A Time to Kill (64 page)

They worked through the exhibits, photographs, fingerprints, and ballistics reports. At six, they informed the judge they had not reached a verdict. They were hungry and wanted to go. He recessed until Tuesday morning.

41

__________

T
hey sat for hours on the porch, saying little, watching as darkness surrounded the town below and ushered in the mosquitoes. The heat wave had returned. The soggy air clung to their skin and moistened their shirts. The sounds of a hot summer night echoed softly across the front lawn. Sallie had offered to cook. Lucien declined and ordered whiskey. Jake had no appetite for food, but the Coors filled his system and satisfied any hunger pangs stirring within. When things were good and dark, Nesbit emerged from his car, walked across the porch, through the front screen door, and into the house. A moment later he slammed the door, walked past them with a cold beer, and disappeared down the driveway in the direction of his car. He never said a word.

Sallie stuck her head through the door and made one last offer of food. Both declined.

“Jake, I got a call this afternoon. Clyde Sisco wants twenty-five thousand to hang the jury, fifty thousand for an acquittal.”

Jake began shaking his head.

“Before you say no, listen to me. He knows he can’t guarantee an acquittal, but he can guarantee a hung jury. It just takes one. That’s twenty-five thousand. I know it’s a lot of money, but you know I’ve got it. I’ll pay it and you can repay me over the years. Whenever, I don’t care. If you never repay it, I don’t care. I’ve got a bankful of C.D.s. You know money means nothing to me. If I were you I’d do it in a minute.”

“You’re crazy, Lucien.”

“Sure I’m crazy. You haven’t been acting so good yourself. Trial work’ll drive you crazy. Just take a look at what this trial has done to you. No sleep, no food, no routine, no house. Plenty of booze, though.”

“But I’ve still got ethics.”

“And I have none. No ethics, no morals, no conscience. But I won, bubba. I won more than anybody has ever won around here, and you know it.”

“It’s corrupt, Lucien.”

“And I guess you think Buckley’s not corrupt. He would lie, cheat, bribe, and steal to win this case. He’s not worried about fancy ethics, rules, and opinions. He’s not concerned about morality. He’s concerned with one thing and only one thing—winning! And you’ve got a golden chance to beat him at his own game. I’d do it, Jake.”

“Forget it, Lucien. Please, just forget it.”

An hour passed with no words. The lights of the town below slowly disappeared. Nesbit’s snoring was audible in the darkness. Sallie brought one last drink and said good night.

“This is the hardest part,” Lucien said. “Waiting on twelve average, everyday people to make sense of all this.”

“It’s a crazy system, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But it usually works. Juries are right ninety percent of the time.”

“I just don’t feel lucky. I’m waiting on the miracle.”

“Jake, my boy, the miracle happens tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Early tomorrow morning.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“By noon tomorrow, Jake, there will be ten thousand angry blacks swarming like ants around the Ford County Courthouse. Maybe more.”

“Ten thousand! Why?”

“To scream and shout and chant ‘Free Carl Lee, Free Carl Lee.’ To raise hell, to scare everybody, to intimidate the jury. To just disrupt the hell out of everything. There’ll be so many blacks, white folks will run for cover. The governor will send in more troops.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“Because I planned it, Jake.”

“You?”

“Listen, Jake, when I was in my prime I knew every black preacher in fifteen counties. I’ve been in their churches. Prayed with them, marched with them, sang with them. They sent me clients, and I sent them money. I was the only white radical NAACP lawyer in north Mississippi. I filed more race discrimination lawsuits than any ten firms in Washington. These were my people. I’ve just made a few phone calls. They’ll start arriving in the morning, and by noon you won’t be able to stir niggers with a stick in downtown Clanton.”

“Where will they come from?”

“Everywhere. You know how blacks love to march and protest. This will be great for them. They’re looking forward to it.”

“You’re crazy, Lucien. My crazy friend.”

“I win, bubba.”

________

In Room 163, Barry Acker and Clyde Sisco finished their last game of gin rummy and made preparations for bed. Acker gathered some coins and announced he wanted a soft drink. Sisco said he was not thirsty.

Acker tiptoed past a guardsman asleep in the hall. The machine informed him it was out of order, so he quietly opened the exit door and walked up the stairs to the second floor, where he found another machine next to an ice maker. He inserted his coins. The machine responded with a diet Coke. He bent over to pick it up.

Out of the darkness two figures charged. They knocked him to the floor, kicked him, and pinned him in a dark corner beside the ice maker, next to a door with a chain and padlock. The large one grabbed Acker’s collar and threw him against the cinder block wall. The smaller one stood by the Coke machine and watched the dark hall.

“You’re Barry Acker!” said the large one through clenched teeth.

“Yeah! Let go of me!” Acker attempted to shake free, but his assailant lifted him by the throat and held him to the wall with one hand. He used the other hand to unsheath a shiny hunting knife, which he placed next to Acker’s nose. The wiggling stopped.

“Listen to me,” he demanded in a loud whisper, “and listen good. We know you’re married and you live at 1161 Forrest Drive. We know you got three kids, and we know where they play and go to school. Your wife works at the bank.”

Acker went limp.

“If that nigger walks free, you’ll be sorry. Your
family will be sorry. It may take years, but you’ll be awfully sorry.”

He dropped him to the floor and grabbed his hair. “You breathe one word of this to anyone, and you’ll lose a kid. Understand?”

They vanished. Acker breathed deeply, almost gasping for breath. He rubbed his throat and the back of his head. He sat in the darkness, too scared to move.

42

__________

A
t hundreds of small black churches across north Mississippi, the faithful gathered before dawn and loaded picnic baskets, coolers, lawn chairs, and water jugs into converted school buses and church vans. They greeted friends and chatted nervously about the trial. For weeks they had read and talked about Carl Lee Hailey; now, they were about to go help. Many were old and retired, but there were entire families with children and playpens. When the buses were full, they piled into cars and followed their preachers. They sang and prayed. The preachers met other preachers in small towns and county seats, and they set out in force down the dark highways. When daylight materialized, the highways and roads leading to Ford County were filled with caravans of pilgrims.

They jammed the side streets for blocks around the square. They parked where they stopped and unloaded.

The fat colonel had just finished breakfast and stood in the gazebo watching intently. Buses and cars, many with horns honking, were coming from all directions
to the square. The barricades held firm. He barked commands and the soldiers jumped into high gear. More excitement. At seven-thirty, he called Ozzie and told him of the invasion. Ozzie arrived immediately and found Agee, who assured him it was a peaceful march. Sort of like a sit-in. How many were coming? Ozzie asked. Thousands, said Agee. Thousands.

They set up camp under the stately oaks, and milled around the lawn inspecting things. They arranged tables and chairs and playpens. They were indeed peaceful, until a group began the familiar cry of “Free Carl Lee!” They cleared their throats and joined in. It was not yet eight o’clock.

A black radio station in Memphis flooded the airwaves early Tuesday with a call for help. Black bodies were needed to march and demonstrate in Clanton, Mississippi, an hour away. Hundreds of cars met at a mall and headed south. Every civil rights activist and black politician in the city made the trip.

Agee was a man possessed. He used a bullhorn to shout orders here and there. He herded new arrivals into their places. He organized the black preachers. He assured Ozzie and the colonel everything was okay.

Everything was okay until a handful of Klansmen made their routine appearance. The sight of the white robes was new to many of the blacks, and they reacted loudly. They inched forward, screaming and jeering. The troops surrounded the robes and protected them. The Kluxers were stunned and scared, and did not yell back.

By eight-thirty, the streets of Clanton were grid-locked. Deserted cars, vans, and buses were scattered haphazardly through parking lots and along the quiet
residential streets. A steady stream of blacks walked toward the square from all directions. Traffic did not move. Driveways were blocked. Merchants parked blocks away from their shops. The mayor stood in the center of the gazebo, wringing his hands and begging Ozzie to do something. Around him thousands of blacks swarmed and yelled in perfect unison. Ozzie asked the mayor if he wanted him to start arresting everybody on the courthouse lawn.

Noose parked at a service station a half mile south of the jail, and walked with a group of blacks to the courthouse. They watched him curiously, but said nothing. No one would suspect he was a person of authority. Buckley and Musgrove parked in a driveway on Adams Street. They cursed and walked toward the square. They noticed the pile of rubble that had been Jake’s house but said nothing. They were too busy cursing. With state troopers leading the way, the Greyhound from Temple reached the square at twenty minutes after nine. Through the dark windows, the fourteen passengers stared in disbelief at the carnival around the courthouse.

Mr. Pate called the packed courtroom to order, and Noose welcomed his jury. He apologized for the trouble outside, but there was nothing he could do. If there were no problems to report, they could continue deliberations.

“Very well, you may retire to the jury room and get to work. We will meet again just before lunch.”

The jurors filed out and went to the jury room. The Hailey children sat with their father at the defense table. The spectators, now predominantly black, remained seated and struck up conversations. Jake returned to his office.

Foreman Acker sat at the end of the long, dusty table and thought of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Ford Countians who had served in this room and sat around this table and argued about justice over the past century. Any pride he may have felt for serving on the jury of the most famous case was greatly overshadowed by what happened last night. He wondered how many of his predecessors had been threatened with death. Probably a few, he decided.

The others fixed their coffee and slowly found seats around the tables. The room brought back fond memories for Clyde Sisco. Prior jury duty had proved lucrative for him, and he relished the thought of another handsome payoff for another just and true verdict. His messenger had not contacted him.

“How would y’all like to proceed?” the foreman asked.

Rita Mae Plunk had an especially hard and unforgiving look about her. She was a rough woman with a house trailer, no husband, and two outlaws for sons, both of whom had expressed hatred for Carl Lee Hailey. She had a few things she wanted to get off her large chest.

“I got a few things I wanna say,” she informed Acker.

“Fine. Why don’t we start with you, Miss Plunk, and go around the table.”

“I voted guilty yesterday in the first vote, and I’ll vote guilty next time. I don’t see how anybody could vote not guilty, and I want just one of you to explain to me how you could vote in favor of this nigger!”

“Don’t say that word again!” yelled Wanda Womack.

“I’ll say ‘nigger’ if I wanna say ‘nigger,’ and there ain’t a damned thing you can do,” replied Rita Mae.

“Please don’t use that word,” said Frances McGowan.

“I find it personally offensive,” said Wanda Womack.

“Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger,” Rita Mae yelled across the table.

“Come on,” said Clyde Sisco.

“Oh boy,” said the foreman. “Look, Miss Plunk, let’s be honest, okay. Most of us use that word, from time to time. I’m sure some of us use it more than others. But it’s offensive to many people, and I think it’d be a good idea not to use it during our deliberations. We’ve got enough to worry about as it is. Can we all agree not to use that word?”

Everyone nodded but Rita Mae.

Sue Williams decided to answer. She was well dressed, attractive, about forty. She worked for the county welfare department. “I didn’t vote yesterday. I passed. But I tend to sympathize with Mr. Hailey. I have a daughter, and if she was raped, it would greatly affect my mental stability. I can understand how a parent might crack in that situation, and I think it’s unfair for us to judge Mr. Hailey as if he was supposed to act completely rational.”

“You think he was legally insane?” asked Reba Betts, an undecided.

“I’m not sure. But I know he wasn’t stable. He couldn’t have been.”

“So you believe that nut of a doctor who testified for him?” asked Rita Mae.

“Yes. He was as believable as the State’s doctor.”

“I liked his boots,” said Clyde Sisco. No one laughed.

“But he’s a convict,” said Rita Mae. “He lied and tried to cover it up. You can’t believe a word he said.”

“He had sex with a girl under eighteen,” Clyde said. “If that’s a crime, then a bunch of us should’ve been indicted.”

Again, no one appreciated the attempt at humor. Clyde decided to stay quiet for a while.

“He later married the girl,” said Donna Lou Peck, an undecided.

They went around the table, one at a time, expressing opinions and answering questions. The N word was carefully avoided by those wanting a conviction. The battle lines became clearer. Most of the undecideds leaned toward guilty, it seemed. The careful planning by Carl Lee, knowing the exact movements of the boys, the M-16—it all seemed so premeditated. If he had caught them in the act and killed them on the spot, he would not be held accountable. But to plan it so carefully for six days did not indicate an insane mind.