“Then you won't get to testify at trial, and you won't get your name and picture in the paper, and you won't be interviewed on TV.”
Lucien paused long enough to take a long drink. “Just do as I say. Interview him, take a bunch of notes. Ask stupid questions. You know what to do. Then say he was crazy.”
“I'm not so sure about this. It hasn't worked too well in the past.”
“Look, you're a doctor, aren't you? Then act proud, vain, arrogant. Act like a doctor's supposed to act. Give your opinion and dare anyone to question it.”
“I don't know. It hasn't worked too well in the past.”
“Just do as I say.”
“I've done that before, and they're both at Parchman.”
“They were hopeless. Hailey's different.”
“Does he have a chance?”
“Slim.”
“I thought you said he was different.”
“He's a decent man with a good reason for killing.”
“Then why are his chances slim?”
“The law says his reason is not good enough.”
“That's par for the law.”
“Plus he's black, and this is a white county. I have no confidence in these bigots around here.”
“And if he were white?”
“If he were white and he killed two blacks who raped his daughter, the jury would give him the courthouse.”
Bass finished one glass and poured another. A fifth and a bucket of ice sat on the wicker table between the two.
“What about his lawyer?” he asked.
“He should be here in a minute.”
“He used to work for you?” “Yeah, but I don't think you met him. He was in the firm about two years before I left. He's young, early thirties. Clean, aggressive, works hard.”
“And he used to work for you?”
“That's what I said. He's got trial experience for his age. This is not his first murder case, but, if I'm not mistaken, it's his first insanity case.”
“That's nice to hear. I don't want someone asking a lot of questions.”
“I like your confidence. Wait till you meet the D. A.”
“I just don't feel good about this. We tried it twice, and it didn't work.”
Lucien shook his head in bewilderment. “You've got to be the humblest doctor I've known.”
“And the poorest.”
“You're supposed to be pompous and arrogant. You're the expert. Act like one. Who's gonna question your professional opinion in Clanton, Mississippi?”
“The State will have experts.”
“They will have one psychiatrist from Whitfield. He'll examine the defendant for a few hours, and then drive up for trial and testify that the defendant is the sanest man he's ever met. He's never seen a legally insane defendant. To him no one is insane. Everybody's blessed with perfect mental health. Whitfield is full of sane people, except when it applies for government money, then half the state's crazy. He'd get fired if he started saying defendants are legally insane. So that's who you're up against.”
“And the jury will automatically believe me?”
“You act as though you've never been through one of these before.”
“Twice, remember. One rapist, one murderer. Neither was insane, in spite of what I said. Both are now locked away where they belong.”
Lucien took a long drink and studied the light brown liquid and the floating ice cubes. “You said you would help me. God knows you owe me the favor. How many divorces did I handle for you?”
“Three. And I got cleaned out every time.”
“You deserved it every time. It was either give in or go to trial and have your habits discussed in open court.”
“I remember.”
“How many clients, or patients, have I sent you over the years?”
“Not enough to pay my alimony.”
“Remember the malpractice case by the lady whose treatment consisted primarily of weekly sessions on your couch with the foldaway bed? Your malpractice carrier refused to defend, so you called your dear friend Lucien who settled it for peanuts and kept it out of court.”
“There were no witnesses.”
“Just the lady herself. And the court files showing where your wives had sued for divorce on the grounds of adultery.”
“They couldn't prove it.”
“They didn't get a chance. We didn't want them to try, remember?”
“All right, enough, enough. I said I would help. What about my credentials?”
“Are you a compulsive worrier?”
“No. I just get nervous when I think of courtrooms.”
“Your credentials are fine. You've been qualified before as an expert witness. Don't worry so much.”
“What about this?” He waved his drink at Lucien.
“You shouldn't drink so much,” he said piously.
The doctor dropped his drink and exploded in laughter. He rofled out of his chair and crawled to the edge of the porch, holding his stomach and shaking in laughter.
“You're drunk,” Lucien said as he left for another bottle.
When Jake arrived an hour later, Lucien was rocking slowly in his huge wicker rocker. The doctor was asleep in the swing at the far end of the porch. He was barefoot, and his toes had disappeared into the shrubbery that lined the porch. Jake walked up the steps and startled Lucien.
“Jake, my boy, how are you?” he slurred.
“Fine, Lucien. I see you're doing quite well.” He looked at the empty bottle and one not quite empty.
“I wanted you to meet that man,” he said, trying to sit up straight.
“Who is he?”
“He's our psychiatrist. Dr. W. T. Bass, from Jackson. Good friend of mine. He'll help us with Hailey.”
“Is he good?”
“The best. We've worked together on several insanity cases.”
Jake took a few steps in the direction of the swing and stopped. The doctor was lying on his back with his shirt unbuttoned and his mouth wide open. He snored heavily, with an unusual guttural gurgling sound. A horsefly the size of a small sparrow buzzed around his nose and retreated to the top of the swing with each thunderous exhalation. A rancid vapor emanated with the snoring and hung like an invisible fog over the end of the porch.
“He's a doctor?” Jake asked as he sat next to Lucien.
“Psychiatry,” Lucien said proudly.
“Did he help you with those?” Jake nodded at the bottles.
“I helped him. He drinks like a fish, but he's always sober at trial.”
“That's comforting.”
“You'll like him. He's cheap. Owes me a favor. Won't cost a dime.”
“I like him already.”
Lucien's face was as red as his eyes. “Wanna drink?”
“No. It's three-thirty in the afternoon.”
“Really! What day is it?”
“Wednesday, June 12. How long have y'all been drinking?”
“ 'Bout thirty years.” Lucien laughed and rattled his ice cubes.
“I mean today.”
“We drank our breakfast. What difference does it make?”
“Does he work?”
“Naw, he's retired.”
“Was his retirement voluntary?”
“You mean, was he disbarred, so to speak?”
“That's right, so to speak.”
“No. He still has his license, and his credentials are impeccable.”
“He looks impeccable.”
“Booze got him a few years ago. Booze and alimony. I handled three of his divorces. He reached the point where all of his income went for alimony and child support, so he quit working.”
“How does he manage?”
“We, uh, I mean, he stashed some away. Hid it from his wives and their hungry lawyers. He's really quite comfortable.”
“He looks comfortable.”
“Plus he peddles a little dope, but only to a rich clientele. Not really dope, but narcotics which he can legally prescribe. It's not really illegal; just a little unethical.”
“What's he doing here?”
“He visits occasionally. He lives in Jackson but hates it. I called him Sunday after I talked to you. He wants to meet Hailey as soon as possible, tomorrow if he can.”
The doctor grunted and rolled to his side, causing the swing to move suddenly. It swung a few times, and he moved again, still snoring. He stretched his right leg, and his foot caught a thick branch in the shrubbery. The swing jerked sideways and threw the good doctor onto the porch. His head crashed onto the wooden floor while his right foot remained lodged through the end of the swing. He grimaced and coughed, then began snoring again. Jake instinctively started toward him, but stopped when it was apparent he was unharmed and still asleep.
“Leave him alone!” ordered Lucien between laughs.
Lucien slid an ice cube down the porch and just missed the doctor's head. The second cube landed perfectly on the tip of his nose. “Perfect shot!” Lucien roared. “Wake up, you drunk!”
Jake walked down the steps toward his car, listening to his former boss laugh and curse and throw ice cubes at Dr. W. T. Bass, psychiatrist, witness for the defense.
Deputy DeWayne Looney left the hospital on crutches, and drove his wife and three children to the jail, where the sheriff, the other deputies, the reserves, and a few friends waited with a cake and small gifts. He would be a dispatcher now, and would retain his badge and uniform and full salary.
The fellowship hall of the Springdale Church had been thoroughly cleaned and shined, and the folding tables and chairs dusted and placed in perfect rows around the room. It was the largest black church in the county and it was in Clanton, so the Reverend Agee deemed it necessary to meet there. The purpose of the press conference was to get vocal, to show support of the local boy who made good, and to announce the establishment of the Carl Lee Hailey Legal Defense Fund. The national director of the NAACP was present with a five-thousand-dollar check and a promise of serious money later. The executive director of the Memphis branch brought five thousand and grandly laid it on the table. They sat with Agee behind the two folding tables in the front of the room with every member of the council seated behind them and two hundred black church members in the crowded audience. Gwen sat next to Agee. A few reporters and cameras, much fewer than expected, grouped in the center of the room and filmed away.
Agee spoke first and was inspired by the cameras. He talked of the Haileys and their goodness and innocence, and of baptizing Tonya when she was only eight. He talked of a family wrecked by racism and hatred. There were sniffles in the audience. Then he got mean. He tore into the judicial system and its desire to prosecute a good and decent man who had done no wrong; a man, who, if white, would not be on trial; a man who was on trial only because he was black and that was what was so wrong with the prosecution and persecution of Carl Lee Hailey. He found his rhythm and the crowd joined in, and the press conference took on the fervor of a tent revival. He lasted for forty-five minutes.
He was a hard act to follow. But the national director did not hesitate. He delivered a thirty-minute oratorical condemnation of racism. He seized the moment and spouted national statistics on crime and arrests and convictions and inmate population and summed it all up by declaring that the criminal justice system was controlled by white people who unfairly persecuted black people. Then in a bewildering flurry of rationale he brought the national statistics to Ford County and pronounced the system unfit to deal with Carl Lee Hailey. The lights from the TV cameras produced a line of sweat above his eyebrows and he warmed to the task. He got angrier than Reverend Agee and pounded the podium and made the cluster of microphones jump and shake. He exhorted the blacks of Ford County and of Mississippi to give until it hurt. He promised demonstrations and marches. The trial would be a battle cry for black and oppressed folk everywhere.
He answered questions. How much money would be raised? At least fifty thousand, they hoped. It would be expensive to defend Carl Lee Hailey and fifty thousand may not be enough, but they would raise whatever it took. But time was running short. Where would the money go? Legal fees and litigation expenses. A battery of lawyers and doctors would be needed. Would NAACP lawyers be used? Of course. The legal staff in Washington was already at work on the case. The capital defense unit would handle all aspects of the trial. Carl Lee Hailey had become their top priority and all available resources would be devoted to his defense.
When he finished, Reverend Agee retook the podium and nodded at a piano player in the corner. The music started. They all stood, hand in hand, and sang a stirring rendition of “We Shall Overcome.”
Jake read about the defense fund in Tuesday's paper. He had heard rumors of the special offering being administered by the council, but was told the money was for the support of the family. Fifty thousand for legal fees! He was angry, but interested. Would he be fired again? Suppose Carl Lee refused to hire the NAACP lawyers, what would happen to the money? The trial was five weeks away, plenty of time for the capital defense team to descend on Clanton. He had read about these guys; a team of six capital murder specialists who toured the South defending blacks accused of heinous and notorious crimes. “The Death Squad” was their nickname. They were very bright, very talented, very educated lawyers dedicated to rescuing black murderers from the vari—ous gas chambers and electric chairs around the South. They handled nothing. but capital murder cases and were very, very good at their work. The NAACP ran their interference, raising money, organizing local blacks, and generating publicity. Racism was their best, and sometimes only, defense and though they lost much more than they won, their record was not bad. The cases they handled were supposed to be lost, all of them. Their goal was to martyr the defendant before the trial and hopefully hang the jury. Now they were coming to Clanton.
A week earlier Buckley had filed the proper motions to have Carl Lee examined by the State's doctors. Jake requested the doctors be required to conduct their examinations in Clantqn, preferably in Jake's office. Noose declined, and ordered the sheriff to transport Carl Lee to the Mississippi State Mental Hospital at Whitfield. Jake requested that he be allowed to accompany his client and be present during the examinations. Again, Noose declined.
Early Wednesday morning, Jake and Ozzie sipped coffee in the sheriffs office and waited for Carl Lee to shower and change clothes. Whitfield was three hours away, and he was to check ia at nine. Jake had final instructions for his client.
“How long will y'all be there?” Jake asked Ozzie.
“You're the lawyer. How long will it take?”
“Three or four days. You've been there before, haven't you?”
“Sure, we've had to transport plenty of crazy people. But nothin' like this. Where do they keep him?”
“They've got all kinds of cells.”
Deputy Hastings casually entered the office, sleepy-eyed and crunching on a stale doughnut. “How many cars we takin'?”
“Two,” answered Ozzie. “I'll drive mine and you drive yours. I'll take Pirtle and Carl Lee, you take Riley and Nes-bit.”
“Guns?”
“Three shotguns in each car. Plenty of shells. Everbody wears a vest, including Carl Lee. Get the cars ready. I'd like to leave by five-thirty.”
Hastings mumbled something and disappeared.
“Are you expecting trouble?” Jake asked.
“We've had some phone calls. Two in particular mentioned the trip to Whitfield. Lot of highway between here and there.”
“How are you going?”
“Most folks take 22 to the interstate, wouldn't. you say? It might be safer to take some smaller highways. We'll probably run 14 south to 89.”
“That would be unexpected.”
“Good. I'm glad you approve.”
“He's my client, you know.”
“For right now, anyway.”
Carl Lee quickly devoured the eggs and biscuits as Jake briefed him on what to expect during the stay at Whitfield.
“I know, Jake. You want me to act crazy, right?” Carl Lee said with a laugh. Ozzie thought it was funny too.
“This is serious, Carl Lee. Listen to me.”
“Why? You said yourself it won't matter what I say or do down there. They won't say I was insane when I shot them. Them doctors work for the State, right? The State's prosecutin' me, right? What difference does it make what I say or do? They've already made up their minds. Ain't that right, Ozzie?”
“I'm not gettin' involved. I work for the State.”
“You work for the County,” said Jake.
“Name, rank, and serial number. That's all they're get-tin' outta me,” Carl Lee said as he emptied a small paper sack.
“Very funny,” said Jake.
“He's crackin' up, Jake,” Ozzie said.
Carl Lee stuck two straws up his nose and began tiptoeing around the office, staring at the ceiling and then grabbing at something above his head. He put it in the sack. He lunged at another one and put it in the sack. Hastings returned and stopped in the door. Carl Lee grinned at him with wild eyes, then grabbed at another one toward the ceiling.
“What the hell he's doin'?” Hastings asked.
“Catchin' butterflies,” Carl Lee said.
Jake grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. “I think you should leave him at Whitfield.” He slammed the door and left the jail.
Noose had scheduled the venue hearing for Monday, June 24, in Clanton. The hearing would be long and well publicized. Jake had requested the change of venue, and he had the burden of proving Carl Lee could not receive a fair and impartial trial in Ford County. He needed witnesses. Persons with credibility in the community who were willing to testify that a fair trial was not possible. Atcavage said he might do it as a favor, but the bank might not want him involved. Harry Rex had eagerly volunteered. Reverend Agee said he would be glad to testify, but that was before the NAACP announced its lawyers would be handling the case. Lucien had no credibility, and Jake did not seriously consider asking him.
Buckley, on the other hand, would line up a dozen credible witnesses-elected officials, lawyers, businessmen, maybe other sheriffs-all of whom would testify that they had vaguely heard of Carl Lee Hailey and he could most certainly receive a fair trial in Clanton..
Jake personally preferred the trial to be in Clanton, in his courthouse across the street from his office, in front of his people. Trials were pressure-filled, tedious, sleepless ordeals. It would be nice to have this one in a friendly arena, three minutes from his driveway. When the trial recessed, he could spend the free moments in his office doing research, preparing witnesses or relaxing. He could eat at the Coffee Shop or Claude's, or even run home for a quick lunch. His client could remain in the Ford County jail, near his family.
And, of course, his media exposure would be much greater. The reporters would gather in front of his office each morning of the trial and follow him as he walked slowly toward the courthouse. That thought was exciting.
Did it matter where they tried Carl Lee Hailey? Lucien was correct: the publicity had reached every resident of every county in Mississippi. So why change venue? His guilt or innocence had already been prejudged by every prospective juror in the state.
Sure it mattered. Some prospective jurors were white and some were black. Percentage-wise, there would be more white ones in Ford County than the surrounding counties. Jake loved black jurors, especially in criminal cases and especially when the criminal was black. They were not as anxious to convict. They were open minded. He preferred them in civil cases, too. They felt for the underdog against the big corporation or insurance company, and they were more liberal with other people's money. As a rule, he picked all the black jurors he could find, but they were scarce in Ford County.
It was imperative the case be tried in another county, a blacker county. One black could hang the jury. A majority could force, maybe, an acquittal. Two weeks in a motel and strange courthouse was not appealing, but the small discomforts were greatly outweighed by the need to have black faces in the jury box.
The venue question had been thoroughly researched by Lucien. As instructed, Jake arrived promptly, although reluctantly, at 8:00 A. M. Sallie served breakfast on the porch. Jake drank coffee and orange juice; Lucien, bourbon and water. For three hours they covered every aspect of a change of venue. Lucien had copies of every Supreme Court case for the past eighty years, and lectured like a professor. The pupil took notes, argued once or twice, but mainly listened.
Whitfield was located a few miles from Jackson in a rural part of Rankin County. Two guards waited by the front gate and argued with reporters. Carl Lee was scheduled to arrive at nine, that was all the guards knew. At eight-thirty two patrol cars with Ford County insignia rolled to a stop at the gate. The reporters and their cameramen ran to the driver of the first car. Ozzie's window was down.
“Where's Carl Lee Hailey?” a reporter shouted in a panic.
“He's in the other car,” Ozzie drawled, winking at Carl Lee in the back seat.
“He's in the second car!” someone shouted, and they ran to Hastings' car.
“Where's Hailey?” they demanded.
Pirtle, in the front seat, pointed to Hastings, the driver. “That's him.”
“Are you Carl Lee Hailey?” a reporter screamed at Hastings.
“Yep.”
“Why are you driving?”
“What's with the uniform?”
“They made me a deputy,” answered Hastings with a straight face. The gate opened, and the two cars sped through.
Carl Lee was processed in the main building and led, along with Ozzie and the deputies, to another building where he was checked into his cell, or room, as it was called. The door was locked behind him. Ozzie and his men were excused and returned to Clanton.
After lunch, an assistant of some sort with a clipboard and white jacket arrived and began asking questions. Starting with birth, he asked Carl Lee about every significant event and person in his life. It lasted two hours. At 4:00 P. M., two security guards handcuffed Carl Lee and rode him in a golf cart to a modern brick building a half mile from his room. He was led to the office of Dr. Wilbert Rodeheaver, head of staff. The guards waited in the hall by the door.
It had been five weeks since the shootings of Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard. The trial was four weeks away. The three motels in Clanton were booked solid for the week of the trial and, the week before. The Best Western was the largest and nicest, and had attracted the Memphis and Jackson press. The Clanton Court had the best bar and restaurant, and was booked by reporters from Atlanta, Washington, and New York. At the less than elegant East Side Motel the rates had curiously doubled for the month of July but it had nonetheless sold out.
The town had been friendly at first to these outsiders, most of whom were rude and spoke with different accents. But some of the descriptions of Clanton and its people had been less than flattering, and most of the locals now honored a secret code of silence. A noisy cafe would become instantly silent when a stranger walked in and took a seat. Merchants around the square offered little assistance to anyone they did not recognize. The employees in the courthouse had become deaf to questions asked a thousand times by nosy intruders. Even the Memphis and Jackson reporters had to struggle to extract anything new from the locals. The people were tired of being described as backward, redneck, and racist. They ignored the outsiders whom they could not trust and went about their business.
The bar at the Clanton Court became the watering hole for the reporters. It was the one place in town they could go to find a friendly face and good conversation. They sat in the booths under the big-screen TV and gossiped about the small town and the upcoming trial. They compared notes and stories and leads and rumors, and drank until they were drunk because there was nothing else to do in Clanton after dark.
The motels filled Sunday night, June 23, the night before the venue hearing. Early Monday morning they gathered in the restaurant at the Best Western to drink coffee and speculate. The hearing was the first major skirmish, and could likely be the only courtroom action until the trial. A rumor surfaced that Noose was ill and did not want to hear the case, and that he would ask the Supreme Court to appoint another judge. Just a rumor, with no source and nothing more definite, said a reporter from Jackson. At eight they packed their cameras and microphones and left for the square. One group set up outside the jail, another at the rear of the courthouse, but most headed for the courtroom. By eight-thirty it was filled.
From the balcony of his office, Jake watched the activity around the courthouse. His heart beat faster than normal, and his stomach tingled. He smiled. He was ready for Buck-ley, ready for the cameras.
Noose looked down past the end of his nose, over his reading glasses, and around the packed courtroom. Everyone was in place.
“The court has before it,” he began, “the defendant's motion for a change of venue. The trial in this matter has been set for Monday, July 22. That's four weeks from today, according to my calendar I have set a deadline for filing motions and disposing of same, and I believe those are the only two deadlines between now and trial.”
“That's correct, Your Honor,” thundered Buckley, half standing behind his table. Jake rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Thank you, Mr. Buckley,” Noose said dryly. “The defendant has filed the proper notice that he intends to use an insanity defense. Has he been examined at Whitfield?”
“Yes sir, Your Honor, last week,” Jake answered.
“Will he employ his own psychiatrist?”
“Of course, Your Honor.”
“Has he been examined by his own?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. So that's out of the way. What other motions do you anticipate filing?”
“Your Honor, we expect to file a motion requesting the clerk to summons more than the usual number of prospective jurors—”
“The state will oppose that motion,” Buckley yelled as he jumped to his feet.
“Sit down, Mr. Buckley!” Noose said sternly, ripping off his glasses and glaring at the D. A. “Please don't yell at me again. Of course you will oppose it. You will oppose any motion filed by the defense. That's your job. Don't interrupt again. You'll have ample opportunity after we adjourn to perform for the media.”
Buckley slumped in his chair and hid his red face. Noose had never screamed at him before.
“Continue, Mr. Brigance.”
Jake was startled by Ichabod's meanness. He looked tired and ill. Perhaps it was the pressure.
“We may have some written objections to anticipated evidence.”
“Motions in limineT' “Yes, sir.”
“We'll hear those at trial. Anything else?”
“Not at this time.”
“Now, Mr. Buckley, will the State file any motions?”
“I can't think of any,” Buckley answered meekly.
“Good. I want to make sure there are no surprises between now and trial. I will be here one week before trial to hear and decide any pretrial matters. I expect any motions to be filed promptly, so that we can tie up any loose ends well before the twenty-second.”
Noose flipped through his file and studied Jake's motion for a change of venue. Jake whispered to Carl Lee, whose presence was not required for the hearing, but he insisted. Gwen and the three boys sat in the first row behind their daddy. Tonya was not in the courtroom.
“Mr. Brigance, your motion appears to be in order. How many witnesses?”
“Three, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Buckley, how many will you call?”
“We have twenty-one,” Buckley said proudly.
“Twenty-one!” yelled the judge.
Buckley cowered and glanced at Musgrove. “B-but, we probably won't need them all. In fact, I know we won't call all of them.”
“Pick your best five, Mr. Buckley. I don't plan to be here all day.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Brigance, you've asked for a change of venue. It's your motion. You may proceed.”
Jake stood and walked slowly across the courtroom, behind Buckley, to the wooden podium in front of the jury box. “May it please the court, Your Honor, Mr. Hailey has requested that his trial be moved from Ford County. The reason is obvious: the publicity in this case will prevent a fair trial. The good people of this county have prejudged the guilt or innocence of Carl Lee Hailey. He is charged with killing two men, both of whom were born here and left families here. Their lives were not famous, but their deaths certainly have been. Mr. Hailey was known by few outside his community until now. Now everyone in this county knows who he is, knows about his family and his daughter and what happened to her, and knows most of the details of his alleged crimes. It will be impossible to find twelve people in Ford County who have not already prejudged this case. This trial should be held in another part of the state where the people are not so familiar with the facts.”
“Where would you suggest?” interrupted the judge.
“I wouldn't recommend a specific county, but it should be as far away as possible. Perhaps the Gulf Coast.”
“Why?”
“Obvious reasons, Your Honor. It's four hundred miles away, and I'm sure the people down there do not know as much as the people around here.”
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