John Grisham - A time to kill

"To answer your question, sir, the family has been devastated and destroyed."

Gwen began crying quietly, and Jake handed ner a handkerchief.

"Are you hinting at a defense of insanity?"

"Yes."

"Will there in fact be a plea of insanity?"

"Yes."

"Can you prove it?"

"That will be left for the jury. We will provide them experts in the field of psychiatry."

"Have you already consulted with these experts?"

"Yes," lied Jake.

"Could you give us their names?"

"No, that would be inappropriate at this point."

"We've heard rumors of death threats against Mr. Hai-ley. Could you confirm?"

"There continue to be threats against Mr. Hailey, his family, my family, the sheriff, the judge, just about everyone involved. I don't know how serious they are."

Carl Lee patted Tonya on the leg and looked blankly at the table. He looked scared, pitiful, and in need of sympathy. His boys looked scared too, but, according to strict orders, they stood at attention, afraid to move. Carl Lee, Jr., the oldest at fifteen, stood behind Jake. Jarvis, the middle son at thirteen, stood behind his daddy. And Robert, age eleven, stood behind his mother. They wore identical navy suits with white shirts and little red bow ties. Robert's" suit was once Carl Lee, Jr.'s, then Jarvis's, and now his, and it looked a bit more worn than the other two. But it was clean, neatly pressed, and perfectly cuffed. The boys looked sharp. How could any juror vote to force these children to live without their father?

The press conference was a hit. Segments of it ran on the networks and local stations, both on the evening and late news. The Thursday papers ran front page pictures of the Haileys and their lawyer.

The Swede had called several times during the two weeks her husband had been in Mississippi. She didn't trust him down there. There were old girlfriends he had confessed to. Each time she called, Lester was not around, and Gwen lied and explained that he was fishing or cutting pulpwood so they could buy groceries. Gwen was tired of lying, and Lester was tired of carousing, and they were tired of each other. When the phone rang before dawn Friday morning, Lester answered it. It was the Swede.

Two hours later the red Cadillac was parked at the jail. Moss Junior led Lester into Carl Lee's cell. The brothers whispered above the sleep of the inmates.

"Gotta go home," Lester mumbled, somewhat ashamed, somewhat timid.

"Why?" Carl Lee asked as if he had been expecting it.

"My wife called this mornin'. I gotta be at work tomorrow or I'm fired."

Carl Lee nodded approvingly.

"I'm sorry, bubba. I feel bad about goin', but I ain't got no choice."

"I understand. When you comin' back?"

"When you want me back?"

"For the trial. It'll be real hard on Gwen and the kids. Can you be back then?"

"You know I'll be here. I got some vacation time and all. I'll be here."

They sat on the edge of Carl Lee's bunk and watched each other in silence. The cell was dark and quiet. The two bunks opposite Carl Lee's were empty.

"Man, I forgot how bad this place is," Lester said.

"I just hope I ain't here much longer."

They stood and embraced, and Lester called for Moss Junior to open the cell. "I'm proud of you, bubba," he said to his older brother, then left for Chicago.

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who met him in Ozzie's office. Jake was red eyed and irritable.

"Carl Lee, I talked to two psychiatrists in Memphis yesterday. Do you know what the minimum fee is to evaluate you for trial purposes? Do you?"

"Am I supposed to know?" asked Carl Lee.

"One thousand dollars," Jake shouted. "One thousand dollars. Where can you find a thousand dollars?"

"I gave you all the money I got. I even offered-"

"I don't want the deed to your land. Why? Because nobody wants to buy it, and if you can't sell it, it's no good. We've got to have cash, Carl Lee. Not for me, but for the psychiatrists."

"Why?"

"Why!" Jake repeated in disbelief. "Why? Because I'd like to keep you away from the gas chamber, and it's only a hundred miles from here. It's not that far. And to do that, we've got to convince the jury that you were insane when you shot those boys. I can't tell them you were crazy. You can't tell them you were crazy. It takes a psychiatrist. An expert. A doctor. And they don't work for free. Understand?"

Carl Lee leaned on his knees and watched a spider crawl across the dusty carpet. After twelve days in jail and two court appearances, he had had enough of the criminal justice system. He thought of the hours and minutes before the killings. What was he thinking? Sure the boys had to die. He had no regrets. But did he contemplate jail, or poverty, or lawyers, or psychiatrists? Maybe, but only in passing. Those unpleasantries were only by-products to be encountered and endured temporarily before he was set free. After the deed, the system would process him, vindicate him, and send him home to his family. It would be easy, just as Les-ter's episode had been virtually painless.

But the system was not working now. It was conspiring to keep him in jail, to break him, to make orphans of his children. It seemed determined to punish him for performing an act he considered unavoidable. And now, his only ally was making demands he could not meet. His lawyer asked the impossible. His friend Jake was angry and yelling.

"Get it," Jake shouted as he headed for the door. "Get it from your brothers and sisters, from Gwen's family, get it from your friends, get it from your church. But get it. And as soon as possible."

Jake slammed the door and marched out of the jail.

Carl Lee's third visitor of the morning arrived before noon in a long black limousine with a chauffeur and Tennessee plates. It maneuvered through the small parking lot and came to rest straddling three spaces. A large black bodyguard emerged-from behind the wheel and opened the door to release his boss. They strutted up the sidewalk and into the jail.

The secretary stopped typing and smiled suspiciously. "Good mornin'."

"Mornin'," said the smaller one, the one with the patch. "My name is Cat Bruster, and I'd like to see Sheriff Walls."

"May I ask what for?"

"Yes ma'am. It's regardin' a Mr. Hailey, a resident of your fine facility."

The sheriff heard his name mentioned, and appeared from his office to greet this infamous visitor. "Mr. Bruster, I'm Ozzie Walls." They shook hands. The bodyguard did not move.

"Nice to meet you, Sheriff. I'm Cat Bruster, from Memphis."

"Yes. I know who you are. Seen you in the news. What brings you to Ford County?"

"Well, I gotta buddy in bad trouble. Carl Lee Hailey, and I'm here to help."

"Okay. Who's he?" Ozzie asked, looking up at the bodyguard. Ozzie was six feet four, and at least five inches shorter than the bodyguard. He weighed at least three hundred pounds, most of it in his arms.

"This here is Tiny Tom," Cat explained. "We just call him Tiny for short."

"I see."

"He's sort of like a bodyguard."

"He's not carryin' a gun, is he?"

"Naw, Sheriff, he don't need a gun."

rair enougn. wny aon t you and liny step into my office?"

In the office, Tiny closed the door and stood by it while his boss took a seat across from the sheriff.

"He can sit if he wants to," Ozzie explained to Cat.

"Naw, Sheriff, he always stands by the door. That's the way he's been trained."

"Sorta like a police dog?"

"Right."

"Fine. What'd you wanna talk about?"

Cat crossed his legs and laid a diamond-clustered hand on his knee. "Well, Sheriff, me and Carl Lee go way back. Fought together in 'Nam. We was pinned down near Da Nang, summer of '71. I got hit in the head, and, bam!, two seconds later he got hit in the leg. Our squad disappeared, and the gooks was usin' us for target practice. Carl Lee limped to where Fs layin', put me on his shoulders, and ran through the gunfire to a ditch next to a trail. I hung on his back while he crawled two miles. Saved my life. He got a medal for it. You know that?"