John Grisham - A time to kill

"You're here early this morning, sweetheart," Dell said to her favorite customer as she poured his coffee.

"At least I'm here." He had missed a few mornings since the amputation. Looney was popular, and there was resentment at the Coffee Shop and around town for Hailey's lawyer. He was aware of it and tried to ignore it.

There was resentment among many for any lawyer who would defend a nigger for killing two white men.

"You got a minute?" Jake asked.

"Sure," Dell said, looking around. At five-fifteen, the cafe was not yet full. She sat across from Jake in a small booth and poured coffee.

"What's the talk in here?" he asked.

"The usual. Politics, fishing, farming. It never changes. I've been here for twenty-one years, serving the same food to the same people, and they're still talking about the same things."

"Nothing new?"

"Hailey. We get a lotta talk about tnat. except wiicn me strangers are here, then it goes back to the usual."

"Why?"

"Because if you act like you know anything about the case, some reporter will follow you outside with a bunch of questions."

"That bad, huh?"

"No. It's great. Business has never been better."

Jake smiled and buttered his grits, then added Tabasco.

"How do you feel about the case?"

Dell scratched her nose with long, red, fake fingernails and blew into her coffee. She was famous for her bluntness, and he was hoping for a straight answer.

"He's guilty. He killed them. It's cut and dried. But he had the best damned excuse I've ever seen. There's some sympathy for him."

"Let's say you're on the jury. Guilty or innocent?"

She watched the front door and waved at a regular. "Well, my instinct is to forgive anyone who kills a rapist. Especially a father. But, on the other hand, we can't allow people to grab guns and hand out their own justice. Can you prove he was crazy when he did it?"

"Let's assume I can."

"Then I would vote not guilty, even though I don't think he was crazy."

He smeared strawberry preserves on dry toast and nodded his approval.

"But what about Looney?" she asked. "He's a friend of mine."

"It was an accident."

"Is that good enough?"

"No. No, it's not. The gun did not go off by accident. Looney was accidentally shot, but I doubt if that's a valid defense. Would you convict him for shooting Looney?",

"Maybe," she answered slowly. "He lost a leg."

How could he be insane when he shot Cobb and Wil-lard, and not when he shot Looney, Jake thought, but didn't ask. He changed the subject.

"What's the gossip on me?"

"About the same. Someone was asking where you were the other day, and said you don't have time for us now that

you're a celebrity. I've heard some mumbling, about you and the nigger, but it's pretty quiet. They don't criticize you loudly. I won't let them."

"You're a sweetheart."

"I'm a mean bitch and you know it."

"No. You just try to be."

"Yeah, watch this." She jumped from the booth and shouted abuse at a table of farmers who had motioned for more coffee. Jake finished alone, and returned to the office.

When Ethel arrived at eight-thirty, two reporters were loitering on the sidewalk outside the locked door. They followed Ethel inside and demanded to see Mr. Brigance. She refused, and asked them to leave. They refused, and repeated their demand. Jake heard the commotion downstairs and locked his door. Let Ethel fight with them.

From his office he watched a camera crew set up by the rear door of the courthouse. He smiled and felt a wonderful surge of adrenaline. He could see himself on the evening news walking briskly, stern, businesslike, across the street followed by reporters begging for dialogue but getting no comments. And this was just the arraignment. Imagine the trial! Cameras everywhere, reporters yelling questions, front page stories, perhaps magazine covers. An Atlanta paper had called it the most sensational murder in the South in twenty years. He would have taken the case for free, almost.

Moments later he interrupted the argument downstairs, and warmly greeted the reporters. Ethel disappeared into the conference room.

"Could you answer some questions?" one of them asked.

"No," Jake answered politely. "I have to meet with Judge Noose."

"Just a couple of questions?"

"No. But there will be a press conference at three P.M." Jake opened the door, and the reporters followed him onto the sidewalk.

"Where's the press conference?"

"In my office."

"What's the purpose?"

"To discuss the case."

Jake walked slowly across the street and up the short

driveway to the courthouse answering questions along me way.

"Will Mr. Hailey be at the press conference?"

"Yes, along with his family."

"The girl, too?"

"Yes, she will be there."

"Will Mr. Hailey -answer questions?"

"Maybe. I haven't decided."

Jake said good day, and disappeared into the courthouse, leaving the reporters to chat and gossip about the press conference.

Buckley entered the courthouse through the huge wooden front doors, amid no fanfare. He had hoped for a camera or two, but was dismayed to learn they were gathering at the rear door to catch a glimpse of the defendant. He would use the rear door in the future.

Judge Noose parked by a fire hydrant in front of the post office and loped along the east sidewalk across the courtyard square and into the courthouse. He, too, attracted no attention, except for a few curious stares.

Ozzie peered through the front windows of the jail and watched the mob waiting for Carl Lee in the parking lot. The ploy of another end run crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. His office had received two dozen death threats on Carl Lee, and Ozzie took a few seriously. They were specific, with dates and places. But most were just general, everyday death threats. And this was just the arraignment. He thought of the trial, and mumbled something to Moss Junior. They surrounded Carl Lee with uniformed bodies and marched him down the sidewalk, past the press and into a rented step van. Six deputies and a driver piled in. Escorted by Ozzie's three newest patrol cars, the van drove quickly to the courthouse.

Noose had scheduled a dozen arraignments for 9:00 A.M., and when he settled into the chair on the bench he shifted through the files until he found Hailey's. He looked to the front row in the courtroom and saw a somber group of suspicious-looking men, all newly indicted. At the far end of the front row, two deputies sat next to a handcuffed defendant, and Brigance was whispering to him. Must be Hailey.

Noose picked up a red court file and adjusted his read-

ing glasses so they would not hinder his reading. "State versus Carl Lee Hailey, case number 3889. Will Mr. Hailey come forward?"

The handcuffs were removed, and Carl Lee followed his attorney to the bench, where they stood looking up to His Honor, who quietly and nervously scanned the indictment in the file. The courtroom grew silent. Buckley rose and strutted slowly to within a few feet of the defendant. The artists near the railing busily sketched the scene.

Jake glared at Buckley, who had no reason to stand before the bench during the arraignment. The D.A. was dressed in his finest black three-piece polyester suit. Every hair on his huge head had been meticulously combed and plastered in place. He had the appearance of a television evangelist.

Jake walked to Buckley and whispered, "That's a nice suit, Rufus."

"Thanks," he replied, somewhat off-guard.

"Does it glow in the dark?" Jake asked, then returned to the side of his client.

"Are you Carl Lee Hailey?" asked the judge.

"Yes."

"Mr. Brigance your attorney?"

"Yes."

"I'm holding here a copy of an indictment returned against you by the grand jury. Have you been served a copy of this?"