Harry Rex unwrapped a ham and cheese. "Stay away from number one, Carlene Malone. She's one of those Malones from Lake Village. White trash and mean as hell."

"I'd like to stay away from this entire panel," Jake said, still staring at the table.

"We got a terrible draw."

"Whatta you think, Row Ark?" Jake asked.

Harry Rex swallowed quickly. "I think we oughtta plead

him guilty and get the hell outta there. Run like a scalded dog."

Ellen stared at the cards. "It could be worse."

Harry Rex forced a loud laugh. "Worse! The only way it could be worse would be if the first thirty were sitting there wearing white robes with pointed hats and little masks."

"Harry Rex, would you shut up," Jake said.

"Just trying to help. Do you want your french fries?"

"No. Why don't you put all of them in your mouth and chew on them for a long time?"

"I think you're wrong about some of these women," Ellen said. "I'm inclined to agree with Lucien. Women, as a very general rule, will have more sympathy. We're the ones who get raped, remember?"

"I have no response to that," Harry Rex said.

"Thanks," replied Jake. "Which one of these girls is your former client who'll supposedly do anything for you if you'll simply wink at her?"

Ellen snickered. "Must be number twenty-nine. She's five feet tall and weighs four hundred pounds."

Harry Rex wiped his mouth with a sheet of paper. "Very funny. Number seventy-four. She's too far back. Forget her."

Noose rapped his gavel at two and the courtroom came to order.

"The State may examine the panel," he said.

The magnificent district attorney rose slowly and walked importantly to the bar, where he stood and gazed pensively at the spectators and jurors. He realized the artists were sketching him, and he seemed to pose for just a moment. He smiled sincerely at the jurors, then introduced himself. He explained that he was the people's lawyer; his client, the State of Mississippi. He had served as their prosecutor for nine years now, and it was an honor for which he would always be grateful to the fine folks of Ford County. He pointed at them and told them that they, the very ones sitting there, were the folks who had elected him to represent them. He thanked them, and hoped he did not let them down.

Yes, he was nervous and frightened. He had prosecuted

thousands of criminals, but he was always scared with each trial. Yes! He was scared, and not ashamed to admit it. Scared because of the awesome responsibility the people had bestowed upon him as the man responsible for sending criminals to jail and protecting the people. Scared because he might fail to adequately represent his client, the people of this great state.

Jake had heard all this crap many times before. He had it memorized. Buckley the good guy, the state's lawyer, united with the people to seek justice, to save society. He was a smooth, gifted orator who one moment could chat softly with a jury, much like a grandfather giving advice to his grandchildren. The next moment he would launch into a tirade and deliver a sermon that any black preacher would envy. A split second later, in a fluid burst of eloquence, he could convince a jury that the stability of our society, yes, even the future of the human race, depended upon a guilty verdict. He was at his best in big trials, and this was his biggest. He spoke without notes, and held the courtroom captivated as he portrayed himself as the underdog, the friend and partner of the jury, who, together with him, would find the truth, and punish this man for his monstrous deed.

After ten minutes, Jake had enough. He stood with a frustrated look. "Your Honor, I object to this. Mr. Buckley is not selecting a jury. I'm not sure what he's doing, but he's not interrogating the panel."

"Sustained!" Noose yelled into the mike. "If you don't have any questions for the panel, Mr. Buckley, then please sit down."

"I apologize, Your Honor," Buckley said awkwardly, pretending to be hurt. Jake had drawn first blood.

Buckley picked up a legal pad and launched into a list of a thousand questions. He asked if anyone on the panel had ever served on a jury before. Several hands went up. Civil or criminal? Did you vote to acquit or convict? How long ago? Was the defendant black or white? Victim, black or white? Had anyone been the victim of a violent crime? Two hands. When? Where? Was the assailant caught? Convicted? Black or white? Jake, Harry Rex, and Ellen took pages of notes. Any member of your family been the victim

of a violent crime? Several more hands. When? Where? What happened to the criminal? Any member of your family ever been charged with a crime? Indicted? Put on trial? Convicted? Any friends or family members employed in law enforcement? Who? Where?

For three nonstop hours Buckley probed and picked like a surgeon. He was masterful. The preparation was obvious. He asked questions that Jake had not considered. And he asked virtually every question Jake had written in his outline. He delicately pried details of personal feelings and opinions. And when the time was right, he would say something funny so everyone could laugh and relieve the tension. He held the courtroom in his palm, and when Noose stopped him at five o'clock he was in full stride. He would finish in the morning.

His Honor adjourned until nine the next morning. Jake talked to his client for a few moments while the crowd moved toward the rear. Ozzie stood nearby with the handcuffs. When Jake finished, Carl Lee knelt before his family on the front row and hugged them all. He would see them tomorrow, he said. Ozzie led him into the holding room and down the stairs, where a swarm of deputies waited to take him to jail.

For Day TWo the sun rose quickly in the east and in seconds burned the dew off the thick green Bermuda around the Ford County Courthouse. A sticky, invisible fog smoldered from the grass and clung to the heavy boots and bulky pants of the soldiers. The sun baked them as they nonchalantly paced the sidewalks of downtown Clanton. They loitered under shade trees and the canopies of small shops. By the time breakfast was served under the pavilions, the soldiers had stripped to their pale green undershirts and were drenched in sweat.

The black preachers and their followers went directly to their spot and set up camp. They unfolded lawn chairs under oak trees' and placed coolers of ice water on card tables. Blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards were tacked on tomato stakes and stuck in the ground like neat fencerows. Agee had printed some new posters with an enlarged black and white photo of Carl Lee in the center and a red, white, and blue border. They were slick and professional.

The Klansmen went obediently to their section of the front lawn. They brought their own placards-white backgrounds with bold red letters screaming FRY CARL LEE, FRY CARL LEE. They waved them at the blacks across the lawn, and the two groups started shouting. The soldiers formed neat lines along the sidewalk, and stood armed but casual as obscenities and chants flew over their heads. It was 8:00 A.M. of Day Two.

The reporters were giddy with all the newsworthiness. They rushed to the front lawn when the yelling started. Oz-zie and the colonel walked around and around the courthouse, pointing here and there and yelling into their radios.

At nine, Ichabod said good morning to the standing-room-only crowd. Buckley stood slowly and with great animation informed His Honor that he had no further questions for the panel.

Lawyer Brigance rose from his seat with rubber knees

and turbulence in his stomach. He walked to the railing and gazed into the anxious eyes of ninety-four prospective jurors.

The crowd listened intently to this young, cocky mouthpiece who had once boasted of never having lost a murder case. He appeared relaxed and confident. His voice was loud, yet warm. His words were educated, yet colloquial. He introduced himself again, and his client, then his client's family, saving the little girl for last. He complimented the D.A. for such an exhaustive interrogation yesterday afternoon, and confessed that most of his questions had already been asked. He glanced at his notes. His first question was a bombshell.

"Ladies and gentlemen, do any of you believe that the insanity defense should not be used under any circumstances?"

They squirmed a little, but no hands. He caught them off-guard, right off the bat. Insanity! Insanity! The seed had been planted.

"If we prove Carl Lee Hailey was legally insane when he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard, is there a person on this panel who cannot find him not guilty?"

The question was hard to follow-intentionally so. There were no hands. A few wanted to respond, but they were not certain of the appropriate response.

Jake eyed them carefully, knowing most of them were confused, but also knowing that for this moment every member of the panel was thinking about his client being insane. That's where he would leave them.

"Thank you," he said with all the charm he had ever mustered in his life. "I have nothing further, Your Honor."

Buckley looked confused. He stared at the judge, who was equally bewildered.

"Is that all?" Noose asked incredulously. "Is that all, Mr. Brigance?"

"Yes, sir, Your Honor, the panel looks fine to me," Jake said with an air of trust, as opposed to Buckley, who had grilled them for three hours. The panel was anything but acceptable to Jake, but there was no sense repeating the same questions Buckley had asked.

"Very well. Let me see the attorneys in chambers."

Buckley, Musgrove, Jake, Ellen, and Mr. Pate followed

icnaDod through the door behind the bench and sat around the desk in chambers. Noose spoke: "I assume, gentlemen, that you want each juror questioned individually on the death penalty."

"Yes, sir," said Jake.

"That's correct, Your Honor," said Buckley.

"Very well. Mr. Bailiff, would you bring in juror number one, Carlene Malone."

Mr. Pate left, walked to the courtroom and yelled for Carlene Malone. Moments later she followed him into chambers. She was terrified. The attorneys smiled but said nothing: Noose's instructions.

"Please have a seat," Noose offered as he removed his robe. "This will only take a minute, Mrs. Malone. Do you have any strong feelings one way or the other about the death penalty?" asked Noose.

She shook her head nervously and stared at Ichabod. "Uh, no, sir."

"You realize that if you're selected for this jury and Mr. Hailey is convicted, you will be called upon to sentence him to death?"

"Yes, sir."

"If the State proves beyond a reasonable doubt that the killings were premeditated, and if you believe Mr. Hailey was not legally insane at the time of the killings, could you consider imposing the death penalty?"

"Certainly. I think it should be used all the time. Might stop some of this meanness. I'm all for it."

Jake continued smiling and nodding politely at juror number one. Buckley smiled too, and winked at Musgrove.

"Thank you, Mrs. Malone. You may return to your seat in the courtroom," Noose said.

"Bring in number two," Noose ordered Mr. Pate. Mar-cia Dickens, an elderly white woman with a hard frown, was led to chambers. Yes, sir, she said, she was very much in favor of the death penalty. Would have no problems voting for it. Jake sat there and smiled. Buckley winked again. Noose thanked her and called for number three.

Three and four were equally unforgiving, ready to kill if the proof was there. Then number five, Gerald Ault, Jake's secret weapon, was seated in chambers.

"Thank you Mr. Ault, this will only take a minute, Noose repeated. "First of all, do you have strong feelings for or against the death penalty?"

"Oh, yes, sir." Ault answered eagerly, his voice and face radiating compassion. "I'm very much against it. It's cruel and unusual. I'm ashamed I live in a society which permits the legal killing of a human being."

"I see. Could you, under any circumstances, if you were a juror, vote to impose the death penalty?"

"Oh, no, sir. Under no circumstances. Regardless of the crime. No, sir."

Buckley cleared his throat and somberly announced, "Your Honor, the State would challenge Mr. Ault for cause and move to excuse him under the authority of State vs. Witherspoon."

"Motion sustained. Mr. Ault, you are excused from jury duty," Noose said. "You may leave the courtroom if you wish. If you choose to remain in the courtroom, I ask that you not sit with the other jurors."

Ault was puzzled and looked helplessly at his friend Jake, who at the moment was staring at the floor with a tight mouth.

"May I ask why?" Gerald asked.

Noose removed his glasses and became the professor. "Under the law, Mr. Ault, the court is required to excuse any potential juror who admits he or she cannot consider, and the key word is consider, the death penalty. You see, whether you like it or not, the death penalty is a legal method of punishment in Mississippi and in most states. Therefore, it is unfair to select jurors who cannot follow the law."

The curiosity of the crowd was piqued when Gerald Ault emerged from behind the bench, walked through the small gate in the railing, and left the courtroom. The bailiff fetched number six, Alex Summers, and led him to chambers. He returned moments later and took his seat on the first row. He lied about the death penalty. He opposed it as did most blacks, but he told Noose he had no objections to it. No problem. Later during a recess, he quietly met with other black jurors and explained how the questions in chambers should be answered.

The slow process continued until mid-afternoon, when the last juror left chambers. Eleven had been excused due to reservations about capital punishment. Noose recessed at three-thirty and gave the lawyers until four to review their notes.

In the library on the third floor, Jake and his team stared at the jury lists and notecards. It was time to decide. He had dreamed about names written in blue and red and black with numbers beside them. He had watched them in the courtroom for two full days now. He knew them. Ellen wanted women. Harry Rex wanted men.

Noose stared at his master list, with the jurors renumbered to reflect the dismissals for cause, and looked at his lawyers. "Gentlemen, are you ready? Good. As you know this is a capital case, so each of you have twelve peremptory challenges. Mr. Buckley, you are required to submit a list of twelve jurors to the defense. Please start with juror number one and refer to each juror only by number."

"Yes sir. Your Honor, the State will accept jurors number one, two, three, four, use our first challenge on number five, accept numbers six, seven, eight, nine, use our second challenge on number ten, accept numbers eleven, twelve, thirteen, use our third challenge on number fourteen, and accept number fifteen. That's twelve, I believe."

Jake and Ellen circled and made notes on their lists. Noose methodically recounted. "Yes, that's twelve. Mr. Bri-gance."

Buckley submitted twelve white females. Two blacks and a white male had been stricken.

Jake studied his list and scratched names. "The defense will strike jurors number one, two, three, accept four, six, and seven, strike eight, nine, eleven, twelve, accept thirteen, strike fifteen. I believe that's eight of our challenges."

His Honor drew lines and check marks down his list, calculating slowly as he went. "Both of you have accepted jurors number four, six, seven, and thirteen. Mr. Buckley, it's back to you. Give us eight more jurors."

"The State will accept sixteen, use our fourth challenge on seventeen, accept eighteen, nineteen, twenty, strike twenty-one, accept twenty-two, strike twenty-three, accept twenty-four, strike twenty-five and twenty-six, and accept

twenty-seven and twenty-eight. That's twelve with four challenges remaining."

Jake was flabbergasted. Buckley had again stricken all the blacks and all the men. He was reading Jake's mind.

"Mr. Brigance, it's back to you."

"May we have a moment to confer, Your Honor?"

"Five minutes," Noose replied.

Jake and his clerk stepped next door to the coffee room, where Harry Rex was waiting. "Look at this," Jake said as he laid the list on a table and the three huddled around it. "We're down to twenty-nine. I've got four challenges left and so does Buckley. He's struck every black and every male. It's an all-white female jury right now. The next two are white females, thirty-one is Clyde Sisco, and thirty-two is Barry Acker."

"Then four of the next six are black," Ellen said.

"Yeah, but Buckley won't take it that far. In fact, I'm surprised he's let us get this close to the fourth row."

"I know you want Acker. What about Sisco?" asked Harry Rex.

"I'm afraid of him. Lucien said he's a crook who could be bought."

"Great! Let's get him, then go buy him."

"Very funny. How do you know Buckley hasn't already bought him?"

"I'd take him."

Jake studied the list, counting and recounting. Ellen wanted to strike both men-Acker and Sisco.

They returned to chambers and sat down. The court reporter was ready. "Your Honor, we will strike number twenty-two and number twenty-eight, with two challenges remaining."

"Back to you, Mr. Buckley. Twenty-nine and thirty."

"The State will take them both. That's twelve with four challenges left."

"Back to you, Mr. Brigance."

"We will strike twenty-nine and thirty."

"And you're out of challenges, correct?" Noose asked.

"Correct."

"Very well. Mr. Buckley, thirty-one and thirty-two."

"The State will take them both," Buckley said quickly. looking at the names of the blacks coming after Clyde Sisco.

"Good. That's twelve. Let's select two alternates. You will both have two challenges for the alternates. Mr. Buck-ley, thirty-three and thirty-four."

Juror thirty-three was a black male. Thirty-four was a white female Jake wanted. The next two were black males.

"We'll strike thirty-three, accept thirty-four and thirty-five."

"The defense will accept both," Jake said.

Mr. Pate brought the courtroom to order as Noose and the lawyers took their places. His Honor called the names of the twelve and they slowly, nervously made their way to the jury box, where they were seated in order by Jean Gillespie. Ten women, two men, all white. The blacks in the courtroom mumbled and eyed each other in disbelief.

"Did you pick that jury?" Carl Lee whispered to Jake.

"I'll explain later," Jake said.

The two alternates were called and seated next to the jury box.

"What's the black dude for?" Carl Lee whispered, nodding at the alternate.

"I'll explain later," Jake said.

Noose cleared his throat and looked down at his new jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, you have been carefully selected to serve as jurors in this case. You have been sworn to fairly try all issues presented before you and to follow the law as I instruct. Now, according to Mississippi law, you will be sequestered until this trial is over. This means you will be housed in a motel and will not be allowed to return home until it's over. I realize this is an extreme hardship, but it's one the law requires. In just a few moments we will recess until in the morning, and you will be given the chance to call home and order your clothes, toiletries, and whatever else you need. Each night you will stay in a motel at an undisclosed location outside of Clanton. Any questions?"

The twelve appeared dazed, bewildered by the thought of not going home for several days. They thought of families, kids, jobs, laundry. Why them? Out of all those people in the courtroom, why them?

With no response, Noose banged his gavel and the

courtroom began to empty,

juror to the judge's chambers, where she called home and

ordered clothes and a toothbrush.

"Where are we going?" she asked Jean.

"It's confidential," Jean said.

"It's confidential," she repeated over the phone to her husband.

By seven, the families had responded with a wild assortment of luggage and boxes. The chosen ones loaded a chartered Greyhound bus outside the rear door. Preceded by two patrol cars and an army jeep and followed by three state troopers, the bus circled the square and left Clanton.

Stump Sisson died Tuesday night at the burn hospital in Memphis. His short, fat body had been neglected over the years and proved itself deficient in resisting the complications bred by the serious burns. His death brought to four the number of fatalities related to the rape of Tonya Hailey. Cobb, Willard, Bud Twitty, and now Sisson.

Immediately, word of his death reached the cabin deep in the woods where the patriots met, ate, and drank each night after the trial. Revenge, they vowed, an eye for an eye and so on. There were new recruits from Ford County-five in all-making a total of eleven local boys. They were eager and hungry, and wanted some action.

The trial had been too quiet so far. It was time for excitement.

Jake paced in front of the couch and delivered his opening statement for the hundredth time. Ellen listened intently. She had listened, interrupted, objected, criticized, and argued for two hours. She was tired now. He had it perfect. The margaritas had calmed him and plated his tongue silver. The words flowed smoothly. He was gifted. Especially after a drink or two.

When he finished they sat on the balcony and watched the candles inch slowly in the darkness around the square. The laughter from the poker games under the pavilions echoed softly through the night. There was no moon.

Ellen left for the final round of drinks. She returned with her same beer mugs filled with ice and margaritas. She sat them on the table and stood behind her boss. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began rubbing the lower part of his neck with her thumbs. He relaxed and moved his head from side to side. She massaged his shoulders and upper back, and pressed her body against his.

"Ellen, it's ten-thirty, and I'm sleepy. Where are you staying tonight?"

"Where do you think I should stay?"

"I think you should stay at your apartment at Ole Miss."

"I'm too drunk to drive."

"Nesbit will drive you."

"Where, may I ask, are you staying?"

"At the house my wife and I own on Adams Street."

She stopped rubbing and grabbed her drink. Jake stood and leaned over the rail and yelled at Nesbit. "Nesbit! Wake up! You're driving to Oxford!"

Carla found the story on the second page of the front section. "All White Jury Chosen for Hailey" read the headline. Jake had not called Tuesday night. She read the story and ignored her coffee. The beach house sat by itself in a semisecluded area of the beach. The nearest neighbor was two hundred yards away. Her father owned the land in between and had no plans to sell it. He had built the house ten years earlier when he sold his company in Knoxville and retired wealthy. Carla was the only child, and now Hanna would be the only grandchild. The house-with four bedrooms and four bathrooms scattered over three levels-had room for a dozen grandchildren.

She finished the article and walked to the bay windows in the breakfast room overlooking the beach, and then the ocean. The brilliant orange mass of the sun had just cleared the horizon. She preferred the warmth of the bed until well after daybreak, but life with Jake had brought new adventure to the first seven hours of each day. Her body was conditioned to at least wake up at five-thirty. He once told her his goal was to go to work in the dark and return from work in the dark. He usually achieved this goal. He took great pride in working more hours each day than any lawyer in Ford County. He was different, but she loved him.

Forty-eight miles northeast of Clanton, the Milburn county seat of Temple lay peacefully beside the Tippah River. It had three thousand people and two motels. The Temple Inn was deserted, there being no moral reason to be there this time of year. At the end of one secluded wing, eight rooms were occupied and guarded by soldiers and a couple of state troopers. The ten women had paired off nicely, as had Barry Acker and Clyde Sisco. The black alternate, Ben Lester Newton, was awarded a room to himself, as was the other alternate, Francie Pitts. The televisions had been disconnected and no newspapers were allowed. Supper Tuesday

night had been delivered to the rooms, and Wednesday's breakfast arrived promptly at seven-thirty while the Greyhound warmed and blew diesel fumes all over the parking lot. Thirty minutes later the fourteen loaded aboard and the entourage set out for Clanton.

They talked on the bus about their families and jobs. Two or three had known each other prior to Monday; most were strangers. They awkwardly avoided any mention of why they were all together and the task before them. Judge Noose had been very plain on this point; no discussions about the case. They wanted to talk about many things: the rape, the rapists, Carl Lee, Jake, Buckley, Noose, the Klan, lots of things. Everyone knew of the burning crosses, but they weren't discussed, at least they weren't discussed on the bus. There had been many discussions back in the motel rooms.

The Greyhound arrived at the courthouse five minutes before nine, and the jurors stared through dark windows to see how many blacks and how many Klansmen and how many others were being separated by the guardsmen. It eased past the barricades and parked at the rear of the courthouse, where the deputies were waiting to escort them upstairs as soon as possible. They went up the back stairs to the jury room, where coffee and doughnuts were waiting. The bailiff informed them it was nine, and His Honor was ready to start. He led them into the crowded courtroom and into the jury box, where they sat in their designated seats.

"All rise for the court," Mr. Pate yelled.

"Please be seated," Noose said as he fell into the tall leather chair behind the bench. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he said warmly to the jurors. "I trust you're all feeling well this morning, and ready to go."

They all nodded.

"Good. I'm going to ask you this question every morning: Did anybody attempt to contact you, talk to you, or influence you in any way last night?"

They all shook their heads.

"Good. Did you discuss this case among yourselves?"

They all lied and shook their heads.

"Good. If anyone attempts to contact you and discuss

me as soon as possible. Do you understand?"

They nodded.

"Now at this time we are ready to start the trial. The first order of business is to allow the attorneys to make opening statements. I want to caution you that nothing the attorneys say is testimony and is not to be taken as evidence. Mr. Buckley, do you wish to make an opening statement?"

Buckley rose and buttoned his shiny polyester coat. "Yes, Your Honor."

"I thought so. You may proceed."

Buckley lifted the small, wooden podium and moved it squarely in front of the jury box, where he stood behind it and breathed deeply and slowly flipped through some notes on a legal pad. He enjoyed the brief period of quietness with all eyes on him and all ears anxious for his words. He started by thanking the jurors for being there, for their sacrifices, for their citizenship (as if they had a choice, thought Jake). He was proud of them and honored to be associated with them in this most important case. Again, he was their lawyer. His client, the State of Mississippi. He expressed fear at this awesome responsibility that they, the people, had given to him, Rufus Buckley, a simple country lawyer from Smith-field. He rambled on about himself and his thoughts on the trial, and his hopes and prayers that he would do a good job for the people of this state.

He gave pretty much the same spiel in all of his opening statements, but this was a better performance. It was refined and polished garbage, and objectionable. Jake wanted to burn him, but from experience he knew Ichabod would not sustain an objection during an opening statement unless the offense was flagrant, and Buckley's rhetoric did not qualify -yet. All this fake sincerity and gushiness irritated Jake to no end, primarily because the jury listened to it and, more often than not, fell for it. The prosecutor was always the good guy, seeking to right an injustice and punish a criminal for some heinous crime; to lock him away forever so he could sin no more. Buckley was master at convincing a jury, right off the mark, during the opening statement, that it was up to them, He and The Twelve Chosen Ones, to search diligently for the truth, together as a team, united against

evil. It was the truth they were after, nothing but the truth. Find the truth and justice would win. Follow him, Rufus Buckley, the people's lawyer, and they would find the truth.

The rape was a terrible deed. He was a father, in fact had a daughter the same age of Tonya Hailey, and when he first heard of the rape he was sick at his stomach. He grieved for Carl Lee and his wife. Yes, he thought of his own little girls and had thoughts of retribution.

Jake smiled quickly at Ellen. This was interesting. Buck-ley had chosen to confront the rape instead of keeping it from the jury. Jake was expecting a critical confrontation with him on the admissibility of any testimony regarding the rape. Ellen's research found the law to be clear that the lurid details were inadmissible, but it wasn't so clear as to whether it could be mentioned or referred to. Evidently Buckley felt it was better to acknowledge the rape than try to hide it. Good move, thought Jake, since all twelve and the rest of the world knew the details anyway.

Ellen smiled too. The rape of Tonya Hailey was about to be tried for the first time.

Buckley explained it would be natural for any parent to want revenge. He would too, he admitted. But, he continued with his voice growing heavier, there is a mighty distinction between wanting revenge and getting revenge.

He was warming up now as he paced deliberately back and forth, ignoring the podium, getting his rhythm. He launched himself into a twenty-minute discourse on the criminal justice system and how it was practiced in Mississippi, and how many rapists that he, Rufus Buckley, had personally sent to Parchman, for life, most of them. The system worked because Mississippians had enough good common sense to make it work, and it would collapse if people like Carl Lee Hailey were allowed to short-circuit the system and dispense justice according to their own terms. Imagine that. A lawless society where vigilantes roamed at will. No police, no jails, no courts, no trials, no juries. Every man for himself.

It was sort of ironic, he said, winding down for a moment. Carl Lee Hailey now sat before them asking for due process and a fair trial, yet he did not believe in such things.

Ask the mothers ot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard. Ask them what kind of fair trials their sons received.

He paused to allow the jury and the courtroom to absorb and ponder that last thought. It sunk in heavy, and every person in the jury box looked at Carl Lee Hailey. They were not looks of compassion, Jake cleaned his fingernails with a small knife and looked thoroughly bored. Buckley pretended to review his notes at the podium, then checked his watch. He started again, this time in a most confident businesslike tone of voice. The State would prove that Carl Lee Hailey carefully planned the killings. He waited for almost an hour in a small room next to the stairs where he knew the boys would eventually be led as they were taken back to jail. He somehow managed to sneak an M-16 into the courthouse. Buckley walked to a small table by the court reporter and hoisted the M-16. "This is the M-16!" he announced to the jury, waving it wildly about with one hand. He sat it on the podium and talked about how it was carefully selected by Carl Lee Hailey because he had used one before in close combat, and he knew how to kill with it. He had been trained with an M-16. It's an illegal weapon. You can't buy one down at the Western Auto. He had to go find it. He planned it.

The proof would be clear: premeditated, carefully planned, cold-blooded murder.

And then there was Deputy DeWayne Looney. A fourteen-year veteran of the Sheriffs Department. A family man -one of the finest law enforcement officers he had ever known. Gunned down in the line of duty by Carl Lee Hailey. His leg was partially amputated. What was his sin? Perhaps the defense would say it was accidental, that it shouldn't count. That's no defense in Mississippi.

There's no excuse, ladies and gentlemen, for any of this violence. The verdict must be guilty.

They each had an hour for their openings, and the lure of that much time proved irresistible for the D.A., whose remarks were becoming repetitive. He lost himself twice during his condemnation of the insanity ruse. The jurors began to look bored and searched for other points of interest around the courtroom. The artists quit sketching, the reporters quit writing, and Noose cleaned his glasses seven

or eight times. It was a known fact that Noose cleaned the glasses to stay awake and fight boredom, and he usually deaned them throughout the trial. Jake had seen him rub them with a handkerchief or tie or shirttail while witnesses broke down and cried and lawyers screamed and flailed their arms at each other. He didn't miss a word or objection or trick; he was just bored with it all, even a case of this magnitude. He never slept on the bench, although he was sorely tempted at times. Instead he removed his glasses, held them upward in the light, blew on them, rubbed them as though they were caked with grease, then remounted them just north of the wart. No more than five minutes later they would be dirty again. The longer Buckley droned on, the more they were cleaned.

Finally, after an hour and a half, Buckley shut up and the courtroom sighed.

"Ten-minute recess," Noose announced, and lunged off the bench, through the door, past chambers to the men's room.

Jake had planned a brief opening, and after Buckley's marathon, he decided to make it even shorter. Most people don't like lawyers to begin with, especially long-winded, tall-talking, wordy lawyers who feel that every insignificant point must be repeated at least three times, and the major ones have to be hammered and drilled by constant repetition into whoever happened to be listening. Jurors especially dislike lawyers who waste time, for two very good reasons. First, they can't tell the lawyers to shut up. They're captives. Outside the courtroom a person can curse a lawyer and shut him up, but in the jury box they become trapped and forbidden to speak. Thus, they must resort to sleeping, snoring, glaring, squirming, checking their watches, or any one of a dozen signals which boring lawyers never recognize. Second, jurors don't like long trials. Cut the crap and get it over with. Give us the facts and we'll give you a verdict.

He explained this to his client during the recess.

"I agree. Keep it short," said Carl Lee.

He did. Fourteen minutes worth of opening statement, and the jury appreciated every word. He began by talking about daughters and how special they are. How they are different from little boys and need special protection. He

told them of his own daughter and trie special oonu mat exists between father and daughter, a bond that could not be explained and should not be tampered with. He admitted admiration for Mr. Buckley and his alleged ability to be so forgiving and compassionate to any drunken pervert who might rape his daughter. He was a big man indeed. But in reality, could they, as jurors, as parents, be so tender and trusting and indulging if their daughter had been raped-by two drunk, stoned, brutal animals who tied her to a tree and-"

"Objection!" shouted Buckley.

"Sustained," Noose shouted back.

He ignored the shouting and continued softly. He asked them to try to imagine, throughout the trial, how they would feel had it been their daughter. He asked them not to convict Carl Lee but to send him home to his family. He didn't mention insanity. They knew it was coming.

He finished shortly after he started, and left the jury with a marked contrast in the two styles.

"Is that all?" Noose asked in amazement.

Jake nodded as he sat by his client.

"Very well. Mr. Buckley, you may call your first witness."

"The State calls Cora Cobb."

The bailiff went to the witness room and fetched Mrs. Cobb, He led her through the door by the jury box, into the courtroom where she was sworn by Jean Gillespie, and then he seated her in the witness chair.

"Speak into the microphone," he instructed.

"You are Cora Cobb?" Buckley asked with full volume as he situated the podium near the railing.

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you live?"

"Route 3, Lake Village, Ford County."

"You are the mother of Billy Ray Cobb, deceased?"

"Yes, sir," she said as her eyes watered. She was a rural woman whose husband had left when the boys were small. They had raised themselves while she worked two shifts at a cheap furniture factory between Karaway and Lake Village. She lost control over them at an early age. She was about

fifty, tried to look forty with hair dye and makeup, but could easily pass for early sixties.

"How old was your son at the time of his death?"

"Twenty-three."

"When did you last see him alive?"

"Just a few seconds before he was kilt."

"Where did you see him?"

"Here in this courtroom."

"Where was he killed?"

"Downstairs."

"Did you hear the shots that killed your son?"

She began to cry. "Yes, sir."

"Where did you last see him?"

"At the funeral home."

"And what was his condition?"

"He was dead."

"Nothing further," Buckley announced.

"Cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?"

She was a harmless witness, called to establish that the victim was indeed dead, and to evoke a little sympathy. Nothing could be gained by cross-examination, and normally she would have been left alone. But Jake saw an opportunity he couldn't pass. He saw a chance to set the tone for the trial, to wake Noose and Buckley and the jury; to just get everyone aroused. She was not really that pitiful; she was faking some. Buckley had probably instructed her to cry if possible.

"Just a few questions," Jake said as he walked behind Buckley and Musgrove to the podium. The D.A. was immediately suspicious.

"Mrs. Cobb, is it true that your son was convicted of selling marijuana?"

"Objection!" Buckley roared, springing to his feet. "The criminal record of the victim is inadmissible!"

"Sustained!"

"Thank you, Your Honor," Jake said properly, as if Noose had done him a favor.

She wiped her eyes and cried harder.

"You say your son was twenty-three when he died?"

"Yes."

"In his twenty-three years, how many other children am he rape?"

"Objection! Objection!" yelled Buckley, waving his arms and looking desperately at Noose, who was yelling, "Sustained! Sustained! You're out of order, Mr. Brigance! You're out of order!"

Mrs. Cobb burst into tears and bawled uncontrollably as the shouting erupted. She managed to keep the microphone in her face, and her wailing and carrying on resounded through the stunned courtroom.

"He should be admonished, Your Honor!" Buckley demanded, his face and eyes glowing with violent anger and his neck a deep purple.

"I'll withdraw the question," Jake replied loudly as he returned to his seat.

"Cheap shot, Brigance," Musgrove mumbled.

"Please admonish him," Buckley begged, "and instruct the jury to disregard."

"Any redirect?" asked Noose.

"No," answered Buckley as he dashed to the witness stand with a handkerchief to rescue Mrs. Cobb, who had buried her head in her hands and was sobbing and shaking violently.

"You are excused, Mrs. Cobb," Noose said. "Bailiff, please assist the witness."

The bailiff lifted her by the arm, with Buckley's assistance, and led her down from the witness stand, in front of the jury box, through the railing, down the center aisle. She shrieked and whined every step of the way, and her noises increased as she neared the back door until she was roaring at full throttle when she made her exit.

Noose glared at Jake until she was gone and the courtroom was quiet again. Then he turned to the jury and said: "Please disregard the last question by Mr. Brigance."

"What'd you do that for?" Carl Lee whispered to his lawyer.

"I'll explain later."

"The State calls Earnestine Willard," Buckley announced in a quieter tone and with much more hesitation.

Mrs. Willard was brought from the witness room above the courtroom. She was sworn and seated.

"You are Earnestine Willard?" asked Buckley.

"Yes, sir," she said in a fragile voice. Life had been rough on her too, but she had a certain dignity that made her more pitiful and believable than Mrs. Cobb. The clothes were inexpensive, but clean and neatly pressed. The hair was minus the cheap black dye that Mrs. Cobb relied on so heavily. The face was minus the layers of makeup. When she began crying, she cried to herself.

"And where do you live?"

"Out from Lake Village."

"Pete Willard was your son?"

"Yes, sir."

"When did you last see him alive?"

"Right here in this room, just before he was killed."

"Did you hear the gunfire that killed him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you last see him?"

"At the funeral home."

"And what was his condition?"

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