A Time to Kill (43 page)

“Shut up, Republican. Row Ark, why don’t you move to Clanton and we’ll start us a law firm handling nothing but ACLU cases. Hell, bring your old man down from Boston and we’ll make him a partner.”

“Why don’t you just go to Boston?” Jake asked.

“Why don’t you just go to hell?”

“What will we call it?” asked Ellen.

“The nut house,” said Jake.

“Wilbanks, Row and Ark. Attorneys at law.”

“None of whom have licenses,” said Jake.

Lucien’s eyelids weighed several pounds each. His
head nodded forward involuntarily. He slapped Sallie on the rear as she cleaned up his mess.

“That was a cheap shot, Jake,” he said seriously.

“Row Ark,” Jake said, imitating Lucien, “guess who was the last lawyer permanently disbarred by the Mississippi Supreme Court?”

Ellen gracefully smiled at both men and said nothing.

“Row Ark,” Lucien said loudly, “guess who will be the next lawyer in this county to be evicted from his office?” He roared with laughter, screaming and shaking. Jake winked at her.

When he settled down, he asked, “What’s this meeting tomorrow night?”

“I want to cover the jury list with you and a few others.”

“Who?”

“Harry Rex, Stan Atcavage, maybe one other.”

“Where?”

“Eight o’clock. My office. No alcohol.”

“It’s my office, and I’ll bring a case of whiskey if I want to. My grandfather built the building, remember?”

“How could I forget.”

“Row Ark, let’s get drunk.”

“No thanks, Lucien. I’ve enjoyed dinner, and the conversation, but I need to get back to Oxford.”

They stood and left Lucien at the table. Jake declined the usual invitation to sit on the porch. Ellen left, and he went to his temporary room upstairs. He had promised Carla he would not sleep at home. He called her. She and Hanna were fine. Worried, but fine. He didn’t mention Bud Twitty.

29

__________

A convoy of converted school buses, each with an original paint job of white and red or green and black or a hundred other combinations and the name of a church emblazoned along the sides under the windows, rolled slowly around the Clanton square after lunch Wednesday. There were thirty-one in all, each packed tightly with elderly black people who waved paper fans and handkerchiefs in a futile effort to overcome the stifling heat. After three trips around the courthouse, the lead bus stopped by the post office and thirty-one doors flew open. The buses emptied in a frenzy. The people were directed to a gazebo on the courthouse lawn, where Reverend Ollie Agee was shouting orders and handing out blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards.

The side streets leading into the square became congested as cars from all directions inched toward the courthouse and finally parked when they could move no closer. Hundreds of blacks left their vehicles in the streets and walked solemnly toward the square. They mingled around the gazebo and waited for their
placards, then wandered through the oaks and magnolias looking for shade and greeting friends. More church buses arrived and were unable to circle the square because of the traffic. They unloaded next to the Coffee Shop.

For the first time that year the temperature hit a hundred and promised to go higher. The sky produced no clouds for protection, and there were no winds or breezes to weaken the burning rays or to blow away the humidity. A man’s shirt would soak and stick to his back in fifteen minutes under a shade tree; five minutes without shade. Some of the weaker old folks found refuge inside the courthouse.

The crowd continued to grow. It was predominantly elderly, but there were many younger, militant, angry-looking blacks who had missed the great civil rights marches and demonstrations of the sixties and now realized that this might be a rare opportunity to shout and protest and sing “We Shall Overcome,” and in general celebrate being black and oppressed in a white world. They meandered about waiting for someone to take charge. Finally, three students marched to the front steps of the courthouse, lifted their placards, and shouted, “Free Carl Lee. Free Carl Lee.”

Instantly, the mob repeated the war cry:

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

They left the shade trees and courthouse and moved closer together near the steps where a make shift podium and PA system had been set up. They yelled in unison at no one or no place or nothing in particular, just howled the newly established battle cry in a perfect chorus:

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

The windows of the courthouse flew open as the clerks and secretaries gawked at the happening be low. The roar could be heard for blocks and the small shops and offices around the square emptied. The owners and customers filled the sidewalks and watched in astonishment. The demonstrators noticed their spectators, and the attention fueled the chanting, which increased in tempo and volume. The vultures had loitered about waiting and watching, and the noise excited them. They descended upon the front lawn of the courthouse with cameras and microphones.

Ozzie and his men directed traffic until the highway and the streets were hopelessly gridlocked. They maintained a presence, although there was no hint they would be needed.

Agee and every full-time, part-time, retired, and prospective black preacher in three counties paraded through the dense mass of black screaming faces and made their way to the podium. The sight of the ministers pumped up the celebrants, and their unified chants reverberated around the square, down the side streets into the sleepy residential districts and out into the countryside. Thousands of blacks waved their placards and yelled their lungs out. Agee swayed with the crowd. He danced across the small podium. He slapped hands with the other ministers. He led the rhythmic noise like a choir director. He was a sight.

“Free Carl Lee!”

“Free Carl Lee!”

For fifteen minutes, Agee whipped the crowd into a frenzied, coalescent mob. Then, when with his finely trained ear he detected the first hint of fatigue, he walked to the microphones and asked for quiet. The panting, sweating faces yelled on but with less volume.

The chants of freedom died quickly. Agee asked for room near the front so the press could congregate and do its job. He asked for stillness so they could go to the Lord in prayer. Reverend Roosevelt offered a marathon to the Lord, an eloquent, alliterative oratorical fiesta that brought tears to the eyes of many.

When he finally said “Amen,” an enormous black woman with a sparkling red wig stepped to the microphones and opened her vast mouth. The opening stanza of “We Shall Overcome” flowed forth in a deep, rich, mellow river of glorious a cappella. The ministers behind her immediately clasped hands and began to sway. Spontaneity swept the crowd and two thousand voices joined her in surprising harmony. The mournful, promising anthem rose above the small town.

When they finished, someone shouted “Free Carl Lee!” and ignited another round of chanting. Agee quieted them again, and stepped to the microphones. He pulled an index card from his pocket, and began his sermon.

________

As expected, Lucien arrived late and half loaded. He brought a bottle and offered a drink to Jake, Atcavage, and Harry Rex, and each declined.

“It’s a quarter till nine, Lucien,” Jake said. “We’ve been waiting for almost an hour.”

“I’m being paid for this, am I?” he asked.

“No, but I asked you to be here at eight sharp.”

“And you also told me not to bring a bottle. And I informed you this was my building, built by my grandfather, leased to you as my tenant, for a very reasonable rent I might add, and I will come and go as I please, with or without a bottle.”

“Forget it. Did you—”

“What’re those blacks doing across the street walking around the courthouse in the dark?”

“It’s called a vigil,” explained Harry Rex. “They’ve vowed to walk around the courthouse with candles, keeping a vigil until their man is free.”

“That could be an awfully long vigil. I mean, those poor people could be walking until they die. I mean, this could be a twelve-, fifteen-year vigil. They might set a record. They might have candle wax up to their asses. Evenin’, Row Ark.”

Ellen sat at the rolltop desk under William Faulk ner. She looked at a well-marked copy of the jury list. She nodded and smiled at Lucien.

“Row Ark,” Lucien said, “I have all the respect in the world for you. I view you as an equal. I believe in your right to equal pay for equal work. I believe in your right to choose whether to have a child or abort. I believe in all that crap. You are a woman and entitled to no special privileges because of your gender. You should be treated just like a man.” Lucien reached in his pocket and pulled out a clip of cash. “And since you are a law clerk, genderless in my eyes, I think you should be the one to go buy a case of cold Coors.”

“No, Lucien,” Jake said.

“Shut up, Jake.”

Ellen stood and stared at Lucien. “Sure, Lucien. But I’ll pay for the beer.”

She left the office.

Jake shook his head and fumed at Lucien. “This could be a long night.”

Harry Rex changed his mind and poured a shot of whiskey into his coffee cup.

“Please don’t get drunk,” Jake begged. “We’ve got work to do.”

“I work better when I’m drunk,” said Lucien.

“Me too,” said Harry Rex.

“This could be interesting,” said Atcavage.

Jake laid his feet on his desk and puffed on a cigar. “Okay, the first thing I want to do is decide on a model juror.”

“Black,” said Lucien.

“Black as old Coaly’s ass,” said Harry Rex.

“I agree,” said Jake. “But we won’t get a chance. Buckley will save his peremptory challenges for the blacks. We know that. We’ve got to concentrate on white people.”

“Women,” said Lucien. “Always pick women for criminal trials. They have bigger hearts, bleeding hearts, and they’re much more sympathetic. Always go for women.”

“Naw,” said Harry Rex. “Not in this case. Women don’t understand things like taking a gun and blowing people away. You need fathers, young fathers who would want to do the same thing Hailey did. Daddies with little girls.”

“Since when did you get to be such an expert on picking juries?” asked Lucien. “I thought you were a sleazy divorce lawyer.”

“I am a sleazy divorce lawyer, but I know how to pick juries.”

“And listen to them through the wall.”

“Cheap shot.”

Jake raised his arms. “Fellas, please. How about Victor Onzell? You know him, Stan?”

“Yeah, he banks with us. He’s about forty, married, three or four kids. White. From somewhere up North. Runs the truck stop on the highway north of town. He’s been here about five years.”

“I wouldn’t take him,” Lucien said. “If he’s from
up North, he doesn’t think like we do. Probably in favor of gun control and all that crap. Yankees always scare me in criminal cases. I’ve always thought we should have a law in Mississippi that no certified yankee could sit on a jury down here regardless of how long he’s lived here.”

“Thank you so much,” said Jake.

“I’d take him,” said Harry Rex.

“Why?”

“He’s got kids, probably a daughter. If he’s from the North he’s probably not as prejudiced. Sounds good to me.”

“John Tate Aston.”

“He’s dead,” said Lucien.

“What?”

“I said he’s dead. Been dead for three years.”

“Why’s he on the list?” asked Atcavage, the non-lawyer.

“They don’t purge the voter registration list,” explained Harry Rex, between drinks. “Some die and some move away, and it’s impossible to keep the list up to date. They’ve issued a hundred and fifty summonses, and you can expect a hundred to a hundred and twenty to show up. The rest have died or moved away.”

“Caroline Baxter. Ozzie says she’s black,” Jake said flipping through his notes. “Works at the carburetor plant in Karaway.”

“Take her,” said Lucien.

“I wish,” said Jake.

Ellen returned with the beer. She dropped it in Lucien’s lap and tore a sixteen-ounce can out of a six-pack. She popped the top and returned to the rolltop desk. Jake declined, but Atcavage decided he was thirsty. Jake remained the non-drinker.

“Joe Kitt Shepherd.”

“Sounds like a redneck,” said Lucien.

“Why do you say that?” asked Harry Rex.

“The double first name,” Lucien explained. “Most rednecks have double first names. Like Billy Ray, Johnny Ray, Bobby Lee, Harry Lee, Jesse Earl, Billy Wayne, Jerry Wayne, Eddie Mack. Even their women have double first names. Bobbie Sue, Betty Pearl, Mary Belle, Thelma Lou, Sally Faye.”

“What about Harry Rex?” asked Harry Rex.

“Never heard of a woman named Harry Rex.”

“I mean for a male redneck.”

“I guess it’ll do.”

Jake interrupted. “Dell Perry said he used to own a bait shop down by the lake. I take it no one knows him.”

“No, but I bet he’s a redneck,” said Lucien. “Because of his name. I’d scratch him.”

“Aren’t you given their addresses, ages, occupations, basic information like that?” asked Atcavage.

“Not until the day of trial. On Monday each prospective juror fills out a questionnaire in the courtroom. But until then we have only the names.”

“What kind of juror are we looking for, Jake?” Ellen asked.

“Young to middle-aged men with families. I would prefer to have no one over fifty.”

“Why?” Lucien asked belligerently.

“Younger whites are more tolerant of blacks.”

“Like Cobb and Willard,” Lucien said.

“Most of the older folks will always dislike blacks, but the younger generation has accepted an integrated society. Less bigotry, as a rule, with youth.”

“I agree,” said Harry Rex, “and I would stay away from women and rednecks.”

“That’s my plan.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Lucien. “Women are more sympathetic. Just look at Row Ark. She’s sympathetic toward everyone. Right, Row Ark?”

“Right, Lucien.”

“She has sympathy for criminals, child pornographers, atheists, illegal immigrants, gays. Don’t you, Row Ark?”