"How much will it cost?"
"I don't know. I haven't called yet."
"Better call. Where is this psychiatrist?"
"Memphis."
"Figures."
"How are the boys treatin' her?"
"They've been great. They treat her special. But the nightmares keep them scared. When she wakes up screamin' she wakes everybody. The boys run to her bed and try to help, but it scares them. Last night she wouldn't go back to sleep unless the boys slept on the floor next to her. We all laid there wide awake with the lights on."
"The boys'll be all right."
"They miss their daddy."
Carl Lee managed a forced smile. "It won't be much longer."
"You really think so?"
"I don't know what to think anymore. But I don't plan to spend the rest of my life in jail. I hired Jake back."
"When?"
"Yesterday. That Memphis lawyer never showed up, never even called. I fired him and hired Jake again."
"But you said Jake is too young."
"I was wrong. He is young, but he's good. Ask Lester."
"It's your trial."
Carl Lee walked slowly around the yard, never leaving the fence. He thought of the two boys, somewhere out there, dead and buried, their flesh rotting by now, their souls burning in hell. Before they died, they met his little girl, only briefly, and within two hours wrecked her little body and ruined her mind. So brutal was their attack that she could never have children; so violent the encounter that she now saw them hiding for her, waiting in closets. Could she ever forget about it, block it out, erase it from her mind so her life would be normal? Maybe a psychiatrist could do that. Would other children allow her to be normal?
She was just a little nigger, they probably thought. Somebody's little nigger kid. Illegitimate, of course, like all of them. Rape would be nothing new.
He remembered them in court. One proud, the other scared. He remembered them coming down the stairs as he awaited the execution. Then, the looks of horror as he stepped forward with the M-16. The sound of the gunfire, the cries for help, the screams as they fell backward together, one on top of the other, handcuffed, screaming and twisting, going nowhere. He remembered smiling, even laughing, as he watched them struggle with their heads half blown away, and when their bodies were still, he ran.
He smiled again. He was proud of it. The first gook he killed in Vietnam had bothered him more.
The letter to Walter Sullivan was to the point:
Dear J. Walter:
By now it's safe to assume Mr. Marsharfsky has informed you that his employment by Carl Lee Hailey has been terminated. Your services as local counsel will, of course, no longer be needed. Have a nice day.
Sincerely, Jake
A copy was sent to L. Winston Lotterhouse. The letter to Noose was just as short:
Dear Judge Noose:
Please be advised that I have been retained by Carl Lee Hailey. We are preparing for trial on July 22. Please show me as counsel of record.
Sincerely, Jake
A copy was sent to Buckley.
Marsharfsky called at nine-thirty Monday. Jake watched the hold button blink for two minutes before he lifted the receiver. "Hello."
"How'd you do it?"
"Who is this?"
"Your secretary didn't tell you? This is Bo Marsharfsky, and I want to know how you did it."
"Did what?"
"Hustled my case."
Stay cool, thought Jake. He's an agitator. "As I recall, it was hustled from me," replied Jake.
"I never met him before he hired me."
"You didn't have to. You sent your pimp, remember?"
"Are you accusing me of chasing cases?"
"Yes."
Marsharfsky paused and Jake braced for the obscenities.
"You know something, Mr. Brigance, you're right. I chase cases everyday. I'm a pro at hustling cases. That's how I make so much money. If there's a big criminal case, I intend to get it. And I'll use whatever method I find necessary."
"Funny, that wasn't mentioned in the paper."
"And if I want the Hailey case, I'll get it."
"Come on down." Jake hung up and laughed for ten minutes. He lit a cheap cigar, and began working on his motion for a change of venue.
Two days later Lucien called and instructed Ethel to instruct Jake to come see him. It was important. He had a visitor Jake needed to meet.
The visitor was Dr. W.T. Bass, a retired psychiatrist from Jackson. He had known Lucien for years, and they had collaborated on a couple of insane criminals during their friendship. Both of the criminals were still in Parchman. His retirement had been one year before the disbarment and had been precipitated by the same thing that contributed heavily to the disbarment, to wit, a strong affection for Jack Daniel's. He visited Lucien occasionally in Clanton, and Lucien visited him more frequently in Jackson, and they enjoyed their visits because they enjoyed staying drunk together. They sat on the big porch and waited on Jake.
"Just say he was insane," instructed Lucien.
"Was he?" asked the doctor.
"That's not important."
"What is important?"
"It's important to give the jury an excuse to acquit the man. They won't care if he's crazy or not. But they'll need some reason to acquit him."
"It would be nice to examine him."
"You can. You can talk to him all you want. He's at the jail just waiting on someone to talk to."
"I'll need to meet with him several times."
"I know that."
"What if I don't think he was insane at the time of the shooting?"
"Then you won't get to testify at trial, and you won't get your name and picture in the paper, and you won't be interviewed on TV."
Lucien paused long enough to take a long drink. "Just do as I say. Interview him, take a bunch of notes. Ask stupid questions. You know what to do. Then say he was crazy."
"I'm not so sure about this. It hasn't worked too well in the past."
"Look, you're a doctor, aren't you? Then act proud, vain, arrogant. Act like a doctor's supposed to act. Give your opinion and dare anyone to question it."
"I don't know. It hasn't worked too well in the past."
"Just do as I say."
"I've done that before, and they're both at Parchman."
"They were hopeless. Hailey's different."
"Does he have a chance?"
"Slim."
"I thought you said he was different."
"He's a decent man with a good reason for killing."
"Then why are his chances slim?"
"The law says his reason is not good enough."
"That's par for the law."
"Plus he's black, and this is a white county. I have no confidence in these bigots around here."
"And if he were white?"
"If he were white and he killed two blacks who raped his daughter, the jury would give him the courthouse."
Bass finished one glass and poured another. A fifth and a bucket of ice sat on the wicker table between the two.
"What about his lawyer?" he asked.
"He should be here in a minute."
"He used to work for you?"
"Yeah, but I don't think you met him. He was in the firm about two years before I left. He's young, early thirties. Clean, aggressive, works hard."
"And he used to work for you?"
"That's what I said. He's got trial experience for his age. This is not his first murder case, but, if I'm not mistaken, it's his first insanity case."
"That's nice to hear. I don't want someone asking a lot of questions."
"I like your confidence. Wait till you meet the D.A."
"I just don't feel good about this. We tried it twice, and it didn't work."
Lucien shook his head in bewilderment. "You've got to be the humblest doctor I've known."
"And the poorest."
"You're supposed to be pompous and arrogant. You're the expert. Act like one. Who's gonna question your professional opinion in Clanton, Mississippi?"
"The State will have experts."
"They will have one psychiatrist from Whitfield. He'll examine the defendant for a few hours, and then drive up for trial and testify that the defendant is the sanest man he's
ever met. He's never seen a legally insane defendant. To him no one is insane. Everybody's blessed with perfect mental health. Whitfield is full of sane people, except when it applies for government money, then half the state's crazy. He'd get fired if he started saying defendants are legally insane. So that's who you're up against."
"And the jury will automatically believe me?"
"You act as though you've never been through one of these before."
"Twice, remember. One rapist, one murderer. Neither was insane, in spite of what I said. Both are now locked away where they belong."
Lucien took a long drink and studied the light brown liquid and the floating ice cubes. "You said you would help me. God knows you owe me the favor. How many divorces did I handle for you?"
"Three. And I got cleaned out every time."
"You deserved it every time. It was either give in or go to trial and have your habits discussed in open court."
"I remember."
"How many clients, or patients, have I sent you over the years?"
"Not enough to pay my alimony."
"Remember the malpractice case by the lady whose treatment consisted primarily of weekly sessions on your couch with the foldaway bed? Your malpractice carrier refused to defend, so you called your dear friend Lucien who settled it for peanuts and kept it out of court."
"There were no witnesses."
"Just the lady herself. And the court files showing where your wives had sued for divorce on the grounds of adultery."
"They couldn't prove it."
"They didn't get a chance. We didn't want them to try, remember?"
"All right, enough, enough. I said I would help. What about my credentials?"
"Are you a compulsive worrier?"
"No. I just get nervous when I think of courtrooms."
"Your credentials are fine. You've been qualified before as an expert witness. Don't worry so much."
"What about this?" He waved his drink at Lucien.
"You shouldn't drink so much," he said piously.
The doctor dropped his drink and exploded in laughter. He rofled out of his chair and crawled to the edge of the porch, holding his stomach and shaking in laughter.
"You're drunk," Lucien said as he left for another bottle.
When Jake arrived an hour later, Lucien was rocking slowly in his huge wicker rocker. The doctor was asleep in the swing at the far end of the porch. He was barefoot, and his toes had disappeared into the shrubbery that lined the porch. Jake walked up the steps and startled Lucien.
"Jake, my boy, how are you?" he slurred.
"Fine, Lucien. I see you're doing quite well." He looked at the empty bottle and one not quite empty.
"I wanted you to meet that man," he said, trying to sit up straight.
"Who is he?"
"He's our psychiatrist. Dr. W.T. Bass, from Jackson. Good friend of mine. He'll help us with Hailey."
"Is he good?"
"The best. We've worked together on several insanity cases."
Jake took a few steps in the direction of the swing and stopped. The doctor was lying on his back with his shirt unbuttoned and his mouth wide open. He snored heavily, with an unusual guttural gurgling sound. A horsefly the size of a small sparrow buzzed around his nose and retreated to the top of the swing with each thunderous exhalation. A rancid vapor emanated with the snoring and hung like an invisible fog over the end of the porch.
"He's a doctor?" Jake asked as he sat next to Lucien.
"Psychiatry," Lucien said proudly.
"Did he help you with those?" Jake nodded at the bottles.
"I helped him. He drinks like a fish, but he's always sober at trial."
"That's comforting."
"You'll like him. He's cheap. Owes me a favor. Won't cost a dime."
"I like him already."
Lucien's face was as red as his eyes. "Wanna drink?"
"No. It's three-thirty in the afternoon."
"Really! What day is it?"
"Wednesday, June 12. How long have y'all been drinking?"
" 'Bout thirty years." Lucien laughed and rattled his ice cubes.
"I mean today."
"We drank our breakfast. What difference does it make?"
"Does he work?"
"Naw, he's retired."
"Was his retirement voluntary?"
"You mean, was he disbarred, so to speak?"
"That's right, so to speak."
"No. He still has his license, and his credentials are impeccable."
"He looks impeccable."
"Booze got him a few years ago. Booze and alimony. I handled three of his divorces. He reached the point where all of his income went for alimony and child support, so he quit working."
"How does he manage?"