John Grisham - A time to kill

"You'll have it."

"There are some evidentiary points I need researched. You saw those gruesome pictures of the two bodies. Noose normally allows the jury to see the blood and gore, but I'd like to keep them away from the jury. See if there's a way."

"It won't be easy."

"The rape is crucial to his defense. I want the jury to know details. This needs to be researched thoroughly. I've got two or three cases you can start from, and I think we can prove to Noose that the rape is very relevant."

"Okay. What else?"

"I don't know. When my brain is alive again I'll think of more, but that will do it for now."

"Do I report Monday morning?"

"Yes, but no sooner than nine. I like my quiet time."

"What's the dress code?"

"You look fine."

"Jeans and no socks?"

"I have one other employee, a secretary by the name of Ethel. She's sixty-four, top heavy, and thankfully she wears a bra. It wouldn't be a bad idea for you."

"I'll think about it."

"I don't need the distraction."

Monday, July 15. One week until trial. Over the weekend word spread quickly that the trial would be in Clanton, and the small town braced for the spectacle. The phones rang steadily at the three motels as the journalists and their crews confirmed reservations. The cafes buzzed with anticipation. A county maintenance crew swarmed around the courthouse after breakfast and began painting and polishing. Ozzie sent the yardboys from the jail with their mowers and weed-eaters. The old men under the Vietnam monument whittled cautiously and watched all this activity. The trusty who supervised the yard work asked them to spit their Red Man in the grass, not on the sidewalk. He was told to go to hell. The thick, dark Bermuda was given an extra layer of fertilizer, and a dozen lawn sprinklers were hissing and splashing by 9:00 A.M.

By 10:00 A.M. the temperature was ninety-two. The merchants in the small shops around the square opened their doors to the humidity and ran their ceiling fans. They called Memphis and Jackson and Chicago for inventory to be sold at special prices next week.

Noose had called Jean Gillespie, the Circuit Court clerk, late Friday and informed her that the trial would be in her courtroom. He instructed her to summon one hundred and fifty prospective jurors. The defense had requested an enlarged panel from which to select the twelve, and Noose agreed. Jean and two deputy clerks spent Saturday combing the voter registration books randomly selecting potential jurors. Following Noose's specific instructions, they culled those over sixty-five. One thousand names were chosen, and each name along with its address was written on a small index card and thrown into a cardboard box. The two deputy clerks then took turns drawing cards at random from the box. One clerk was white, one black. Each would pull a card blindly from the box and arrange it neatly on a folding table with the other cards. When the count reached one hundred and fifty, the drawing ceased and a master list was typed. These were the jurors for State vs. Hailey. Each step of their

selection had been carefully dictated by the Honorable Omar Noose, who knew exactly what he was doing. If there was an all-white jury, and a conviction, and a death sentence, every single elementary step of the jury selection procedure would be attacked on appeal. He had been through it before, and had been reversed. But not this time.

From the master list, the name and address of each juror was typed on a separate jury summons. The stack of summonses was. kept in Jean's office under lock until eight Monday morning when Sheriff Ozzie Walls arrived. He drank coffee with Jean and received his instructions.

"Judge Noose wants these served between four P.M. and midnight tonight," she said.

"Okay."

"The jurors are to report to the courtroom promptly by nine next Monday."

"Okay."

"The summons does not indicate the name or nature of the trial, and the jurors are not to be told anything."

"I reckon they'll know."

"Probably so, but Noose was very specific. Your men are to say nothing about the case when the summonses are served. The names of the jurors are very confidential, at least until Wednesday. Don't ask why-Noose's orders."

Ozzie flipped through the stack. "How many do we have here?"

"One fifty."

"A hundred and fifty! Why so many?"

"It's a big case. Noose's orders."

"It'll take ever man I've got to serve these papers."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh well. If that's what His Honor wants."

Ozzie left, and within seconds Jake was standing at the counter flirting with the secretaries and smiling at Jean Gil-lespie. He followed her back to her office. He closed the door. She retreated behind her desk and pointed at him. He kept smiling.

"I know why you're here," she said sternly, "and you can't have it."

"Give me the list, Jean."

"Not until Wednesday. Noose's orders."

Wednesday? Why Wednesday?"

"I don't know. But Omar was very specific."

"Give me the list, Jean."

"Jake, I can't. Do you want me to get in trouble?"

"You won't get in trouble because no one will know it. You know how well I can keep a secret." He was not smiling now. "Jean, give me the damned list."

"Jake, I just can't."

"I need it, and I need it now. I can't wait until Wednesday. I've got work to do."

"It wouldn't be fair to Buckley," she said weakly.

"To hell with Buckley. Do you think he plays fair? He's a snake and you dislike him as much as I do."

"Probably more."

"Give me the list, Jean."

"Look, Jake, we've always been close. I think more of you than any lawyer I know. When my son got in trouble I called you, right? I trust you and I want you to win this case. But I can't defy a judge's orders."

"Who helped you get elected last time, me or Buck-ley?"

"Come on, Jake."

"Who kept your son out of jail, me or Buckley?"

"Please."

"Who tried to put your son in jail, me or Buckley?"

"That's not fair, Jake."

"Who stood up for your husband when everybody, and I mean everybody, in the church wanted him gone when the books didn't balance?"

"It's not a question.of loyalty, Jake. I love you and Carla and Hanna, but I just can't do it."

Jake slammed the door and stormed out of the office. Jean sat at her desk and wiped tears from her cheeks.

At 10:00 A.M. Harry Rex barged into Jake's office and threw a copy of the jury list on his desk. "Don't ask," he said. Beside each name he had made notes, such as "Don't know" or "Former client-hates niggers" or "Works at the shoe factory, might be sympathetic."

Jake read each name slowly, trying to place it with a

face or a reputation. There was nothing but names. No addresses, ages, occupations. Nothing but names. His fourth-grade schoolteacher from Karaway. One of his mother's friends from the Garden Club. A former client, shoplifting, he thought. A name from church. A regular at the Coffee Shop. A prominent farmer. Most of the names sounded white. There was a Willie Mae Jones, Leroy Washington, Roosevelt Tucker, Bessie Lou Bean, and a few other black names. But the list looked awfully pale. He recognized thirty names at most.

"Whatta you think?" asked Harry Rex.

"Hard to tell. Mostly white, but that's to be expected. Where'd you get this?"

"Don't ask. I made notes by twenty-six names. That's the best I can do. The rest I don't know."

"You're a true friend, Harry Rex."

"I'm a prince. Are you ready for trial?"

"Not yet. But I've found a secret weapon."

"What?"

"You'll meet her later."

"Her?"

"Yeah. You busy Wednesday night?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Good. Meet here at eight. Lucien will be here. Maybe one or two others. I want to take a couple of hours and talk about the jury. Who do we want? Let's get a profile of the model juror, and go from there. We'll cover each name and hopefully identify most of these people."