A Time to Kill (10 page)

“How much is that?”

“I dunno. I hadn’t thought much about it.”

Bullard’s neck turned dark red and he glared at Ozzie. “Whatta you think, Sheriff?”

“Well,” Ozzie drawled, “I would suggest pretty stiff bonds. These boys need to be in jail for their own safety. Black folk are restless out there. They might get hurt if they bond out. Better go high.”

“How much money they got?”

“Willard’s broke. Can’t tell about Cobb. Drug money’s hard to trace. He might could find twenty, thirty thousand. I hear he’s hired some big-shot Memphis lawyer. Supposed to be here today. He must have some money.”

“Damn, why don’t I know these things. Who’d he hire?”

“Bernard. Peter K. Bernard,” answered Childers. “He called me this morning.”

“Never heard of him,” retorted Bullard with an air of superiority, as though he had memorized some kind of judicial rap sheet on all lawyers.

Bullard studied the trees outside the window as the sheriff and prosecutor exchanged winks. The bonds would be exorbitant, as always. The bail bonds men loved Bullard for his outrageous bonds. They watched with delight as desperate families scraped and mortgaged to collect the ten percent premiums they charged to write the bonds. Bullard would be high, and he didn’t care. It was politically safe to set them high and keep the criminals in jail. The blacks would appreciate it and that was important even if the county was seventy-four percent white. He owed the blacks a few favors.

“Let’s go a hundred thousand on Willard and two hundred on Cobb. That oughtta satisfy them.”

“Satisfy who?” asked Ozzie.

“Er, uh, the people, the people out there. Sound okay to you?”

“Fine with me,” said Childers. “But what about the hearing?” he asked with a grin.

“We’ll give them a hearing, a fair hearing, then I’ll set the bonds at a hundred and two hundred.”

“And I suppose you want me to ask for three hundred apiece so you can look fair?” asked Childers.

“I don’t care what you ask for!” yelled the judge.

“Sounds fair to me,” said Ozzie as he headed for the door. “Will you call me to testify?” he asked Childers.

“Naw, we don’t need you. I don’t guess the State will call anybody since we’re having such a fair hearing.”

They left the chambers and Bullard stewed. He locked the door behind them and pulled a half pint of vodka from his briefcase, and gulped it furiously. Mr. Pate waited outside the door. Five minutes later Bullard barged into the packed courtroom.

“All rise for the court!” Mr. Pate shouted.

“Be seated!” screamed the judge before anyone could stand. “Where are the defendants? Where?”

Cobb and Willard were escorted from the holding room and seated at the defense table. Cobb’s new lawyer smiled at his client as the handcuffs were removed. Willard’s lawyer, Tyndale, the public defender, ignored him.

The same crowd of blacks had returned from last Wednesday, and had brought some friends. They closely followed the movements of the two white boys. Lester saw them for the first time. Carl Lee was not in the courtroom.

From the bench Bullard counted deputies—nine in all. That had to be a record. Then he counted blacks—
hundreds of them all bunched together, all glaring at the two rapists, who sat at the same table between their lawyers. The vodka felt good. He took a sip of what appeared to be ice water from a Styrofoam cup and managed a slight grin. It burned slowly downward and his cheeks flushed. What he ought to do was order the deputies out of the courtroom and throw Cobb and Willard to the niggers. That would be fun to watch, and justice would be served. He could just see the fat nigger women stomping up and down while their men carved on the boys with switchblades and machetes. Then, when they were finished, they would collect themselves and all march quietly from the courtroom. He smiled to himself.

He motioned for Mr. Pate, who approached the bench. “I’ve got a half pint of ice water in my desk drawer,” he whispered. “Pour me some in a Styrofoam cup.”

Mr. Pate nodded and disappeared.

“This is a bail hearing,” he declared loudly, “and I don’t intend for it to last long. Are the defendants ready?”

“Yes, sir,” said Tyndale.

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Mr. Bernard.

“The State ready?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Childers without standing.

“Good. Call your first witness.”

Childers addressed the judge. “Your Honor, the State will call no witnesses. His Honor is well aware of the charges against these two defendants, since His Honor held the preliminary hearing last Wednesday. It is my understanding the victim is now home, so we do not anticipate further charges. The grand jury will be asked next Monday to indict the two defendants for rape, kidnapping, and aggravated assault. Because of
the violent nature of these crimes, because of the age of the victim, and because Mr. Cobb is a convicted felon, the State would ask for the maximum bonds, and not a penny less.”

Bullard almost choked on his ice water. What maximum? There’s no such thing as a maximum bond.

“What do you suggest, Mr. Childers?”

“Half a million apiece!” Childers announced proudly and sat down.

Half a million! Out of the question, thought Bullard. He sipped furiously and glared at the prosecutor. Half a million! Double-crossed in open court. He sent Mr. Pate after more ice water.

“The defense may proceed.”

Cobb’s new lawyer stood purposefully. He cleared his throat and removed his horn-rimmed, academic, go-to-hell reading glasses. “May it please the court, Your Honor, my name is Peter K. Bernard. I am from Memphis, and I have been retained by Mr. Cobb to represent him—”

“Do you have a license to practice in Mississippi?” interrupted Bullard.

Bernard was caught off-guard. “Well, uh, not exactly, Your Honor.”

“I see. When you say ‘not exactly,’ do you mean something other than no?”

Several lawyers in the jury box snickered. Bullard was famous for this. He hated Memphis lawyers, and required them to associate local counsel before appearing in his court. Years before when he was practicing, a Memphis judge had kicked him out of court because he was not licensed in Tennessee. He had enjoyed revenge since the day he was elected.

“Your Honor, I am not licensed in Mississippi, but I am licensed in Tennessee.”

“I would hope so,” came the retort from the bench. More suppressed laughter from the jury box. “Are you familiar with our local rules here in Ford County?” His Honor asked.

“Er, uh, yes, sir.”

“Do you have a copy of these rules?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you read them carefully before you ventured into my courtroom?”

“Uh, yes, sir, most of them.”

“Did you understand Rule 14 when you read it?”

Cobb glanced up suspiciously at his new lawyer.

“Uh, I don’t recall that one,” Bernard admitted.

“I didn’t think so. Rule 14 requires out-of-state unlicensed attorneys to associate local counsel when appearing in my courtroom.”

“Yes, sir.”

From his looks and mannerisms, Bernard was a polished attorney, at least he was known as such in Memphis. He was, however, in the process of being totally degraded and humbled before a small-town, redneck judge with a quick tongue.

“Yes, sir, what?” snapped Bullard.

“Yes, sir, I think I’ve heard of that rule.”

“Then where’s the local counsel?”

“There is none, but I planned—”

“Then you drove down here from Memphis, carefully read my rules, and deliberately ignored them. Right?”

Bernard lowered his head and stared at a blank yellow legal pad on the table.

Tyndale rose slowly. “Your Honor, for the record, I show myself as associated counsel for Mr. Bernard for purposes of this hearing and for no other purpose.”

Bullard smiled. Slick move, Tyndale, slick move. The ice water warmed him and he relaxed. “Very well. Call your first witness.”

Bernard stood straight again. He cocked his head. “Your Honor, on behalf of Mr. Cobb, I would like to call his brother, Mr. Fred Cobb, to the stand.”

“Make it brief,” Bullard mumbled.

Cobb’s brother was sworn and seated in the witness chair. Bernard assumed the podium and began a long, detailed direct examination. He was well prepared. He elicited proof that Billy Ray Cobb was gainfully employed, owned real estate in Ford County, grew up there, had most of his family there, and friends, and had no reason to leave. A solid citizen with deep roots with much to lose if he fled. A man who could be trusted to show up for court. A man worthy of a low bond.

Bullard sipped, tapped his pen, and searched the black faces in the audience.

Childers had no questions. Bernard called Cobb’s mother, Cora, who repeated what her son Fred said about her son Billy Ray. She managed a couple of tears at an awkward moment, and Bullard shook his head.

Tyndale was next. He went through the same motions with Willard’s family.

Half a million dollars bond! Anything less would be too little, and the blacks wouldn’t like it. The judge had new reason to hate Childers. But he liked the blacks because they elected him last time. He received fifty-one percent of the vote countywide, but he got all the nigger vote.

“Anything else?” he asked when Tyndale finished.

The three lawyers looked blankly at each other, then at the judge. Bernard stood. “Your Honor, I
would like to summarize my client’s position in regard to a reasonable bond—”

“Forget it, pal. I’ve heard enough from you and your client. Sit down.”

Bullard hesitated, then rapidly announced: “Bond is hereby set at one hundred thousand for Pete Willard, and two hundred thousand for Billy Ray Cobb. Defendants will remain in the custody of the sheriff until they are able to make bail. Court’s adjourned.” He rapped the gavel and disappeared into his chambers, where he finished the half pint and opened another one.

Lester was pleased with the bonds. His had been fifty thousand for the murder of Monroe Bowie. Of course, Bowie was black, and bonds were generally lower for those cases.

The crowd inched toward the rear door, but Lester did not move. He watched closely as the two white boys were handcuffed and taken through the door into the holding room. When they were out of sight, he placed his head in his hands and said a short prayer. Then he listened.

________

At least ten times a day Jake walked through the French doors and onto the balcony to inspect downtown Clanton. He sometimes puffed a cheap cigar and blew smoke over Washington Street. Even in the summer he left the windows open in the big office. The sounds of the busy small town made good company as he worked quietly. At times he was amazed at the volume of noise generated on the streets around the courthouse, and at other times he walked to the balcony to see why things were so quiet.

Just before 2:00 P.M., Monday, May 20, he walked
to the balcony and lit a cigar. A heavy silence engulfed downtown Clanton, Mississippi.

________

Cobb went first down the stairs, cautiously, with his hands cuffed behind him, then Willard, then Deputy Looney. Ten steps down, then the landing, turn right, then ten steps to the first floor. Three other deputies waited outside by the patrol cars smoking cigarettes and watching reporters.

When Cobb reached the second step from the floor, and Willard was three steps behind, and Looney was one step off the landing, the small, dirty, neglected, unnoticed door to the janitor’s closet burst open and Mr. Carl Lee Hailey sprang from the darkness with an M-16. At point-blank range he opened fire. The loud, rapid, clapping, popping gunfire shook the courthouse and exploded the silence. The rapists froze, then screamed as they were hit—Cobb first, in the stomach and chest, then Willard in the face, neck, and throat. They twisted vainly up the stairs, handcuffed and helpless, stumbling over each other as their skin and blood splashed together.

Looney was hit in the leg but managed to scramble up the stairs into the holding room, where he crouched and listened as Cobb and Willard screamed and moaned and the crazy nigger laughed. Bullets ricocheted between the walls of the narrow stairway, and Looney could see, looking down toward the landing, blood and flesh splashing on the walls and dripping down.

In short, sudden bursts of seven or eight rounds each, the enormous booming sound of the M-16 echoed through the courthouse for an eternity. Through the
gunfire and the sounds of the bullets rattling around the walls of the stairway, the high-pitched, shrill, laughing voice of Carl Lee could be plainly heard.

When he stopped, he threw the rifle at the two corpses and ran. Into the restroom, he jammed the door with a chair, crawled out a window into the bushes, then onto the sidewalk. Nonchalantly, he walked to his pickup and drove home.

Lester froze when the shooting started. The gunfire was heard loudly in the courtroom. Willard’s mother screamed and Cobb’s mother screamed, and the deputies raced into the holding room, but did not venture down the stairs. Lester listened intently for the sounds of handguns, and hearing none, he left the courtroom.

With the first shot, Bullard grabbed the half pint and crawled under his desk while Mr. Pate locked the door.

Cobb, or what was left of him, came to rest on Willard. Their blood mixed and puddled on each step, then it overflowed and dripped to the next step, where it puddled before overflowing and dripping to the next. Soon the foot of the stairway was flooded with the mixture.

________

Jake sprinted across the street to the rear door of the courthouse. Deputy Prather crouched in front of the door, gun drawn, and cursed the reporters who pressed forward. The other deputies knelt fearfully on the doorsteps next to the patrol cars. Jake ran to the front of the courthouse, where more deputies were guarding the door and evacuating the county employees and courtroom spectators. A mass of bodies poured onto the front steps. Jake fought through the
stampede and into the rotunda and found Ozzie directing people and yelling in all directions. He motioned for Jake, and they walked down the hall to the rear doors, where a half dozen deputies stood, guns in hand, gazing silently at the stairway. Jake felt nauseated. Willard had almost made it to the landing. The front of his head was missing, and his brains rolled out like jelly covering his face. Cobb had been able to twist over and absorb the bullets with his back. His face was buried in Willard’s stomach, and his feet touched the fourth step from the floor. The blood continued from the lifeless bodies, and it covered completely the bottom six steps. The crimson pool on the floor inched quickly toward the deputies, who slowly backed away. The weapon was between Cobb’s legs on the fifth step, and it too was covered with blood.