“Be still, bitch! Be still!”
One of them removed her keys from the ignition and opened the trunk. They threw her inside and slammed it shut. The blue lights were unplugged in the old Lincoln and it roared away, trailed by the BMW. They found a gravel road and followed it deep into the woods. It turned into a dirt road that led to a small pasture where a large cross was being burned by a handful of Kluxers.
The two assailants quickly donned their robes and masks and removed her from the trunk. She was thrown to the ground and the quilt removed. They bound and gagged her, and dragged her to a large pole a few feet from the cross where she was tied, her back to the Kluxers, her face to the pole.
She saw the white robes and pointed hats, and tried desperately to spit out the oily, cotton rag crammed in her mouth. She managed only to gag and cough.
The flaming cross illuminated the small pasture, discharging a glowing wave of heat that began to roast her as she wrestled with the pole and emitted strange, guttural noises.
A hooded figure left the others and approached her. She could hear him walking and breathing. “You nigger-loving bitch,” he said in a crisp Midwestern voice. He grabbed the rear of her collar and ripped the white silk blouse until it hung in shreds around her neck and shoulders. Her hands were tied firmly around the pole. He removed a bowie knife from under the robe, and began cutting the remainder of the blouse from her body. “You nigger-loving bitch. You nigger-loving bitch.”
Ellen cursed him, but her words were muffled groans.
He unzipped the navy linen skirt on the right side. She tried to kick, but the heavy rope around her ankles held her feet to the pole. He placed the tip of the knife at the bottom of the zipper, and cut downward through the hem. He grabbed around the waist and pulled it off like a magician. The Kluxers stepped forward.
He slapped her on the butt, and said, “Nice, very nice.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork. She grunted and twisted but could not resist. The slip fell to mid-thigh. With great ceremony, he cut the straps, then sliced it neatly down the back. He yanked it off and threw it at the foot of the burning cross. He cut the bra straps and removed it. She jerked and the moans became louder. The silent semicircle inched forward and stopped ten feet away.
The fire was hot now. Her bare back and legs were covered with sweat. The light red hair was drenched around her neck and shoulders. He reached under his robe again and brought out a bullwhip. He popped it loudly near her and she flinched. He marched backward, carefully measur ing the distance to the pole.
He cocked the bullwhip and aimed at the bare back. The tallest one stepped forward with his back to her. He shook his head. Nothing was said, but the whip disappeared.
He walked to her and grabbed her head. With his knife, he cut her hair. He grabbed handfuls and hacked away until her scalp was gapped and ugly. It piled gently around her feet. She moaned and did not move.
They headed for their cars. A gallon of gasoline was splashed inside the BMW with Massachusetts tags and somebody threw a match.
When he was certain they were gone, Mickey Mouse slid from the bushes. He untied her and carried her to a small clearing away from the pasture. He gathered the remains of her clothing and tried to cover her. When her car finished burning beside the dirt road, he left her. He drove to Oxford, to a pay phone, and called the Lafayette County sheriff.
Saturday court was unusual but not unheard of, especially in capital cases where the jury was locked up. The participants didn't mind because Saturday brought the end one day nearer.
The locals didn't mind either. It was their day off, and for most Ford Countians it was their only chance to watch the trial, or if they couldn't get a seat, at least hang around the square and see it all first-hand. Who knows, there may even be some more shooting.
By seven, the cafes downtown were at full capacity serving nonregulars. For every customer who was awarded a seat, two were turned away and left to loiter around the square and the courthouse and wait for a seat in the courtroom. Most of them paused for a moment in front of the lawyer's office, hoping to catch a glimpse of the one they tried to kill. The braggarts told of being clients of this famous man.
Upward, a few feet, the target sat at his desk and sipped a bloody concoction left from yesterday's party. He smoked a Roi-Tan, ate headache powders, and rubbed the cobwebs from his brain. Forget about the soldier, he had told himself for the past three hours. Forget about the Klan, the threats, forget everything but the trial, and specifically Dr. W. T. Bass. He uttered a short prayer, something about Bass being sober on the witness stand. The expert and Lucieh had stayed through the afternoon, drinking and arguing, accusing each other of being a drunk and receiving a dishonorable discharge from their respective professions. Violence flared briefly at Ethel's desk when they were leaving. Nesbit intervened and escorted them to the patrol car for the ride home. The reporters burned with curiosity as the two blind drunks were led from Jake's office by the deputy and put in the car, where they continued to rage and cuss at each other, Lucien in the back seat, Bass in the front.
He reviewed Ellen's masterpiece on the insanity defense. Her outline of questions for Bass needed only minor changes. He studied his expert's resume, and though unim—pressive, it would suffice for Ford County. The nearest psychiatrist was eighty miles away.
Judge Noose glanced at the D. A. and looked sympathetically at Jake, who sat next to the door and watched the faded portrait of some dead judge hanging over Buckley's shoulder.
“How do you feel this morning, Jake?” Noose asked warmly.
“I'm fine.”
“How's the soldier?” asked Buckley.
“Paralyzed.”
Noose, Buckley, Musgrove, and Mr. Pate looked at the same spot on the carpet and grimly shook their heads in a quiet moment of respect.
“Where's your law clerk?” Noose asked, looking at the clock on the wall.
Jake looked at his watch. “I don't know. I expected her by now.”
“Are you ready?”
“Sure.”
“Is the courtroom ready, Mr. Pate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Let's proceed.”
Noose seated the courtroom, and for ten minutes offered a rambling apology to the jurors for yesterday's delay. They were the only fourteen in the county who did not know what happened Friday morning, and it might be prejudicial to tell them. Noose droned on about emergencies and how sometimes during trials things conspire to cause delays. When he finally finished, the jurors were completely bewildered and praying that somebody would call a witness.
“You may call your first witness,” Noose said in Jake's direction.
“Dr. W. T. Bass,” Jake announced as he moved to the podium. Buckley and Musgrove exchanged winks and silly grins.
Bass was seated next to Lucien on the second row in the middle of the family. He stood noisily and made his way to the center aisle, stepping on feet and assaulting people with his heavy, leather, empty briefcase. Jake heard the commotion behind him and continued smiling at the jury.
“I do, I do,” Bass said rapidly at Jean Gillespie during his swearing in.
Mr. Pate led him to the witness stand and delivered the standard orders to speak up and use the microphone. Though mortified and hung over, the expert looked remarkably arrogant and sober. He wore his most expensive dark gray hand-sewn wool suit, a perfectly starched white button-down, and a cute little red paisley bow tie that made him appear rather cerebral. He looked like an expert, in something. He also wore, over Jake's objections, a pair of light gray ostrich skin cowboy boots that he had paid over a thousand for and worn less than a dozen times. Lucien had insisted on the boots eleven years earlier in the first insanity case. Bass wore them, and the very sane defendant went to Parchman. He wore them in the second insanity trial, again at Lucien's behest; again, Parchman. Lucien referred to them as Bass's good luck charm.
Jake wanted no part of the damned boots. But the jury could relate to them, Lucien had argued. Not expensive ostrich skin, Jake countered. They're too dumb to know the difference, replied Lucien. Jake could not be swayed. The rednecks will trust someone with boots, Lucien had explained. Fine, said Jake, let him wear a pair of those camouflage squirrel-hunting boots with a little mud on the heels and soles, some boots they could really identify with. Those wouldn't complement his suit, Bass had inserted.
He crossed his legs, laying the right boot on his left knee, flaunting it. He grinned at it, then grinned at the jury. The ostrich would have been proud.
Jake looked from his notes on the podium and saw the boot, which was plainly visible above the rail of the witness stand. Bass was admiring it, the jurors pondering it. He choked and returned to his notes.
“State your name, please.”
“Dr. W. T. Bass,” he replied, his attention suddenly diverted from the boot. He looked grimly, importantly at Jake.
“What is your address?”
“Nine-oh-eight West Canterbury, Jackson, Mississippi.”
“What is your profession?”
“I am a physician.”
“Are you licensed to practice in Mississippi?”
“Yes.”
“When were you licensed?”
“February 8, 1963.”
“Are you licensed to practice medicine in any other state?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Texas.”
“When did you obtain that license?”
“November 3, 1962.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“I received my bachelor's degree from Millsaps College in 1956, and received my M. D., or Doctor of Medicine, from the University of Texas Health Science Center in Dallas, Texas, in 1960.”
“Is that an accredited medical school?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“By the Council of Medical Education and Hospitals of the American Medical Association, the recognized accrediting agency of our profession, and by the educational authority of the State of Texas.”
Bass relaxed a bit, uncrossed and recrossed his legs, and displayed his left boot. He rocked gently and turned the comfortable swivel chair partially toward the jury.
“Where did you intern and for how long?”
“After graduation from medical school, I spent twelve months as an intern at the Rocky Mountain Medical Center in Denver.”
“What is your medical specialty?”
“Psychiatry.”
“Explain to us what that means.”
“Psychiatry is that branch of medicine concerned with the treatment of disorders of the mind. It usually, but not always, deals with mental malfunction, the organic basis of which is unknown.”
Jake breathed for the first time since Bass took the stand. His man was sounding good.
“Now, Doctor,” he said as he casually walked to within a foot of the jury box, “describe to the jury the specialized training you received in the field of psychiatry.”
“My specialized training in psychiatry consisted of two years as a resident in psychiatry at the Texas State Mental Hospital, an approved training center. I engaged in clinical work with psychoneurotic and psychotic patients. I studied psychology, psychopathology, psychotherapy, and the physiological therapies. This training, supervised by competent psychiatric teachers, included instruction in the psychiatric aspects of general medicine, the behavior aspects of children, adolescents, and adults.”
It was doubtful if a single person in the courtroom comprehended any of what Bass had just said, but it came from the mouth of a man who suddenly appeared to be a genius, an expert, for he had to be a man of great wisdom and intelligence to pronounce those words. With the bow tie and vocabulary, and in spite of the boots, Bass was gaining credibility with each answer.
“Are you a diplomate of the American Board of Psychiatry?”
“Of course,” he answered confidently.
“In which branch are you certified?”
“I am certified in psychiatry.”
“And when were you certified?”
“April of 1967.”
“What does it take to become certified by the American Board of Psychiatry?”
“A candidate must pass oral and practical exams, as well as a written test at the direction of the Board.”
Jake glanced at his notes and noticed Musgrove winking at Buckley.
“Doctor, do you belong to any professional groups?”
“Yes.”
“Name them please.”
“I am a member of the American Medical Association, American Psychiatric Association, and the Mississippi Medical Association.”
“How long have you been engaged in the practice of psychiatry?”
“Twenty-two years.”
Jake walked three steps in the direction ot me oencn and eyed Noose, who was watching intently.
“Your Honor, the defense offers Dr. Bass as an expert in the field of psychiatry.”
“Very well,” replied Noose. “Do you wish to examine this witness, Mr. Buckley?”
The D. A. stood with his legal pad. “Yes, Your Honor, just a few questions.”
Surprised but not worried, Jake took his seat next to Carl Lee. Ellen was still not in the courtroom.
“Dr. Bass, in your opinion, are you an expert in the field of psychiatry?” asked Buckley.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever taught psychiatry?”
“No.”
“Have you ever published any articles on psychiatry?”
“No.”
“Have you ever published any books on psychiatry?”
“No.”
“Now, I believe you testified that you are a member of the A. M. A., M. M. A., and the American Psychiatric Association?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever served as an officer in any of these organizations?”
“No.”
“What hospital positions do you currently hold, as of today?”
“None.”
“Has your experience in psychiatry included any work under the auspices of the federal government or any state government?”
“No.”
The arrogance was beginning to fade from his face, and the confidence from his voice. He shot a glance at Jake, who was digging through a file.
“Dr. Bass, are you now engaged in the practice of psychiatry full-time?”
The expert hesitated, and looked briefly at Lucien on the second row. “I see patients on a regular basis.”
“How many patients and how regular?” Buckley retorted with an enormous air of confidence.
“I see from five to ten patients per week.”
“One or two a day?”
“Something like that.”
“And you consider that a full-time practice?”
“I'm as busy as I want to be.”
Buckley threw his legal pad on the table and looked at Noose. “Your Honor, the State objects to this man testifying as an expert in the field of psychiatry. It's obvious he's not qualified.”
Jake was on his feet with his mouth open.
“Overruled, Mr. Buckley. You may proceed, Mr. Bri-gance.”
Jake gathered his legal pads and returned to the podium, well aware of the suspicion the D. A. had just artfully thrown over his star witness. Bass shifted boots.
“Now, Dr. Bass, have you examined the defendant, Carl Lee-Hailey?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Three.”
“When was your first examination?”
“June 10.”
“What was the purpose of this examination?”
“I examined him to determine his current mental condition as well as his condition on May 20, when he allegedly shot Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard.”
“Where did this examination take place?”
“Ford County Jail.”
“Did you conduct this examination alone?”
“Yes. Just Mr. Hailey and myself.”
“How long did the examination last?”
“Three hours.”
“Did you review his medical history?”
“In a roundabout way, you could say. We talked at great length about his past.”
“What did you learn?”
“Nothing remarkable, except for Vietnam.”
“What about Vietnam?”
Bass folded his hands over his slightly overweight stom—ach and frowned intelligently at the defense attorney. Well, Mr. Brigance, like many Vietnam vets I've worked with, Mr. Hailey had some rather horrible experiences over there.”
War is hell, thought Carl Lee. He listened intently. Now, Vietnam was bad. He'd been shot. He'd lost friends. He'd killed people, many people. He'd killed children, Vietnamese children carrying guns and grenades. It was bad. He wished he'd never seen the place. He dreamed about it, had flashbacks and nightmares occasionally. But he didn't feel warped or insane because of it. He didn't feel warped or insane because of Cobb and Willard. In fact, he felt quite satisfied because they were dead. Just like those in Vietnam.
He had explained all this to Bass once at the jail, and Bass had seemed unimpressed by it. And they had talked only twice, and never more than an hour.
Carl Lee eyed the jury and listened suspiciously to the expert, who talked at length of Carl Lee's dreadful experiences in the war. Bass's vocabulary jumped several octaves as he explained to the laymen in nonlaymen terms the ef: fects of Vietnam on Carl Lee. It sounded good. There had been nightmares over the years, dreams Carl Lee had never worried much about, but to hear Bass explain it, were extremely significant events.
“Did he talk freely of Vietnam?”
“Not really,” replied Bass, then explaining in great detail the tremendous task he confronted in dragging out the war from this complex, burdened, probably unstable mind. Carl Lee didn't remember it that way. But he dutifully listened with a pained expression, wondering for the first time in his life if perhaps he could be a little off.
After an hour, the war had been refought and its effects flogged thoroughly. Jake decided to move on.
“Now, Dr. Bass,” Jake said, scratching his head. “Other than Vietnam, what other significant events did you note regarding his mental history?”
“None, except the rape of his daughter.”
“Did you discuss the rape with Carl Lee?”
“At great length, during each of the three examinations.”
“Explain to the jury what the rape did to Carl Lee Hailey.”
Bass stroked his chin and looked perplexed. “Quite frankly, Mr. Brigance, it would take a great deal of time to explain what the rape did to Mr, Hailey.”
Jake thought a moment, and seemed to thoroughly analyze this last statement. “Well, could you summarize it for the jury?”
Bass nodded gravely. “I'll try.”
Lucien grew weary of listening to Bass, and began watching the jury in hopes of eyeing Clyde Sisco, who had also lost interest but appeared to be admiring the boots. Lucien watched intently from the corner of his eye, waiting for Sisco to gaze around the courtroom.
Finally, as Bass rambled on, Sisco left the testimony and looked at Carl Lee, then Buckley, then one of the reporters on the front row. Then his line of vision locked solidly into a wild-eyed, bearded old man who had once handed him eighty thousand cash for performing his civic duty and returning a just verdict. They focused unmistakably on each other, and both managed a slight grin. How much? was the look in Lucien's eyes. Sisco returned to the testimony, but seconds later he was staring at Lucien. How much? Lucien said, his lips actually moving but with no sound.
Sisco looked away and watched Bass, thinking of a fair price. He looked in Lucien's direction, scratched his beard, then suddenly, while staring at Bass, flashed five fingers across his face and coughed. He coughed again and studied the expert.
Five hundred or five thousand? Lucien asked himself. Knowing Sisco, it was five thousand, maybe fifty thousand. It made no difference; Lucien would pay it. He was worth a ton.
By ten-thirty, Noose had cleaned his glasses a hundred times and consumed a dozen cups of coffee. His bladder pressed forward toward the spillway. “Time for the morning recess. We'll adjourn until eleven.” He rapped the gavel and disappeared.
“How'm I doing?” Bass asked nervously. He followed Jake and Lucien to the law library on the third floor.
“You're doing fine,” Jake said. “Just keep those boots outta sight.”
“The boots are critical,” Lucien protested.”
“I need a drink,” Bass said desperately.
“Forget it,” Jake said.
“So do I,” Lucien added. “Let's run over to your office for a quick one.”
“Great idea!” Bass said.
“Forget it,” Jake repeated. “You're sober and you're doing great.”
“We got thirty minutes,” Bass said as he and Lucien were leaving the library and heading for the stairs.
“No! Don't do it, Lucien!” Jake demanded.
“Just one,” Lucien replied, pointing a finger at Jake. “Just one.”
“You've never had just one.”
“Come with us, Jake. It'll settle your nerves.”
“Just one,” Bass yelled as he disappeared down the steps.
At eleven, Bass sat himself in the witness chair and looked through glazed eyes at the jury. He smiled, and almost giggled. He was aware of the artists on the front row, so he looked as expert as possible. His nerves were indeed settled. “Dr. Bass, are you familiar with the criminal responsibility test relative to the M'Naghten Rule?” Jake asked.
“I certainly am!” Bass replied with a sudden air of superiority.
“Would you explain this rule to the jury?” “Of course. The M'Naghten Rule is the standard for criminal responsibility in Mississippi, as in fifteen other states. It goes back to England, in the year 1843, when a man by the name of Daniel M'Naghten attempted to assassinate the prime minister, Sir Robert Peel. He mistakenly shot and killed the prime minister's secretary, Edward Drummond. During his trial the evidence plainly showed M'Naghten was suffering from what we would call paranoid schizophrenia. The jury returned a verdict of not guilty, by reason of insanity. From this the M'Naghten Rule was established. It is still followed in England and sixteen states.” “What does the M'Naghten Rule mean?” “The M'Naghten Rule is fairly simple. Every man is presumed to be sane, and to establish a defense on the ground of insanity, it must be clearly proven that when the defendant did what he did he was laboring under such a defect of reason, from a mental disease, that he did not know the nature and quality of the act he was doing, or if he did know what he was doing, he did not know it was wrong.”
“Could you simplify that?”
“Yes. If a defendant cannot distinguish right from wrong, he is legally insane.”
“Define insanity, please.”
“It has no significance, medically. It is strictly a legal standard for a person's mental state or condition.”
Jake breathed deeply and plowed forward. “Now, Doctor, based upon your examination of the defendant, do you have an opinion as to the mental condition of Carl Lee Hai-ley on May 20 of this year, at the time of the shooting?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And what is that opinion?”
“It is my opinion,” Bass said slowly, “that the defendant had a total break with reality when his daughter was raped. When he saw her immediately after the rape he didn't recognize her, and when someone told him she'd been gang-raped, and beaten, and almost hanged, something just snapped in Carl Lee's mind. That's a very elementary way of putting it, but that's what happened. Something snapped. He broke with reality.
“They had to be killed. He told me once that when he first saw them in court, he could not understand why the deputies were protecting them. He kept waiting for one of the cops to pull a gun and blow their heads off. A few days went by and nobody killed them, so he figured it. was up to him. I mean, he felt as though someone in the system would execute the two for raping his little girl.
“What I'm saying, Mr. Brigance, is that, mentally, he left us. He was in another world. He was suffering from delusions. He broke.”
Bass knew he was sounding good. He was talking to the jury now, not the lawyer.
“The day after the rape he spoke with his daughter in the hospital. She could barely talk, with the broken jaws and all, but she said she saw him in the woods running to save her, and she asked him why he disappeared. Now, can you imagine what that would do to a father? She later told him she begged for her daddy, and the two men laughed at her and told her she didn't have a daddy.”
Jake let those words sink in. He studied Ellen's outline and saw only two more questions.
“Now, Dr. Bass, based upon your observations of Carl Lee Hailey, and your diagnosis of his mental condition at the time of the shooting, do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was capable of knowing the difference between right and wrong when he shot these men?”
“I have.”
“And what is that opinion?”
“That due to his mental condition, he was totally incapable of distinguishing right from wrong.”
“Do you have an opinion, based upon the same factors, as to whether Carl Lee Hailey was able to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions?”
“I do.”
“And what is that opinion?”
“In my opinion, as an expert in the field of psychiatry, Mr. Hailey was totally incapable of understanding and appreciating the nature and quality of what he was doing.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I tender the witness.”
Jake gathered his legal pad and strolled confidently back to his seat. He glanced at Lucien, who was smiling and nodding. He glanced at the jury. They were watching Bass and thinking about his testimony. Wanda Womack, a young woman with a sympathetic glow about her, looked at Jake and smiled ever so slightly. It was the first positive signal he received from the jury since the trial started.
“So far so good,” Carl Lee whispered.
Jake smiled at his client. “You're a real psycho, big man.”
“Any cross-examination?” Noose asked Buckley.
“Just a few questions,” Buckley said as he grabbed the podium.
Jake could not imagine Buckley arguing psychiatry with an expert, even if it was W. T. Bass.
But Buckley had no plans to argue psychiatry. “Dr. Bass, what is your full name?”
Jake froze. The question had an ominous hint to it. Buckley asked it with a great deal of suspicion.
“William Tyler Bass.”
“What do you go by?”
“W. T. Bass.”
“Have you ever been known as Tyler Bass?”
The expert hesitated. “No,” he said meekly.
An immense feeling of anxiety hit Jake and felt like a hot spear tearing into his stomach. The question could only mean trouble.
“Are you positive?” Buckley asked with raised eyebrows and an enormous amount of distrust in his voice.
Bass shrugged. “Maybe when I was younger.”
“I see. Now, I believe you testified that you studied medicine at the University of Texas Health Science Center?”
“That's correct.”
“And where is that?”
“Dallas.”
“And when were you a student there?”
“From 1956 to 1960.”
“And under what name were you registered?”
“William T. Bass.”
Jake was numb with fear. Buckley had something, a dark secret from the past known only to Bass and himself.
“Did you ever use the name Tyler Bass while you were a medical student?”
“No.”
“Are you positive?”
“I certainly am.”
“What is your social security number?”
“410–96–8585.”
Buckley made a check mark beside something on his legal pad.
“And what is your date of birth?” he asked carefully.
“September 14, 1934.”
“And what was your mother's name?”
“Jonnie Elizabeth Bass.”
“And her maiden name?”
“Skidmore.”
Another check mark. Bass looked nervously at Jake.
“And your place of birth?”
“Carbondale, Illinois.”
Another check mark.
An objection to the relevance of these questions was in order and sustainable, but Jake's knees were like Jell-O and his bowels were suddenly fluid. He feared he would embarrass himself if he stood and tried to speak.
Buckley studied his check marks and waited a few seconds. Every ear in the courtroom waited for the next question, knowing it would be brutal. Bass watched the D. A. like a prisoner watching the firing squad, hoping and praying the guns would somehow misfire.
Finally, Buckley smiled at the expert. “Dr. Bass, have you ever been convicted of a felony?”
The question echoed throughout the silence and landed from all directions on the trembling shoulders of Tyler Bass. Even a cursory look at his face revealed the answer.
Carl Lee squinted and looked at his lawyer.
“Of course not!” Bass answered loudly, desperately.
Buckley just nodded and walked slowly to the table, where Musgrove, with much ceremony, handed him some important-looking papers.
“Are you certain?” Buckley thundered.
“Of course I'm certain,” Bass protested as he eyed the important-looking papers.
Jake knew he needed to rise and say something or do something to stop the carnage that was seconds away, but his mind was paralyzed.
“You're certain?” Buckley asked.
“Yes,” Bass answered through clenched teeth.
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