration, the crowd dispersed.

Cobb's parents had divorced when he was small, and his father drove from Birmingham for the funeral. After the burial he disappeared. Mrs. Cobb lived in a small, clean white frame house near the settlement of Lake Village, ten miles south of Clanton. Her other two sons and their cousins and friends gathered under an oak tree in the backyard while the women made a fuss over Mrs. Cobb. The men talked about niggers in general, and chewed Red Man and sipped whiskey, and reminisced about the other days when niggers knew their place. Now they were just pampered and protected by the government and courts. And there was nothing white people could do. One cousin knew a friend or someone who used to be active in the Klan, and he might give him a call. Cobb's grandfather had been in the Klan long before his death, the cousin explained, and when he and Billy Ray were kids the old man would tell stories about hanging niggers in Ford and Tyler counties. What they should do was the same thing the nigger had done, but there were no volunteers. Maybe the Klan would be interested. There was a chapter farther down south near Jackson, near Nettles County, and the cousin was authorized to contact them.

The women prepared lunch. The men ate quietly, then returned to the whiskey under the shade tree. The nigger's hearing at 2:00 P.M. was mentioned, and they loaded up and drove to Clanton.

There was a Clanton before the killings, and there was a Clanton after the killings, and it would be months before the two resembled each other. One tragic, bloody event, the duration of which was less than fifteen seconds, transformed the quiet Southern town of eight thousand into a mecca for journalists, reporters, camera crews, photographers, some from neighboring towns, others from the national news organizations. Cameramen and TV reporters bumped into one another on the sidewalks around the square as they asked the man in the street for the hundredth time how he or she felt about the Hailey event and how he or she would vote if he or she was on the jury. There was no clear verdict from the man on the street. Television vans followed small, marked, imported television cars around the square and down the streets chasing leads, stories, and interviews. Ozzie was a favorite at first. He was interviewed a half dozen times the day after the shooting, then found other business and delegated the interviewing to Moss Junior, who enjoyed bantering with the press. He could answer twenty questions and not divulge one new detail. He also lied a lot, and the ignorant foreigners could not tell his lies from his truth.

"Sir, is there any evidence of additional gunmen?"

"Yes."

"Really! Who?"

"We have evidence that the shootin's were authorized and financed by an offshoot of the Black Panthers," Moss Junior replied with a straight face.

Half the reporters would either stutter or stare blankly while the other half repeated what he said and scribbled furiously.

Bullard refused to leave his office or take calls. He called Jake again and begged him to waive the preliminary. Jake refused. Reporters waited in the lobby of Bullard's office on the first floor of the courthouse, but he was safe with his vodka behind the locked door.

There was a request to film the funeral. The Cobb boys said yes, for a fee, but Mrs. Willard vetoed the proposal. The reporters waited outside the funeral home and filmed what they could. Then they followed the procession to the grave sites, and filmed the burials, and followed the mourners to Mrs. Cobb's, where Freddie, the oldest, cursed them and made them leave.

The Coffee Shop on Wednesday was silent. The regulars, including Jake, eyed the strangers who had invaded their sanctuary. Most of them had beards, spoke with unusual accents, and did not order grits.

"Aren't you Mr. Hailey's attorney?" shouted one from across the room.

Jake worked on his toast and said nothing.

"Aren't you? Sir?"

"What if I am?" shot Jake.

"Will he plead guilty?"

"I'm eating breakfast."

"Will he?"

"No comment."

"Why no comment?"

"No comment."

"But why?"

"I don't comment during breakfast. No comment."

"May I talk to you later?"

"Yeah, make an appointment. I talk at sixty bucks an hour."

The regulars hooted, but the strangers were undaunted.

Jake consented to an interview, without charge, with a Memphis paper Wednesday, then barricaded himself in the war room and prepared for the preliminary hearing. At noon he visited his famous client at the jail. Carl Lee was rested and relaxed. From his cell he could see the coming and going of the reporters in the parking lot.

"How's jail?" Jake asked.

"Not that bad. Food's good. I eat with Ozzie in his office."

"You what!"

"Yep. Play cards too."

"You're kidding, Carl Lee."