"We did," answered Agee.
"You mean, you did," said Carl Lee.
"Well, uh, right. I mean, each church gave the money to me, and I deposited it in a special bank account."
"Yeah, and you deposited every nickel you received?"
"Of course I did." .
"Of course. Let me ask you this. How much of the money have you offered to my wife and kids?"
Agee looked a bit pale, or as pale as possible, and quickly searched the faces of the other reverends, who, at the moment, were preoccupied with a stink bug on the carpet. They offered no help. Each knew Agee had been taking his cut, and each knew the family had received nothing. Agee had profited more .than the family. They knew it, and Carl Lee knew it.
"How much, Reverend?" repeated Carl Lee.
"Well, we thought the money-"
"How much, Reverend?"
"The money is gonna be spent on lawyer fees and stuff like that."
"That ain't what you told your church, is it? You said it was for the support of the family. You almost cried when you talked about how my family might starve to death if the folks didn't donate all they could. Didn't you, Reverend?"
"The money's for you, Carl Lee. You and your family. Right now we think it could be better spent on your defense."
"And what if I don't want your lawyers? What happens to the twenty thousand?"
Jake chuckled. "Good question. What happens to the money if Mr. Hailey doesn't hire you, Mr. Reinfeld?"
"It's not my money," answered Reinfeld.
"Reverend Agee?" asked Jake.
The reverend had had enough. He grew defiant and belligerent. He pointed at Carl Lee. "Listen here, Carl Lee. We busted our butts to raise this money. Six thousand bucks
from the poor people of this county, people who didn't have it to give. We worked hard for this money, and it was given by poor people, your people, people on food stamps and welfare and Medicaid, people who couldn't afford to donate a dime. But they gave for one reason, and only one reason: they believe in you and what you did, and they want you to walk outta that courtroom a free man. Don't say you don't want the money."
"Don't preach to me," Carl Lee replied softly. "You say the poor folks of this county gave six thousand?"
"Right?"
"Where'd the rest of the money come from?"
"NAACP. Five thousand from Atlanta, five from Memphis, and five from national. And it's strictly for your defense fees."
"If I use Mr. Reinfeld here?"
"Right."
"And if I don't use him, the fifteen thousand disappears?"
"Right."
"What about the other six thousand?"
"Good question. We ain't discussed that yet. We thought you'd appreciate us for raisin' money and tryin' to help. We're offerin' the best lawyers and obviously you don't care."
The room was silent for an eternity as the preachers, the lawyers, and the sheriff waited for some message from the defendant. Carl Lee chewed on his lower lip and stared at the floor. Jake lit another cigar. He had been fired before, and he could handle it again.
"You gotta know right now?" Carl Lee asked finally.
"No," said Agee.
"Yes," said Reinfeld. "The trial is less than three weeks away, and we're two months behind already. My time is too valuable to wait on you, Mr. Hailey. Either you hire me now or forget it. I've got a plane to catch."
"Well, I'll tell you what you do, Mr. Reinfeld. You go and catch your plane and don't ever worry 'bout comin' back to Clanton on my behalf. I'll take my chances with my friend Jake."
The Ford County Klavern was founded at midnight, Thursday, July 11, in a small pasture next to a dirt road deep in a forest somewhere in the northern part of the county. The six inductees stood nervously before the huge burning cross and repeated strange words offered by a wizard. A dragon and two dozen white-robed Klansmen watched and chanted when appropriate. A guard with a gun stood quietly down the road, occasionally watching the ceremony but primarily watching for uninvited guests. There were none.
Precisely at midnight the six fell to their knees and closed their eyes as the white hoods were ceremoniously placed onto their heads. They were Klansmen now, these six. Freddie Cobb, brother of the deceased, Jerry Maples, Clifton Cobb, Ed Wilburn, Morris Lancaster, and Terrell Grist. The grand dragon hovered above each one and chanted the sacred vows of klanhood. The flames from the cross scorched the faces of the new members as they knelt and quietly suffocated under the heavy robes and hoods. Sweat dripped from their red faces as they prayed fervently for the dragon to shut up with his nonsense and finish the ceremony. When the chanting stopped, the new members rose and quickly retreated from the cross. They were embraced by their new brothers, who grabbed their shoulders firmly and pounded primal incantations onto their sweaty collarbones. The heavy hoods were removed, and the Klansmen, both new members and old, walked proudly from the pasture and into the rustic cabin across the dirt road. The same guard sat on the front steps as the whiskey was poured around the table and plans were made for the trial of Carl Lee Hailey.
Deputy Pirtle pulled the graveyard shift, ten to six, and had stopped for coffee and pie at Gurdy's all-night diner on the highway north of town when his radio blared out the news
that he was wanted at the jail. It was three minutes after midnight, Friday morning.
Pirtle left his pie and drove a mile south to the jail. "What's up?" he asked the dispatcher.
"We got a call a few minutes ago, anonymous, from someone lookin' for the sheriff. I explained that he was not on duty, so they asked for whoever was on duty. That's you. They said it was very important, and they'd call back in fifteen minutes."
Pirtle poured some coffee and relaxed in Ozzie's big chair. The phone rang. "It's for you," yelled the dispatcher.
"Hello," answered Pirtle.
"Who's this?" asked the voice.
"Deputy Joe Pirtle. Who's this?"
"Where's the sheriff?"
"Asleep, I reckon."
"Okay listen, and listen real good because this is important and I ain't callin' again. You know that Hailey nigger?"
"Yeah."
"You know his lawyer, Brigance?"
"Yeah."
"Then listen. Sometime between now and three A.M., they're gonna blow up his house."
"Who?"
"Brigance."
"No, I mean who's gonna blow up his house?"
"Don't worry about that, Deputy, just listen to me. This ain't no joke, and if you think it's a joke, just sit there and wait for his house to go up. It may happen any minute."
The voice became silent but did not disappear. Pirtle listened. "You still there?"
"Good night, Deputy." The receiver clicked.
Pirtle jumped to his feet and ran to the dispatcher. "Did you listen?"
"Of course I did."
"Call Ozzie and tell him to get down here. I'll be at the Brigance house."
Pirtle hid his patrol car in a driveway on Monroe Street and walked across the front lawns to Jake's house. He saw noth-
ing. It was 12:55 A.M. He walked arouno me nuusc wim "." flashlight and noticed nothing unusual. Every house on the street was dark and asleep. He unscrewed the light bulb on the front porch and took a seat in a wicker chair. He waited. The odd-looking foreign car was parked next to the Oldsmo-bile under the veranda. He would wait and ask Ozzie about notifying Jake.
Headlights appeared at the end of the street. Pirtle slumped lower in the chair, certain he could not be seen. A red pickup moved suspiciously toward the Brigance house but did not stop. He sat up and watched it disappear down the street.
Moments later he noticed two figures jogging from the direction of the square. He unbuttoned his holster and removed his service revolver. The first figure was much larger than the second, and seemed to run with more ease and grace. It was Ozzie. The other was Nesbit. Pirtle met the two in the driveway and they retreated into the darkness of the front porch. They whispered and watched the street.
"What exactly did he say?" asked Ozzie.
"Said someone's gonna blow up Jake's house between now and three A.M. Said it was no joke."
"Is that all?"
"Yep. He wasn't real friendly."
"How long you been here?"
"Twenty minutes."
Ozzie turned to Nesbit. "Give me your radio and go hide in the backyard. Stay quiet and keep your eyes open."
Nesbit scurried to the rear of the house and found a small opening between the shrubs along the back fence. Crawling on all fours, he disappeared into the shrubs. From his nest he could see the entire rear of the house.
"You gonna tell Jake?" asked Pirtle.
"Not yet. We might in a minute. If we knock on the door, they'll be turnin' on lights and we don't need that right now."
"Yeah, but what if Jake hears us and comes through the door firin' away. He might think we're just a couple of niggers tryin' to break in."
Ozzie watched the street and said nothing.
"Look, Ozzie, put yourself in his place. The cops have
your house surrounded at one o'clock in the mornin' waitin' for somebody to throw a bomb. Now, would you wanna stay in bed asleep or would you wanna know about it?"
Ozzie studied the houses in the distance.
"Listen, Sheriff, we better wake them up. What if we don't stop whoever's plannin' this, and somebody inside the house gets hurt? We get blamed, right?"
Ozzie stood and punched the doorbell. "Unscrew that light bulb," he ordered, pointing at the porch ceiling.
"I already did."
Ozzie punched the doorbell again. The wooden door swung open, and Jake walked to the storm door and stared at the sheriff. He was wearing a wrinkled nightshirt that fell just below his knees, and he held a loaded .38 in his right hand. He slowly opened the storm door.
"What is it, Ozzie?" he asked.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah. What's going on?"
"Stay here on the porch," Ozzie told Pirtle. "I'll be just a minute."
Ozzie closed the front door behind them and turned off the light in the foyer. They sat in the dark living room overlooking the porch and the front yard.
"Start talking," Jake said.
" 'Bout a half hour ago we took an anonymous call from someone who said that someone planned to blow up your house between now and three A.M. We're takin' it serious."
"Thanks."
"I've got Pirtle on the front porch and Nesbit in the backyard. 'Bout ten minutes ago Pirtle saw a pickup drive by real interested like, but that's all we've seen."
"Have you searched around the house?"
"Yeah, nothin'. They ain't been here yet. But somethin' tells me this is the real thing."
"Why?"
"Just a hunch."
Jake laid the .38 beside him on the couch and rubbed his temples. "What's your suggestion?"
"Sit and wait. That's all we can do. You got a rifle?"
"I've got enough guns to invade Cuba."
"Why don't you get it and get dressed. Take a position
in one of those cute little windows upstairs. We'll niae oui-side and wait,"
"Have you got enough men?"
"Yeah, I figure there'll only be one or two of them."
"Who's them?"
"Don't know. Could be the Klan, could be some freelancers. Who knows?"
Both men sat in deep thought and stared at the dark street. They could see the top of Pirtle's head as he slumped in the wicker chair just outside the window.
"Jake, you remember those three civil rights workers killed by the Klan back in '64? Found them buried in a levee down around Philadelphia."
"Sure. I was a kid, but I remember."
"Those boys woulcPve never been found if someone hadn't told where they was. That someone was in the Klan. An informant. Seems like that always happened to the Klan. Somebody on the inside was always squealin'."
"You think it's the Klan?"
"Sure looks like it. If it was just one or two freelancers, then who else would know about it? The bigger the group, the better the chance of someone tippin' us off."
"That makes sense, but for some reason I'm not comforted by it."
"Of course, it could be a joke."
"Nobody's laughing."
"You gonna tell your wife?"
"Yeah. I'd better go do that."
"I would too. But don't be turnin' on lights. You might scare them off."
"But I would like to scare them off."
"And I'd like to catch them. If we don't catch them now, they'll try again, and next time they might forget to call us ahead of time."
Carla dressed hurriedly in the dark. She was terrified. Jake laid Hanna on the couch in the den, where she mumbled something and went back to sleep. Carla held her head and watched Jake load a rifle.
"I'll be upstairs in the guest room. Don't turn on any lights. The cops have the place surrounded, so don't worry."
"Don't worry! Are you crazy?"
"Try to go back to sleep."
"Sleep! Jake, you've lost your mind."
They didn't wait long. From his vantage point somewhere deep in the shrubs in front of the house, Ozzie saw him first: a lone figure walking casually down the street from the direction opposite the square. He had in his hand a small box or case of some sort. When he was two houses away, he left the street and cut through the front lawns of the neighbors. Ozzie pulled his revolver and nightstick and watched the man walk directly toward him. Jake had him in the scope of his deer rifle. Pirtle crawled like a snake across the porch and into the shrubs, ready to strike.
Suddenly, the figure darted across the front lawn next door and to the side of Jake's house. He carefully laid the small suitcase under Jake's bedroom window. As he turned to run, a huge black nightstick crashed across the side of his head, ripping his right ear in two places, each barely hanging to his head. He screamed and fell to the ground.
"I got him!" Ozzie yelled. Pirtle and Nesbit sprinted to the side of the house. Jake calmly walked down the stairs.
"I'll be back in a minute," he told Carla.
Ozzie grabbed the suspect by the neck and sat him next to the house. He was conscious but dazed. The suitcase was inches away.
"What's your name?" Ozzie demanded.
He moaned and clutched his head and said nothing.
"I asked you a question," Ozzie said as he hovered over his suspect. Pirtle and Nesbit stood nearby, guns drawn, too frightened to speak or move. Jake stared at the suitcase.
"I ain't sayin'," came the reply.
Ozzie raised the nightstick high over his head and drove it solidly against the man's right ankle. The crack of the bone was sickening.
He howled and grabbed his leg. Ozzie kicked him in the face. He fell backward and his head smashed into the side of the house. He rolled to his side and groaned in pain.
Jake knelt above the suitcase and put his ear next to it. He jumped and retreated. "It's ticking," he said weakly.
Ozzie bent over the suspect and laid the nightstick softly against his nose. "I've got one more question before I break ever bone in your body. What's in the box?"
No answer.
Ozzie recoiled the nightstick and broke the other ankle. "What's in the box!" he shouted.
"Dynamite!" came the anguished reply.
Pirtle dropped his gun. Nesbit's blood pressure shot through his cap and he leaned on the house. Jake turned white and his knees vibrated. He ran through the front door yelling at Carla. "Get the car keys! Get the car keys!"
"What for?" she asked nervously.
"Just do as I say. Get the car keys and get in the car."
He lifted Hanna and carried her through the kitchen, into the carport, and laid her in the back seat of Carla's Cutlass. He took Carla by the arm and helped her into the car. "Leave, and don't come back for thirty minutes."
"Jake, what's going on?" she demanded.
"I'll tell you later. There's no time now. Just leave. Go drive around for thirty minutes. Stay away from this street."
"But why, Jake? What have you found?"
"Dynamite."
She backed out of the driveway and disappeared.
When Jake returned to the side of the house, the suspect's left hand had been handcuffed to the gas meter next to the window. He was moaning, mumbling, cursing. Ozzie carefully lifted the suitcase by the handle and sat it neatly between the suspect's broken legs. Ozzie kicked both legs to spread them. He groaned louder. Ozzie, the deputies, and Jake backed away slowly and watched him. He began to cry.
"I don't know how to defuse it," he said through clenched teeth.
"You'd better learn fast," Jake said, his voice somewhat stronger.
The suspect closed his eyes and lowered his head. He bit his lip and breathed loudly and rapidly. Sweat dripped from his chin and eyebrows. His ear was shredded and hung like a falling leaf. "Give me a flashlight."
Pirtle handed him a flashlight.
"I need both hands," he said.
"Try it with one," Ozzie said.
He placed his fingers gently on the latch and closed his eyes.
"Let's get outta here," Ozzie said. They ran around the corner of the house and into the carport, as far away as possible.
"Where's your family?" Ozzie asked.
"Gone. Recognize him?"
"Nope," said Ozzie.
"I never seen him," said Nesbit.
Pirtle shook his head.
Ozzie called the dispatcher, who called Deputy Riley, the self-trained explosives man for the county.
"What if he passes out and the bomb goes off?" Jake asked.
"You got insurance, don't you, Jake?" asked Nesbit.
"That's not funny."
"We'll give him a few minutes, then Pirtle can go check on him," said Ozzie.
"Why me?"
"Okay, Nesbit can go."
"I think Jake should go," said Nesbit. "It's his house."
"Very funny," said Jake.
They waited and chatted nervously. Nesbit made another stupid remark about insurance. "Quiet!" Jake said. "I heard something."
They froze. Seconds later the suspect yelled again. They ran back across the front yard, then slowly turned the corner. The empty suitcase had been tossed a few feet away. Next to the man was a neat pile of a dozen sticks of dynamite. Between his legs was a large, round-faced clock with wires bound together with silver electrical tape.
"Is it defused?" Ozzie asked anxiously.
"Yeah," he replied between heavy, rapid breaths.
Ozzie knelt before him and removed the clock and the wires. He did not touch the dynamite. "Where are your buddies?"
No response.
He removed his nightstick and moved closer to the man. "I'm gonna start breakin' ribs one at a time. You better start talkin'. Now where are your buddies?"
"Kiss my ass."
Ozzie stood and quickly looked around, not at Jake and the deputies, but at the house next door. Seeing nothing, he raised the nightstick. The suspect's left arm hung from the gas meter, and Ozzie planted the stick just below the left armpit. He squealed and jerked to the left. Jake almost felt sorry for him.
"Where are they?" Ozzie demanded.
No response.
Jake turned his head as the sheriff landed another blow to the ribs.
"Where are they?"
No response.
Ozzie raised the nightstick.
"Stop . . . please stop," the suspect begged.
"Where are they?"
"Down that way. A couple of blocks."
"How many?"
"One."
"What vehicle?"
"Pickup. Red GMC."
"Get the patrol cars," Ozzie ordered.
Jake waited impatiently under the carport for his wife to return. At two-fifteen she drove slowly into the driveway and parked.
"Is Hanna asleep?" Jake asked as he opened the door.
"Yes."
"Good. Leave her there. We'll be leaving in a few minutes."
"Where are we going?"
"We'll discuss it inside."
Jake poured the coffee and tried to act calm. Carla was scared and shaking and angry and making it difficult to act calm. He described the bomb and suspect and explained that Ozzie was searching for the accomplice.
"I want you and Hanna to go to Wilmington and stay with your parents until after the trial," he said.
She stared at the coffee and said nothing.
"I've already called your dad and explained everything.
They're scared too, and they insist you stay with them until this thing is over."
"And what if I don't want to go?"
"Please, Carla. How can you argue at a time like this?"
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine. Ozzie will give me a bodyguard and they'll watch the house around the clock. I'll sleep at the office some. I'll be safe, I promise."
She was not convinced.
"Look, Carla, I've got a thousand things on my mind right now. I've got a client facing the gas chamber and his trial is ten days away. I can't lose it. I'll work night and day from now until the twenty-second, and once the trial starts you won't see me anyway. The last thing I need is to be worried about you and Hanna. Please go."
"They were going to kill us, Jake. They tried to kill us."
He couldn't deny it.
"You promised to withdraw if the danger became real."
"It's out of the question. Noose would never allow me to withdraw at this late date."
"I feel as though you've lied to me."
"That's not fair. I think I underestimated this thing, and now it's too late."
She walked to the bedroom and began packing.
"The plane leaves Memphis at six-thirty. Your father will meet you at the Raleigh airport at nine-thirty."
"Yes, sir."
Fifteen minutes later they left Clanton. Jake drove and Carla ignored him. At five, they ate breakfast in the Memphis airport. Hanna was sleepy but excited about seeing her grandparents. Carla said little. She had much to say, but as a rule, they didn't argue in front of Hanna. She ate quietly and sipped her coffee and watched her husband casually read the paper as if nothing had happened.
Jake kissed them goodbye and promised to call every day. The plane left on time. At seven-thirty he was in Ozzie's office.
"Who is he?" Jake asked the sheriff.
"We have no idea. No wallet, no identification, nothin'. And he ain't talkin'."
"Does anybody recognize him?"
Ozzie thought for a second. "Well, Jake, he's kinda hard to recognize right now. Got a lot of bandages on his face."
Jake smiled. "You play rough, don't you, big guy?"
"Only when I have to. I didn't hear you object."
"No, I wanted to help. What about his friend?"
"We found him sleepin' in a red GMC 'bout a half a mile from your house. Terrell Grist. Local redneck. Lives out from Lake Village. I think he's a friend of the Cobb family."
Jake repeated the name a few times. "Never heard of him. Where is he?"
"Hospital. Same room with the other."
"My God, Ozzie, did you break his legs too?"
"Jake, my friend, he resisted arrest. We had to subdue him. Then we had to interrogate him. He didn't want to cooperate."
"What did he say?"
"Not much. Don't know nothin'. I'm convinced he doesn't know the guy with the dynamite."
"You mean they brought in a professional?"
"Could be. Riley looked at the firecrackers and timin' device and said it was pretty good work. We'd have never found you, your wife, your daughter, probably never found your house. It was set for two A.M. Without the tip, you'd be dead, Jake. So would your family."
Jake felt dizzy and sat on the couch. Reaction set in like a hard kick to the groin. A case of diarrhea almost manifested itself, and he was nauseated.
"You get your family off?"
"Yeah," he said weakly.
"I'm gonna assign a deputy to you full-time. Got a preference?"
"Not really."
"How 'bout Nesbit?"
"Fine. Thanks."
"One other thing. I guess you want this kept quiet?"
"If possible. Who knows about it?"
