"Free Carl Lee!" screamed one of the blacks.
"Free Carl Lee!" they repeated in unison.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Shut up, you wild niggers!" Stump shrieked back. "Shut up, you animals!" His troops stood facing him, frozen, with their backs to the screaming crowd. Ozzie and six deputies moved between the groups.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
Stump's naturally colorful face had turned an even deeper red. His teeth nearly touched the microphones. "Shut up, you wild niggers! You had your rally yesterday and we didn't disturb you. We have a right to assemble in peace, just like you do! Now, shut up!"
The chanting intensified. "Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!"
"Where's the sheriff? He's supposed to keep law and order. Sheriff, do your job. Shut those niggers up so we can assemble in peace. Can't you do your job, Sheriff? Can't you control your own people? See, folks, that's what you get when you elect niggers to public office."
The shouting continued and Stump stepped back from the microphones and watched the blacks. The photographers and TV crews spun in circles trying to record it all. No one noticed a small window on the third floor of the courthouse. It opened slowly, and from the darkness within a
wuuc mcuumo was tnrown onto the podium below. It landed perfectly at Stump's feet and exploded, engulfing the wizard in dames.
The riot was on. Stump screamed and rolled wildly down the front steps. Three of his men shed their heavy robes and masks and attempted to cover him and smother the flames. The wooden podium and platform burned with the thick, unmistakable smell of gasoline. The blacks charged, wielding sticks and knives and hacking at anything with a white face or white robe. Under each white robe was a short black nightstick, and the Klansmen proved ready for the assault. Within seconds of the explosion, the front lawn of the Ford County Courthouse was a battlefield as men screamed and cursed and howled in pain through thick, heavy smoke. The air was filled with rocks and stones and nightsticks as the two groups brawled in hand-to-hand combat.
Bodies began falling on the lush, green grass. Ozzie fell first; the victim of a wicked smash to the base of his skull with a wrecking bar. Nesbit, Prather, Hastings, Pirtle, Tatum, and other deputies ran here and there attempting unsuccessfully to separate various combatants before they killed each other. Instead of running for cover, the vultures darted cra-zily through the midst of the smoke and violence valiantly trying to capture yet a better shot of the blood and gore. They were sitting ducks. One cameraman, his right eye buried deep in his camera, caught a jagged piece of brick with his left eye. He and his camera dropped quickly to the sidewalk, where, after a few seconds, another cameraman appeared and filmed his fallen comrade. A fearless, busy female reporter from a Memphis station charged into the melee with her microphone in hand and her cameraman at her heels. She dodged a brick, then maneuvered too close to a large Klansman who was just finishing off a couple of black teenagers, when, with a loud piercing scream, he slapped her pretty head with his nightstick, kicked her as she fell, then brutally attacked her cameraman.
Fresh troops from the Clanton City Police arrived. In the center of the battle, Nesbit, Prather, and Hastings came together, stood with their backs to each other, and began firing their Smith & Wesson .357 magnum service revolvers
into the air. The sound of the gunfire quelled the riot. The warriors froze and searched for the gunfire, then quickly separated and glared at each other. They retreated slowly to their own groups. The officers formed a dividing line between the blacks and the Klansmen, all of whom were thankful for the truce.
A dozen wounded bodies were unable to retreat. Ozzie sat dazed, rubbing his neck. The lady from Memphis was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the head. Several Klansmen, their white robes soiled and bloody, lay sprawled near the sidewalk. The fire continued to burn.
The sirens drew closer and finally the fire trucks and ambulances arrived and drove onto the battlefield. Firemen and medics attended the wounded. None were dead. Stump Sisson was taken away first. Ozzie was half dragged and half carried to a patrol car. More police arrived and broke up the crowd.
Jake, Harry Rex, and Ellen ate a lukewarm pizza and watched intently as the small television in the conference room broadcasted the day's events in Clanton, Mississippi. CBS ran the story halfway through the news. The reporter had apparently escaped the riot unscathed, and he narrated the video with a play by play of the march, the shouting, the firebomb, and the melee. "As of late this afternoon," he reported, "the exact number of casualties is unknown. The most serious injuries are believed to be the extensive burns suffered by a Mr. Sisson, who identified himself as an imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. He is listed in serious condition at the Mid South Burn Hospital in Memphis."
The video showed a closeup of Stump burning while all hell broke loose. He continued: "The trial of Carl Lee Hai-ley is scheduled to start Monday here in Clanton. It is unknown at this time what effect, if any, today's riot will have on this trial. There is some speculation the trial will be postponed and/or moved to another county."
"That's news to me," said Jake.
"You haven't heard anything?" asked Harry Rex.
"Not a word. And I presume I would be notified before CBS."
The reporter disappeared and Dan Rather said he would return in a moment.
"What does this mean?" asked Ellen.
"It means Noose is stupid for not changing venue."
"Be glad he didn't," said Harry Rex. "It'll give you something to argue on appeal."
"Thanks, Harry Rex. I appreciate your confidence in my ability as a trial lawyer."
The phone rang. Harry Rex grabbed it and said hello to Carla. He handed it to Jake. "It's your wife. Can we listen?"
"No! Go get another pizza. Hello dear."
"Jake, are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right."
"I just saw it on the news. It's awful. Where were you?"
"I was wearing one of those white robes."
"Jake, please. This is not funny."
"I was in Jean Gillespie's office on the second floor. We had wonderful seats. Saw the whole thing. It was very exciting."
"Who are those people?"
"Same ones who burned the cross in our front yard and tried to blow up the house."
"Where are they from?"
"Everywhere. Five are in the hospital and their addresses are scattered all over the state. One is a local boy. How's Hanna?"
"She's fine. She wants to come home. Will the trial be postponed?"
"I doubt it."
"Are you safe?"
"Sure. I've got a full-time bodyguard and I carry a .38 in my briefcase. Don't worry."
"But I'm worried, Jake. I need to be home with you."
"No."
"Hanna can stay here until it's over, but I want to come home."
"No, Carla. I know you're safe out there. You won't be safe if you're here."
"Then you're not safe either."
"I'm as safe as I can get. But I'm not taking chances
with you and Hanna. It's out of the question. That's final. How are your parents?"
"I didn't call to talk about my parents. I called because I'm scared and I want to be with you."
"And I want to be with you, but not now. Please understand."
She hesitated. "Where are you staying?"
"At Lucien's most of the time. Occasionally at home, with my bodyguard in the driveway."
"How's my house?"
"It's still there. Dirty, but still there."
"I miss it."
"Believe me, it misses you."
"I love you, Jake, and I'm scared."
"I love you, and I'm not scared. Just relax and take care of Hanna."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
Jake handed the receiver to Ellen. "Where is she?"
"Wilmington, North Carolina. Her parents spend the summers there."
Harry Rex had left for another pizza.
"You miss her, don't you?" asked Elleri.
"In more ways than you can imagine."
"Oh, I can imagine."
At midnight they were in the cabin drinking whiskey, cussing niggers, and comparing wounds. Several had returned from the hospital in Memphis where they had visited briefly with Stump Sisson. He told them to proceed as planned. Eleven had been released from the Ford County Hospital with various cuts and bruises, and the others admired their wounds as each took his turn describing to the last detail how he had gallantly battled multiple niggers before being wounded, usually from the rear or blind side. They were the heroes, the ones with the bandages. Then the others told their stories and the whiskey flowed. They heaped praise upon the largest one when he told of his attack on the pretty television reporter and her nigger cameraman.
After a couple of hours of drinking and storytelling the
talk turned to the task at hand. A map of the county was produced, and one of the locals pinpointed the targets. There were twenty homes this night-twenty names taken from the list of prospective jurors someone had furnished.
Five teams of four each left the cabin in pickups and headed into the darkness to further their mischief. In each pickup were four wooden crosses, the smaller models, nine feet by four feet, each soaked with kerosene. They avoided Clanton and the small towns in the county and instead kept to the dark countryside. The targets were in isolated areas, away from traffic and neighbors, out in the country where things go unnoticed and people go to bed early and sleep soundly.
The plan of attack was simple: a truck would stop a few hundred feet down the road, out of sight, no headlights, and the driver remained with engine running while the other three carried the cross to the front yard, stuck it in the ground, and threw a torch on it. The pickup then met them in front of the house for a quiet getaway and joyride to the next target.
The plan worked simply and with no complications at nineteen of the twenty targets. But at Luther Pickett's residence a strange noise earlier in the night had aroused Luther, and he sat in the darkness of his front porch waiting for nothing in particular when he saw a strange pickup move suspiciously along the gravel road out beyond his pecan tree. He grabbed his shotgun and listened as the truck turned around and stopped down the road. He heard voices, and then saw three figures carrying a pole or something into his front yard, next to the gravel road. Luther crouched behind a shrub next to the porch, and aimed.
The driver took a slug of cold beer and watched to see the cross go up in flames. He heard a shotgun instead. His buddies abandoned the cross and the torch and the front yard, and jumped into a small ditch next to the road. Another shotgun blast. The driver could hear the screams and obscenities. They had to be rescued! He threw down his beer and stepped on the gas,
Old Luther fired again as he came off the porch, and again as the truck appeared and stopped by the shallow ditch. The three scrambled desperately from the mud, stum-
bling and sliding, cussing and yelling as they attacked the truck and furiously fought to jump into the bed.
"Hang on!" yelled the driver just as old Luther fired again, this time spraying the pickup. He watched with a smile as the truck sped away, spinning gravel and fishtailing from ditch to ditch. Just a bunch of drunk kids, he thought.
From a pay phone, a Kluxer held the list of twenty names and twenty phone numbers. He called them all, simply to ask them to take a look in their front yards.
Friday morning Jake phoned the Noose home and was informed by Mrs. Ichabod that His Honor was presiding over a civil trial in Polk County. Jake gave instructions to Ellen and left for Smithfield, an hour away. He nodded at His Honor as he entered the empty courtroom and sat on the front row. Except for the jurors, there were no other spectators. Noose was bored, the jurors were bored, the lawyers were bored, and after two minutes Jake was bored. After the witness finished Noose called for a short recess, and Jake went to his chambers.
"Hello, Jake. Why're you here?"
"You heard what happened yesterday."
"I saw it on the news last night."
"Have you heard what happened this morning?"
"No."
"Evidently someone gave the Klan a list of the prospective jurors. Last night they burned crosses in the yards of twenty of the jurors."
Noose was shocked. "Our jurors!"
"Yes, sir."
"Did they catch anybody?"
"Of course not. They were too busy putting out fires. Besides, you don't catch these people."
"Twenty of our jurors," Noose repeated.
"Yes, sir."
Noose pawed at his mangled mass of brilliant gray hair and walked slowly around the small room, shaking his head and occasionally scratching his crotch.
"Sounds like intimidation to me," he muttered.
What a mind, thought Jake. A real genius. "I would say so."
"So what am I supposed to do?" he asked with a touch of frustration.
"Change venue."
"To where?"
"Southern part of the state."
"I see. Perhaps Carey County. I believe it's sixty percent
black. That would generate at least a hung jury, wouldn't it? Or maybe you would like Brower County. I think it's even blacker. You'd probably get an acquittal there, wouldn't you?"
"I don't care where you move it. It's not fair to try him in Ford County. Things were bad enough before the war yesterday. Now the white folks are really in a lynching mood, and my man's got the nearest available neck. The situation was terrible before the Klan started decorating the county with Christmas trees. Who knows what else they'll try before Monday. There's no way to pick a fair and impartial jury in Ford County."
"You mean black jury?"
"No, sir! I mean a jury that hasn't prejudged this case. Carl Lee Hailey is entitled to twelve people who haven't already decided his guilt or innocence."
Noose lumbered toward his chair and fell into it. He removed those glasses from that nose and picked at the end of it.
"We could excuse the twenty," he wondered aloud.
"That won't help. The entire county knows about it or will know about it within a few hours. You know how fast word travels. The entire panel will feel threatened."
"Then we could disqualify the entire panel and summon a new one."
"Won't work," Jake answered sharply, frustrated by Noose's stubbornness. "All jurors must come from Ford County, and everybody in the county knows about it. And how do you keep the Klan from harassing the next panel? It won't work."
"What makes you so confident the Klan won't follow the case if I move it to another county?" The sarcasm dripped from every word.
"I think they will follow it," Jake admitted. "But we don't know that for sure. What we do know is that the Klan is already in Ford County, that it's quite active now, and that it has already intimidated some potential jurors. That's the issue. The question is, what will you do about it?"
"Nothing," Noose said bluntly.
"Sir?"
"Nothing. I will do nothing but dismiss the twenty. I will
carefully interrogate the panel next Monday, when the trial starts in Clanton."
Jake stared in disbelief. Noose had a reason, a motive, a fear, something he was not telling. Lucien was right-someone had gotten to him. ' "May I ask why?"
"I don't think it matters where we try Carl Lee Hailey. I don't think it matters who we put in the jury box. I don't think it matters what color they are. Their minds are made up. All of them, wherever and whoever they are. They've already made up their minds, Jake, and it's your job to pick those who think your man is a hero."
That's probably true, thought Jake, but he wouldn't admit it. He continued staring at the trees outside. "Why are you afraid to move it?"
Ichabod's eyes narrowed, and he glared at Jake. "Afraid? I'm not afraid of any ruling I make. Why are you afraid to try it in Ford County?"
"I thought I just explained it."
"Mr. Hailey will be tried in Ford County starting Monday. That's three days from today. And he will be tried there not because I'm afraid to move it, but because it wouldn't do any good to move it. I've considered all this very carefully, Mr. Brigance, many times, and I feel comfortable with the trial in Clanton. It will not be moved. Anything further?"
"No, sir."
"Good. See you Monday."
Jake entered his office through the rear door. The front door had been locked for a week now, and there was always someone banging on it and yelling at it. Most of them were reporters, but many were friends just stopping by to gossip and find out what they could about the big trial. Clients were a thing of the past. The phone rang constantly. Jake never touched it and Ellen grabbed it if she was nearby.
He found her in the conference room up to her elbows in law books. The M'Naghten brief was a masterpiece. He had requested no more than twenty pages. She gave him seventy-five perfectly typed and plainly worded pages, and explained there was no way to cover the Mississippi version
of M'Naghten in fewer words. Her research was painstaking and detailed. She had started with the original M'Naghten case in England in the 1800's and worked through a hundred and fifty years of insanity law in Mississippi. She discarded insignificant or confusing cases, and explained in wonderful simplicity the complicated, major cases. The brief concluded with a summary of current law, and applied it to the trial of Carl Lee Hailey.
In a smaller brief, only fourteen pages, she had reached the unmistakable conclusion that the jury would see the sickening pictures of Cobb and Willard with their brains splattered about the stairway. Mississippi admitted such inflammatory evidence, and she had found no way around it.
She had typed thirty-one pages of research on the defense of justifiable homicide, something Jake had considered briefly after the killings. She reached the same conclusion Jake had reached-it wouldn't work. She had found an old Mississippi case where a man had caught and killed an escaped convict who was armed. He had been acquitted, but the differences in that case and Carl Lee's case were enormous. Jake had not asked for the brief, and was irritated that so much energy had been spent on it. He said nothing, however, since she had produced everything he had asked for.
The most pleasant surprise had been her work with Dr. W.T. Bass. She had met with him twice during the week, and they had covered M'Naghten in great detail. She prepared a twenty-five-page script of the questions to be asked by Jake and the answers to be given by Bass. It was a skillfully crafted dialogue, and he marveled at her seasoning. When he was her age, he was an average student more concerned with romance than research. She, on the other hand, as a third-year law student was writing briefs that read like treatises.
"How'd it go?" she asked.
"As expected. He did not budge. The trial will start here Monday with the same panel, minus the twenty who received their subtle warnings."