John Grisham - A time to kill

"No."

"You won't create an alibi and tell the jury he was at home with his family?"

"Of course not."

"Then what other defense do you have? You must say he was crazy!"

"But, Lucien, he was not insane, and there's no way I can find some bogus psychiatrist to say he was. He planned it meticulously, every detail."

Lucien smiled and took a drink. "That's why you're in trouble, my boy."

Jake sat his tea on the table and rocked slowly. Lucien savored the moment. "That's why you're in trouble," he repeated.

"What about the jury? You know they'll be sympathetic."

"That's exactly why you must plead insanity. You must give the jury a way out. You must show them a way to find him not guilty, if they are so inclined. If they're sympathetic, if they want to acquit, you must provide them with a defense

tney can use to do it. It makes no difference if they believe the insanity crap. That's not important in the jury room. What's important is that the jury have a legal basis for an acquittal, assuming they want to acquit."

"Will they want to acquit?"

"Some will, but Buckley will make an awfully strong case of premeditated murder. He's good. He'll take away their sympathy. Hailey'll be just another black on trial for killing a white man when Buckley gets through with him."

Lucien rattled his ice cubes and stared at the brown liquid. "And what about the deputy? Assault with intent to kill a peace officer carries life, no parole. Talk your way out of that one."

"There was no intent."

"Great. That'll be real convincing when the poor guy hobbles to the witness stand and shows the jury his nub."

"Nub?"

"Yes. Nub. They cut his leg off last night."

"Looney!"

"Yes, the one Mr. Hailey shot."

"I thought he was okay."

"Oh he's fine. Just minus a leg."

"How'd you find out?"

"I've got sources."

Jake walked to the edge of the porch and leaned on a column. He felt weak. The confidence was gone, taken away again by Lucien. He was an expert at poking holes in every case Jake tried. It was sport to him, and he was usually right.

"Look, Jake, I don't mean to sound so hopeless. The case can be won-it's a long shot, but it can be won. You can walk him out of there, and you need to believe you can. Just don't get too cocky. You've said enough to the press for a while. Back off, and go to work."

Lucien walked to the edge of the porch and spat in the shrubs. "Always keep in mind that Mr. Hailey is guilty, guilty as hell. Most criminal defendants are, but especially this one. He took the law into his own hands, and he murdered two people. Planned it all, very carefully. Our legal system does not permit vigilante justice. Now, you can win the case, and if you do, justice will prevail. But if you lose it, justice will

also prevail. Kind of a strange case, I guess. I just wish I had it."

"You serious?"

"Sure I'm serious. It's a trial lawyer's dream. Win it and you're famous. The biggest gun in these parts. It could make you rich."

"I'll need your help."

"You've got it. I need something to do."

After dinner, and after Hanna was asleep, Jake told Carla about the calls at the office. They had received a strange call before during one of the other murder trials, but no threats were made, just some groaning and breathing. But these were different. They mentioned Jake's name and his family, and promised revenge if Carl Lee was acquitted.

"Are you worried?" she asked.

"Not really. It's probably just some kids, or some of Cobb's friends. Does it scare you?"

"I would prefer they didn't call."

"Everybody's getting calls. Ozzie's had hundreds. Bul-lard, Childers, everybody. I'm not worried about it."

"What if it becomes more serious?"

"Carla, I would never endanger my family. It's not worth it. I'll withdraw from the case if I think the threats are legitimate. I promise."

She was not impressed.

Lester peeled off nine one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them majestically on Jake's desk.

"That's only nine hundred," Jake said. "Our agreement was a thousand."

"Gwen needed groceries."

"You sure Lester didn't need some whiskey?"

"Come on, Jake, you know I wouldn't steal from my own brother."

"Okay, okay. When's Gwen going to the bank to borrow the rest?"

"I'm goin' right now to see the banker. Atcavage?"

"Yeah, Stan Atcavage, next door at Security Bank.

Good friend of mine. He loaned it before on your trial. You got the deed?"

"In my pocket. How much you reckon he'll give us?"

"No idea. Why don't you go find out."

Lester left, and ten minutes later Atcavage was on the phone.

"Jake, I can't loan the money to these people. What if he's convicted-no offense, I know you're a good lawyer- my divorce, remember-but how's he gonna pay me sitting on death row?"

"Thanks. Look Stan, if he defaults you own ten acres, right?"

"Right, with a shack on it. Ten acres of trees and kudzu plus an old house. Just what my new wife wants. Come on, Jake." .

"It's a nice house, and it's almost paid for."

"It's a shack, a clean shack. But it's not worth anything, Jake."

"It's gotta be worth something."

"Jake, I don't want it. The bank does not want it."

"You loaned it before."

"And he wasn't in jail before; his brother was, remember. He was working at the paper mill. Good job, too. Now he's headed for Parchman."

"Thanks, Stan, for the vote of confidence."

"Come on, Jake, I've got confidence in your ability, but I can't loan money on it. If anybody can get him off, you can. And I hope you do. But I can't make this loan. The auditors would scream."

Lester tried the Peoples Bank and Ford National, with the same results. They hoped his brother was acquitted, but what if he wasn't.

Wonderful, thought Jake. Nine hundred dollars for a capital murder case.

Claude had never seen the need for printed menus in his cafe. Years before when he first opened he couldn't afford menus, and now that he could he didn't need them because most folks knew what he served. For breakfast he cooked everything but rice and toast, and the prices varied. For Friday lunch he barbecued pork shoulder and spare ribs, and everybody knew it. He had few white customers during the week, but at noon Friday, every Friday, his small cafe was half white. Claude had known for some time that whites enjoyed barbecue as much as blacks; they just didn't know how to prepare it.

Jake and Atcavage found a small table near the kitchen. Claude himself delivered two plates of ribs and slaw. He leaned toward Jake and said softly, "Good luck to you. Hope you get him off."

"Thanks, Claude. I hope you're on the jury."

Claude laughed and said louder, "Can I volunteer?"

Jake attacked the ribs and chewed on Atcavage for not making the loan. The banker was steadfast, but did offer to lend five thousand if Jake would cosign. That would be unethical, Jake explained.

On the sidewalk a line formed and faces squinted through the painted letters on the front windows. Claude was everywhere, taking orders, giving orders, cooking, counting money, shouting, swearing, greeting customers, and asking them to leave. On Friday, the customers were allotted twenty minutes after the food was served, then Claude asked and sometimes demanded that they pay and leave so he could sell more barbecue.

"Quit talkin' and eat!" he would yell.

"I've got ten more minutes, Claude."

"You got seven."

On Wednesday he fried catfish, and allowed thirty minutes because of the bones. The white folks avoided Claude's on Wednesday, and he knew why. It was the grease, a secret recipe grease handed down by his grandmother, he said. It

was heavy and sticky and wreaked havoc with the lower intestines of white people. It didn't faze the blacks, who piled in by the carloads every Wednesday.