A Time to Kill (51 page)

Yes, he was nervous and frightened. He had prosecuted thousands of criminals, but he was always
scared with each trial. Yes! He was scared, and not ashamed to admit it. Scared because of the awesome responsibility the people had bestowed upon him as the man responsible for sending criminals to jail and protecting the people. Scared because he might fail to adequately represent his client, the people of this great state.

Jake had heard all this crap many times before. He had it memorized. Buckley the good guy, the state’s lawyer, united with the people to seek justice, to save society. He was a smooth, gifted orator who one moment could chat softly with a jury, much like a grandfather giving advice to his grandchildren. The next moment he would launch into a tirade and deliver a sermon that any black preacher would envy. A split second later, in a fluid burst of eloquence, he could convince a jury that the stability of our society, yes, even the future of the human race, depended upon a guilty verdict. He was at his best in big trials, and this was his biggest. He spoke without notes, and held the courtroom captivated as he portrayed himself as the underdog, the friend and partner of the jury, who, together with him, would find the truth, and punish this man for his monstrous deed.

After ten minutes, Jake had enough. He stood with a frustrated look. “Your Honor, I object to this. Mr. Buckley is not selecting a jury. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but he’s not interrogating the panel.”

“Sustained!” Noose yelled into the mike. “If you don’t have any questions for the panel, Mr. Buckley, then please sit down.”

“I apologize, Your Honor,” Buckley said awkwardly, pretending to be hurt. Jake had drawn first blood.

Buckley picked up a legal pad and launched into a
list of a thousand questions. He asked if anyone on the panel had ever served on a jury before. Several hands went up. Civil or criminal? Did you vote to acquit or convict? How long ago? Was the defendant black or white? Victim, black or white? Had anyone been the victim of a violent crime? Two hands. When? Where? Was the assailant caught? Convicted? Black or white? Jake, Harry Rex, and Ellen took pages of notes. Any member of your family been the victim of a violent crime? Several more hands. When? Where? What happened to the criminal? Any member of your family ever been charged with a crime? Indicted? Put on trial? Convicted? Any friends or family members employed in law enforcement? Who? Where?

For three nonstop hours Buckley probed and picked like a surgeon. He was masterful. The preparation was obvious. He asked questions that Jake had not considered. And he asked virtually every question Jake had written in his outline. He delicately pried details of personal feelings and opinions. And when the time was right, he would say something funny so everyone could laugh and relieve the tension. He held the courtroom in his palm, and when Noose stopped him at five o’clock he was in full stride. He would finish in the morning.

His Honor adjourned until nine the next morning. Jake talked to his client for a few moments while the crowd moved toward the rear. Ozzie stood nearby with the handcuffs. When Jake finished, Carl Lee knelt before his family on the front row and hugged them all. He would see them tomorrow, he said. Ozzie led him into the holding room and down the stairs, where a swarm of deputies waited to take him to jail.

34

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F
or Day Two the sun rose quickly in the east and in seconds burned the dew off the thick green Bermuda around the Ford County Courthouse. A sticky, invisible fog smoldered from the grass and clung to the heavy boots and bulky pants of the soldiers. The sun baked them as they nonchalantly paced the sidewalks of downtown Clanton. They loitered under shade trees and the canopies of small shops. By the time breakfast was served under the pavilions, the soldiers had stripped to their pale green undershirts and were drenched in sweat.

The black preachers and their followers went directly to their spot and set up camp. They unfolded lawn chairs under oak trees and placed coolers of ice water on card tables. Blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards were tacked on tomato stakes and stuck in the ground like neat fencerows. Agee had printed some new posters with an enlarged black-and-white photo of Carl Lee in the center and a red, white, and blue border. They were slick and professional.

The Klansmen went obediently to their section of
the front lawn. They brought their own placards—white backgrounds with bold red letters screaming FRY CARL LEE, FRY CARL LEE. They waved them at the blacks across the lawn, and the two groups started shouting. The soldiers formed neat lines along the sidewalk, and stood armed but casual as obscenities and chants flew over their heads. It was 8:00 A.M. of Day Two.

The reporters were giddy with all the newsworthiness. They rushed to the front lawn when the yelling started. Ozzie and the colonel walked around and around the courthouse, pointing here and there and yelling into their radios.

________

At nine, Ichabod said good morning to the standing-room-only crowd. Buckley stood slowly and with great animation informed His Honor that he had no further questions for the panel.

Lawyer Brigance rose from his seat with rubber knees and turbulence in his stomach. He walked to the railing and gazed into the anxious eyes of ninety-four prospective jurors.

The crowd listened intently to this young, cocky mouthpiece who had once boasted of never having lost a murder case. He appeared relaxed and confident. His voice was loud, yet warm. His words were educated, yet colloquial. He introduced himself again, and his client, then his client’s family, saving the little girl for last. He complimented the D.A. for such an exhaustive interrogation yesterday afternoon, and confessed that most of his questions had already been asked. He glanced at his notes. His first question was a bombshell.

“Ladies and gentlemen, do any of you believe that
the insanity defense should not be used under any circumstances?”

They squirmed a little, but no hands. He caught them off-guard, right off the bat. Insanity! Insanity! The seed had been planted.

“If we prove Carl Lee Hailey was legally insane when he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard, is there a person on this panel who cannot find him not guilty?”

The question was hard to follow—intentionally so. There were no hands. A few wanted to respond, but they were not certain of the appropriate response.

Jake eyed them carefully, knowing most of them were confused, but also knowing that for this moment every member of the panel was thinking about his client being insane. That’s where he would leave them.

“Thank you,” he said with all the charm he had ever mustered in his life. “I have nothing further, Your Honor.”

Buckley looked confused. He stared at the judge, who was equally bewildered.

“Is that all?” Noose asked incredulously. “Is that all, Mr. Brigance?”

“Yes, sir, Your Honor, the panel looks fine to me,” Jake said with an air of trust, as opposed to Buckley, who had grilled them for three hours. The panel was anything but acceptable to Jake, but there was no sense repeating the same questions Buckley had asked.

“Very well. Let me see the attorneys in chambers.”

Buckley, Musgrove, Jake, Ellen, and Mr. Pate followed Ichabod through the door behind the bench and sat around the desk in chambers. Noose spoke: “I assume, gentlemen, that you want each juror questioned individually on the death penalty.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jake.

“That’s correct, Your Honor,” said Buckley.

“Very well. Mr. Bailiff, would you bring in juror number one, Carlene Malone.”

Mr. Pate left, walked to the courtroom and yelled for Carlene Malone. Moments later she followed him into chambers. She was terrified. The attorneys smiled but said nothing: Noose’s instructions.

“Please have a seat,” Noose offered as he removed his robe. “This will only take a minute, Mrs. Malone. Do you have any strong feelings one way or the other about the death penalty?” asked Noose.

She shook her head nervously and stared at Ichabod. “Uh, no, sir.”

“You realize that if you’re selected for this jury and Mr. Hailey is convicted, you will be called upon to sentence him to death?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If the State proves beyond a reasonable doubt that the killings were premeditated, and if you believe Mr. Hailey was not legally insane at the time of the killings, could you consider imposing the death penalty?”

“Certainly. I think it should be used all the time. Might stop some of this meanness. I’m all for it.”

Jake continued smiling and nodding politely at juror number one. Buckley smiled too, and winked at Musgrove.

“Thank you, Mrs. Malone. You may return to your seat in the courtroom,” Noose said.

“Bring in number two,” Noose ordered Mr. Pate. Marcia Dickens, an elderly white woman with a hard frown, was led to chambers. Yes, sir, she said, she was very much in favor of the death penalty. Would have no problems voting for it. Jake sat there and smiled.

Buckley winked again. Noose thanked her and called for number three.

Three and four were equally unforgiving, ready to kill if the proof was there. Then number five, Gerald Ault, Jake’s secret weapon, was seated in chambers.

“Thank you, Mr. Ault, this will only take a minute,” Noose repeated. “First of all, do you have strong feelings for or against the death penalty?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Ault answered eagerly, his voice and face radiating compassion. “I’m very much against it. It’s cruel and unusual. I’m ashamed I live in a society which permits the legal killing of a human being.”

“I see. Could you, under any circumstances, if you were a juror, vote to impose the death penalty?”

“Oh, no, sir. Under no circumstances. Regardless of the crime. No, sir.”

Buckley cleared his throat and somberly announced, “Your Honor, the State would challenge Mr. Ault for cause and move to excuse him under the authority of State versus Witherspoon.”

“Motion sustained. Mr. Ault, you are excused from jury duty,” Noose said. “You may leave the courtroom if you wish. If you choose to remain in the courtroom, I ask that you not sit with the other jurors.”

Ault was puzzled and looked helplessly at his friend Jake, who at the moment was staring at the floor with a tight mouth.

“May I ask why?” Gerald asked.

Noose removed his glasses and became the professor. “Under the law, Mr. Ault, the court is required to excuse any potential juror who admits he or she cannot consider, and the key word is consider, the death penalty. You see, whether you like it or not, the death penalty is a legal method of punishment in Mississippi
and in most states. Therefore, it is unfair to select jurors who cannot follow the law.”

The curiosity of the crowd was piqued when Gerald Ault emerged from behind the bench, walked through the small gate in the railing, and left the courtroom. The bailiff fetched number six, Alex Summers, and led him to chambers. He returned moments later and took his seat on the first row. He lied about the death penalty. He opposed it as did most blacks, but he told Noose he had no objections to it. No problem. Later during a recess, he quietly met with other black jurors and explained how the questions in chambers should be answered.

The slow process continued until mid-afternoon, when the last juror left chambers. Eleven had been excused due to reservations about capital punishment. Noose recessed at three-thirty and gave the lawyers until four to review their notes.

In the library on the third floor, Jake and his team stared at the jury lists and notecards. It was time to decide. He had dreamed about names written in blue and red and black with numbers beside them. He had watched them in the courtroom for two full days now. He knew them. Ellen wanted women. Harry Rex wanted men.

Noose stared at his master list, with the jurors renumbered to reflect the dismissals for cause, and looked at his lawyers. “Gentlemen, are you ready? Good. As you know this is a capital case, so each of you has twelve peremptory challenges. Mr. Buckley, you are required to submit a list of twelve jurors to the defense. Please start with juror number one and refer to each juror only by number.”

“Yes sir. Your Honor, the State will accept jurors
number one, two, three, four, use our first challenge on number five, accept numbers six, seven, eight, nine, use our second challenge on number ten, accept numbers eleven, twelve, thirteen, use our third challenge on number fourteen, and accept number fifteen. That’s twelve, I believe.”

Jake and Ellen circled and made notes on their lists. Noose methodically recounted. “Yes, that’s twelve. Mr. Brigance.”

Buckley submitted twelve white females. Two blacks and a white male had been stricken.

Jake studied his list and scratched names. “The defense will strike jurors number one, two, three, accept four, six, and seven, strike eight, nine, eleven, twelve, accept thirteen, strike fifteen. I believe that’s eight of our challenges.”

His Honor drew lines and check marks down his list, calculating slowly as he went. “Both of you have accepted jurors number four, six, seven, and thirteen. Mr. Buckley, it’s back to you. Give us eight more jurors.”

“The State will accept sixteen, use our fourth challenge on seventeen, accept eighteen, nineteen, twenty, strike twenty-one, accept twenty-two, strike twenty-three, accept twenty-four, strike twenty-five and twenty-six, and accept twenty-seven and twenty-eight. That’s twelve with four challenges remaining.”

Jake was flabbergasted. Buckley had again stricken all the blacks and all the men. He was reading Jake’s mind.

“Mr. Brigance, it’s back to you.”

“May we have a moment to confer, Your Honor?”

“Five minutes,” Noose replied.

Jake and his clerk stepped next door to the coffee
room, where Harry Rex was waiting. “Look at this,” Jake said as he laid the list on a table and the three huddled around it. “We’re down to twenty-nine. I’ve got four challenges left and so does Buckley. He’s struck every black and every male. It’s an all-white female jury right now. The next two are white females, thirty-one is Clyde Sisco, and thirty-two is Barry Acker.”