John Grisham - A time to kill

Up and down, up and down, he traced and retraced the movements to be made by the men who raped his daughter.

He sat in the judge's chair and surveyed his domain. He sat in the jury box and rocked in one of the comfortable chairs. He sat in the witness chair and blew into the microphone. It was finally dark at seven when Carl Lee raised a window in the restroom next to the janitor's closet, and slid quietly through the bushes and into the darkness.

"Who would you report it to?" Carla asked as she closed the fourteen-inch pizza box and poured some more lemonade.

Jake rocked slightly in the wicker swing on the front porch and watched Hanna skip rope on the sidewalk next to the street.

"Are you there?" she asked.

"No."

"Who would you report it to?"

"I don't plan to report it," he said.

"i mink you should."

"I think I shouldn't."

"Why not?"

His rocking gained speed and he sipped the lemonade. He spoke slowly. "First of all, I don't know for sure that a crime is being planned. He said some things any father would say, and I'm sure he's having thoughts any father would have. But as far as actually planning a crime, I don't think so. Secondly, what he said to me was said in confidence, just as if he was a client. In fact, he probably thinks of me as his lawyer."

"But even if you're his lawyer, and you know he's planning a crime, you have to report it, don't you?"

"Yes. If I'm certain of his plans. But I'm not."

She was not satisfied. "I think you should report it."

Jake did not respond. It wouldn't matter. He ate his last bite of crust and tried to ignore her.

"You want Carl Lee to do it, don't you?"

"Do what?"

"Kill those boys."

"No, I don't." He was not convincing. "But if he did, I wouldn't blame him because I'd do the same thing."

"Don't start that again."

"I'm serious and you know it. I'd do it."

"Jake, you couldn't kill a man."

"Okay. Whatever. I'm not going to argue. We've been through it before."

Carla yelled at Hanna to move away from the street. She sat next to him in the swing and rattled her ice cubes. "Would you represent him?"

"I hope so."

"Would the jury convict him?"

"Would you?"

"I don't know."

"Well, think of Hanna. Just look at that sweet little innocent child out there skipping rope. You're a mother. Now think of the little Hailey girl, lying there, beaten, bloody, begging for her momma and daddy-"

"Shut up, Jake!"

He smiled. "Answer the question. You're on the jury. Would you vote to convict the father?"

She placed her glass on the windowsill and suddenly became interested in her cuticles. Jake smelled victory.

"Come on. You're on the jury. Conviction or acquittal?"

"I'm always on the jury around here. Either that or I'm being cross-examined."

"Convict or acquit?"

She glared at him. "It would be hard to convict."

He grinned and rested his case.

"But I don't see how he could kill them if they're in jail."

"Easy. They're not always in jail. They go to court and they're transported to and from. Remember Oswald and Jack Ruby. Plus, they get out if they can make bail."

"When can they do that?"

"Bonds will be set Monday. If they bond out, they're loose."

"And if they can't?"

"They remain in jail until trial."

"When is the trial?"

"Probably late summer."

"I think you should report it."

Jake bolted from the swing and went to play with Hanna.

K. T. Bruster, or Cat Bruster, as he was known, was, to his knowledge, the only one-eyed black millionaire in Memphis. He owned a string of black topless joints in town, all of which he operated legally. He owned blocks of rental property, which he operated legally, and he owned two churches in south Memphis, which were also operated legally. He was a benefactor for numerous black causes, a friend of the politicians, and a hero to his people.

It was important for Cat to be popular in the community because he would be indicted again and tried again, and in all likelihood acquitted again by his peers, half of whom were black. The authorities had found it impossible to convict Cat of killing people and of selling such things as women, cocaine, stolen goods, credit cards, food stamps, un-taxed liquor, guns, and light artillery.

He had one eye with him. The other one was somewhere in a rice paddy in Vietnam. He lost it the same day in 1971 that his buddy Carl Lee Hailey was hit in the leg. Carl Lee carried him for two hours before they found help. After the war he returned to Memphis and brought with him two pounds of hashish. The proceeds went to buy a small saloon on South Main, and he almost starved before he won a whore in a poker game with a pimp. He promised her she could quit whoring if she would take off her clothes and dance on his tables. Overnight he had more business than he could seat, so he bought another bar, and brought in more dancers. He found his niche in the market, and within two years he was a very wealthy man.

His office was above one of his clubs just off South Main between Vance and Beale, in the roughest part of Memphis. The sign above the sidewalk advertised Bud and breasts, but much more was for sale behind the black windows.

Carl Lee and Lester found the lounge-Brown Sugar- around noon, Saturday. They sat at the bar, ordered Bud, and watched the breasts.

"Is Cat in?" Carl Lee asked the bartender when he walked behind them. He grunted and returned to the sink, where he continued his beer mug washing. Carl Lee glanced at him between sips and dance routines.

"Another beer!" Lester said loudly without taking his eyes off the dancers.

"Cat Bruster here?" Carl Lee asked firmly when the bartender brought the beer.

"Who wants to know?"

"I do."

"So."

"So me and Cat are good friends. Fought together in 'Nam."

"Name?"

"Hailey. Carl Lee Hailey. From Mississippi."

The bartender disappeared, and a minute later emerged from between two mirrors behind the liquor. He motioned for the Haileys, who followed him through a small door, past the restrooms and through a locked door up the stairs. The office was dark and gaudy. The carpet on the floor was gold, on the walls, red, on the ceiling, green. A green shag ceiling. Thin steel bars covered the two blackened windows, and for good measure a set of heavy, dusty, burgundy drapes hung from ceiling to floor to catch and smother any sunlight robust enough to penetrate the painted glass. A small, ineffective chrome chandelier with mirror panes rotated slowly in the center of the room, barely above their heads.

Two mammoth bodyguards in matching three-piece black suits dismissed the bartender and seated Lester and Carl Lee, and stood behind them.

The brothers admired the furnishings. "Nice, ain't it?" Lester said. B.B. King mourned softly on a hidden stereo.

Suddenly, Cat entered from a hidden door behind the marble and glass desk. He lunged at Carl Lee. "My man! My man! Carl Lee Hailey!" He shouted and grabbed Carl Lee. "So good to see you, Carl Lee! So good to see you!"

Carl Lee stood and they bearhugged. "How are you, my man!" Cat demanded.

"Doin' fine, Cat, just fine. And you?"

"Great! Great! Who's this?" He turned to Lester and threw a hand in his chest. Lester shook it violently.

iuia ucie s my orother, Lester," Carl Lee said. "He's from Chicago."

"Glad to know you, Lester. Me and the big man here are mighty tight. Mighty tight."

"He's told me all about you," Lester said. Cat admired Carl Lee. "My, my, Carl Lee. You lookin' good. How's the leg?"

"It's fine, Cat. Tightens up sometimes when it rains, but it's fine."

"We mighty tight, ain't we?"

Carl Lee nodded and smiled. Cat released him. "You fellas want a drink?"