A Time to Kill
Chapter Ten

"Yes. I know who you are. Seen you in the news. What brings you to Ford County?"
"Well, I gotta buddy in bad trouble. Carl Lee Hailey, and I'm here to help."
"Okay. Who's he?" Ozzie asked, looking up at the bodyguard. Ozzie was six feet four, and at least five inches shorter than the bodyguard. He weighed at least three hundred pounds, most of it in his arms.
"This here is Tiny Tom," Cat explained. "We just call him Tiny for short."
"I see."
"He's sort of like a bodyguard."
"He's not carryin' a gun, is he?"
"Naw, Sheriff, he don't need a gun."
rair enougn. wny aon t you and liny step into my office?"
In the office, Tiny closed the door and stood by it while his boss took a seat across from the sheriff.
"He can sit if he wants to," Ozzie explained to Cat.
"Naw, Sheriff, he always stands by the door. That's the way he's been trained."
"Sorta like a police dog?"
"Right."
"Fine. What'd you wanna talk about?"
Cat crossed his legs and laid a diamond-clustered hand on his knee. "Well, Sheriff, me and Carl Lee go way back. Fought together in 'Nam. We was pinned down near Da Nang, summer of '71. I got hit in the head, and, bam!, two seconds later he got hit in the leg. Our squad disappeared, and the gooks was usin' us for target practice. Carl Lee limped to where Fs layin', put me on his shoulders, and ran through the gunfire to a ditch next to a trail. I hung on his back while he crawled two miles. Saved my life. He got a medal for it. You know that?"
"No."
"It's true. We laid next to each other in a hospital in Saigon for two months, then got our black asses outta Vietnam. Don't plan to go back."
Ozzie was listening intently.
"And now that my man is in trouble, I'd like to help."
"Did he get the M-16 from you?"
Tiny grunted and Cat smiled. "Of course not."
"Would you like to see him?"
"Why sure. It's that easy?"
"Yep. If you can move Tiny away from that door, I'll get him."
Tiny stepped aside, and two minutes later Ozzie was back with the prisoner. Cat yelled at him, hugged him, and they patted each other like boxers. Carl Lee looked awkwardly at Ozzie, who took the hint and left. Tiny again closed the door and stood guard. Carl Lee moved two chairs together so they could face each other closely and talk.
Cat spoke first. "I'm proud of you, big man, for what you did. Real proud. Why didn't you tell me that's why you wanted the gun?"
"Just didn't."
"How was it?"
"Just like 'Nam, except they couldn't shoot back."
"That's the best way."
"Yeah, I guess. I just wish none of this had to happen."
"You ain't sorry, are you?"
Carl Lee rocked in his chair and studied the ceiling. "I'd do it over, so I got no regrets about that. I just wish they hadn't messed with my little girl. I wish she was the same. I wish none of it ever happened."
"Right, right. It's gotta be tough on you here."
"I ain't worried 'bout me. I'm real concerned with my family."
"Right, right. How's the wife?"
"She's okay. She'll make it."
"I saw in the paper where the trial's in July. You been in the paper more than me here lately."
"Yeah, Cat. But you always get off. I ain't so sure 'bout me."
"You gotta good lawyer, don't you?"
"Yeah. He's good."
Cat stood and walked around the office, admiring Oz-zie's trophies and certificates. "That's the main reason I came to see you, my man."
"What's that?" Carl Lee asked, unsure of what his friend had in mind, but certain his visit had a purpose.
"Carl Lee, you know how many times I been on trial?"
"Seems like all the time."
"Five! Five times they put me on trial. The federal boys. The state boys. The city boys. Dope, gamblin', bribery, guns, racketeerin', whores. You name it, and they've tried me for it. And you know somethin', Carl Lee, I've been guilty of it all. Evertime I've gone to trial, I've been guilty as hell. You know how many times I been convicted?"
"No."
"None! Not once have they got me. Five trials, five not guilties."
Carl Lee smiled with admiration.
"You know why they can't convict me?"
Carl Lee had an idea, but he shook his head anyway.
"Because, Carl Lee, I got the smartest, meanest,
illinium lawyer in inese pans, ne plays dirty, and the cops hate him. But I'm sittin' here instead of some prison. He'll do whatever it takes to win a case."
"Who is he?" Carl Lee asked eagerly.
"You've seen him on television walkin' in and outta court. He's in the papers all the time. Evertime some big-shot crook gets in trouble, he's there. He gets the drug dealers, the politicians, me, all the big-time thugs."
"What's his name?"
"He handles nothin' but criminal cases, mainly dope, bribery, extortion, stuff like that. But you know what his favorite is?"
"What?"
"Murder. He loves murder cases. Ain't never lost one. Gets all the big ones in Memphis. Remember when they caught those two niggers throwin' a dude off the bridge into the Mississippi. Caught them redhanded. 'Bout five years ago?"
"Yeah, I remember."
"Had a big trial for two weeks, and they got off. He was the man. Walked them outta there. Not guilty."
"I think I remember seein' him on TV."
"Sure you did. He's a bad dude, Carl Lee. I'm tellin' you the man never loses."
"What's his name?"
Cat landed in his chair and stared solemnly into Carl Lee's face. "Bo Marsharfsky," he said.
Carl Lee gazed upward as if he remembered the name. "So what?"
Cat laid five fingers with eight carats on Carl Lee's knee. "So he wants to help you, my man."
"I already got one lawyer I can't pay. How I'm gonna pay another?"
"You ain't gotta pay, Carl Lee. That's where I come in. He's on my retainer all the time. I own him. Paid the guy 'bout a hundred thousand last year just to keep me outta trouble. You don't pay."
Suddenly, Carl Lee had a keen interest in Bo Marsharfsky. "How does he know 'bout me?"
"Because he reads the paper and watches the tube. You
know how lawyers are. I was in his office yesterday and he was studyin' the paper with your picture on the front. I told him 'bout me and you. He went crazy. Said he had to have your case. I said I would help."
"And that's why you're here?"
"Right, right. He said he knew just the folks to get you off."
"Like who?"
"Doctors, psychiatrists, folks like that. He knows them all."
"They cost money."
"I'll pay for it, Carl Lee! Listen to me! I'll pay for it all. You'll have the best lawyer and doctors money can buy, and your old pal Cat will pay the tab. Don't worry 'bout money!"
"But I gotta good lawyer."
"How old is he?"
"I guess 'bout thirty."
Cat rolled his eyes in amazement. "He's a child, Carl Lee. He ain't been outta school long enough. Marsharfsky's fifty, and he's handled more murder cases than your boy'll ever see. This is your life, Carl Lee. Don't trust it to no rookie."
Suddenly, Jake was awful young. But then there was Lester's trial when Jake had been even younger.
"Look, Carl Lee, I been in many trials, and that crap is complicated and technical. One mistake and your ass is gone. If this kid misses one trick, it might be the difference between life and death. You can't afford to have no young kid in there hopin' he don't mess up. One mistake," Cat snapped his fingers for special effect, "and you're in the gas chamber. Marsharfsky don't make mistakes."
Carl Lee was on the ropes. "Would he work with my lawyer?" he asked, seeking compromise.
"No! No way. He don't work with nobody. He don't need no help. Your boy'd be in the way."
Carl Lee placed his elbows on his knees and stared at his feet. A thousand bucks for a doctor would be impossible. He did not understand the need for one since he had not felt insane at the time, but evidently one would be necessary. Everyone seemed to think so. A thousand bucks for a cheap doctor. Cat was offering the best money could buy.
i naic 10 uo mis 10 my lawyer, ne muttered quietly.
"Don't be stupid, man," Cat scolded. "You better be lookin' out for Carl Lee and to hell with this child. This ain't no time to worry 'bout hurtin' feelin's. He's a lawyer, forget him. He'll get over it."
"But I already paid him-"
"How much?" Cat demanded, snapping his fingers at Tiny.
"Nine hundred bucks."
Tiny produced a wad of cash, and Cat peeled off nine one-hundred-dollar bills and stuffed them in Carl Lee's shirt pocket. "Here's somethin' for the kids," he said as he unraveled a one-thousand-dollar bill and stuffed it with the rest.
Carl Lee's pulse jumped as he thought of the cash covering his heart. He felt it move in the pocket and press gently against his chest. He wanted to look at the big bill and hold it firmly in his hand. Food, he thought, food for his kids.
"We gotta deal?" Cat asked with a smile.
"You want me to fire my lawyer and hire yours?" he asked carefully.
"Right, right."
"And you gonna pay for everthing?"
"Right, right."
"What about this money?"
"It's yours. Lemme know if you need more."
"Mighty nice of you, Cat."
"I'm a very nice man. I'm helpin' two friends. One saved my life many years ago, and the other saves my ass ever two years."
"Why does he want my case so bad?"
"Publicity. You know how lawyers are. Look at how much press this kid's already made off you. It's a lawyer's dream. We gotta deal?"
"Yeah. It's a deal."
Cat struck him on the shoulder with an affectionate blow, and walked to the phone on Ozzie's desk. He punched the numbers. "Collect to 901-566-9800. From Cat Bruster. Person to person to Bo Marsharfsky."
On the twentieth floor in a downtown office building, Bo Marsharfsky hung up the phone and asked his secretary if the press release was prepared. She handed it to him, and he read it carefully.
"This looks fine," he said. "Get it to both newspapers immediately. Tell them to use the file photograph, the new one. See Frank Fields at the Post. Tell him I want it on the front page in the morning. He owes me a favor."
"Yes, sir. What about the TV stations?" she asked.
"Deliver them a copy. I can't talk now, but I'll hold a news conference in Clanton next week."
Lucien called at six-thirty Saturday morning. Carla was buried deep under the blankets and did not respond to the phone. Jake rolled toward the wall and grappled with the lamp until he found the receiver. "Hello," he managed weakly.
"What're you doing?" Lucien asked.
"I was sleeping until the phone rang."
"You seen the paper?"
"What time is it?"
"Go get the paper and call me after you read it."
The phone was dead. Jake stared at the receiver, then placed it on the table. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed the fog from his eyes, and tried to remember the last time Lucien called his house. It must be important.
He made the coffee, turned out the dog, and walked quickly in his gym shorts and sweatshirt to the edge of the street where the three morning papers had fallen within ten inches of each other. He rolled the rubber bands off onto the kitchen table and spread the papers next to his coffee. Nothing in the Jackson paper. Nothing from Tupelo. The Memphis Post carried a headline of death in the Middle East, and, then, he saw it. On the bottom half of the front page he saw himself, and under his picture was the caption: "Jake Brigance-Out." Next was a picture of Carl Lee, and then a splendid picture of a face he had seen before. Under it, the words: "Bo Marsharfsky-In." The headline announced that the noted Memphis criminal attorney had been hired to represent the "vigilante killer."
aureiy n was a mistake. He had seen Carl Lee only yesterday. He read the story slowly. There were few details, just a history of Mar-sharfsky's greatest verdicts. He promised a news conference in Clanton. He said the case would present new challenges, etc. He had faith in the jurors of Ford County.
Jake slipped silently into starched khakis and a button-down. His wife was still lost somewhere deep in the bed. He would tell her later. He took the paper and drove to the office. The Coffee Shop would not be safe. At Ethel's desk he read the story again and stared at his picture on the front page.
Lucien had a few words of comfort. He knew Marsharf-sky, or "The Shark," as he was known. He was a sleazy crook with polish and finesse. Lucien admired him.
Moss Junior led Carl Lee into Ozzie's office, where Jake waited with a newspaper. The deputy quickly left and closed the door. Carl Lee sat on the small black vinyl couch.
Jake threw the newspaper at him. "Have you seen this?" he demanded.
Carl Lee glared at him and ignored the paper.
"Why, Carl Lee?"
"I don't have to explain, Jake."
"Yes, you do. You didn't have the guts to call me like a man and tell me. You let me read it in the paper. I demand an explanation."
"You wanted too much money, Jake. You're always gripin' over the money. Here I am sittin' in jail and you're bitchin' 'bout somethin' I can't help."
"Money. You can't afford to pay me. How can you afford Marsharfsky?"
"I ain't gotta pay him."
"What!"
"You heard me. I ain't payin' him."
"I guess he works for free."
"Nope. Somebody else is payin'."
"Who!" Jake shouted.
"I ain't tellin'. It ain't none of your business, Jake."
"You've hired the biggest criminal lawyer in Memphis, and someone else is payin' his bill?"
"Yep."
The NAACP, thought Jake. No, they wouldn't hire Marsharfsky. They've got their own lawyers. Besides,xhe was too expensive for them. Who else?
Carl Lee took the newspaper and folded it neatly. He was ashamed, and felt bad, but the decision had been made. He had asked Ozzie to call Jake and convey the news, but the sheriff wanted no part of it. He should have called, but he was not going to apologize. He studied his picture on the front page. He liked the part about the vigilante business.
"And you're not going to tell me who?" Jake said, somewhat quieter.
"Naw, Jake. I ain't tellin'."
"Did you discuss it with Lester?"
The glare returned to his eyes. "Nope. He ain't on trial, and it ain't none of his business."
"Where is he?"
"Chicago. Left yesterday. And don't you go call him. I've made up my mind, Jake."
We'll see, Jake said to himself. Lester would find out shortly.
Jake opened the door. "That's it. I'm fired. Just like that."
Carl Lee stared at his picture and said nothing.
Carla was eating breakfast and waiting. A reporter from Jackson had called looking for Jake, and had told her about Marsharfsky.
There were no words, just motions. He filled a cup with coffee and went to the back porch. He sipped from the steaming cup and surveyed the unkempt hedges that lined the boundary of his long and narrow backyard. A brilliant sun baked the rich green Bermuda and dried the dew, creating a sticky haze that drifted upward and hung to his shirt. The hedges and grass were waiting on their weekly grooming. He kicked off his loafers-no socks-and walked through the soggy turf to inspect a broken birdbath near a scrawny crepe myrtle, the only tree of any significance.
UC11111U Him.
He took her hand and smiled. "You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Did you talk to him?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
He shook his head and said nothing.
"I'm sorry, Jake."
He nodded and stared at the birdbath.
"There will be other cases," she said without confidence.
"I know." He thought of Buckley, and could hear the laughter. He thought of the guys at the Coffee Shop, and vowed not to return. He thought of the cameras and reporters, and a dull pain moved through his stomach. He thought of Lester, his only hope of retrieving the case.
"Would you like some breakfast?" she asked.
"No. I'm not hungry. Thanks."
"Look on the bright side," she said. "We won't be afraid to answer the phone."
"I think I'll cut the grass," he said.
The Council of Ministers was a group of black preachers that had been formed to coordinate political activities in the black communities of Ford County. It met infrequently during the off years, but during election years it met weekly, on Sunday afternoons, to interview candidates and discuss issues, and, more importantly, to determine the benevolence of each office seeker. Deals were cut, strategies developed, money exchanged. The council had proven it could deliver the black vote. Gifts and offerings to black churches rose dramatically during elections.
The Reverend Ollie Agee called a special meeting of the council for Sunday afternoon at his church. He wrapped up his sermon early, and by 4:00 P.M. his flock had scattered when the Cadillacs and Lincolns began filling his parking lot. The meetings were secret, with only ministers who were council members invited. There were twenty-three black churches in Ford County, and twenty-two members were present when Reverend Agee called the meeting to order. The meeting would be brief, since some of the ministers, especially from the Church of Christ, would begin their evening services shortly.
The purpose of the meeting, he explained, was to organize moral, political, and financial support of Carl Lee Hai-ley, a member in good standing of his church. A legal defense fund must be established to assure the best legal representation. Another fund must be established to provide support for his family. He, Reverend Agee, would chair the fund-raising efforts, with each minister responsible for his own congregation, as usual. A special offering would be taken during the morning and evening services, starting next Sunday. Agee would use his discretion in disbursing the money to the family. Half of the proceeds would go to the defense fund. Time was important. The trial was next month. The money had to be raised quickly while the issue was hot, and the people were in a giving mood.
cuuncn unanimously agreed witn Keverend Agee. He continued.
The NAACP must become active in the Hailey case. He would not be on trial if he was white. Not in Ford County. He was on trial only because he was black, and this must be addressed by the NAACP. The national director had been called. The Memphis and Jackson chapters had promised help. Press conferences would be held. Demonstrations and marches would be important. Maybe boycotts of white-owned businesses-that was a popular tactic at the moment, and it worked with amazing results.
This must be done immediately, while the people were willing and in a giving mood. The ministers unanimously agreed and left for their evening services.
In part due to fatigue, and in part due to embarrassment, Jake slept through church. Carla fixed pancakes, and they enjoyed a long breakfast with Hanna on the patio. He ignored the Sunday papers after he found, on the front page of the second section of The Memphis Post, a full-page spread on Marsharfsky and his famous new client. The story was complete with pictures and quotes from the great lawyer. The Hailey case presented his biggest challenge, he said. Serious legal and social issues would be addressed. A novel defense would be employed, he promised. He had not lost a murder case in twelve years, he boasted. It would be difficult, but he had confidence in the wisdom and fairness of Mississippi jurors.
Jake read the article without comment and laid the paper in the trash can.
Carla suggested a picnic, and although he needed to work he knew better than to mention it. They loaded the Saab with food and toys and drove to the lake. The brown, muddy waters of Lake Chatulla had crested for the year, and within days would begin their slow withdrawal to the center. The high water attracted a flotilla of skiboats, bass rigs, catamarans, and dinghies.
Carla threw two heavy quilts under an oak on the side of a hill while Jake unloaded the food and doll house. Hanna arranged her large family with pets and automobiles
on one quilt and began giving orders and setting up house. Her parents listened and smiled. Her birth had been a harrowing, gut-wrenching nightmare, two and a half months premature and shrouded with conflicting symptoms and prognoses. For eleven days Jake sat by the incubator in ICU and watched the tiny, purple, scrawny, beautiful three-pound body cling to life while an army of doctors and nurses studied the monitors and adjusted tubes and needles, and shook their heads. When he was alone he touched the incubator and wiped tears from his cheeks. He prayed as he had never prayed. He slept in a rocking chair near his daughter and dreamed of a beautiful blue-eyed, dark-haired little girl playing with dolls and sleeping on his shoulder. He could hear her voice.
After a month the nurses smiled and the doctors relented. The tubes were removed one at a time each day for a week. Her weight ballooned to a hearty four and a half pounds, and the proud parents took her home. The doctors suggested no more children, unless adopted.
She was perfect now, and the sound of her voice could still bring tears to his eyes. They ate and chuckled as Hanna lectured her dolls on proper hygiene.
"This is the first time you've relaxed in two weeks," Carla said as they lay on their quilt. Wildly colored catamarans crisscrossed the lake below dodging a hundred roaring boats pulling half-drunken skiers.
"We went to church last Sunday," he replied.
"And all you thought about was the trial."
"Still thinking about it."
"It's over, isn't it?"
"I don't know."
"Will he change his mind?"
' "He might, if Lester talks to him. It's hard to say. Blacks are so unpredictable, especially when they're in trouble. He's got a good deal, really. He's got the best criminal lawyer in Memphis, and he's free."
"Who's paying the bill?"
"An old friend of Carl Lee's from Memphis, a guy by the name of Cat Bruster."
"Who's he?"
f\. very ncn pimp, dope pusher, thug, thief. Marsharf-sky's his lawyer. A couple of crooks."
"Did Carl Lee tell you this?"
"No. He wouldn't tell me, so I asked Ozzie."
"Does Lester know?"
"Not yet."
"What do you mean by that? You're not going to call him, are you?"
"Well, yes, I had planned to."
"That's going a bit far, isn't it?"
"I don't think so. Lester has a right to know, and-"
"Then Carl Lee should tell him."
"He should, but he won't. He's made a mistake, and he does not realize it."
"But it's his problem, not yours. At least not anymore."
"Carl Lee's too embarrassed to tell Lester. He knows Lester will cuss him and tell him he's made another mistake."
"So it's up to you to intervene in their family affairs."
"No. But I think Lester should know."
"I'm sure he'll see it in the papers."
"Maybe not," Jake said without any conviction. "I think Hanna needs some more orange juice."
"I think you want to change the subject."
"The subject doesn't bother me. I want the case, and I intend to get it back. Lester's the only person who can retrieve it."
Her eyes narrowed and he could feel them. He watched a bass rig drift into a mud bar on the near shore.
"Jake, that's unethical, and you know it." Her voice was calm, yet controlled and firm. The words were slow and scornful.
"That's not true, Carla. I'm a very ethical attorney."
"You've always preached ethics. But at this moment you're scheming to solicit the case. That's wrong, Jake."
"Retrieve, not solicit."
"What's the difference?"
"Soliciting is unethical. I've never seen a prohibition against retrieving."
"It's not right, Jake. Carl Lee's hired another lawyer and it's time for you to forget it."
"And I suppose you think Marsharfsky reads ethics opinions. How do you think he got the case? He's been hired by a man who's never heard of him. He chased the case, and he's got it."
"So that makes it okay if you chase it now?"
"Retrieve, not chase."
Hanna demanded cookies, and Carla searched through the picnic basket. Jake reclined on an elbow and ignored them both. He thought of Lucien. What would he do in this situation? Probably rent a plane, fly to Chicago, get Lester, slip him some money, bring him home, and convince him to browbeat Carl Lee. He would assure Lester that Marsharfsky could not practice in Mississippi, and since he was a foreigner, the rednecks on the jury wouldn't believe him anyway. He would call Marsharfsky and curse him for chasing cases and threaten him with an ethics complaint the minute he stepped into Mississippi. He would get his black cronies to call Gwen and Ozzie and persuade them that the only lawyer with a dog's chance in hell of winning the case was Lucien Wilbanks. Finally, Carl Lee would knuckle under and send for Lucien.
That's exactly what Lucien would do. Talk about ethics.
"Why are you smiling?" Carla interrupted.
"Just thinking about how nice it is out here with you and Hanna. We don't do this enough."
"You're disappointed, aren't you?"
"Sure. There will never be another case like this one. Win it, and I'm the greatest lawyer in these parts. We would never have to worry about money again."
"And if you lost it?"
"It would still be a drawing card. But I can't lose what I don't have."
"Embarrassed?"
"A little. It's hard to accept. Every lawyer in the county is laughing about it, except maybe Harry Rex. But I'll get over it."
"What should I do with the scrapbook?"
"Save it. You might fill it up yet."
unc, nine reel long and tour feet wide, made to fit inconspicuously in the long bed of a pickup. Much larger crosses were used for the rituals, but the small ones worked better in the nocturnal raids into residential areas. They were not used often, or often enough according to their builders. In fact, it had been many years since one had been used in Ford County. The last one was planted in the yard of a nigger accused of raping a white woman.
Several hours before dawn on Monday morning, the cross was lifted quietly and quickly from the pickup and thrust into a ten-inch, freshly dug slot in the front yard of the quaint Victorian house on Adams Street. A small torch was thrown at the foot of the cross, and in seconds it was in flames. The pickup disappeared into the night and stopped at a pay phone at the edge of town, where a call was placed to the dispatcher.
Moments later, Deputy Marshall Prather turned down Adams and instantly saw the blazing cross in Jake's front yard. He turned into the driveway and parked behind the Saab. He punched the doorbell and stood on the porch watching the flames. It was almost three-thirty. He punched it again. Adams was dark and silent except for the glow of the cross and the snapping and crackling of the wood burning fifty feet away. Finally, Jake stumbled through the front door and froze, wild-eyed and stunned, next to the deputy. The two stood side by side on the porch, mesmerized not only by the burning cross, but by its purpose.
"Mornin", Jake," Prather finally said without looking from the fire.
"Who did it?" Jake asked with a scratchy, dry throat.
"Don't know. They didn't leave a name. Just called and told us about it."
"When did they call?"
"Fifteen minutes ago."
Jake ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep it from blowing wild in the soft breeze. "How long will it burn?" he asked, knowing Prather knew as little or even less than he about burning crosses.
"No tellin'. Probably soaked in kerosene. Smells like it anyway. Might burn for a couple of hours. You want me to call a fire truck?"