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Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

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Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Complete
by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)
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Title: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Complete
Author: Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)
Release Date: August 20, 2006 [EBook #76] [This file last updated October 3, 2010]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUCKLEBERRY FINN ***
Produced by David Widger. Previous editions produced by Ron Burkey and Internet Wiretap
ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN
By Mark Twain
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Complete by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) 1
NOTICE

PERSONS attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral
in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR, Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.
EXPLANATORY
IN this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the
backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary "Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last.
The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the
trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.
I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters
were trying to talk alike and not succeeding.
THE AUTHOR.
ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN
Scene: The Mississippi Valley Time: Forty to fifty years ago
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Complete by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) 2
CHAPTER I.
YOU don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but
that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things
which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or
another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly--Tom's Aunt Polly, she is--and
Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some
stretchers, as I said before.
Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave,
and it made us rich. We got six thousand dollars apiece--all gold. It was an awful sight of money when it was
piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all
the year round --more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas she took me for her son,
and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal
regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no longer I lit out. I got into
my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he hunted me up and
said he was going to start a band of robbers, and I might join if I would go back to the widow and be
respectable. So I went back.
The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but
she never meant no harm by it. She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but sweat and
sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper,
and you had to come to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for
the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the
matter with them,--that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and ends it is
different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better.
After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to
find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then
I didn't care no more about him, because I don't take no stock in dead people.
Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she wouldn't. She said it was a mean
practice and wasn't clean, and I must try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They
get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which
was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing
a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it
herself.
Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a
set at me now with a spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow
made her ease up. I couldn't stood it much longer. Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss
Watson would say, "Don't put your feet up there, Huckleberry;" and "Don't scrunch up like that,
Huckleberry--set up straight;" and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and stretch like that,
Huckleberry--why don't you try to behave?" Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I
was there. She got mad then, but I didn't mean no harm. All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was
a change, I warn't particular. She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn't say it for the whole
world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn't see no advantage in going where
she was going, so I made up my mind I wouldn't try for it. But I never said so, because it would only make
trouble, and wouldn't do no good.
Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. She said all a body would have
to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn't think much of it.
CHAPTER I. 3
But I never said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer would go there, and she said not by a
considerable sight. I was glad about that, because I wanted him and me to be together.
Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. By and by they fetched the niggers in
and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it
on the table. Then I set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn't
no use.
I felt so lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the
woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a
whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper
something to me, and I couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. Then away
out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's
on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way
every night grieving. I got so down-hearted and scared I did wish I had some company. Pretty soon a spider
went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all
shriveled up. I didn't need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad
luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three
times and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep
witches away. But I hadn't no confidence. You do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead
of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when
you'd killed a spider.
I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death
now, and so the widow wouldn't know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go
boom--boom--boom--twelve licks; and all still again--stiller than ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down
in the dark amongst the trees --something was a stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could just barely
hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. That was good! Says I, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and
then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. Then I slipped down to the ground
and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.
CHAPTER I. 4
CHAPTER II.
WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the widow's garden, stooping down
so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads. When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made
a noise. We scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting in the kitchen
door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. He got up and stretched his neck
out about a minute, listening. Then he says:
"Who dah?"
He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could a touched him,
nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together.
There was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and
next my back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like I'd die if I couldn't scratch. Well, I've noticed that
thing plenty times since. If you are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't
sleepy--if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upwards of a
thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says:
"Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know what I's gwyne to do: I's
gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin."
So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his
legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my
eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching underneath. I didn't know
how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight
longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute
longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to
snore--and then I was pretty soon comfortable again.
Tom he made a sign to me--kind of a little noise with his mouth--and we went creeping away on our hands
and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I
said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't
got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim
might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid
five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom
but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it
seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome.
As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the
steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a
limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches be witched
him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again, and hung
his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans;
and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over
the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was monstrous proud about
it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about
it, and he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. Strange niggers would stand with their
mouths open and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder. Niggers is always talking about witches in
the dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to know all about such things, Jim
would happen in and say, "Hm! What you know 'bout witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to
take a back seat. Jim always kept that five-center piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm
the devil give to him with his own hands, and told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch witches
CHAPTER II. 5
whenever he wanted to just by saying something to it; but he never told what it was he said to it. Niggers
would come from all around there and give Jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five-center piece; but
they wouldn't touch it, because the devil had had his hands on it. Jim was most ruined for a servant, because
he got stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches.
Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away down into the village and could see
three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so
fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. We went down the
hill and found Jo Harper and Ben Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard. So we
unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and went
ashore.
We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed them a
hole in the hill, right in the thickest part of the bushes. Then we lit the candles, and crawled in on our hands
and knees. We went about two hundred yards, and then the cave opened up. Tom poked about amongst the
passages, and pretty soon ducked under a wall where you wouldn't a noticed that there was a hole. We went
along a narrow place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. Tom
says:
"Now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's Gang. Everybody that wants to join has got to
take an oath, and write his name in blood."
Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet of paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. It swore
every boy to stick to the band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to any boy in
the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that person and his family must do it, and he mustn't eat and he
mustn't sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign of the band. And
nobody that didn't belong to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done it
again he must be killed. And if anybody that belonged to the band told the secrets, he must have his throat cut,
and then have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name blotted off of the list with
blood and never mentioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever.
Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked Tom if he got it out of his own head. He said, some of
it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it.
Some thought it would be good to kill the FAMILIES of boys that told the secrets. Tom said it was a good
idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. Then Ben Rogers says:
"Here's Huck Finn, he hain't got no family; what you going to do 'bout him?"
"Well, hain't he got a father?" says Tom Sawyer.
"Yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him these days. He used to lay drunk with the hogs in the
tanyard, but he hain't been seen in these parts for a year or more."
They talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said every boy must have a family or
somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody could think of anything to
do--everybody was stumped, and set still. I was most ready to cry; but all at once I thought of a way, and so I
offered them Miss Watson--they could kill her. Everybody said:
"Oh, she'll do. That's all right. Huck can come in."
Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the paper.
CHAPTER II. 6
"Now," says Ben Rogers, "what's the line of business of this Gang?"
"Nothing only robbery and murder," Tom said.
"But who are we going to rob?--houses, or cattle, or--"
"Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery; it's burglary," says Tom Sawyer. "We ain't burglars. That
ain't no sort of style. We are highwaymen. We stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on, and kill
the people and take their watches and money."
"Must we always kill the people?"
"Oh, certainly. It's best. Some authorities think different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them--except
some that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they're ransomed."
"Ransomed? What's that?"
"I don't know. But that's what they do. I've seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've got to do."
"But how can we do it if we don't know what it is?"
"Why, blame it all, we've GOT to do it. Don't I tell you it's in the books? Do you want to go to doing different
from what's in the books, and get things all muddled up?"
"Oh, that's all very fine to SAY, Tom Sawyer, but how in the nation are these fellows going to be ransomed if
we don't know how to do it to them? --that's the thing I want to get at. Now, what do you reckon it is?"
"Well, I don't know. But per'aps if we keep them till they're ransomed, it means that we keep them till they're
dead."
"Now, that's something LIKE. That'll answer. Why couldn't you said that before? We'll keep them till they're
ransomed to death; and a bothersome lot they'll be, too--eating up everything, and always trying to get loose."
"How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get loose when there's a guard over them, ready to shoot them
down if they move a peg?"
"A guard! Well, that IS good. So somebody's got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch
them. I think that's foolishness. Why can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as they get here?"
"Because it ain't in the books so--that's why. Now, Ben Rogers, do you want to do things regular, or don't
you?--that's the idea. Don't you reckon that the people that made the books knows what's the correct thing to
do? Do you reckon YOU can learn 'em anything? Not by a good deal. No, sir, we'll just go on and ransom
them in the regular way."
"All right. I don't mind; but I say it's a fool way, anyhow. Say, do we kill the women, too?"
"Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I wouldn't let on. Kill the women? No; nobody ever saw
anything in the books like that. You fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to them; and by
and by they fall in love with you, and never want to go home any more."
"Well, if that's the way I'm agreed, but I don't take no stock in it. Mighty soon we'll have the cave so cluttered
up with women, and fellows waiting to be ransomed, that there won't be no place for the robbers. But go
CHAPTER II. 7
ahead, I ain't got nothing to say."
Little Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him up he was scared, and cried, and said he
wanted to go home to his ma, and didn't want to be a robber any more.
So they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that made him mad, and he said he would go
straight and tell all the secrets. But Tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home and
meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some people.
Ben Rogers said he couldn't get out much, only Sundays, and so he wanted to begin next Sunday; but all the
boys said it would be wicked to do it on Sunday, and that settled the thing. They agreed to get together and fix
a day as soon as they could, and then we elected Tom Sawyer first captain and Jo Harper second captain of the
Gang, and so started home.
I clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was breaking. My new clothes was all greased
up and clayey, and I was dog-tired.
CHAPTER II. 8
CHAPTER III.
WELL, I got a good going-over in the morning from old Miss Watson on account of my clothes; but the
widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that I thought I would
behave awhile if I could. Then Miss Watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She
told me to pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it. But it warn't so. I tried it. Once I got a
fish-line, but no hooks. It warn't any good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four times, but
somehow I couldn't make it work. By and by, one day, I asked Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a
fool. She never told me why, and I couldn't make it out no way.
I set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it. I says to myself, if a body can get
anything they pray for, why don't Deacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why can't the widow get
back her silver snuffbox that was stole? Why can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to my self, there ain't
nothing in it. I went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by praying for it was
"spiritual gifts." This was too many for me, but she told me what she meant--I must help other people, and do
everything I could for other people, and look out for them all the time, and never think about myself. This was
including Miss Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind a long time, but I
couldn't see no advantage about it--except for the other people; so at last I reckoned I wouldn't worry about it
any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow would take me one side and talk about Providence in a way
to make a body's mouth water; but maybe next day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it all down again.
I judged I could see that there was two Providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable show with the
widow's Providence, but if Miss Watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more. I thought it all out,
and reckoned I would belong to the widow's if he wanted me, though I couldn't make out how he was a-going
to be any better off then than what he was before, seeing I was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and
ornery.
Pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was comfortable for me; I didn't want to see him no
more. He used to always whale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though I used to take to
the woods most of the time when he was around. Well, about this time he was found in the river drownded,
about twelve mile above town, so people said. They judged it was him, anyway; said this drownded man was
just his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn't make
nothing out of the face, because it had been in the water so long it warn't much like a face at all. They said he
was floating on his back in the water. They took him and buried him on the bank. But I warn't comfortable
long, because I happened to think of something. I knowed mighty well that a drownded man don't float on his
back, but on his face. So I knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman dressed up in a man's clothes. So I
was uncomfortable again. I judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though I wished he wouldn't.
We played robber now and then about a month, and then I resigned. All the boys did. We hadn't robbed
nobody, hadn't killed any people, but only just pretended. We used to hop out of the woods and go charging
down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of them. Tom
Sawyer called the hogs "ingots," and he called the turnips and stuff "julery," and we would go to the cave and
powwow over what we had done, and how many people we had killed and marked. But I couldn't see no
profit in it. One time Tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which
was the sign for the Gang to get together), and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that next day a
whole parcel of Spanish merchants and rich A-rabs was going to camp in Cave Hollow with two hundred
elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down with di'monds, and
they didn't have only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and
kill the lot and scoop the things. He said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready. He never could
go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only
lath and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of
ashes more than what they was before. I didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of Spaniards and A-rabs,
but I wanted to see the camels and elephants, so I was on hand next day, Saturday, in the ambuscade; and
CHAPTER III. 9
when we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. But there warn't no Spaniards and
A-rabs, and there warn't no camels nor no elephants. It warn't anything but a Sunday-school picnic, and only a
primer-class at that. We busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but we never got anything but
some doughnuts and jam, though Ben Rogers got a rag doll, and Jo Harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and
then the teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and cut. I didn't see no di'monds, and I told Tom
Sawyer so. He said there was loads of them there, anyway; and he said there was A-rabs there, too, and
elephants and things. I said, why couldn't we see them, then? He said if I warn't so ignorant, but had read a
book called Don Quixote, I would know without asking. He said it was all done by enchantment. He said there
was hundreds of soldiers there, and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had enemies which he called
magicians; and they had turned the whole thing into an infant Sunday-school, just out of spite. I said, all right;
then the thing for us to do was to go for the magicians. Tom Sawyer said I was a numskull.
"Why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they would hash you up like nothing before you
could say Jack Robinson. They are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church."
"Well," I says, "s'pose we got some genies to help US--can't we lick the other crowd then?"
"How you going to get them?"
"I don't know. How do THEY get them?"
"Why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies come tearing in, with the thunder and
lightning a-ripping around and the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and do it. They
don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belting a Sunday-school superintendent over
the head with it--or any other man."
"Who makes them tear around so?"
"Why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. They belong to whoever rubs the lamp or the ring, and they've got
to do whatever he says. If he tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds, and fill it full of
chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an emperor's daughter from China for you to marry, they've
got to do it--and they've got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. And more: they've got to waltz that
palace around over the country wherever you want it, you understand."
"Well," says I, "I think they are a pack of flat-heads for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling
them away like that. And what's more--if I was one of them I would see a man in Jericho before I would drop
my business and come to him for the rubbing of an old tin lamp."
"How you talk, Huck Finn. Why, you'd HAVE to come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or not."
"What! and I as high as a tree and as big as a church? All right, then; I WOULD come; but I lay I'd make that
man climb the highest tree there was in the country."
"Shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, Huck Finn. You don't seem to know anything, somehow--perfect
saphead."
I thought all this over for two or three days, and then I reckoned I would see if there was anything in it. I got
an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till I sweat like an Injun,
calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it warn't no use, none of the genies come. So then I judged that all
that stuff was only just one of Tom Sawyer's lies. I reckoned he believed in the A-rabs and the elephants, but
as for me I think different. It had all the marks of a Sunday-school.
CHAPTER III. 10
CHAPTER IV.
WELL, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter now. I had been to school most all the
time and could spell and read and write just a little, and could say the multiplication table up to six times
seven is thirty-five, and I don't reckon I could ever get any further than that if I was to live forever. I don't take
no stock in mathematics, anyway.
At first I hated the school, but by and by I got so I could stand it. Whenever I got uncommon tired I played
hookey, and the hiding I got next day done me good and cheered me up. So the longer I went to school the
easier it got to be. I was getting sort of used to the widow's ways, too, and they warn't so raspy on me. Living
in a house and sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the cold weather I used to slide
out and sleep in the woods sometimes, and so that was a rest to me. I liked the old ways best, but I was getting
so I liked the new ones, too, a little bit. The widow said I was coming along slow but sure, and doing very
satisfactory. She said she warn't ashamed of me.
One morning I happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast. I reached for some of it as quick as I could to
throw over my left shoulder and keep off the bad luck, but Miss Watson was in ahead of me, and crossed me
off. She says, "Take your hands away, Huckleberry; what a mess you are always making!" The widow put in a
good word for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, I knowed that well enough. I started out,
after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was
going to be. There is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them kind; so I never
tried to do anything, but just poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out.
I went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go through the high board fence. There
was an inch of new snow on the ground, and I seen somebody's tracks. They had come up from the quarry and
stood around the stile a while, and then went on around the garden fence. It was funny they hadn't come in,
after standing around so. I couldn't make it out. It was very curious, somehow. I was going to follow around,
but I stooped down to look at the tracks first. I didn't notice anything at first, but next I did. There was a cross
in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil.
I was up in a second and shinning down the hill. I looked over my shoulder every now and then, but I didn't
see nobody. I was at Judge Thatcher's as quick as I could get there. He said:
"Why, my boy, you are all out of breath. Did you come for your interest?"
"No, sir," I says; "is there some for me?"
"Oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night--over a hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a fortune for you. You had
better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it."
"No, sir," I says, "I don't want to spend it. I don't want it at all --nor the six thousand, nuther. I want you to
take it; I want to give it to you--the six thousand and all."
He looked surprised. He couldn't seem to make it out. He says:
"Why, what can you mean, my boy?"
I says, "Don't you ask me no questions about it, please. You'll take it --won't you?"
He says:
"Well, I'm puzzled. Is something the matter?"
CHAPTER IV. 11
"Please take it," says I, "and don't ask me nothing--then I won't have to tell no lies."
He studied a while, and then he says:
"Oho-o! I think I see. You want to SELL all your property to me--not give it. That's the correct idea."
Then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says:
"There; you see it says 'for a consideration.' That means I have bought it of you and paid you for it. Here's a
dollar for you. Now you sign it."
So I signed it, and left.
Miss Watson's nigger, Jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach
of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. He said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed everything. So I
went to him that night and told him pap was here again, for I found his tracks in the snow. What I wanted to
know was, what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? Jim got out his hair-ball and said something
over it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. It fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch.
Jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same. Jim got down on his knees, and put his ear
against it and listened. But it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. He said sometimes it wouldn't talk without
money. I told him I had an old slick counterfeit quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed through
the silver a little, and it wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't show, because it was so slick it felt
greasy, and so that would tell on it every time. (I reckoned I wouldn't say nothing about the dollar I got from
the judge.) I said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn't
know the difference. Jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so the hair-ball would
think it was good. He said he would split open a raw Irish potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it
there all night, and next morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't feel greasy no more, and so
anybody in town would take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. Well, I knowed a potato would do that before,
but I had forgot it.
Jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened again. This time he said the hair-ball was all
right. He said it would tell my whole fortune if I wanted it to. I says, go on. So the hair-ball talked to Jim, and
Jim told it to me. He says:
"Yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne to do. Sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den agin he spec
he'll stay. De bes' way is to res' easy en let de ole man take his own way. Dey's two angels hoverin' roun' 'bout
him. One uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'other one is black. De white one gits him to go right a little while, den
de black one sail in en bust it all up. A body can't tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. But you is
all right. You gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en considable joy. Sometimes you gwyne to git
hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's gwyne to git well agin. Dey's two gals flyin'
'bout you in yo' life. One uv 'em's light en t'other one is dark. One is rich en t'other is po'. You's gwyne to
marry de po' one fust en de rich one by en by. You wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en
don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to git hung."
When I lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap--his own self!
CHAPTER IV. 12
CHAPTER V.
I HAD shut the door to. Then I turned around and there he was. I used to be scared of him all the time, he
tanned me so much. I reckoned I was scared now, too; but in a minute I see I was mistaken--that is, after the
first jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away after I see I
warn't scared of him worth bothring about.
He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you could
see his eyes shining through like he was behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up
whiskers. There warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white,
but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl--a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. As
for his clothes--just rags, that was all. He had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was
busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and then. His hat was laying on the
floor--an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid.
I stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair tilted back a little. I set the candle down. I
noticed the window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. He kept a-looking me all over. By and by he
says:
"Starchy clothes--very. You think you're a good deal of a big-bug, DON'T you?"
"Maybe I am, maybe I ain't," I says.
"Don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "You've put on considerable many frills since I been away. I'll
take you down a peg before I get done with you. You're educated, too, they say--can read and write. You think
you're better'n your father, now, don't you, because he can't? I'LL take it out of you. Who told you you might
meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey?--who told you you could?"
"The widow. She told me."
"The widow, hey?--and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of her
business?"
"Nobody never told her."
"Well, I'll learn her how to meddle. And looky here--you drop that school, you hear? I'll learn people to bring
up a boy to put on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what HE is. You lemme catch you fooling
around that school again, you hear? Your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before she died.
None of the family couldn't before THEY died. I can't; and here you're a-swelling yourself up like this. I ain't
the man to stand it--you hear? Say, lemme hear you read."
I took up a book and begun something about General Washington and the wars. When I'd read about a half a
minute, he fetched the book a whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. He says:
"It's so. You can do it. I had my doubts when you told me. Now looky here; you stop that putting on frills. I
won't have it. I'll lay for you, my smarty; and if I catch you about that school I'll tan you good. First you know
you'll get religion, too. I never see such a son."
He took up a little blue and yaller picture of some cows and a boy, and says:
"What's this?"
CHAPTER V. 13
"It's something they give me for learning my lessons good."
He tore it up, and says:
"I'll give you something better--I'll give you a cowhide."
He set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute, and then he says:
"AIN'T you a sweet-scented dandy, though? A bed; and bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece of carpet
on the floor--and your own father got to sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. I never see such a son. I bet I'll
take some o' these frills out o' you before I'm done with you. Why, there ain't no end to your airs--they say
you're rich. Hey?--how's that?"
"They lie--that's how."
"Looky here--mind how you talk to me; I'm a-standing about all I can stand now--so don't gimme no sass. I've
been in town two days, and I hain't heard nothing but about you bein' rich. I heard about it away down the
river, too. That's why I come. You git me that money to-morrow--I want it."
"I hain't got no money."
"It's a lie. Judge Thatcher's got it. You git it. I want it."
"I hain't got no money, I tell you. You ask Judge Thatcher; he'll tell you the same."
"All right. I'll ask him; and I'll make him pungle, too, or I'll know the reason why. Say, how much you got in
your pocket? I want it."
"I hain't got only a dollar, and I want that to--"
"It don't make no difference what you want it for--you just shell it out."
He took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was going down town to get some whisky; said
he hadn't had a drink all day. When he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed me for
putting on frills and trying to be better than him; and when I reckoned he was gone he come back and put his
head in again, and told me to mind about that school, because he was going to lay for me and lick me if I
didn't drop that.
Next day he was drunk, and he went to Judge Thatcher's and bullyragged him, and tried to make him give up
the money; but he couldn't, and then he swore he'd make the law force him.
The judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away from him and let one of them be my
guardian; but it was a new judge that had just come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said courts mustn't
interfere and separate families if they could help it; said he'd druther not take a child away from its father. So
Judge Thatcher and the widow had to quit on the business.
That pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. He said he'd cowhide me till I was black and blue if I didn't raise
some money for him. I borrowed three dollars from Judge Thatcher, and pap took it and got drunk, and went
a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan,
till most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him before court, and jailed him again for a
week. But he said HE was satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make it warm for HIM.
CHAPTER V. 14
When he got out the new judge said he was a-going to make a man of him. So he took him to his own house,
and dressed him up clean and nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the family, and was
just old pie to him, so to speak. And after supper he talked to him about temperance and such things till the
old man cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going to turn over a new
leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down
on him. The judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said
he'd been a man that had always been misunderstood before, and the judge said he believed it. The old man
said that what a man wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried again.
And when it was bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand, and says:
"Look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it. There's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but
it ain't so no more; it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and'll die before he'll go back. You
mark them words--don't forget I said them. It's a clean hand now; shake it--don't be afeard."
So they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. The judge's wife she kissed it. Then the old man he
signed a pledge--made his mark. The judge said it was the holiest time on record, or something like that. Then
they tucked the old man into a beautiful room, which was the spare room, and in the night some time he got
powerful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded his new coat for a
jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had a good old time; and towards daylight he crawled out again,
drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two places, and was most froze to death
when somebody found him after sun-up. And when they come to look at that spare room they had to take
soundings before they could navigate it.
The judge he felt kind of sore. He said he reckoned a body could reform the old man with a shotgun, maybe,
but he didn't know no other way.
CHAPTER V. 15
CHAPTER VI.
WELL, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he went for Judge Thatcher in the courts to
make him give up that money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. He catched me a couple of
times and thrashed me, but I went to school just the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. I
didn't want to go to school much before, but I reckoned I'd go now to spite pap. That law trial was a slow
business--appeared like they warn't ever going to get started on it; so every now and then I'd borrow two or
three dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding. Every time he got money he got
drunk; and every time he got drunk he raised Cain around town; and every time he raised Cain he got jailed.
He was just suited--this kind of thing was right in his line.
He got to hanging around the widow's too much and so she told him at last that if he didn't quit using around
there she would make trouble for him. Well, WASN'T he mad? He said he would show who was Huck Finn's
boss. So he watched out for me one day in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the river about three
mile in a skiff, and crossed over to the Illinois shore where it was woody and there warn't no houses but an old
log hut in a place where the timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't know where it was.
He kept me with him all the time, and I never got a chance to run off. We lived in that old cabin, and he
always locked the door and put the key under his head nights. He had a gun which he had stole, I reckon, and
we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on. Every little while he locked me in and went down to the
store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched it home and got drunk and
had a good time, and licked me. The widow she found out where I was by and by, and she sent a man over to
try to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn't long after that till I was used to being
where I was, and liked it--all but the cowhide part.
It was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor study.
Two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see how I'd ever got to
like it so well at the widow's, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get
up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson pecking at you all the time. I
didn't want to go back no more. I had stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now I took to it
again because pap hadn't no objections. It was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around.
But by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and I couldn't stand it. I was all over welts. He got to going
away so much, too, and locking me in. Once he locked me in and was gone three days. It was dreadful
lonesome. I judged he had got drowned, and I wasn't ever going to get out any more. I was scared. I made up
my mind I would fix up some way to leave there. I had tried to get out of that cabin many a time, but I
couldn't find no way. There warn't a window to it big enough for a dog to get through. I couldn't get up the
chimbly; it was too narrow. The door was thick, solid oak slabs. Pap was pretty careful not to leave a knife or
anything in the cabin when he was away; I reckon I had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times;
well, I was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way to put in the time. But this time I found
something at last; I found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a rafter and the
clapboards of the roof. I greased it up and went to work. There was an old horse-blanket nailed against the
logs at the far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing through the chinks and putting
the candle out. I got under the table and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the big
bottom log out--big enough to let me through. Well, it was a good long job, but I was getting towards the end
of it when I heard pap's gun in the woods. I got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid
my saw, and pretty soon pap come in.
Pap warn't in a good humor--so he was his natural self. He said he was down town, and everything was going
wrong. His lawyer said he reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got started on the
trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time, and Judge Thatcher knowed how to do it. And he said
people allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the widow for my guardian,
CHAPTER VI. 16
and they guessed it would win this time. This shook me up considerable, because I didn't want to go back to
the widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it. Then the old man got to cussing,
and cussed everything and everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure he
hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a
considerable parcel of people which he didn't know the names of, and so called them what's-his-name when
he got to them, and went right along with his cussing.
He said he would like to see the widow get me. He said he would watch out, and if they tried to come any
such game on him he knowed of a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till they
dropped and they couldn't find me. That made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute; I reckoned I
wouldn't stay on hand till he got that chance.
The old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got. There was a fifty-pound sack of corn
meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers
for wadding, besides some tow. I toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. I
thought it all over, and I reckoned I would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when I
run away. I guessed I wouldn't stay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly night times,
and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find me
any more. I judged I would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and I reckoned he would. I
got so full of it I didn't notice how long I was staying till the old man hollered and asked me whether I was
asleep or drownded.
I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark. While I was cooking supper the old man took a
swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and went to ripping again. He had been drunk over in town, and laid
in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at. A body would a thought he was Adam--he was just all
mud. Whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment, this time he says:
"Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's
son away from him--a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense
of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin'
for HIM and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call THAT govment! That ain't all,
nuther. The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. Here's what
the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a
cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man can't
get his rights in a govment like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all.
Yes, and I TOLD 'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what I said.
Says I, for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin. Them's the very words. I
says look at my hat--if you call it a hat--but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below my
chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe.
Look at it, says I --such a hat for me to wear--one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights.
"Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from
Ohio--a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest
hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and
chain, and a silver-headed cane--the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the State. And what do you think?
They said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And
that ain't the wust. They said he could VOTE when he was at home. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is
the country a-coming to? It was 'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if I warn't too drunk to
get there; but when they told me there was a State in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed
out. I says I'll never vote agin. Them's the very words I said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all
me--I'll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger--why, he wouldn't a give me
the road if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way. I says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and
CHAPTER VI. 17
sold?--that's what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he couldn't be sold till
he'd been in the State six months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now--that's a specimen. They
call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the State six months. Here's a govment that
calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still
for six whole months before it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger,
and--"
Pap was agoing on so he never noticed where his old limber legs was taking him to, so he went head over
heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the hottest kind of
language--mostly hove at the nigger and the govment, though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and
there. He hopped around the cabin considerable, first on one leg and then on the other, holding first one shin
and then the other one, and at last he let out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a rattling
kick. But it warn't good judgment, because that was the boot that had a couple of his toes leaking out of the
front end of it; so now he raised a howl that fairly made a body's hair raise, and down he went in the dirt, and
rolled there, and held his toes; and the cussing he done then laid over anything he had ever done previous. He
said so his own self afterwards. He had heard old Sowberry Hagan in his best days, and he said it laid over
him, too; but I reckon that was sort of piling it on, maybe.
After supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky there for two drunks and one delirium tremens.
That was always his word. I judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then I would steal the key,
or saw myself out, one or t'other. He drank and drank, and tumbled down on his blankets by and by; but luck
didn't run my way. He didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy. He groaned and moaned and thrashed around
this way and that for a long time. At last I got so sleepy I couldn't keep my eyes open all I could do, and so
before I knowed what I was about I was sound asleep, and the candle burning.
I don't know how long I was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and I was up. There was
pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. He said they was crawling
up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek--but I couldn't
see no snakes. He started and run round and round the cabin, hollering "Take him off! take him off! he's biting
me on the neck!" I never see a man look so wild in the eyes. Pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down
panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and
grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. He wore out by
and by, and laid still a while, moaning. Then he laid stiller, and didn't make a sound. I could hear the owls and
the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. He was laying over by the corner. By and by he
raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. He says, very low:
"Tramp--tramp--tramp; that's the dead; tramp--tramp--tramp; they're coming after me; but I won't go. Oh,
they're here! don't touch me --don't! hands off--they're cold; let go. Oh, let a poor devil alone!"
Then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in
his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. I could hear
him through the blanket.
By and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. He chased
me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the Angel of Death, and saying he would kill me,
and then I couldn't come for him no more. I begged, and told him I was only Huck; but he laughed SUCH a
screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. Once when I turned short and dodged
under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and I thought I was gone; but I
slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. Pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down
with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. He put his knife under him,
and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who.
CHAPTER VI. 18
So he dozed off pretty soon. By and by I got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as I could, not to
make any noise, and got down the gun. I slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, then I laid it
across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. And how slow
and still the time did drag along.
CHAPTER VI. 19
CHAPTER VII.
"GIT up! What you 'bout?"
I opened my eyes and looked around, trying to make out where I was. It was after sun-up, and I had been
sound asleep. Pap was standing over me looking sour and sick, too. He says:
"What you doin' with this gun?"
I judged he didn't know nothing about what he had been doing, so I says:
"Somebody tried to get in, so I was laying for him."
"Why didn't you roust me out?"
"Well, I tried to, but I couldn't; I couldn't budge you."
"Well, all right. Don't stand there palavering all day, but out with you and see if there's a fish on the lines for
breakfast. I'll be along in a minute."
He unlocked the door, and I cleared out up the river-bank. I noticed some pieces of limbs and such things
floating down, and a sprinkling of bark; so I knowed the river had begun to rise. I reckoned I would have great
times now if I was over at the town. The June rise used to be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise
begins here comes cordwood floating down, and pieces of log rafts--sometimes a dozen logs together; so all
you have to do is to catch them and sell them to the wood-yards and the sawmill.
I went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and t'other one out for what the rise might fetch along.
Well, all at once here comes a canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, riding high like a
duck. I shot head-first off of the bank like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for the canoe. I just
expected there'd be somebody laying down in it, because people often done that to fool folks, and when a chap
had pulled a skiff out most to it they'd raise up and laugh at him. But it warn't so this time. It was a drift-canoe
sure enough, and I clumb in and paddled her ashore. Thinks I, the old man will be glad when he sees
this--she's worth ten dollars. But when I got to shore pap wasn't in sight yet, and as I was running her into a
little creek like a gully, all hung over with vines and willows, I struck another idea: I judged I'd hide her good,
and then, 'stead of taking to the woods when I run off, I'd go down the river about fifty mile and camp in one
place for good, and not have such a rough time tramping on foot.
It was pretty close to the shanty, and I thought I heard the old man coming all the time; but I got her hid; and
then I out and looked around a bunch of willows, and there was the old man down the path a piece just
drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. So he hadn't seen anything.
When he got along I was hard at it taking up a "trot" line. He abused me a little for being so slow; but I told
him I fell in the river, and that was what made me so long. I knowed he would see I was wet, and then he
would be asking questions. We got five catfish off the lines and went home.
While we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about wore out, I got to thinking that if I could
fix up some way to keep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing than
trusting to luck to get far enough off before they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. Well, I
didn't see no way for a while, but by and by pap raised up a minute to drink another barrel of water, and he
says:
CHAPTER VII. 20
"Another time a man comes a-prowling round here you roust me out, you hear? That man warn't here for no
good. I'd a shot him. Next time you roust me out, you hear?"
Then he dropped down and went to sleep again; but what he had been saying give me the very idea I wanted. I
says to myself, I can fix it now so nobody won't think of following me.
About twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. The river was coming up pretty fast, and lots
of driftwood going by on the rise. By and by along comes part of a log raft--nine logs fast together. We went
out with the skiff and towed it ashore. Then we had dinner. Anybody but pap would a waited and seen the day
through, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. Nine logs was enough for one time; he must
shove right over to town and sell. So he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the raft about
half-past three. I judged he wouldn't come back that night. I waited till I reckoned he had got a good start; then
I out with my saw, and went to work on that log again. Before he was t'other side of the river I was out of the
hole; him and his raft was just a speck on the water away off yonder.
I took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid, and shoved the vines and branches apart
and put it in; then I done the same with the side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. I took all the coffee and sugar
there was, and all the ammunition; I took the wadding; I took the bucket and gourd; I took a dipper and a tin
cup, and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. I took fish-lines and matches and
other things--everything that was worth a cent. I cleaned out the place. I wanted an axe, but there wasn't any,
only the one out at the woodpile, and I knowed why I was going to leave that. I fetched out the gun, and now I
was done.
I had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole and dragging out so many things. So I fixed that as
good as I could from the outside by scattering dust on the place, which covered up the smoothness and the
sawdust. Then I fixed the piece of log back into its place, and put two rocks under it and one against it to hold
it there, for it was bent up at that place and didn't quite touch ground. If you stood four or five foot away and
didn't know it was sawed, you wouldn't never notice it; and besides, this was the back of the cabin, and it
warn't likely anybody would go fooling around there.
It was all grass clear to the canoe, so I hadn't left a track. I followed around to see. I stood on the bank and
looked out over the river. All safe. So I took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and was hunting
around for some birds when I see a wild pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they had got away
from the prairie farms. I shot this fellow and took him into camp.
I took the axe and smashed in the door. I beat it and hacked it considerable a-doing it. I fetched the pig in, and
took him back nearly to the table and hacked into his throat with the axe, and laid him down on the ground to
bleed; I say ground because it was ground--hard packed, and no boards. Well, next I took an old sack and put
a lot of big rocks in it--all I could drag--and I started it from the pig, and dragged it to the door and through
the woods down to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight. You could easy see that
something had been dragged over the ground. I did wish Tom Sawyer was there; I knowed he would take an
interest in this kind of business, and throw in the fancy touches. Nobody could spread himself like Tom
Sawyer in such a thing as that.
Well, last I pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the axe good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung the
axe in the corner. Then I took up the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't drip) till I
got a good piece below the house and then dumped him into the river. Now I thought of something else. So I
went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched them to the house. I took the bag
to where it used to stand, and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't no knives and
forks on the place --pap done everything with his clasp-knife about the cooking. Then I carried the sack about
a hundred yards across the grass and through the willows east of the house, to a shallow lake that was five
mile wide and full of rushes--and ducks too, you might say, in the season. There was a slough or a creek
CHAPTER VII. 21
leading out of it on the other side that went miles away, I don't know where, but it didn't go to the river. The
meal sifted out and made a little track all the way to the lake. I dropped pap's whetstone there too, so as to
look like it had been done by accident. Then I tied up the rip in the meal sack with a string, so it wouldn't leak
no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe again.
It was about dark now; so I dropped the canoe down the river under some willows that hung over the bank,
and waited for the moon to rise. I made fast to a willow; then I took a bite to eat, and by and by laid down in
the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. I says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful of rocks
to the shore and then drag the river for me. And they'll follow that meal track to the lake and go browsing
down the creek that leads out of it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. They won't ever hunt
the river for anything but my dead carcass. They'll soon get tired of that, and won't bother no more about me.
All right; I can stop anywhere I want to. Jackson's Island is good enough for me; I know that island pretty
well, and nobody ever comes there. And then I can paddle over to town nights, and slink around and pick up
things I want. Jackson's Island's the place.
I was pretty tired, and the first thing I knowed I was asleep. When I woke up I didn't know where I was for a
minute. I set up and looked around, a little scared. Then I remembered. The river looked miles and miles
across. The moon was so bright I could a counted the drift logs that went a-slipping along, black and still,
hundreds of yards out from shore. Everything was dead quiet, and it looked late, and SMELT late. You know
what I mean--I don't know the words to put it in.
I took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and start when I heard a sound away over the
water. I listened. Pretty soon I made it out. It was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from oars
working in rowlocks when it's a still night. I peeped out through the willow branches, and there it was--a skiff,
away across the water. I couldn't tell how many was in it. It kept a-coming, and when it was abreast of me I
see there warn't but one man in it. Think's I, maybe it's pap, though I warn't expecting him. He dropped below
me with the current, and by and by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy water, and he went by so close I
could a reached out the gun and touched him. Well, it WAS pap, sure enough--and sober, too, by the way he
laid his oars.
I didn't lose no time. The next minute I was a-spinning down stream soft but quick in the shade of the bank. I
made two mile and a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the middle of the river,
because pretty soon I would be passing the ferry landing, and people might see me and hail me. I got out
amongst the driftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her float. I laid there, and had a
good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a cloud in it. The sky looks ever so deep
when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; I never knowed it before. And how far a body can hear on
the water such nights! I heard people talking at the ferry landing. I heard what they said, too--every word of it.
One man said it was getting towards the long days and the short nights now. T'other one said THIS warn't one
of the short ones, he reckoned--and then they laughed, and he said it over again, and they laughed again; then
they waked up another fellow and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out something brisk,
and said let him alone. The first fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old woman--she would think it was pretty
good; but he said that warn't nothing to some things he had said in his time. I heard one man say it was nearly
three o'clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. After that the talk got
further and further away, and I couldn't make out the words any more; but I could hear the mumble, and now
and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off.
I was away below the ferry now. I rose up, and there was Jackson's Island, about two mile and a half down
stream, heavy timbered and standing up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid, like a steamboat
without any lights. There warn't any signs of the bar at the head--it was all under water now.
It didn't take me long to get there. I shot past the head at a ripping rate, the current was so swift, and then I got
into the dead water and landed on the side towards the Illinois shore. I run the canoe into a deep dent in the
CHAPTER VII. 22
bank that I knowed about; I had to part the willow branches to get in; and when I made fast nobody could a
seen the canoe from the outside.
I went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, and looked out on the big river and the black
driftwood and away over to the town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. A
monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile up stream, coming along down, with a lantern in the middle of it.
I watched it come creeping down, and when it was most abreast of where I stood I heard a man say, "Stern
oars, there! heave her head to stabboard!" I heard that just as plain as if the man was by my side.
There was a little gray in the sky now; so I stepped into the woods, and laid down for a nap before breakfast.
CHAPTER VII. 23
CHAPTER VIII.
THE sun was up so high when I waked that I judged it was after eight o'clock. I laid there in the grass and the
cool shade thinking about things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied. I could see the sun
out at one or two holes, but mostly it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. There was
freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped
about a little, showing there was a little breeze up there. A couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me
very friendly.
I was powerful lazy and comfortable--didn't want to get up and cook breakfast. Well, I was dozing off again
when I thinks I hears a deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. I rouses up, and rests on my elbow and
listens; pretty soon I hears it again. I hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and I see a
bunch of smoke laying on the water a long ways up--about abreast the ferry. And there was the ferryboat full
of people floating along down. I knowed what was the matter now. "Boom!" I see the white smoke squirt out
of the ferryboat's side. You see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the
top.
I was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke. So I set
there and watched the cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. The river was a mile wide there, and it always
looks pretty on a summer morning--so I was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders
if I only had a bite to eat. Well, then I happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread
and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. So, says I, I'll keep a
lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me I'll give them a show. I changed to the Illinois edge of
the island to see what luck I could have, and I warn't disappointed. A big double loaf come along, and I most
got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. Of course I was where the current set
in the closest to the shore--I knowed enough for that. But by and by along comes another one, and this time I
won. I took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in. It was "baker's
bread"--what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone.
I got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry-boat,
and very well satisfied. And then something struck me. I says, now I reckon the widow or the parson or
somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it. So there ain't no doubt but
there is something in that thing --that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson
prays, but it don't work for me, and I reckon it don't work for only just the right kind.
I lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. The ferryboat was floating with the current, and
I allowed I'd have a chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would come in close,
where the bread did. When she'd got pretty well along down towards me, I put out my pipe and went to where
I fished out the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open place. Where the log forked I
could peep through.
By and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could a run out a plank and walked ashore.
Most everybody was on the boat. Pap, and Judge Thatcher, and Bessie Thatcher, and Jo Harper, and Tom
Sawyer, and his old Aunt Polly, and Sid and Mary, and plenty more. Everybody was talking about the murder,
but the captain broke in and says:
"Look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst
the brush at the water's edge. I hope so, anyway."
I didn't hope so. They all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watching with
all their might. I could see them first-rate, but they couldn't see me. Then the captain sung out:
CHAPTER VIII. 24
"Stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast right before me that it made me deef with the noise and
pretty near blind with the smoke, and I judged I was gone. If they'd a had some bullets in, I reckon they'd a got
the corpse they was after. Well, I see I warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. The boat floated on and went out of
sight around the shoulder of the island. I could hear the booming now and then, further and further off, and by
and by, after an hour, I didn't hear it no more. The island was three mile long. I judged they had got to the
foot, and was giving it up. But they didn't yet a while. They turned around the foot of the island and started up
the channel on the Missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as they went. I crossed over to
that side and watched them. When they got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and dropped over
to the Missouri shore and went home to the town.
I knowed I was all right now. Nobody else would come a-hunting after me. I got my traps out of the canoe and
made me a nice camp in the thick woods. I made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my things under so
the rain couldn't get at them. I catched a catfish and haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown I
started my camp fire and had supper. Then I set out a line to catch some fish for breakfast.
When it was dark I set by my camp fire smoking, and feeling pretty well satisfied; but by and by it got sort of
lonesome, and so I went and set on the bank and listened to the current swashing along, and counted the stars
and drift logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in time when
you are lonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over it.
And so for three days and nights. No difference--just the same thing. But the next day I went exploring around
down through the island. I was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and I wanted to know all about it;
but mainly I wanted to put in the time. I found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes,
and green razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to show. They would all come handy by
and by, I judged.
Well, I went fooling along in the deep woods till I judged I warn't far from the foot of the island. I had my gun
along, but I hadn't shot nothing; it was for protection; thought I would kill some game nigh home. About this
time I mighty near stepped on a good-sized snake, and it went sliding off through the grass and flowers, and I
after it, trying to get a shot at it. I clipped along, and all of a sudden I bounded right on to the ashes of a camp
fire that was still smoking.
My heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I never waited for to look further, but uncocked my gun and went
sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as ever I could. Every now and then I stopped a second amongst the thick
leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard I couldn't hear nothing else. I slunk along another piece
further, then listened again; and so on, and so on. If I see a stump, I took it for a man; if I trod on a stick and
broke it, it made me feel like a person had cut one of my breaths in two and I only got half, and the short half,
too.
When I got to camp I warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much sand in my craw; but I says, this ain't no
time to be fooling around. So I got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight, and I put
out the fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an old last year's camp, and then clumb a tree.
I reckon I was up in the tree two hours; but I didn't see nothing, I didn't hear nothing--I only THOUGHT I
heard and seen as much as a thousand things. Well, I couldn't stay up there forever; so at last I got down, but I
kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time. All I could get to eat was berries and what was left
over from breakfast.
By the time it was night I was pretty hungry. So when it was good and dark I slid out from shore before
moonrise and paddled over to the Illinois bank--about a quarter of a mile. I went out in the woods and cooked
a supper, and I had about made up my mind I would stay there all night when I hear a PLUNKETY-PLUNK,
PLUNKETY-PLUNK, and says to myself, horses coming; and next I hear people's voices. I got everything
CHAPTER VIII. 25
into the canoe as quick as I could, and then went creeping through the woods to see what I could find out. I
hadn't got far when I hear a man say:
"We better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about beat out. Let's look around."
I didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. I tied up in the old place, and reckoned I would sleep in
the canoe.
I didn't sleep much. I couldn't, somehow, for thinking. And every time I waked up I thought somebody had me
by the neck. So the sleep didn't do me no good. By and by I says to myself, I can't live this way; I'm a-going to
find out who it is that's here on the island with me; I'll find it out or bust. Well, I felt better right off.
So I took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and then let the canoe drop along down
amongst the shadows. The moon was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day. I
poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound asleep. Well, by this time I was most
down to the foot of the island. A little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as saying the
night was about done. I give her a turn with the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then I got my gun and
slipped out and into the edge of the woods. I sat down there on a log, and looked out through the leaves. I see
the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to blanket the river. But in a little while I see a pale streak over
the treetops, and knowed the day was coming. So I took my gun and slipped off towards where I had run
across that camp fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. But I hadn't no luck somehow; I couldn't seem to
find the place. But by and by, sure enough, I catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. I went for it,
cautious and slow. By and by I was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man on the ground. It most
give me the fan-tods. He had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. I set there behind
a clump of bushes, in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. It was getting gray daylight now.
Pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was Miss Watson's Jim! I bet I
was glad to see him. I says:
"Hello, Jim!" and skipped out.
He bounced up and stared at me wild. Then he drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together and says:
"Doan' hurt me--don't! I hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. I alwuz liked dead people, en done all I could for
'em. You go en git in de river agin, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to Ole Jim, 'at 'uz awluz yo' fren'."
Well, I warn't long making him understand I warn't dead. I was ever so glad to see Jim. I warn't lonesome
now. I told him I warn't afraid of HIM telling the people where I was. I talked along, but he only set there and
looked at me; never said nothing. Then I says:
"It's good daylight. Le's get breakfast. Make up your camp fire good."
"What's de use er makin' up de camp fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? But you got a gun, hain't you? Den
we kin git sumfn better den strawbries."
"Strawberries and such truck," I says. "Is that what you live on?"
"I couldn' git nuffn else," he says.
"Why, how long you been on the island, Jim?"
"I come heah de night arter you's killed."
CHAPTER VIII. 26
"What, all that time?"
"Yes--indeedy."
"And ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?"
"No, sah--nuffn else."
"Well, you must be most starved, ain't you?"
"I reck'n I could eat a hoss. I think I could. How long you ben on de islan'?"
"Since the night I got killed."
"No! W'y, what has you lived on? But you got a gun. Oh, yes, you got a gun. Dat's good. Now you kill sumfn
en I'll make up de fire."
So we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees, I
fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was
set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all done with witchcraft. I catched a good big catfish, too,
and Jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried him.
When breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot. Jim laid it in with all his might, for
he was most about starved. Then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. By and by Jim
says:
"But looky here, Huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed in dat shanty ef it warn't you?"
Then I told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. He said Tom Sawyer couldn't get up no better plan
than what I had. Then I says:
"How do you come to be here, Jim, and how'd you get here?"
He looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for a minute. Then he says:
"Maybe I better not tell."
"Why, Jim?"
"Well, dey's reasons. But you wouldn' tell on me ef I uz to tell you, would you, Huck?"
"Blamed if I would, Jim."
"Well, I b'lieve you, Huck. I--I RUN OFF."
"Jim!"
"But mind, you said you wouldn' tell--you know you said you wouldn' tell, Huck."
"Well, I did. I said I wouldn't, and I'll stick to it. Honest INJUN, I will. People would call me a low-down
Abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum--but that don't make no difference. I ain't a-going to tell, and I
ain't a-going back there, anyways. So, now, le's know all about it."
CHAPTER VIII. 27
"Well, you see, it 'uz dis way. Ole missus--dat's Miss Watson--she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty
rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell me down to Orleans. But I noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun' de
place considable lately, en I begin to git oneasy. Well, one night I creeps to de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't
quite shet, en I hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to Orleans, but she didn' want to, but
she could git eight hund'd dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'. De widder she
try to git her to say she wouldn' do it, but I never waited to hear de res'. I lit out mighty quick, I tell you.
"I tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz
people a-stirring yit, so I hid in de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way.
Well, I wuz dah all night. Dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'Long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to
go by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en
say you's killed. Dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place. Sometimes
dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk I got to know all 'bout de killin'. I
'uz powerful sorry you's killed, Huck, but I ain't no mo' now.
"I laid dah under de shavin's all day. I 'uz hungry, but I warn't afeard; bekase I knowed ole missus en de
widder wuz goin' to start to de camp-meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows I goes off
wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell
arter dark in de evenin'. De yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de
ole folks 'uz out'n de way.
"Well, when it come dark I tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no
houses. I'd made up my mine 'bout what I's agwyne to do. You see, ef I kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de
dogs 'ud track me; ef I stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah I'd
lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. So I says, a raff is what I's arter; it doan' MAKE no track.
"I see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so I wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half
way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift-wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de
current tell de raff come along. Den I swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. It clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for
a little while. So I clumb up en laid down on de planks. De men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah de
lantern wuz. De river wuz a-risin', en dey wuz a good current; so I reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' I'd be
twenty-five mile down de river, en den I'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods on de
Illinois side.
"But I didn' have no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de
lantern, I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had a notion I
could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't--bank too bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I found' a good
place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I
had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right."
"And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?"
"How you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock?
How could a body do it in de night? En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime."
"Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em shooting the
cannon?"
"Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah--watched um thoo de bushes."
Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going
to rain. He said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way
CHAPTER VIII. 28
when young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn't let me. He said it was death.
He said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father
would die, and he did.
And Jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad
luck. The same if you shook the table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and that
man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down
and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because I had tried them
lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me.
I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he
knowed most everything. I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I asked him if
there warn't any good-luck signs. He says:
"Mighty few--an' DEY ain't no use to a body. What you want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? Want to
keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's agwyne to be rich.
Well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see, maybe you's got to be po' a long time
fust, en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich
bymeby."
"Have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, Jim?"
"What's de use to ax dat question? Don't you see I has?"
"Well, are you rich?"
"No, but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin. Wunst I had foteen dollars, but I tuck to specalat'n', en
got busted out."
"What did you speculate in, Jim?"
"Well, fust I tackled stock."
"What kind of stock?"
"Why, live stock--cattle, you know. I put ten dollars in a cow. But I ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock.
De cow up 'n' died on my han's."
"So you lost the ten dollars."
"No, I didn't lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout nine of it. I sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents."
"You had five dollars and ten cents left. Did you speculate any more?"
"Yes. You know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old Misto Bradish? Well, he sot up a bank, en say
anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. Well, all de niggers went in, but dey
didn't have much. I wuz de on'y one dat had much. So I stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en I said 'f I didn' git
it I'd start a bank mysef. Well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey
warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say I could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en'
er de year.
"So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves' de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'. Dey wuz a
CHAPTER VIII. 29
nigger name' Bob, dat had ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn' know it; en I bought it off'n him en told
him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en
nex day de one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none uv us git no money."
"What did you do with the ten cents, Jim?"
"Well, I 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name'
Balum--Balum's Ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. But he's lucky, dey say,
en I see I warn't lucky. De dream say let Balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. Well, Balum
he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de
Lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid
low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it."
"Well, what did come of it, Jim?"
"Nuffn never come of it. I couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way; en Balum he couldn'. I ain' gwyne to
len' no mo' money 'dout I see de security. Boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! Ef I
could git de ten CENTS back, I'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst."
"Well, it's all right anyway, Jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other."
"Yes; en I's rich now, come to look at it. I owns mysef, en I's wuth eight hund'd dollars. I wisht I had de
money, I wouldn' want no mo'."
CHAPTER VIII. 30
CHAPTER IX.
I WANTED to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that I'd found when I was exploring;
so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide.
This place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. We had a rough time getting to the
top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. We tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by
found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards Illinois. The cavern was as big as
two or three rooms bunched together, and Jim could stand up straight in it. It was cool in there. Jim was for
putting our traps in there right away, but I said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time.
Jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if
anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. And, besides, he said them
little birds had said it was going to rain, and did I want the things to get wet?
So we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. Then
we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. We took some fish off of the
lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner.
The door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor stuck out a
little bit, and was flat and a good place to build a fire on. So we built it there and cooked dinner.
We spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. We put all the other things handy at the
back of the cavern. Pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about
it. Directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and I never see the wind blow so. It was one of
these regular summer storms. It would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the
rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here
would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and
then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just
wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest--FST! it was as bright as glory, and you'd have a
little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you
could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and
then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty
barrels down stairs--where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know.
"Jim, this is nice," I says. "I wouldn't want to be nowhere else but here. Pass me along another hunk of fish
and some hot corn-bread."
"Well, you wouldn't a ben here 'f it hadn't a ben for Jim. You'd a ben down dah in de woods widout any
dinner, en gittn' mos' drownded, too; dat you would, honey. Chickens knows when it's gwyne to rain, en so do
de birds, chile."
The river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at last it was over the banks. The water was
three or four foot deep on the island in the low places and on the Illinois bottom. On that side it was a good
many miles wide, but on the Missouri side it was the same old distance across--a half a mile--because the
Missouri shore was just a wall of high bluffs.
Daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe, It was mighty cool and shady in the deep woods, even if
the sun was blazing outside. We went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines hung so
thick we had to back away and go some other way. Well, on every old broken-down tree you could see rabbits
and snakes and such things; and when the island had been overflowed a day or two they got so tame, on
account of being hungry, that you could paddle right up and put your hand on them if you wanted to; but not
CHAPTER IX. 31
the snakes and turtles--they would slide off in the water. The ridge our cavern was in was full of them. We
could a had pets enough if we'd wanted them.
One night we catched a little section of a lumber raft--nice pine planks. It was twelve foot wide and about
fifteen or sixteen foot long, and the top stood above water six or seven inches--a solid, level floor. We could
see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes, but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves in daylight.
Another night when we was up at the head of the island, just before daylight, here comes a frame-house down,
on the west side. She was a two-story, and tilted over considerable. We paddled out and got aboard --clumb in
at an upstairs window. But it was too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for
daylight.
The light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island. Then we looked in at the window. We could
make out a bed, and a table, and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor, and there was
clothes hanging against the wall. There was something laying on the floor in the far corner that looked like a
man. So Jim says:
"Hello, you!"
But it didn't budge. So I hollered again, and then Jim says:
"De man ain't asleep--he's dead. You hold still--I'll go en see."
He went, and bent down and looked, and says:
"It's a dead man. Yes, indeedy; naked, too. He's ben shot in de back. I reck'n he's ben dead two er three days.
Come in, Huck, but doan' look at his face--it's too gashly."
I didn't look at him at all. Jim throwed some old rags over him, but he needn't done it; I didn't want to see him.
There was heaps of old greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky bottles, and a couple of
masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made
with charcoal. There was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some women's underclothes
hanging against the wall, and some men's clothing, too. We put the lot into the canoe--it might come good.
There was a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; I took that, too. And there was a bottle that had had
milk in it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. We would a took the bottle, but it was broke. There was
a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke. They stood open, but there warn't nothing left
in them that was any account. The way things was scattered about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and
warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff.
We got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle, and a bran-new Barlow knife worth two
bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old
bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such
truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fishline as thick as my little finger with some monstrous hooks
on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that didn't
have no label on them; and just as we was leaving I found a tolerable good curry-comb, and Jim he found a
ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. The straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough
leg, though it was too long for me and not long enough for Jim, and we couldn't find the other one, though we
hunted all around.
And so, take it all around, we made a good haul. When we was ready to shove off we was a quarter of a mile
below the island, and it was pretty broad day; so I made Jim lay down in the canoe and cover up with the
quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger a good ways off. I paddled over to the Illinois
CHAPTER IX. 32
shore, and drifted down most a half a mile doing it. I crept up the dead water under the bank, and hadn't no
accidents and didn't see nobody. We got home all safe.
CHAPTER IX. 33
CHAPTER X.
AFTER breakfast I wanted to talk about the dead man and guess out how he come to be killed, but Jim didn't
want to. He said it would fetch bad luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt us; he said a man that
warn't buried was more likely to go a-ha'nting around than one that was planted and comfortable. That
sounded pretty reasonable, so I didn't say no more; but I couldn't keep from studying over it and wishing I
knowed who shot the man, and what they done it for.
We rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found eight dollars in silver sewed up in the lining of an old blanket
overcoat. Jim said he reckoned the people in that house stole the coat, because if they'd a knowed the money
was there they wouldn't a left it. I said I reckoned they killed him, too; but Jim didn't want to talk about that. I
says:
"Now you think it's bad luck; but what did you say when I fetched in the snake-skin that I found on the top of
the ridge day before yesterday? You said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a snake-skin with my
hands. Well, here's your bad luck! We've raked in all this truck and eight dollars besides. I wish we could have
some bad luck like this every day, Jim."
"Never you mind, honey, never you mind. Don't you git too peart. It's a-comin'. Mind I tell you, it's a-comin'."
It did come, too. It was a Tuesday that we had that talk. Well, after dinner Friday we was laying around in the
grass at the upper end of the ridge, and got out of tobacco. I went to the cavern to get some, and found a
rattlesnake in there. I killed him, and curled him up on the foot of Jim's blanket, ever so natural, thinking
there'd be some fun when Jim found him there. Well, by night I forgot all about the snake, and when Jim flung
himself down on the blanket while I struck a light the snake's mate was there, and bit him.
He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the varmint curled up and ready for another
spring. I laid him out in a second with a stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun to pour it down.
He was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel. That all comes of my being such a fool as to not
remember that wherever you leave a dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around it. Jim told me
to chop off the snake's head and throw it away, and then skin the body and roast a piece of it. I done it, and he
eat it and said it would help cure him. He made me take off the rattles and tie them around his wrist, too. He
said that that would help. Then I slid out quiet and throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for I
warn't going to let Jim find out it was all my fault, not if I could help it.
Jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his head and pitched around and yelled; but
every time he come to himself he went to sucking at the jug again. His foot swelled up pretty big, and so did
his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to come, and so I judged he was all right; but I'd druther been bit with a
snake than pap's whisky.
Jim was laid up for four days and nights. Then the swelling was all gone and he was around again. I made up
my mind I wouldn't ever take a-holt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that I see what had come of it.
Jim said he reckoned I would believe him next time. And he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful
bad luck that maybe we hadn't got to the end of it yet. He said he druther see the new moon over his left
shoulder as much as a thousand times than take up a snake-skin in his hand. Well, I was getting to feel that
way myself, though I've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of the
carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. Old Hank Bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in
less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread himself out so that he was just a
kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried
him so, so they say, but I didn't see it. Pap told me. But anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way,
like a fool.
CHAPTER X. 34
Well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done
was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man,
being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. We couldn't handle him, of course; he
would a flung us into Illinois. We just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. We
found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. We split the ball open with the
hatchet, and there was a spool in it. Jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of
it. It was as big a fish as was ever catched in the Mississippi, I reckon. Jim said he hadn't ever seen a bigger
one. He would a been worth a good deal over at the village. They peddle out such a fish as that by the pound
in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry.
Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a stirring up some way. I said I reckoned
I would slip over the river and find out what was going on. Jim liked that notion; but he said I must go in the
dark and look sharp. Then he studied it over and said, couldn't I put on some of them old things and dress up
like a girl? That was a good notion, too. So we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and I turned up my
trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. Jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. I put on the
sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a
joint of stove-pipe. Jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. I practiced around all day to
get the hang of the things, and by and by I could do pretty well in them, only Jim said I didn't walk like a girl;
and he said I must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket. I took notice, and done better.
I started up the Illinois shore in the canoe just after dark.
I started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at
the bottom of the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that
hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped
in at the window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine
table. I didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that I didn't know.
Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid I had come; people might know my voice
and find me out. But if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all I wanted to
know; so I knocked at the door, and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I was a girl.
CHAPTER X. 35
CHAPTER XI.
"COME in," says the woman, and I did. She says: "Take a cheer."
I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says:
"What might your name be?"
"Sarah Williams."
"Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighborhood?'
"No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked all the way and I'm all tired out."
"Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something."
"No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more.
It's what makes me so late. My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my
uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the town, she says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you
know him?"
"No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite two weeks. It's a considerable ways to the
upper end of the town. You better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet."
"No," I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain't afeared of the dark."
She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and a
half, and she'd send him along with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations up
the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was, and how they
didn't know but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone--and so on and so on,
till I was afeard I had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by
she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing to let her clatter right along. She told
about me and Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and all about pap and what a
hard lot he was, and what a hard lot I was, and at last she got down to where I was murdered. I says:
"Who done it? We've heard considerable about these goings on down in Hookerville, but we don't know who
'twas that killed Huck Finn."
"Well, I reckon there's a right smart chance of people HERE that'd like to know who killed him. Some think
old Finn done it himself."
"No--is that so?"
"Most everybody thought it at first. He'll never know how nigh he come to getting lynched. But before night
they changed around and judged it was done by a runaway nigger named Jim."
"Why HE--"
I stopped. I reckoned I better keep still. She run on, and never noticed I had put in at all:
"The nigger run off the very night Huck Finn was killed. So there's a reward out for him--three hundred
dollars. And there's a reward out for old Finn, too--two hundred dollars. You see, he come to town the
CHAPTER XI. 36
morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after
he up and left. Before night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. Well, next day they found
out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done.
So then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old Finn, and went
boo-hooing to Judge Thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over Illinois with. The judge gave him
some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking
strangers, and then went off with them. Well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking for him back
till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would
think robbers done it, and then he'd get Huck's money without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit.
People do say he warn't any too good to do it. Oh, he's sly, I reckon. If he don't come back for a year he'll be
all right. You can't prove anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk in
Huck's money as easy as nothing."
"Yes, I reckon so, 'm. I don't see nothing in the way of it. Has everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?"
"Oh, no, not everybody. A good many thinks he done it. But they'll get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe
they can scare it out of him."
"Why, are they after him yet?"
"Well, you're innocent, ain't you! Does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up?
Some folks think the nigger ain't far from here. I'm one of them--but I hain't talked it around. A few days ago I
was talking with an old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody
ever goes to that island over yonder that they call Jackson's Island. Don't anybody live there? says I. No,
nobody, says they. I didn't say any more, but I done some thinking. I was pretty near certain I'd seen smoke
over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so I says to myself, like as not that nigger's
hiding over there; anyway, says I, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. I hain't seen any smoke sence,
so I reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to see --him and another man. He was
gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and I told him as soon as he got here two hours ago."
I had got so uneasy I couldn't set still. I had to do something with my hands; so I took up a needle off of the
table and went to threading it. My hands shook, and I was making a bad job of it. When the woman stopped
talking I looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little. I put down the needle and
thread, and let on to be interested --and I was, too--and says:
"Three hundred dollars is a power of money. I wish my mother could get it. Is your husband going over there
to-night?"
"Oh, yes. He went up-town with the man I was telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could borrow
another gun. They'll go over after midnight."
"Couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?"
"Yes. And couldn't the nigger see better, too? After midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip around
through the woods and hunt up his camp fire all the better for the dark, if he's got one."
"I didn't think of that."
The woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and I didn't feel a bit comfortable. Pretty soon she says,
"What did you say your name was, honey?"
CHAPTER XI. 37
"M--Mary Williams."
Somehow it didn't seem to me that I said it was Mary before, so I didn't look up--seemed to me I said it was
Sarah; so I felt sort of cornered, and was afeared maybe I was looking it, too. I wished the woman would say
something more; the longer she set still the uneasier I was. But now she says:
"Honey, I thought you said it was Sarah when you first come in?"
"Oh, yes'm, I did. Sarah Mary Williams. Sarah's my first name. Some calls me Sarah, some calls me Mary."
"Oh, that's the way of it?"
"Yes'm."
I was feeling better then, but I wished I was out of there, anyway. I couldn't look up yet.
Well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats
was as free as if they owned the place, and so forth and so on, and then I got easy again. She was right about
the rats. You'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in the corner every little while. She said she had to have
things handy to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. She showed me a bar
of lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day
or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true now. But she watched for a chance, and directly
banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said "Ouch!" it hurt her arm so. Then she told me to try
for the next one. I wanted to be getting away before the old man got back, but of course I didn't let on. I got
the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose I let drive, and if he'd a stayed where he was he'd a been a
tolerable sick rat. She said that was first-rate, and she reckoned I would hive the next one. She went and got
the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with.
I held up my two hands and she put the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her husband's
matters. But she broke off to say:
"Keep your eye on the rats. You better have the lead in your lap, handy."
So she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and I clapped my legs together on it and she went
on talking. But only about a minute. Then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very
pleasant, and says:
"Come, now, what's your real name?"
"Wh--what, mum?"
"What's your real name? Is it Bill, or Tom, or Bob?--or what is it?"
I reckon I shook like a leaf, and I didn't know hardly what to do. But I says:
"Please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. If I'm in the way here, I'll--"
"No, you won't. Set down and stay where you are. I ain't going to hurt you, and I ain't going to tell on you,
nuther. You just tell me your secret, and trust me. I'll keep it; and, what's more, I'll help you. So'll my old man
if you want him to. You see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. It ain't anything. There ain't no harm in it.
You've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. Bless you, child, I wouldn't tell on you. Tell me
all about it now, that's a good boy."
CHAPTER XI. 38
So I said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and I would just make a clean breast and tell her
everything, but she musn't go back on her promise. Then I told her my father and mother was dead, and the
law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me
so bad I couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days, and so I took my chance and
stole some of his daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and I had been three nights coming the thirty miles. I
traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread and meat I carried from home lasted me all
the way, and I had a-plenty. I said I believed my uncle Abner Moore would take care of me, and so that was
why I struck out for this town of Goshen.
"Goshen, child? This ain't Goshen. This is St. Petersburg. Goshen's ten mile further up the river. Who told you
this was Goshen?"
"Why, a man I met at daybreak this morning, just as I was going to turn into the woods for my regular sleep.
He told me when the roads forked I must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to Goshen."
"He was drunk, I reckon. He told you just exactly wrong."
"Well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. I got to be moving along. I'll fetch Goshen
before daylight."
"Hold on a minute. I'll put you up a snack to eat. You might want it."
So she put me up a snack, and says:
"Say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first? Answer up prompt now--don't stop to study
over it. Which end gets up first?"
"The hind end, mum."
"Well, then, a horse?"
"The for'rard end, mum."
"Which side of a tree does the moss grow on?"
"North side."
"If fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with their heads pointed the same
direction?"
"The whole fifteen, mum."
"Well, I reckon you HAVE lived in the country. I thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again. What's
your real name, now?"
"George Peters, mum."
"Well, try to remember it, George. Don't forget and tell me it's Elexander before you go, and then get out by
saying it's George Elexander when I catch you. And don't go about women in that old calico. You do a girl
tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe. Bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don't
hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it; that's the way a
woman most always does, but a man always does t'other way. And when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch
CHAPTER XI. 39
yourself up a tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six
or seven foot. Throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to turn on, like a girl; not
from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like a boy. And, mind you, when a girl tries to catch
anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them together, the way you did when you
catched the lump of lead. Why, I spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and I contrived the
other things just to make certain. Now trot along to your uncle, Sarah Mary Williams George Elexander
Peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to Mrs. Judith Loftus, which is me, and I'll do what I can to
get you out of it. Keep the river road all the way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks with you. The
river road's a rocky one, and your feet'll be in a condition when you get to Goshen, I reckon."
I went up the bank about fifty yards, and then I doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my canoe
was, a good piece below the house. I jumped in, and was off in a hurry. I went up-stream far enough to make
the head of the island, and then started across. I took off the sun-bonnet, for I didn't want no blinders on then.
When I was about the middle I heard the clock begin to strike, so I stops and listens; the sound come faint
over the water but clear--eleven. When I struck the head of the island I never waited to blow, though I was
most winded, but I shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and started a good fire there on
a high and dry spot.
Then I jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a half below, as hard as I could go. I landed,
and slopped through the timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. There Jim laid, sound asleep on the
ground. I roused him out and says:
"Git up and hump yourself, Jim! There ain't a minute to lose. They're after us!"
Jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he worked for the next half an hour showed
about how he was scared. By that time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she was ready to
be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. We put out the camp fire at the cavern the first thing,
and didn't show a candle outside after that.
I took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look; but if there was a boat around I couldn't see
it, for stars and shadows ain't good to see by. Then we got out the raft and slipped along down in the shade,
past the foot of the island dead still--never saying a word.
CHAPTER XI. 40
CHAPTER XII.
IT must a been close on to one o'clock when we got below the island at last, and the raft did seem to go
mighty slow. If a boat was to come along we was going to take to the canoe and break for the Illinois shore;
and it was well a boat didn't come, for we hadn't ever thought to put the gun in the canoe, or a fishing-line, or
anything to eat. We was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many things. It warn't good judgment to
put EVERYTHING on the raft.
If the men went to the island I just expect they found the camp fire I built, and watched it all night for Jim to
come. Anyways, they stayed away from us, and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn't no fault of
mine. I played it as low down on them as I could.
When the first streak of day began to show we tied up to a towhead in a big bend on the Illinois side, and
hacked off cottonwood branches with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so she looked like there
had been a cave-in in the bank there. A tow-head is a sandbar that has cottonwoods on it as thick as
harrow-teeth.
We had mountains on the Missouri shore and heavy timber on the Illinois side, and the channel was down the
Missouri shore at that place, so we warn't afraid of anybody running across us. We laid there all day, and
watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the Missouri shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big river
in the middle. I told Jim all about the time I had jabbering with that woman; and Jim said she was a smart one,
and if she was to start after us herself she wouldn't set down and watch a camp fire--no, sir, she'd fetch a dog.
Well, then, I said, why couldn't she tell her husband to fetch a dog? Jim said he bet she did think of it by the
time the men was ready to start, and he believed they must a gone up-town to get a dog and so they lost all
that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a towhead sixteen or seventeen mile below the village--no, indeedy,
we would be in that same old town again. So I said I didn't care what was the reason they didn't get us as long
as they didn't.
When it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out of the cottonwood thicket, and looked up and
down and across; nothing in sight; so Jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a snug wigwam
to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the things dry. Jim made a floor for the wigwam, and
raised it a foot or more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the traps was out of reach of
steamboat waves. Right in the middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep
with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the
wigwam would keep it from being seen. We made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others might
get broke on a snag or something. We fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we
must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from getting run
over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a "crossing";
for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't
always run the channel, but hunted easy water.
This second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current that was making over four mile an
hour. We catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of
solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel
like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed--only a little kind of a low chuckle. We had mighty good
weather as a general thing, and nothing ever happened to us at all--that night, nor the next, nor the next.
Every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights;
not a house could you see. The fifth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the whole world lit up. In St.
Petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty thousand people in St. Louis, but I never believed it till
I see that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. There warn't a sound there; everybody was
asleep.
CHAPTER XII. 41
Every night now I used to slip ashore towards ten o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents'
worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat; and sometimes I lifted a chicken that warn't roosting comfortable,
and took him along. Pap always said, take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him
yourself you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. I never see pap when he
didn't want the chicken himself, but that is what he used to say, anyway.
Mornings before daylight I slipped into cornfields and borrowed a watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin,
or some new corn, or things of that kind. Pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if you was
meaning to pay them back some time; but the widow said it warn't anything but a soft name for stealing, and
no decent body would do it. Jim said he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was partly right; so the
best way would be for us to pick out two or three things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any
more--then he reckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. So we talked it over all one night,
drifting along down the river, trying to make up our minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the
cantelopes, or the mushmelons, or what. But towards daylight we got it all settled satisfactory, and concluded
to drop crabapples and p'simmons. We warn't feeling just right before that, but it was all comfortable now. I
was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't ever good, and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for
two or three months yet.
We shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too early in the morning or didn't go to bed early enough in the
evening. Take it all round, we lived pretty high.
The fifth night below St. Louis we had a big storm after midnight, with a power of thunder and lightning, and
the rain poured down in a solid sheet. We stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care of itself. When the
lightning glared out we could see a big straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and by
says I, "Hel-LO, Jim, looky yonder!" It was a steamboat that had killed herself on a rock. We was drifting
straight down for her. The lightning showed her very distinct. She was leaning over, with part of her upper
deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with
an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come.
Well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-like, I felt just the way any other boy would
a felt when I see that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river. I wanted to get
aboard of her and slink around a little, and see what there was there. So I says:
"Le's land on her, Jim."
But Jim was dead against it at first. He says:
"I doan' want to go fool'n 'long er no wrack. We's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de
good book says. Like as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack."
"Watchman your grandmother," I says; "there ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot-house; and do
you reckon anybody's going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it's likely to
break up and wash off down the river any minute?" Jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "And
besides," I says, "we might borrow something worth having out of the captain's stateroom. Seegars, I bet
you--and cost five cents apiece, solid cash. Steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month,
and THEY don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. Stick a candle in your pocket;
I can't rest, Jim, till we give her a rummaging. Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this thing? Not
for pie, he wouldn't. He'd call it an adventure--that's what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his
last act. And wouldn't he throw style into it? --wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? Why, you'd think it
was Christopher C'lumbus discovering Kingdom-Come. I wish Tom Sawyer WAS here."
Jim he grumbled a little, but give in. He said we mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then talk
CHAPTER XII. 42
mighty low. The lightning showed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and
made fast there.
The deck was high out here. We went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the
texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark
we couldn't see no sign of them. Pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and
the next step fetched us in front of the captain's door, which was open, and by Jimminy, away down through
the texas-hall we see a light! and all in the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder!
Jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to come along. I says, all right, and was
going to start for the raft; but just then I heard a voice wail out and say:
"Oh, please don't, boys; I swear I won't ever tell!"
Another voice said, pretty loud:
"It's a lie, Jim Turner. You've acted this way before. You always want more'n your share of the truck, and
you've always got it, too, because you've swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. But this time you've said it jest one
time too many. You're the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country."
By this time Jim was gone for the raft. I was just a-biling with curiosity; and I says to myself, Tom Sawyer
wouldn't back out now, and so I won't either; I'm a-going to see what's going on here. So I dropped on my
hands and knees in the little passage, and crept aft in the dark till there warn't but one stateroom betwixt me
and the cross-hall of the texas. Then in there I see a man stretched on the floor and tied hand and foot, and two
men standing over him, and one of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. This
one kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor, and saying:
"I'd LIKE to! And I orter, too--a mean skunk!"
The man on the floor would shrivel up and say, "Oh, please don't, Bill; I hain't ever goin' to tell."
And every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh and say:
"'Deed you AIN'T! You never said no truer thing 'n that, you bet you." And once he said: "Hear him beg! and
yit if we hadn't got the best of him and tied him he'd a killed us both. And what FOR? Jist for noth'n. Jist
because we stood on our RIGHTS--that's what for. But I lay you ain't a-goin' to threaten nobody any more,
Jim Turner. Put UP that pistol, Bill."
Bill says:
"I don't want to, Jake Packard. I'm for killin' him--and didn't he kill old Hatfield jist the same way--and don't
he deserve it?"
"But I don't WANT him killed, and I've got my reasons for it."
"Bless yo' heart for them words, Jake Packard! I'll never forgit you long's I live!" says the man on the floor,
sort of blubbering.
Packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail and started towards where I was there in
the dark, and motioned Bill to come. I crawfished as fast as I could about two yards, but the boat slanted so
that I couldn't make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched I crawled into a stateroom
on the upper side. The man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when Packard got to my stateroom, he says:
CHAPTER XII. 43
"Here--come in here."
And in he come, and Bill after him. But before they got in I was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry I
come. Then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. I couldn't see them, but I
could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been having. I was glad I didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't
made much difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't a treed me because I didn't breathe. I
was too scared. And, besides, a body COULDN'T breathe and hear such talk. They talked low and earnest.
Bill wanted to kill Turner. He says:
"He's said he'll tell, and he will. If we was to give both our shares to him NOW it wouldn't make no difference
after the row and the way we've served him. Shore's you're born, he'll turn State's evidence; now you hear ME.
I'm for putting him out of his troubles."
"So'm I," says Packard, very quiet.
"Blame it, I'd sorter begun to think you wasn't. Well, then, that's all right. Le's go and do it."
"Hold on a minute; I hain't had my say yit. You listen to me. Shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the
thing's GOT to be done. But what I say is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n around after a halter if you can
git at what you're up to in some way that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into no resks. Ain't
that so?"
"You bet it is. But how you goin' to manage it this time?"
"Well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather up whatever pickins we've overlooked in the staterooms,
and shove for shore and hide the truck. Then we'll wait. Now I say it ain't a-goin' to be more'n two hours befo'
this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. See? He'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame
for it but his own self. I reckon that's a considerble sight better 'n killin' of him. I'm unfavorable to killin' a
man as long as you can git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. Ain't I right?"
"Yes, I reck'n you are. But s'pose she DON'T break up and wash off?"
"Well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can't we?"
"All right, then; come along."
So they started, and I lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. It was dark as pitch there; but I said,
in a kind of a coarse whisper, "Jim!" and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and I says:
"Quick, Jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we
don't hunt up their boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get away from the wreck
there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix. But if we find their boat we can put ALL of 'em in a bad fix--for the
sheriff 'll get 'em. Quick--hurry! I'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. You start at the raft, and--"
"Oh, my lordy, lordy! RAF'? Dey ain' no raf' no mo'; she done broke loose en gone I--en here we is!"
CHAPTER XII. 44
CHAPTER XIII.
WELL, I catched my breath and most fainted. Shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that! But it warn't no
time to be sentimentering. We'd GOT to find that boat now--had to have it for ourselves. So we went
a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too--seemed a week before we got to
the stern. No sign of a boat. Jim said he didn't believe he could go any further--so scared he hadn't hardly any
strength left, he said. But I said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. So on we prowled
again. We struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight,
hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. When we got pretty close to
the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! I could just barely see her. I felt ever so thankful. In
another second I would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. One of the men stuck his head out
only about a couple of foot from me, and I thought I was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says:
"Heave that blame lantern out o' sight, Bill!"
He flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. It was Packard. Then Bill HE
come out and got in. Packard says, in a low voice:
"All ready--shove off!"
I couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, I was so weak. But Bill says:
"Hold on--'d you go through him?"
"No. Didn't you?"
"No. So he's got his share o' the cash yet."
"Well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money."
"Say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?"
"Maybe he won't. But we got to have it anyway. Come along."
So they got out and went in.
The door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second I was in the boat, and Jim
come tumbling after me. I out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went!
We didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. We went gliding swift
along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a
hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and
knowed it.
When we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the lantern show like a little spark at the texas
door for a second, and we knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to
understand that they was in just as much trouble now as Jim Turner was.
Then Jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. Now was the first time that I begun to worry about
the men--I reckon I hadn't had time to before. I begun to think how dreadful it was, even for murderers, to be
in such a fix. I says to myself, there ain't no telling but I might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then
how would I like it? So says I to Jim:
CHAPTER XIII. 45
"The first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place
for you and the skiff, and then I'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go for that gang and
get them out of their scrape, so they can be hung when their time comes."
But that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm again, and this time worse than ever. The rain
poured down, and never a light showed; everybody in bed, I reckon. We boomed along down the river,
watching for lights and watching for our raft. After a long time the rain let up, but the clouds stayed, and the
lightning kept whimpering, and by and by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it.
It was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. We seen a light now away down to the right,
on shore. So I said I would go for it. The skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had stole there on the
wreck. We hustled it on to the raft in a pile, and I told Jim to float along down, and show a light when he
judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till I come; then I manned my oars and shoved for the
light. As I got down towards it three or four more showed--up on a hillside. It was a village. I closed in above
the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated. As I went by I see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of
a double-hull ferryboat. I skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and
by I found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head down between his knees. I gave his shoulder two
or three little shoves, and begun to cry.
He stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was only me he took a good gap and stretch, and
then he says:
"Hello, what's up? Don't cry, bub. What's the trouble?"
I says:
"Pap, and mam, and sis, and--"
Then I broke down. He says:
"Oh, dang it now, DON'T take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right. What's
the matter with 'em?"
"They're--they're--are you the watchman of the boat?"
"Yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. "I'm the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and
watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes I'm the freight and passengers. I ain't as rich as old Jim
Hornback, and I can't be so blame' generous and good to Tom, Dick, and Harry as what he is, and slam around
money the way he does; but I've told him a many a time 't I wouldn't trade places with him; for, says I, a
sailor's life's the life for me, and I'm derned if I'D live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing ever
goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it. Says I--"
I broke in and says:
"They're in an awful peck of trouble, and--"
"WHO is?"
"Why, pap and mam and sis and Miss Hooker; and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there--"
"Up where? Where are they?"
CHAPTER XIII. 46
"On the wreck."
"What wreck?"
"Why, there ain't but one."
"What, you don't mean the Walter Scott?"
"Yes."
"Good land! what are they doin' THERE, for gracious sakes?"
"Well, they didn't go there a-purpose."
"I bet they didn't! Why, great goodness, there ain't no chance for 'em if they don't git off mighty quick! Why,
how in the nation did they ever git into such a scrape?"
"Easy enough. Miss Hooker was a-visiting up there to the town--"
"Yes, Booth's Landing--go on."
"She was a-visiting there at Booth's Landing, and just in the edge of the evening she started over with her
nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all night at her friend's house, Miss What-you-may-call-her I
disremember her name--and they lost their steering-oar, and swung around and went a-floating down, stern
first, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman and the
horses was all lost, but Miss Hooker she made a grab and got aboard the wreck. Well, about an hour after dark
we come along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't notice the wreck till we was right on it;
and so WE saddle-baggsed; but all of us was saved but Bill Whipple--and oh, he WAS the best cretur!--I most
wish 't it had been me, I do."
"My George! It's the beatenest thing I ever struck. And THEN what did you all do?"
"Well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there we couldn't make nobody hear. So pap said somebody
got to get ashore and get help somehow. I was the only one that could swim, so I made a dash for it, and Miss
Hooker she said if I didn't strike help sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. I made
the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get people to do something, but they
said, 'What, in such a night and such a current? There ain't no sense in it; go for the steam ferry.' Now if you'll
go and--"
"By Jackson, I'd LIKE to, and, blame it, I don't know but I will; but who in the dingnation's a-going' to PAY
for it? Do you reckon your pap--"
"Why THAT'S all right. Miss Hooker she tole me, PARTICULAR, that her uncle Hornback--"
"Great guns! is HE her uncle? Looky here, you break for that light over yonder-way, and turn out west when
you git there, and about a quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart you out to Jim
Hornback's, and he'll foot the bill. And don't you fool around any, because he'll want to know the news. Tell
him I'll have his niece all safe before he can get to town. Hump yourself, now; I'm a-going up around the
corner here to roust out my engineer."
I struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner I went back and got into my skiff and bailed her out,
and then pulled up shore in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in among some
CHAPTER XIII. 47
woodboats; for I couldn't rest easy till I could see the ferryboat start. But take it all around, I was feeling
ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang, for not many would a done it. I wished
the widow knowed about it. I judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because
rapscallions and dead beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the most interest in.
Well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding along down! A kind of cold shiver went
through me, and then I struck out for her. She was very deep, and I see in a minute there warn't much chance
for anybody being alive in her. I pulled all around her and hollered a little, but there wasn't any answer; all
dead still. I felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for I reckoned if they could stand it I
could.
Then here comes the ferryboat; so I shoved for the middle of the river on a long down-stream slant; and when
I judged I was out of eye-reach I laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smell around the wreck
for Miss Hooker's remainders, because the captain would know her uncle Hornback would want them; and
then pretty soon the ferryboat give it up and went for the shore, and I laid into my work and went a-booming
down the river.
It did seem a powerful long time before Jim's light showed up; and when it did show it looked like it was a
thousand mile off. By the time I got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the east; so we struck
for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people.
CHAPTER XIII. 48
CHAPTER XIV.
BY and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had stole off of the wreck, and found boots,
and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spyglass, and three boxes of
seegars. We hadn't ever been this rich before in neither of our lives. The seegars was prime. We laid off all the
afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books, and having a general good time. I told Jim all about
what happened inside the wreck and at the ferryboat, and I said these kinds of things was adventures; but he
said he didn't want no more adventures. He said that when I went in the texas and he crawled back to get on
the raft and found her gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all up with HIM anyway it could be
fixed; for if he didn't get saved he would get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved him would
send him back home so as to get the reward, and then Miss Watson would sell him South, sure. Well, he was
right; he was most always right; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger.
I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how
much style they put on, and called each other your majesty, and your grace, and your lordship, and so on,
'stead of mister; and Jim's eyes bugged out, and he was interested. He says:
"I didn' know dey was so many un um. I hain't hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but ole King Sollermun,
onless you counts dem kings dat's in a pack er k'yards. How much do a king git?"
"Get?" I says; "why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they want it; they can have just as much as they
want; everything belongs to them."
"AIN' dat gay? En what dey got to do, Huck?"
"THEY don't do nothing! Why, how you talk! They just set around."
"No; is dat so?"
"Of course it is. They just set around--except, maybe, when there's a war; then they go to the war. But other
times they just lazy around; or go hawking--just hawking and sp--Sh!--d' you hear a noise?"
We skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter of a steamboat's wheel away down, coming
around the point; so we come back.
"Yes," says I, "and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody don't go
just so he whacks their heads off. But mostly they hang round the harem."
"Roun' de which?"
"Harem."
"What's de harem?"
"The place where he keeps his wives. Don't you know about the harem? Solomon had one; he had about a
million wives."
"Why, yes, dat's so; I--I'd done forgot it. A harem's a bo'd'n-house, I reck'n. Mos' likely dey has rackety times
in de nussery. En I reck'n de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket. Yit dey say Sollermun de
wises' man dat ever live'. I doan' take no stock in dat. Bekase why: would a wise man want to live in de mids'
er sich a blim-blammin' all de time? No--'deed he wouldn't. A wise man 'ud take en buil' a biler-factry; en den
he could shet DOWN de biler-factry when he want to res'."
CHAPTER XIV. 49
"Well, but he WAS the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told me so, her own self."
"I doan k'yer what de widder say, he WARN'T no wise man nuther. He had some er de dad-fetchedes' ways I
ever see. Does you know 'bout dat chile dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?"
"Yes, the widow told me all about it."
"WELL, den! Warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de worl'? You jes' take en look at it a minute. Dah's de stump,
dah--dat's one er de women; heah's you--dat's de yuther one; I's Sollermun; en dish yer dollar bill's de chile.
Bofe un you claims it. What does I do? Does I shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors en fine out which un you de
bill DO b'long to, en han' it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de way dat anybody dat had any gumption
would? No; I take en whack de bill in TWO, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther woman.
Dat's de way Sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. Now I want to ast you: what's de use er dat half a
bill?--can't buy noth'n wid it. En what use is a half a chile? I wouldn' give a dern for a million un um."
"But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the point--blame it, you've missed it a thousand mile."
"Who? Me? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. I reck'n I knows sense when I sees it; en dey ain' no
sense in sich doin's as dat. De 'spute warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a whole chile; en de man
dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan' know enough to come in out'n de
rain. Doan' talk to me 'bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de back."
"But I tell you you don't get the point."
"Blame de point! I reck'n I knows what I knows. En mine you, de REAL pint is down furder--it's down
deeper. It lays in de way Sollermun was raised. You take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; is dat man
gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? No, he ain't; he can't 'ford it. HE know how to value 'em. But you take a man
dat's got 'bout five million chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. HE as soon chop a chile in two as a
cat. Dey's plenty mo'. A chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no consekens to Sollermun, dad fatch him!"
I never see such a nigger. If he got a notion in his head once, there warn't no getting it out again. He was the
most down on Solomon of any nigger I ever see. So I went to talking about other kings, and let Solomon slide.
I told about Louis Sixteenth that got his head cut off in France long time ago; and about his little boy the
dolphin, that would a been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and some say he died there.
"Po' little chap."
"But some says he got out and got away, and come to America."
"Dat's good! But he'll be pooty lonesome--dey ain' no kings here, is dey, Huck?"
"No."
"Den he cain't git no situation. What he gwyne to do?"
"Well, I don't know. Some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns people how to talk French."
"Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de same way we does?"
"NO, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they said--not a single word."
"Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?"
CHAPTER XIV. 50
"I don't know; but it's so. I got some of their jabber out of a book. S'pose a man was to come to you and say
Polly-voo-franzy--what would you think?"
"I wouldn' think nuff'n; I'd take en bust him over de head--dat is, if he warn't white. I wouldn't 'low no nigger
to call me dat."
"Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only saying, do you know how to talk French?"
"Well, den, why couldn't he SAY it?"
"Why, he IS a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's WAY of saying it."
"Well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en I doan' want to hear no mo' 'bout it. Dey ain' no sense in it."
"Looky here, Jim; does a cat talk like we do?"
"No, a cat don't."
"Well, does a cow?"
"No, a cow don't, nuther."
"Does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?"
"No, dey don't."
"It's natural and right for 'em to talk different from each other, ain't it?"
"Course."
"And ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different from US?"
"Why, mos' sholy it is."
"Well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a FRENCHMAN to talk different from us? You answer me that."
"Is a cat a man, Huck?"
"No."
"Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. Is a cow a man?--er is a cow a cat?"
"No, she ain't either of them."
"Well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?"
"Yes."
"WELL, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he TALK like a man? You answer me DAT!"
I see it warn't no use wasting words--you can't learn a nigger to argue. So I quit.
CHAPTER XIV. 51
CHAPTER XV.
WE judged that three nights more would fetch us to Cairo, at the bottom of Illinois, where the Ohio River
comes in, and that was what we was after. We would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way up the
Ohio amongst the free States, and then be out of trouble.
Well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a towhead to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try
to run in a fog; but when I paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't anything but
little saplings to tie to. I passed the line around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a
stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by the roots and away she went. I see
the fog closing down, and it made me so sick and scared I couldn't budge for most a half a minute it seemed to
me--and then there warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't see twenty yards. I jumped into the canoe and run back
to the stern, and grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. But she didn't come. I was in such a hurry I
hadn't untied her. I got up and tried to untie her, but I was so excited my hands shook so I couldn't hardly do
anything with them.
As soon as I got started I took out after the raft, hot and heavy, right down the towhead. That was all right as
far as it went, but the towhead warn't sixty yards long, and the minute I flew by the foot of it I shot out into the
solid white fog, and hadn't no more idea which way I was going than a dead man.
Thinks I, it won't do to paddle; first I know I'll run into the bank or a towhead or something; I got to set still
and float, and yet it's mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a time. I whooped and
listened. Away down there somewheres I hears a small whoop, and up comes my spirits. I went tearing after
it, listening sharp to hear it again. The next time it come I see I warn't heading for it, but heading away to the
right of it. And the next time I was heading away to the left of it--and not gaining on it much either, for I was
flying around, this way and that and t'other, but it was going straight ahead all the time.
I did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the time, but he never did, and it was the still
places between the whoops that was making the trouble for me. Well, I fought along, and directly I hears the
whoop BEHIND me. I was tangled good now. That was somebody else's whoop, or else I was turned around.
I throwed the paddle down. I heard the whoop again; it was behind me yet, but in a different place; it kept
coming, and kept changing its place, and I kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me again, and I
knowed the current had swung the canoe's head down-stream, and I was all right if that was Jim and not some
other raftsman hollering. I couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don't look natural nor sound
natural in a fog.
The whooping went on, and in about a minute I come a-booming down on a cut bank with smoky ghosts of
big trees on it, and the current throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that fairly roared,
the currrent was tearing by them so swift.
In another second or two it was solid white and still again. I set perfectly still then, listening to my heart
thump, and I reckon I didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred.
I just give up then. I knowed what the matter was. That cut bank was an island, and Jim had gone down t'other
side of it. It warn't no towhead that you could float by in ten minutes. It had the big timber of a regular island;
it might be five or six miles long and more than half a mile wide.
I kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, I reckon. I was floating along, of course, four or five
miles an hour; but you don't ever think of that. No, you FEEL like you are laying dead still on the water; and
if a little glimpse of a snag slips by you don't think to yourself how fast YOU'RE going, but you catch your
breath and think, my! how that snag's tearing along. If you think it ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that
CHAPTER XV. 52
way by yourself in the night, you try it once--you'll see.
Next, for about a half an hour, I whoops now and then; at last I hears the answer a long ways off, and tries to
follow it, but I couldn't do it, and directly I judged I'd got into a nest of towheads, for I had little dim glimpses
of them on both sides of me--sometimes just a narrow channel between, and some that I couldn't see I knowed
was there because I'd hear the wash of the current against the old dead brush and trash that hung over the
banks. Well, I warn't long loosing the whoops down amongst the towheads; and I only tried to chase them a
little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a Jack-o'-lantern. You never knowed a sound dodge
around so, and swap places so quick and so much.
I had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or five times, to keep from knocking the islands out of the
river; and so I judged the raft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or else it would get further
ahead and clear out of hearing--it was floating a little faster than what I was.
Well, I seemed to be in the open river again by and by, but I couldn't hear no sign of a whoop nowheres. I
reckoned Jim had fetched up on a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. I was good and tired, so I laid
down in the canoe and said I wouldn't bother no more. I didn't want to go to sleep, of course; but I was so
sleepy I couldn't help it; so I thought I would take jest one little cat-nap.
But I reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when I waked up the stars was shining bright, the fog was all
gone, and I was spinning down a big bend stern first. First I didn't know where I was; I thought I was
dreaming; and when things began to come back to me they seemed to come up dim out of last week.
It was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest kind of timber on both banks; just a solid
wall, as well as I could see by the stars. I looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck on the water. I
took after it; but when I got to it it warn't nothing but a couple of sawlogs made fast together. Then I see
another speck, and chased that; then another, and this time I was right. It was the raft.
When I got to it Jim was setting there with his head down between his knees, asleep, with his right arm
hanging over the steering-oar. The other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves and
branches and dirt. So she'd had a rough time.
I made fast and laid down under Jim's nose on the raft, and began to gap, and stretch my fists out against Jim,
and says:
"Hello, Jim, have I been asleep? Why didn't you stir me up?"
"Goodness gracious, is dat you, Huck? En you ain' dead--you ain' drownded--you's back agin? It's too good
for true, honey, it's too good for true. Lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. No, you ain' dead! you's
back agin, 'live en soun', jis de same ole Huck--de same ole Huck, thanks to goodness!"
"What's the matter with you, Jim? You been a-drinking?"
"Drinkin'? Has I ben a-drinkin'? Has I had a chance to be a-drinkin'?"
"Well, then, what makes you talk so wild?"
"How does I talk wild?"
"HOW? Why, hain't you been talking about my coming back, and all that stuff, as if I'd been gone away?"
"Huck--Huck Finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. HAIN'T you ben gone away?"
CHAPTER XV. 53
"Gone away? Why, what in the nation do you mean? I hain't been gone anywheres. Where would I go to?"
"Well, looky here, boss, dey's sumf'n wrong, dey is. Is I ME, or who IS I? Is I heah, or whah IS I? Now dat's
what I wants to know."
"Well, I think you're here, plain enough, but I think you're a tangle-headed old fool, Jim."
"I is, is I? Well, you answer me dis: Didn't you tote out de line in de canoe fer to make fas' to de tow-head?"
"No, I didn't. What tow-head? I hain't see no tow-head."
"You hain't seen no towhead? Looky here, didn't de line pull loose en de raf' go a-hummin' down de river, en
leave you en de canoe behine in de fog?"
"What fog?"
"Why, de fog!--de fog dat's been aroun' all night. En didn't you whoop, en didn't I whoop, tell we got mix' up
in de islands en one un us got los' en t'other one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn' know whah he wuz? En
didn't I bust up agin a lot er dem islands en have a turrible time en mos' git drownded? Now ain' dat so,
boss--ain't it so? You answer me dat."
"Well, this is too many for me, Jim. I hain't seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. I been
setting here talking with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and I reckon I done the
same. You couldn't a got drunk in that time, so of course you've been dreaming."
"Dad fetch it, how is I gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?"
"Well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn't any of it happen."
"But, Huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as--"
"It don't make no difference how plain it is; there ain't nothing in it. I know, because I've been here all the
time."
Jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but set there studying over it. Then he says:
"Well, den, I reck'n I did dream it, Huck; but dog my cats ef it ain't de powerfullest dream I ever see. En I
hain't ever had no dream b'fo' dat's tired me like dis one."
"Oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body like everything sometimes. But this one was a
staving dream; tell me all about it, Jim."
So Jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through, just as it happened, only he painted it up
considerable. Then he said he must start in and "'terpret" it, because it was sent for a warning. He said the first
towhead stood for a man that would try to do us some good, but the current was another man that would get us
away from him. The whoops was warnings that would come to us every now and then, and if we didn't try
hard to make out to understand them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it. The lot of
towheads was troubles we was going to get into with quarrelsome people and all kinds of mean folks, but if
we minded our business and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we would pull through and get out of the fog
and into the big clear river, which was the free States, and wouldn't have no more trouble.
It had clouded up pretty dark just after I got on to the raft, but it was clearing up again now.
CHAPTER XV. 54
"Oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, Jim," I says; "but what does THESE things stand
for?"
It was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. You could see them first-rate now.
Jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash again. He had got the dream fixed so
strong in his head that he couldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place again right away.
But when he did get the thing straightened around he looked at me steady without ever smiling, and says:
"What do dey stan' for? I'se gwyne to tell you. When I got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en
went to sleep, my heart wuz mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en I didn' k'yer no' mo' what become er me en de
raf'. En when I wake up en fine you back agin, all safe en soun', de tears come, en I could a got down on my
knees en kiss yo' foot, I's so thankful. En all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how you could make a fool uv ole Jim
wid a lie. Dat truck dah is TRASH; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren's en makes
'em ashamed."
Then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there without saying anything but that. But that
was enough. It made me feel so mean I could almost kissed HIS foot to get him to take it back.
It was fifteen minutes before I could work myself up to go and humble myself to a nigger; but I done it, and I
warn't ever sorry for it afterwards, neither. I didn't do him no more mean tricks, and I wouldn't done that one if
I'd a knowed it would make him feel that way.
CHAPTER XV. 55
CHAPTER XVI.
WE slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways behind a monstrous long raft that was as long
going by as a procession. She had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried as many as thirty
men, likely. She had five big wigwams aboard, wide apart, and an open camp fire in the middle, and a tall
flag-pole at each end. There was a power of style about her. It AMOUNTED to something being a raftsman
on such a craft as that.
We went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up and got hot. The river was very wide, and
was walled with solid timber on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light. We talked
about Cairo, and wondered whether we would know it when we got to it. I said likely we wouldn't, because I
had heard say there warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen to have them lit up, how
was we going to know we was passing a town? Jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that would
show. But I said maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an island and coming into the same old
river again. That disturbed Jim--and me too. So the question was, what to do? I said, paddle ashore the first
time a light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand
at the business, and wanted to know how far it was to Cairo. Jim thought it was a good idea, so we took a
smoke on it and waited.
There warn't nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the town, and not pass it without seeing it. He said
he'd be mighty sure to see it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he missed it he'd be in a
slave country again and no more show for freedom. Every little while he jumps up and says:
"Dah she is?"
But it warn't. It was Jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning bugs; so he set down again, and went to watching, same as
before. Jim said it made him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. Well, I can tell you it
made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him, because I begun to get it through my head that he
WAS most free--and who was to blame for it? Why, ME. I couldn't get that out of my conscience, no how nor
no way. It got to troubling me so I couldn't rest; I couldn't stay still in one place. It hadn't ever come home to
me before, what this thing was that I was doing. But now it did; and it stayed with me, and scorched me more
and more. I tried to make out to myself that I warn't to blame, because I didn't run Jim off from his rightful
owner; but it warn't no use, conscience up and says, every time, "But you knowed he was running for his
freedom, and you could a paddled ashore and told somebody." That was so--I couldn't get around that noway.
That was where it pinched. Conscience says to me, "What had poor Miss Watson done to you that you could
see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word? What did that poor old woman do
to you that you could treat her so mean? Why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you your
manners, she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how. THAT'S what she done."
I got to feeling so mean and so miserable I most wished I was dead. I fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing
myself to myself, and Jim was fidgeting up and down past me. We neither of us could keep still. Every time
he danced around and says, "Dah's Cairo!" it went through me like a shot, and I thought if it WAS Cairo I
reckoned I would die of miserableness.
Jim talked out loud all the time while I was talking to myself. He was saying how the first thing he would do
when he got to a free State he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when he got
enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close to where Miss Watson lived; and then they
would both work to buy the two children, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd get an Ab'litionist to
go and steal them.
It most froze me to hear such talk. He wouldn't ever dared to talk such talk in his life before. Just see what a
difference it made in him the minute he judged he was about free. It was according to the old saying, "Give a
CHAPTER XVI. 56
nigger an inch and he'll take an ell." Thinks I, this is what comes of my not thinking. Here was this nigger,
which I had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying he would steal his
children--children that belonged to a man I didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever done me no harm.
I was sorry to hear Jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. My conscience got to stirring me up hotter
than ever, until at last I says to it, "Let up on me--it ain't too late yet--I'll paddle ashore at the first light and
tell." I felt easy and happy and light as a feather right off. All my troubles was gone. I went to looking out
sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. By and by one showed. Jim sings out:
"We's safe, Huck, we's safe! Jump up and crack yo' heels! Dat's de good ole Cairo at las', I jis knows it!"
I says:
"I'll take the canoe and go and see, Jim. It mightn't be, you know."
He jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the
paddle; and as I shoved off, he says:
"Pooty soon I'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en I'll say, it's all on accounts o' Huck; I's a free man, en I couldn't ever
ben free ef it hadn' ben for Huck; Huck done it. Jim won't ever forgit you, Huck; you's de bes' fren' Jim's ever
had; en you's de ONLY fren' ole Jim's got now."
I was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all
out of me. I went along slow then, and I warn't right down certain whether I was glad I started or whether I
warn't. When I was fifty yards off, Jim says:
"Dah you goes, de ole true Huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever kep' his promise to ole Jim."
Well, I just felt sick. But I says, I GOT to do it--I can't get OUT of it. Right then along comes a skiff with two
men in it with guns, and they stopped and I stopped. One of them says:
"What's that yonder?"
"A piece of a raft," I says.
"Do you belong on it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any men on it?"
"Only one, sir."
"Well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above the head of the bend. Is your man white or
black?"
I didn't answer up prompt. I tried to, but the words wouldn't come. I tried for a second or two to brace up and
out with it, but I warn't man enough--hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. I see I was weakening; so I just give up
trying, and up and says:
"He's white."
CHAPTER XVI. 57
"I reckon we'll go and see for ourselves."
"I wish you would," says I, "because it's pap that's there, and maybe you'd help me tow the raft ashore where
the light is. He's sick--and so is mam and Mary Ann."
"Oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. But I s'pose we've got to. Come, buckle to your paddle, and let's get
along."
I buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. When we had made a stroke or two, I says:
"Pap'll be mighty much obleeged to you, I can tell you. Everybody goes away when I want them to help me
tow the raft ashore, and I can't do it by myself."
"Well, that's infernal mean. Odd, too. Say, boy, what's the matter with your father?"
"It's the--a--the--well, it ain't anything much."
They stopped pulling. It warn't but a mighty little ways to the raft now. One says:
"Boy, that's a lie. What IS the matter with your pap? Answer up square now, and it'll be the better for you."
"I will, sir, I will, honest--but don't leave us, please. It's the--the --Gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let
me heave you the headline, you won't have to come a-near the raft--please do."
"Set her back, John, set her back!" says one. They backed water. "Keep away, boy--keep to looard. Confound
it, I just expect the wind has blowed it to us. Your pap's got the small-pox, and you know it precious well.
Why didn't you come out and say so? Do you want to spread it all over?"
"Well," says I, a-blubbering, "I've told everybody before, and they just went away and left us."
"Poor devil, there's something in that. We are right down sorry for you, but we--well, hang it, we don't want
the small-pox, you see. Look here, I'll tell you what to do. Don't you try to land by yourself, or you'll smash
everything to pieces. You float along down about twenty miles, and you'll come to a town on the left-hand
side of the river. It will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help you tell them your folks are all
down with chills and fever. Don't be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. Now we're trying to
do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that's a good boy. It wouldn't do any good to land
yonder where the light is--it's only a wood-yard. Say, I reckon your father's poor, and I'm bound to say he's in
pretty hard luck. Here, I'll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats by. I feel
mighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox, don't you see?"
"Hold on, Parker," says the other man, "here's a twenty to put on the board for me. Good-bye, boy; you do as
Mr. Parker told you, and you'll be all right."
"That's so, my boy--good-bye, good-bye. If you see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them, and you
can make some money by it."
"Good-bye, sir," says I; "I won't let no runaway niggers get by me if I can help it."
They went off and I got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because I knowed very well I had done wrong,
and I see it warn't no use for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don't get STARTED right when he's
little ain't got no show--when the pinch comes there ain't nothing to back him up and keep him to his work,
and so he gets beat. Then I thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd a done right and give
CHAPTER XVI. 58
Jim up, would you felt better than what you do now? No, says I, I'd feel bad--I'd feel just the same way I do
now. Well, then, says I, what's the use you learning to do right when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no
trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same? I was stuck. I couldn't answer that. So I reckoned I
wouldn't bother no more about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time.
I went into the wigwam; Jim warn't there. I looked all around; he warn't anywhere. I says:
"Jim!"
"Here I is, Huck. Is dey out o' sight yit? Don't talk loud."
He was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. I told him they were out of sight, so he come
aboard. He says:
"I was a-listenin' to all de talk, en I slips into de river en was gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. Den
I was gwyne to swim to de raf' agin when dey was gone. But lawsy, how you did fool 'em, Huck! Dat WUZ
de smartes' dodge! I tell you, chile, I'spec it save' ole Jim--ole Jim ain't going to forgit you for dat, honey."
Then we talked about the money. It was a pretty good raise--twenty dollars apiece. Jim said we could take
deck passage on a steamboat now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free States.
He said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft to go, but he wished we was already there.
Towards daybreak we tied up, and Jim was mighty particular about hiding the raft good. Then he worked all
day fixing things in bundles, and getting all ready to quit rafting.
That night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down in a left-hand bend.
I went off in the canoe to ask about it. Pretty soon I found a man out in the river with a skiff, setting a
trot-line. I ranged up and says:
"Mister, is that town Cairo?"
"Cairo? no. You must be a blame' fool."
"What town is it, mister?"
"If you want to know, go and find out. If you stay here botherin' around me for about a half a minute longer
you'll get something you won't want."
I paddled to the raft. Jim was awful disappointed, but I said never mind, Cairo would be the next place, I
reckoned.
We passed another town before daylight, and I was going out again; but it was high ground, so I didn't go. No
high ground about Cairo, Jim said. I had forgot it. We laid up for the day on a towhead tolerable close to the
left-hand bank. I begun to suspicion something. So did Jim. I says:
"Maybe we went by Cairo in the fog that night."
He says:
"Doan' le's talk about it, Huck. Po' niggers can't have no luck. I awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn't done
wid its work."
CHAPTER XVI. 59
"I wish I'd never seen that snake-skin, Jim--I do wish I'd never laid eyes on it."
"It ain't yo' fault, Huck; you didn' know. Don't you blame yo'self 'bout it."
When it was daylight, here was the clear Ohio water inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular
Muddy! So it was all up with Cairo.
We talked it all over. It wouldn't do to take to the shore; we couldn't take the raft up the stream, of course.
There warn't no way but to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. So we slept all day
amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark
the canoe was gone!
We didn't say a word for a good while. There warn't anything to say. We both knowed well enough it was
some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so what was the use to talk about it? It would only look like we was
finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck--and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed
enough to keep still.
By and by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn't no way but just to go along down with
the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go back in. We warn't going to borrow it when there warn't
anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people after us.
So we shoved out after dark on the raft.
Anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to handle a snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done
for us, will believe it now if they read on and see what more it done for us.
The place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. But we didn't see no rafts laying up; so we went
along during three hours and more. Well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next meanest thing
to fog. You can't tell the shape of the river, and you can't see no distance. It got to be very late and still, and
then along comes a steamboat up the river. We lit the lantern, and judged she would see it. Up-stream boats
didn't generly come close to us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; but
nights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river.
We could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till she was close. She aimed right for us. Often
they do that and try to see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a sweep,
and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart. Well, here she comes, and we
said she was going to try and shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering off a bit. She was a big one, and she
was coming in a hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden
she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her
monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. There was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the
engines, a powwow of cussing, and whistling of steam--and as Jim went overboard on one side and I on the
other, she come smashing straight through the raft.
I dived--and I aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me, and I wanted it to
have plenty of room. I could always stay under water a minute; this time I reckon I stayed under a minute and
a half. Then I bounced for the top in a hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped out to my armpits and blowed
the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there was a booming current; and of course that boat
started her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now
she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though I could hear her.
I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but I didn't get any answer; so I grabbed a plank that touched me while
I was "treading water," and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. But I made out to see that the drift of
CHAPTER XVI. 60
the current was towards the left-hand shore, which meant that I was in a crossing; so I changed off and went
that way.
It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so I was a good long time in getting over. I made a safe
landing, and clumb up the bank. I couldn't see but a little ways, but I went poking along over rough ground for
a quarter of a mile or more, and then I run across a big old-fashioned double log-house before I noticed it. I
was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and I
knowed better than to move another peg.
CHAPTER XVI. 61
CHAPTER XVII.
IN about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head out, and says:
"Be done, boys! Who's there?"
I says:
"It's me."
"Who's me?"
"George Jackson, sir."
"What do you want?"
"I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs won't let me."
"What are you prowling around here this time of night for--hey?"
"I warn't prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat."
"Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody. What did you say your name was?"
"George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy."
"Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid--nobody'll hurt you. But don't try to budge; stand
right where you are. Rouse out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George Jackson, is there
anybody with you?"
"No, sir, nobody."
I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light. The man sung out:
"Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool--ain't you got any sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door.
Bob, if you and Tom are ready, take your places."
"All ready."
"Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?"
"No, sir; I never heard of them."
"Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all ready. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind, don't you
hurry--come mighty slow. If there's anybody with you, let him keep back--if he shows himself he'll be shot.
Come along now. Come slow; push the door open yourself--just enough to squeeze in, d' you hear?"
I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a wanted to. I took one slow step at a time and there warn't a sound, only I
thought I could hear my heart. The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me.
When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on
the door and pushed it a little and a little more till somebody said, "There, that's enough--put your head in." I
done it, but I judged they would take it off.
CHAPTER XVII. 62
The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a
minute: Three big men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and about
sixty, the other two thirty or more--all of them fine and handsome --and the sweetest old gray-headed lady,
and back of her two young women which I couldn't see right well. The old gentleman says:
"There; I reckon it's all right. Come in."
As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and bolted it, and told the young men
to come in with their guns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got
together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows --there warn't none on the side. They held
the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, "Why, HE ain't a Shepherdson--no, there ain't any
Shepherdson about him." Then the old man said he hoped I wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because
he didn't mean no harm by it--it was only to make sure. So he didn't pry into my pockets, but only felt outside
with his hands, and said it was all right. He told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about
myself; but the old lady says:
"Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don't you reckon it may be he's hungry?"
"True for you, Rachel--I forgot."
So the old lady says:
"Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him something to eat as quick as you can, poor
thing; and one of you girls go and wake up Buck and tell him--oh, here he is himself. Buck, take this little
stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of yours that's dry."
Buck looked about as old as me--thirteen or fourteen or along there, though he was a little bigger than me. He
hadn't on anything but a shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and digging one fist into
his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other one. He says:
"Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?"
They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.
"Well," he says, "if they'd a ben some, I reckon I'd a got one."
They all laughed, and Bob says:
"Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow in coming."
"Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right I'm always kept down; I don't get no show."
"Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show enough, all in good time, don't you fret
about that. Go 'long with you now, and do as your mother told you."
When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his, and I put them
on. While I was at it he asked me what my name was, but before I could tell him he started to tell me about a
bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses
was when the candle went out. I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it before, no way.
"Well, guess," he says.
CHAPTER XVII. 63
"How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never heard tell of it before?"
"But you can guess, can't you? It's just as easy."
"WHICH candle?" I says.
"Why, any candle," he says.
"I don't know where he was," says I; "where was he?"
"Why, he was in the DARK! That's where he was!"
"Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?"
"Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say, how long are you going to stay here? You got to stay always.
We can just have booming times--they don't have no school now. Do you own a dog? I've got a dog--and he'll
go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in. Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of
foolishness? You bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole britches! I reckon I'd better put 'em
on, but I'd ruther not, it's so warm. Are you all ready? All right. Come along, old hoss."
Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk--that is what they had for me down there, and there ain't
nothing better that ever I've come across yet. Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except the
nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women. They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked.
The young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs. They all asked me questions, and I
told them how pap and me and all the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw, and
my sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and Bill went to hunt them and
he warn't heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap left,
and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died I took what there was
left, because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that
was how I come to be here. So they said I could have a home there as long as I wanted it. Then it was most
daylight and everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the morning, drat it
all, I had forgot what my name was. So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and when Buck waked up I
says:
"Can you spell, Buck?"
"Yes," he says.
"I bet you can't spell my name," says I.
"I bet you what you dare I can," says he.
"All right," says I, "go ahead."
"G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n--there now," he says.
"Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think you could. It ain't no slouch of a name to spell--right off without
studying."
I set it down, private, because somebody might want ME to spell it next, and so I wanted to be handy with it
and rattle it off like I was used to it.
CHAPTER XVII. 64
It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. I hadn't seen no house out in the country before that
was so nice and had so much style. It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a
buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a
sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. There was a big fireplace that was bricked on
the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another
brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-brown, same as they do in
town. They had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. There was a clock on the middle of the
mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front, and a round place in the
middle of it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. It was beautiful to hear that clock
tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape,
she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out. They wouldn't took any money
for her.
Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made out of something like chalk, and
painted up gaudy. By one of the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other; and
when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't open their mouths nor look different nor interested.
They squeaked through underneath. There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind those
things. On the table in the middle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and
oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower and prettier than real ones
is, but they warn't real because you could see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or
whatever it was, underneath.
This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a
painted border all around. It come all the way from Philadelphia, they said. There was some books, too, piled
up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. One was a big family Bible full of pictures. One was Pilgrim's
Progress, about a man that left his family, it didn't say why. I read considerable in it now and then. The
statements was interesting, but tough. Another was Friendship's Offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry;
but I didn't read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and another was Dr. Gunn's Family
Medicine, which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead. There was a hymn book, and a lot
of other books. And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too--not bagged down in the
middle and busted, like an old basket.
They had pictures hung on the walls--mainly Washingtons and Lafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys,
and one called "Signing the Declaration." There was some that they called crayons, which one of the
daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years old. They was different from
any pictures I ever see before --blacker, mostly, than is common. One was a woman in a slim black dress,
belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black
scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee
black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping
willow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and
underneath the picture it said "Shall I Never See Thee More Alas." Another one was a young lady with her
hair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and
she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up,
and underneath the picture it said "I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There was one where a
young lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open
letter in one hand with black sealing wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a
chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it said "And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone
Alas." These was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever I was
down a little they always give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot
more of these pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost. But I reckoned
that with her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard. She was at work on what they said was
her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live
CHAPTER XVII. 65
till she got it done, but she never got the chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown,
standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the
moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and two arms
stretched out in front, and two more reaching up towards the moon--and the idea was to see which pair would
look best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying, she died before she got her mind made
up, and now they kept this picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come
they hung flowers on it. Other times it was hid with a little curtain. The young woman in the picture had a
kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me.
This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of
patient suffering in it out of the Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head. It was
very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a
well and was drownded:
ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D
And did young Stephen sicken, And did young Stephen die? And did the sad hearts thicken, And did the
mourners cry?
No; such was not the fate of Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though sad hearts round him thickened, 'Twas not
from sickness' shots.
No whooping-cough did rack his frame, Nor measles drear with spots; Not these impaired the sacred name Of
Stephen Dowling Bots.
Despised love struck not with woe That head of curly knots, Nor stomach troubles laid him low, Young
Stephen Dowling Bots.
O no. Then list with tearful eye, Whilst I his fate do tell. His soul did from this cold world fly By falling down
a well.
They got him out and emptied him; Alas it was too late; His spirit was gone for to sport aloft In the realms of
the good and great.
If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she
could a done by and by. Buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't ever have to stop to
think. He said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just
scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she could write about anything
you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child
died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. She called them tributes. The neighbors said
it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline
but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler. She warn't ever
the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long. Poor thing, many's
the time I made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and
read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured on her a little. I liked all that family,
dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry about all
the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her
now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I couldn't seem to make it go somehow.
They kept Emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them
when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The old lady took care of the room herself, though there was
plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there mostly.
CHAPTER XVII. 66
Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on the windows: white, with pictures
painted on them of castles with vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was a little
old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing
"The Last Link is Broken" and play "The Battle of Prague" on it. The walls of all the rooms was plastered, and
most had carpets on the floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside.
It was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofed and floored, and sometimes the table
was set there in the middle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't be better. And
warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too!
CHAPTER XVII. 67
CHAPTER XVIII.
COL. GRANGERFORD was a gentleman, you see. He was a gentleman all over; and so was his family. He
was well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the Widow Douglas
said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too,
though he warn't no more quality than a mudcat himself. Col. Grangerford was very tall and very slim, and
had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of red in it anywheres; he was clean shaved every morning all over
his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy
eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of
caverns at you, as you may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was black and straight and hung to his
shoulders. His hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from
head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat
with brass buttons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. There warn't no frivolishness
about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. He was as kind as he could be--you could feel that, you know,
and so you had confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he straightened himself up
like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree
first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. He didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners
--everybody was always good-mannered where he was. Everybody loved to have him around, too; he was
sunshine most always--I mean he made it seem like good weather. When he turned into a cloudbank it was
awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week.
When him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of their chairs and give them
good-day, and didn't set down again till they had set down. Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard where
the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till
Tom's and Bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, "Our duty to you, sir, and madam;" and THEY
bowed the least bit in the world and said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured a
spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and
give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the old people too.
Bob was the oldest and Tom next--tall, beautiful men with very broad shoulders and brown faces, and long
black hair and black eyes. They dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore
broad Panama hats.
Then there was Miss Charlotte; she was twenty-five, and tall and proud and grand, but as good as she could be
when she warn't stirred up; but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in your tracks, like her
father. She was beautiful.
So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was a different kind. She was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was
only twenty.
Each person had their own nigger to wait on them--Buck too. My nigger had a monstrous easy time, because I
warn't used to having anybody do anything for me, but Buck's was on the jump most of the time.
This was all there was of the family now, but there used to be more --three sons; they got killed; and
Emmeline that died.
The old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred niggers. Sometimes a stack of people would come
there, horseback, from ten or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings round
about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods daytimes, and balls at the house nights. These
people was mostly kinfolks of the family. The men brought their guns with them. It was a handsome lot of
quality, I tell you.
CHAPTER XVIII. 68
There was another clan of aristocracy around there--five or six families --mostly of the name of Shepherdson.
They was as high-toned and well born and rich and grand as the tribe of Grangerfords. The Shepherdsons and
Grangerfords used the same steamboat landing, which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes
when I went up there with a lot of our folks I used to see a lot of the Shepherdsons there on their fine horses.
One day Buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and heard a horse coming. We was crossing the
road. Buck says:
"Quick! Jump for the woods!"
We done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves. Pretty soon a splendid young man come
galloping down the road, setting his horse easy and looking like a soldier. He had his gun across his pommel. I
had seen him before. It was young Harney Shepherdson. I heard Buck's gun go off at my ear, and Harney's hat
tumbled off from his head. He grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid. But we didn't
wait. We started through the woods on a run. The woods warn't thick, so I looked over my shoulder to dodge
the bullet, and twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his gun; and then he rode away the way he come--to get
his hat, I reckon, but I couldn't see. We never stopped running till we got home. The old gentleman's eyes
blazed a minute--'twas pleasure, mainly, I judged--then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kind of
gentle:
"I don't like that shooting from behind a bush. Why didn't you step into the road, my boy?"
"The Shepherdsons don't, father. They always take advantage."
Miss Charlotte she held her head up like a queen while Buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils spread and
her eyes snapped. The two young men looked dark, but never said nothing. Miss Sophia she turned pale, but
the color come back when she found the man warn't hurt.
Soon as I could get Buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves, I says:
"Did you want to kill him, Buck?"
"Well, I bet I did."
"What did he do to you?"
"Him? He never done nothing to me."
"Well, then, what did you want to kill him for?"
"Why, nothing--only it's on account of the feud."
"What's a feud?"
"Why, where was you raised? Don't you know what a feud is?"
"Never heard of it before--tell me about it."
"Well," says Buck, "a feud is this way: A man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other
man's brother kills HIM; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the COUSINS chip
in--and by and by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. But it's kind of slow, and takes a long
time."
CHAPTER XVIII. 69
"Has this one been going on long, Buck?"
"Well, I should RECKON! It started thirty year ago, or som'ers along there. There was trouble 'bout
something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man
that won the suit--which he would naturally do, of course. Anybody would."
"What was the trouble about, Buck?--land?"
"I reckon maybe--I don't know."
"Well, who done the shooting? Was it a Grangerford or a Shepherdson?"
"Laws, how do I know? It was so long ago."
"Don't anybody know?"
"Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was
about in the first place."
"Has there been many killed, Buck?"
"Yes; right smart chance of funerals. But they don't always kill. Pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't
mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much, anyway. Bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's been hurt
once or twice."
"Has anybody been killed this year, Buck?"
"Yes; we got one and they got one. 'Bout three months ago my cousin Bud, fourteen year old, was riding
through the woods on t'other side of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame'
foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-coming behind him, and sees old Baldy Shepherdson
a-linkin' after him with his gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead of jumping off
and taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could out-run him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more,
the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last Bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped and faced around so as
to have the bullet holes in front, you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down. But he didn't git
much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid HIM out."
"I reckon that old man was a coward, Buck."
"I reckon he WARN'T a coward. Not by a blame' sight. There ain't a coward amongst them Shepherdsons--not
a one. And there ain't no cowards amongst the Grangerfords either. Why, that old man kep' up his end in a
fight one day for half an hour against three Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was all a-horseback; he
lit off of his horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kep' his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the
Grangerfords stayed on their horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he
peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the Grangerfords
had to be FETCHED home--and one of 'em was dead, and another died the next day. No, sir; if a body's out
hunting for cowards he don't want to fool away any time amongst them Shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed
any of that KIND."
Next Sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. The men took their guns along,
so did Buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. The Shepherdsons done
the same. It was pretty ornery preaching--all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody
said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about
CHAPTER XVIII. 70
faith and good works and free grace and preforeordestination, and I don't know what all, that it did seem to me
to be one of the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.
About an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms, and it
got to be pretty dull. Buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. I went up to our
room, and judged I would take a nap myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia standing in her door, which was
next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me if I liked her, and I said I
did; and she asked me if I would do something for her and not tell anybody, and I said I would. Then she said
she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the seat at church between two other books, and would I slip out quiet
and go there and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. I said I would. So I slid out and slipped off up
the road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on the
door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's cool. If you notice, most folks don't go to
church only when they've got to; but a hog is different.
Says I to myself, something's up; it ain't natural for a girl to be in such a sweat about a Testament. So I give it
a shake, and out drops a little piece of paper with "HALF-PAST TWO" wrote on it with a pencil. I ransacked
it, but couldn't find anything else. I couldn't make anything out of that, so I put the paper in the book again,
and when I got home and upstairs there was Miss Sophia in her door waiting for me. She pulled me in and
shut the door; then she looked in the Testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she looked
glad; and before a body could think she grabbed me and give me a squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the
world, and not to tell anybody. She was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it
made her powerful pretty. I was a good deal astonished, but when I got my breath I asked her what the paper
was about, and she asked me if I had read it, and I said no, and she asked me if I could read writing, and I told
her "no, only coarse-hand," and then she said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her place,
and I might go and play now.
I went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon I noticed that my nigger was following
along behind. When we was out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second, and then comes
a-running, and says:
"Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp I'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins."
Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. He oughter know a body don't love water-moccasins
enough to go around hunting for them. What is he up to, anyway? So I says:
"All right; trot ahead."
I followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and waded ankle deep as much as another
half-mile. We come to a little flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines,
and he says:
"You shove right in dah jist a few steps, Mars Jawge; dah's whah dey is. I's seed 'm befo'; I don't k'yer to see
'em no mo'."
Then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hid him. I poked into the place a-ways
and come to a little open patch as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man laying there
asleep--and, by jings, it was my old Jim!
I waked him up, and I reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to see me again, but it warn't. He
nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn't surprised. Said he swum along behind me that night, and heard me
yell every time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't want nobody to pick HIM up and take him into slavery
again. Says he:
CHAPTER XVIII. 71
"I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so I wuz a considable ways behine you towards de las'; when you
landed I reck'ned I could ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when I see dat house I
begin to go slow. I 'uz off too fur to hear what dey say to you--I wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet
agin I knowed you's in de house, so I struck out for de woods to wait for day. Early in de mawnin' some er de
niggers come along, gwyne to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't track me
on accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how you's a-gitt'n along."
"Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me here sooner, Jim?"
"Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck, tell we could do sumfn--but we's all right now. I ben a-buyin' pots
en pans en vittles, as I got a chanst, en a-patchin' up de raf' nights when--"
"WHAT raft, Jim?"
"Our ole raf'."
"You mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?"
"No, she warn't. She was tore up a good deal--one en' of her was; but dey warn't no great harm done, on'y our
traps was mos' all los'. Ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn' ben so dark,
en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. But it's jis' as well we
didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up agin mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot o' stuff, in de place o' what
'uz los'."
"Why, how did you get hold of the raft again, Jim--did you catch her?"
"How I gwyne to ketch her en I out in de woods? No; some er de niggers foun' her ketched on a snag along
heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un 'um
she b'long to de mos' dat I come to heah 'bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she
don't b'long to none uv um, but to you en me; en I ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman's
propaty, en git a hid'n for it? Den I gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo'
raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich agin. Dey's mighty good to me, dese niggers is, en whatever I wants 'm
to do fur me I doan' have to ast 'm twice, honey. Dat Jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart."
"Yes, he is. He ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins.
If anything happens HE ain't mixed up in it. He can say he never seen us together, and it 'll be the truth."
I don't want to talk much about the next day. I reckon I'll cut it pretty short. I waked up about dawn, and was
a-going to turn over and go to sleep again when I noticed how still it was--didn't seem to be anybody stirring.
That warn't usual. Next I noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well, I gets up, a-wondering, and goes down
stairs--nobody around; everything as still as a mouse. Just the same outside. Thinks I, what does it mean?
Down by the wood-pile I comes across my Jack, and says:
"What's it all about?"
Says he:
"Don't you know, Mars Jawge?"
"No," says I, "I don't."
"Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed she has. She run off in de night some time--nobody don't know jis'
CHAPTER XVIII. 72
when; run off to get married to dat young Harney Shepherdson, you know--leastways, so dey 'spec. De fambly
foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago--maybe a little mo'--en' I TELL you dey warn't no time los'. Sich another
hurryin' up guns en hosses YOU never see! De women folks has gone for to stir up de relations, en ole Mars
Saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin
git acrost de river wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty rough times."
"Buck went off 'thout waking me up."
"Well, I reck'n he DID! Dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it. Mars Buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's
gwyne to fetch home a Shepherdson or bust. Well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en you bet you he'll
fetch one ef he gits a chanst."
I took up the river road as hard as I could put. By and by I begin to hear guns a good ways off. When I cOme
in sight of the log store and the woodpile where the steamboats lands I worked along under the trees and brush
till I got to a good place, and then I clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and
watched. There was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree, and first I was going to hide
behind that; but maybe it was luckier I didn't.
There was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open place before the log store, cussing
and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the
steamboat landing; but they couldn't come it. Every time one of them showed himself on the river side of the
woodpile he got shot at. The two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they could watch both
ways.
By and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. They started riding towards the store; then up gets
one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. All the men
jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store; and that minute the
two boys started on the run. They got half way to the tree I was in before the men noticed. Then the men see
them, and jumped on their horses and took out after them. They gained on the boys, but it didn't do no good,
the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in front of my tree, and slipped in behind it,
and so they had the bulge on the men again. One of the boys was Buck, and the other was a slim young chap
about nineteen years old.
The men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. As soon as they was out of sight I sung out to Buck and
told him. He didn't know what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. He was awful surprised. He
told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again; said they was up to some
devilment or other --wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out of that tree, but I dasn't come down. Buck
begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his cousin Joe (that was the other young chap) would make up
for this day yet. He said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three of the enemy. Said the
Shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. Buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their
relations--the Shepherdsons was too strong for them. I asked him what was become of young Harney and
Miss Sophia. He said they'd got across the river and was safe. I was glad of that; but the way Buck did take on
because he didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot at him--I hain't ever heard anything like it.
All of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns--the men had slipped around through the woods
and come in from behind without their horses! The boys jumped for the river--both of them hurt--and as they
swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting at them and singing out, "Kill them, kill them!"
It made me so sick I most fell out of the tree. I ain't a-going to tell ALL that happened--it would make me sick
again if I was to do that. I wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. I ain't ever going to
get shut of them--lots of times I dream about them.
I stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. Sometimes I heard guns away off in the
CHAPTER XVIII. 73
woods; and twice I seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so I reckoned the trouble was
still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted; so I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go anear that house again,
because I reckoned I was to blame, somehow. I judged that that piece of paper meant that Miss Sophia was to
meet Harney somewheres at half-past two and run off; and I judged I ought to told her father about that paper
and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn't ever
happened.
When I got down out of the tree I crept along down the river bank a piece, and found the two bodies laying in
the edge of the water, and tugged at them till I got them ashore; then I covered up their faces, and got away as
quick as I could. I cried a little when I was covering up Buck's face, for he was mighty good to me.
It was just dark now. I never went near the house, but struck through the woods and made for the swamp. Jim
warn't on his island, so I tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to
jump aboard and get out of that awful country. The raft was gone! My souls, but I was scared! I couldn't get
my breath for most a minute. Then I raised a yell. A voice not twenty-five foot from me says:
"Good lan'! is dat you, honey? Doan' make no noise."
It was Jim's voice--nothing ever sounded so good before. I run along the bank a piece and got aboard, and Jim
he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so glad to see me. He says:
"Laws bless you, chile, I 'uz right down sho' you's dead agin. Jack's been heah; he say he reck'n you's ben
shot, kase you didn' come home no mo'; so I's jes' dis minute a startin' de raf' down towards de mouf er de
crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as Jack comes agin en tells me for certain you IS
dead. Lawsy, I's mighty glad to git you back again, honey."
I says:
"All right--that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll think I've been killed, and floated down the
river--there's something up there that 'll help them think so--so don't you lose no time, Jim, but just shove off
for the big water as fast as ever you can."
I never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle of the Mississippi. Then we hung
up our signal lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. I hadn't had a bite to eat since
yesterday, so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and greens--there ain't
nothing in the world so good when it's cooked right--and whilst I eat my supper we talked and had a good
time. I was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from the swamp. We said
there warn't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't.
You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.
CHAPTER XVIII. 74
CHAPTER XIX.
TWO or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet and
smooth and lovely. Here is the way we put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there--sometimes a
mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped
navigating and tied up--nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods
and willows, and hid the raft with them. Then we set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim,
so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep,
and watched the daylight come. Not a sound anywheres--perfectly still --just like the whole world was asleep,
only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a
kind of dull line--that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in
the sky; then more paleness spreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any more,
but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away--trading scows, and such things; and
long black streaks --rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up voices, it was so still,
and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the
streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and
you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log-cabin
in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by
them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning
you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but
sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty
rank; and next you've got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it!
A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot
breakfast. And afterwards we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and
by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing
along up-stream, so far off towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was a
stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see--just
solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping,
because they're most always doing it on a raft; you'd see the axe flash and come down --you don't hear
nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by the time it's above the man's head then you hear the
K'CHUNK!--it had took all that time to come over the water. So we would put in the day, lazying around,
listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans
so the steamboats wouldn't run over them. A scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking and
cussing and laughing--heard them plain; but we couldn't see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was
like spirits carrying on that way in the air. Jim said he believed it was spirits; but I says:
"No; spirits wouldn't say, 'Dern the dern fog.'"
Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let her float
wherever the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and talked about
all kinds of things--we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us--the new
clothes Buck's folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn't go much on clothes,
nohow.
Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was the banks and the
islands, across the water; and maybe a spark--which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the
water you could see a spark or two--on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a
song coming over from one of them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled
with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or
only just happened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took
too long to MAKE so many. Jim said the moon could a LAID them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I
CHAPTER XIX. 75
didn't say nothing against it, because I've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. We used
to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of
the nest.
Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would
belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful
pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the
river still again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a
bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something.
After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or three hours the shores was black--no
more sparks in the cabin windows. These sparks was our clock--the first one that showed again meant
morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right away.
One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over a chute to the main shore--it was only two
hundred yards--and paddled about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't get some
berries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind of a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men
tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for whenever anybody was after
anybody I judged it was ME--or maybe Jim. I was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty
close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives--said they hadn't been doing nothing, and
was being chased for it--said there was men and dogs a-coming. They wanted to jump right in, but I says:
"Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got time to crowd through the brush and get up
the crick a little ways; then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in--that'll throw the dogs off
the scent."
They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out for our towhead, and in about five or ten minutes we heard
the dogs and the men away off, shouting. We heard them come along towards the crick, but couldn't see them;
they seemed to stop and fool around a while; then, as we got further and further away all the time, we couldn't
hardly hear them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and struck the river, everything was
quiet, and we paddled over to the towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe.
One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. He had an
old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into
his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses--no, he only had one. He had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with
slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags.
The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. After breakfast we all laid off and talked, and
the first thing that come out was that these chaps didn't know one another.
"What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap.
"Well, I'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth--and it does take it off, too, and generly the
enamel along with it--but I stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out
when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help
you to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out WITH you. That's the
whole yarn--what's yourn?
"Well, I'd ben a-running' a little temperance revival thar 'bout a week, and was the pet of the women folks, big
and little, for I was makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, I TELL you, and takin' as much as five or six
dollars a night--ten cents a head, children and niggers free--and business a-growin' all the time, when
somehow or another a little report got around last night that I had a way of puttin' in my time with a private
CHAPTER XIX. 76
jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this mornin', and told me the people was getherin' on the quiet with
their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me
down if they could; and if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn't wait for no
breakfast--I warn't hungry."
"Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we might double-team it together; what do you think?"
"I ain't undisposed. What's your line--mainly?"
"Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor --tragedy, you know; take a turn to
mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a
lecture sometimes--oh, I do lots of things--most anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. What's your lay?"
"I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin' on o' hands is my best holt--for cancer and
paralysis, and sich things; and I k'n tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along to find out the
facts for me. Preachin's my line, too, and workin' camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around."
Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says:
"Alas!"
"What 're you alassin' about?" says the bald-head.
"To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company." And he
begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag.
"Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
"Yes, it IS good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so high? I did
myself. I don't blame YOU, gentlemen--far from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it all. Let the cold world
do its worst; one thing I know--there's a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it's always
done, and take everything from me--loved ones, property, everything; but it can't take that. Some day I'll lie
down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest." He went on a-wiping.
"Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you heaving your pore broken heart at US f'r?
WE hain't done nothing."
"No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you, gentlemen. I brought myself down--yes, I did it myself. It's right
I should suffer--perfectly right--I don't make any moan."
"Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?"
"Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes--let it pass --'tis no matter. The secret of my birth--"
"The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say--"
"Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in
you. By rights I am a duke!"
Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says: "No! you can't
mean it?"
CHAPTER XIX. 77
"Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the
last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying
about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates--the infant real duke was
ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infant--I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I,
forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and
degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!"
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't
be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most
anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him,
and say "Your Grace," or "My Lord," or "Your Lordship"--and he wouldn't mind it if we called him plain
"Bridgewater," which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at
dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and says, "Will
yo' Grace have some o' dis or some o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him.
But the old man got pretty silent by and by--didn't have much to say, and didn't look pretty comfortable over
all that petting that was going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind. So, along in
the afternoon, he says:
"Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's had troubles
like that."
"No?"
"No you ain't. You ain't the only person that's ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a high place."
"Alas!"
"No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth." And, by jings, HE begins to cry.
"Hold! What do you mean?"
"Bilgewater, kin I trust you?" says the old man, still sort of sobbing.
"To the bitter death!" He took the old man by the hand and squeezed it, and says, "That secret of your being:
speak!"
"Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!"
You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says:
"You are what?"
"Yes, my friend, it is too true--your eyes is lookin' at this very moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin,
Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette."
"You! At your age! No! You mean you're the late Charlemagne; you must be six or seven hundred years old,
at the very least."
"Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature
CHAPTER XIX. 78
balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, trampled-on,
and sufferin' rightful King of France."
Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn't know hardly what to do, we was so sorry--and so glad
and proud we'd got him with us, too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort
HIM. But he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be dead and done with it all could do him any good; though
he said it often made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him according to his rights, and
got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him "Your Majesty," and waited on him first at
meals, and didn't set down in his presence till he asked them. So Jim and me set to majestying him, and doing
this and that and t'other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set down. This done him heaps of
good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn't look a bit
satisfied with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke's
great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by HIS father, and was
allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by the king
says:
"Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yer raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use o'
your bein' sour? It 'll only make things oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a duke, it ain't your fault
you warn't born a king--so what's the use to worry? Make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says I--that's
my motto. This ain't no bad thing that we've struck here--plenty grub and an easy life--come, give us your
hand, duke, and le's all be friends."
The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took away all the uncomfortableness and we felt
mighty good over it, because it would a been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the raft; for
what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the
others.
It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't no kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down
humbugs and frauds. But I never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best way; then you don't
have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble. If they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn't no
objections, 'long as it would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to tell Jim, so I didn't tell him. If I
never learnt nothing else out of pap, I learnt that the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let
them have their own way.
CHAPTER XIX. 79
CHAPTER XX.
THEY asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we covered up the raft that way for, and
laid by in the daytime instead of running --was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I:
"Goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run SOUTH?"
No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account for things some way, so I says:
"My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri, where I was born, and they all died off but me and pa and
my brother Ike. Pa, he 'lowed he'd break up and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's got a little one-horse
place on the river, forty-four mile below Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd
squared up there warn't nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, Jim. That warn't enough to take us
fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no other way. Well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one
day; he ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to Orleans on it. Pa's luck didn't hold out; a
steamboat run over the forrard corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove under the
wheel; Jim and me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was only four years old, so they never come
up no more. Well, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because people was always coming
out in skiffs and trying to take Jim away from me, saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. We don't
run daytimes no more now; nights they don't bother us."
The duke says:
"Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime if we want to. I'll think the thing over--I'll
invent a plan that'll fix it. We'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to go by that town
yonder in daylight--it mightn't be healthy."
Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat lightning was squirting around low down in
the sky, and the leaves was beginning to shiver--it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that. So the
duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwam, to see what the beds was like. My bed was a straw tick
better than Jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around about in a shuck tick, and they poke
into you and hurt; and when you roll over the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of dead
leaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke allowed he would take my bed; but the king
allowed he wouldn't. He says:
"I should a reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for
me to sleep on. Your Grace 'll take the shuck bed yourself."
Jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there was going to be some more trouble amongst
them; so we was pretty glad when the duke says:
"'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel of oppression. Misfortune has broken my
once haughty spirit; I yield, I submit; 'tis my fate. I am alone in the world--let me suffer; can bear it."
We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us to stand well out towards the middle of the
river, and not show a light till we got a long ways below the town. We come in sight of the little bunch of
lights by and by--that was the town, you know--and slid by, about a half a mile out, all right. When we was
three-quarters of a mile below we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it come on to rain and
blow and thunder and lighten like everything; so the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got
better; then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night. It was my watch below till
twelve, but I wouldn't a turned in anyway if I'd had a bed, because a body don't see such a storm as that every
day in the week, not by a long sight. My souls, how the wind did scream along! And every second or two
CHAPTER XX. 80
there'd come a glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the islands looking dusty
through the rain, and the trees thrashing around in the wind; then comes a H-WHACK!--bum! bum!
bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum--and the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling away, and
quit--and then RIP comes another flash and another sockdolager. The waves most washed me off the raft
sometimes, but I hadn't any clothes on, and didn't mind. We didn't have no trouble about snags; the lightning
was glaring and flittering around so constant that we could see them plenty soon enough to throw her head
this way or that and miss them.
I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by that time, so Jim he said he would stand the first
half of it for me; he was always mighty good that way, Jim was. I crawled into the wigwam, but the king and
the duke had their legs sprawled around so there warn't no show for me; so I laid outside--I didn't mind the
rain, because it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high now. About two they come up again, though,
and Jim was going to call me; but he changed his mind, because he reckoned they warn't high enough yet to
do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular ripper and
washed me overboard. It most killed Jim a-laughing. He was the easiest nigger to laugh that ever was,
anyway.
I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away; and by and by the storm let up for good and all; and
the first cabin-light that showed I rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding quarters for the day.
The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up a while, five
cents a game. Then they got tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as they called it. The
duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. One bill
said, "The celebrated Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris," would "lecture on the Science of Phrenology" at
such and such a place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission, and "furnish charts of character at
twenty-five cents apiece." The duke said that was HIM. In another bill he was the "world-renowned
Shakespearian tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane, London." In other bills he had a lot of other
names and done other wonderful things, like finding water and gold with a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch
spells," and so on. By and by he says:
"But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod the boards, Royalty?"
"No," says the king.
"You shall, then, before you're three days older, Fallen Grandeur," says the duke. "The first good town we
come to we'll hire a hall and do the sword fight in Richard III. and the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet.
How does that strike you?"
"I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater; but, you see, I don't know nothing about
play-actin', and hain't ever seen much of it. I was too small when pap used to have 'em at the palace. Do you
reckon you can learn me?"
"Easy!"
"All right. I'm jist a-freezn' for something fresh, anyway. Le's commence right away."
So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet was, and said he was used to being Romeo,
so the king could be Juliet.
"But if Juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my white whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd
on her, maybe."
CHAPTER XX. 81
"No, don't you worry; these country jakes won't ever think of that. Besides, you know, you'll be in costume,
and that makes all the difference in the world; Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight before she goes to
bed, and she's got on her night-gown and her ruffled nightcap. Here are the costumes for the parts."
He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was meedyevil armor for Richard III. and t'other
chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. The king was satisfied; so the duke
got out his book and read the parts over in the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at
the same time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give the book to the king and told him to get his
part by heart.
There was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend, and after dinner the duke said he had
ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for Jim; so he allowed he
would go down to the town and fix that thing. The king allowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike
something. We was out of coffee, so Jim said I better go along with them in the canoe and get some.
When we got there there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty, and perfectly dead and still, like Sunday. We
found a sick nigger sunning himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too young or too sick or
too old was gone to camp-meeting, about two mile back in the woods. The king got the directions, and
allowed he'd go and work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might go, too.
The duke said what he was after was a printing-office. We found it; a little bit of a concern, up over a
carpenter shop--carpenters and printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty, littered-up
place, and had ink marks, and handbills with pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them, all over the
walls. The duke shed his coat and said he was all right now. So me and the king lit out for the camp-meeting.
We got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was a most awful hot day. There was as much as a
thousand people there from twenty mile around. The woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched
everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping to keep off the flies. There was sheds made out
of poles and roofed over with branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell, and piles of
watermelons and green corn and such-like truck.
The preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of people.
The benches was made out of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for
legs. They didn't have no backs. The preachers had high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. The
women had on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones, and a few of the young
ones had on calico. Some of the young men was barefooted, and some of the children didn't have on any
clothes but just a tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, and some of the young folks was
courting on the sly.
The first shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. He lined out two lines, everybody sung it, and
it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a rousing way; then he
lined out two more for them to sing--and so on. The people woke up more and more, and sung louder and
louder; and towards the end some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. Then the preacher begun to
preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving first to one side of the platform and then the other, and
then a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, and shouting his words
out with all his might; and every now and then he would hold up his Bible and spread it open, and kind of
pass it around this way and that, shouting, "It's the brazen serpent in the wilderness! Look upon it and live!"
And people would shout out, "Glory!--A-a-MEN!" And so he went on, and the people groaning and crying
and saying amen:
"Oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black with sin! (AMEN!) come, sick and sore! (AMEN!) come,
lame and halt and blind! (AMEN!) come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (A-A-MEN!) come, all that's worn
CHAPTER XX. 82
and soiled and suffering!--come with a broken spirit! come with a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin
and dirt! the waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open--oh, enter in and be at rest!"
(A-A-MEN! GLORY, GLORY HALLELUJAH!)
And so on. You couldn't make out what the preacher said any more, on account of the shouting and crying.
Folks got up everywheres in the crowd, and worked their way just by main strength to the mourners' bench,
with the tears running down their faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a
crowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy and wild.
Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear him over everybody; and next he went
a-charging up on to the platform, and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. He
told them he was a pirate--been a pirate for thirty years out in the Indian Ocean--and his crew was thinned out
considerable last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh men, and thanks to goodness
he'd been robbed last night and put ashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was the
blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a changed man now, and happy for the first time
in his life; and, poor as he was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to the Indian Ocean, and
put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else,
being acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would take him a long time to get there
without money, he would get there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him, "Don't
you thank me, don't you give me no credit; it all belongs to them dear people in Pokeville camp-meeting,
natural brothers and benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate ever had!"
And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. Then somebody sings out, "Take up a collection for him,
take up a collection!" Well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, "Let HIM pass the
hat around!" Then everybody said it, the preacher too.
So the king went all through the crowd with his hat swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people and praising
them and thanking them for being so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little while the
prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss
him for to remember him by; and he always done it; and some of them he hugged and kissed as many as five
or six times--and he was invited to stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said
they'd think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good,
and besides he was in a sweat to get to the Indian Ocean right off and go to work on the pirates.
When we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars and
seventy-five cents. And then he had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found under a
wagon when he was starting home through the woods. The king said, take it all around, it laid over any day
he'd ever put in in the missionarying line. He said it warn't no use talking, heathens don't amount to shucks
alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting with.
The duke was thinking HE'D been doing pretty well till the king come to show up, but after that he didn't
think so so much. He had set up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office--horse
bills--and took the money, four dollars. And he had got in ten dollars' worth of advertisements for the paper,
which he said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance--so they done it. The price of the
paper was two dollars a year, but he took in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of them
paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual, but he said he had just
bought the concern and knocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash.
He set up a little piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own head--three verses--kind of sweet
and saddish--the name of it was, "Yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart"--and he left that all set up and
ready to print in the paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. Well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and said
he'd done a pretty square day's work for it.
CHAPTER XX. 83
Then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged for, because it was for us. It had a picture
of a runaway nigger with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and "$200 reward" under it. The reading was
all about Jim, and just described him to a dot. It said he run away from St. Jacques' plantation, forty mile
below New Orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch him and send him back he
could have the reward and expenses.
"Now," says the duke, "after to-night we can run in the daytime if we want to. Whenever we see anybody
coming we can tie Jim hand and foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say
we captured him up the river, and were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit
from our friends and are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and chains would look still better on Jim,
but it wouldn't go well with the story of us being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are the correct
thing--we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards."
We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes. We judged we
could make miles enough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke's work in the
printing office was going to make in that little town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to.
We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from
the town, and didn't hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it.
When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he says:
"Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on dis trip?"
"No," I says, "I reckon not."
"Well," says he, "dat's all right, den. I doan' mine one er two kings, but dat's enough. Dis one's powerful
drunk, en de duke ain' much better."
I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French, so he could hear what it was like; but he said he had
been in this country so long, and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it.
CHAPTER XX. 84
CHAPTER XXI.
IT was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn't tie up. The king and the duke turned out by and by
looking pretty rusty; but after they'd jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered them up a good deal.
After breakfast the king he took a seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his
britches, and let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit his pipe, and went to getting his
Romeo and Juliet by heart. When he had got it pretty good him and the duke begun to practice it together. The
duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every speech; and he made him sigh, and put his hand
on his heart, and after a while he said he done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't bellow out
ROMEO! that way, like a bull--you must say it soft and sick and languishy, so--R-o-o-meo! that is the idea;
for Juliet's a dear sweet mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a jackass."
Well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke made out of oak laths, and begun to practice the
sword fight--the duke called himself Richard III.; and the way they laid on and pranced around the raft was
grand to see. But by and by the king tripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk
about all kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river.
After dinner the duke says:
"Well, Capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you know, so I guess we'll add a little more to it. We
want a little something to answer encores with, anyway."
"What's onkores, Bilgewater?"
The duke told him, and then says:
"I'll answer by doing the Highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe; and you--well, let me see--oh, I've got it--you
can do Hamlet's soliloquy."
"Hamlet's which?"
"Hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in Shakespeare. Ah, it's sublime, sublime! Always
fetches the house. I haven't got it in the book--I've only got one volume--but I reckon I can piece it out from
memory. I'll just walk up and down a minute, and see if I can call it back from recollection's vaults."
So he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible every now and then; then he would
hoist up his eyebrows; next he would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan;
next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a tear. It was beautiful to see him. By and by he got it. He told
us to give attention. Then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and his arms
stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit
his teeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around, and swelled up his chest, and
just knocked the spots out of any acting ever I see before. This is the speech--I learned it, easy enough, while
he was learning it to the king:
To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin That makes calamity of so long life; For who would fardels bear,
till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane, But that the fear of something after death Murders the innocent
sleep, Great nature's second course, And makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune Than fly to
others that we know not of. There's the respect must give us pause: Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would
thou couldst; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's
contumely, The law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take, In the dead waste and middle of the
night, when churchyards yawn In customary suits of solemn black, But that the undiscovered country from
whose bourne no traveler returns, Breathes forth contagion on the world, And thus the native hue of
CHAPTER XXI. 85
resolution, like the poor cat i' the adage, Is sicklied o'er with care, And all the clouds that lowered o'er our
housetops, With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. 'Tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished. But soft you, the fair Ophelia: Ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, But get thee to
a nunnery--go!
Well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so he could do it first-rate. It seemed like he
was just born for it; and when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way he would rip
and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it off.
The first chance we got the duke he had some showbills printed; and after that, for two or three days as we
floated along, the raft was a most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword fighting and
rehearsing--as the duke called it--going on all the time. One morning, when we was pretty well down the State
of Arkansaw, we come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up about three-quarters of a
mile above it, in the mouth of a crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but Jim
took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance in that place for our show.
We struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that afternoon, and the country people was
already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. The circus would leave
before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. The duke he hired the courthouse, and we went
around and stuck up our bills. They read like this:
Shaksperean Revival ! ! ! Wonderful Attraction! For One Night Only!
The world renowned tragedians, David Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane Theatre London, and Edmund
Kean the elder, of the Royal Haymarket Theatre, Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly, London, and the
Royal Continental Theatres, in their sublime Shaksperean Spectacle entitled
The Balcony Scene in Romeo and Juliet ! ! !
Romeo...................Mr. Garrick Juliet..................Mr. Kean
Assisted by the whole strength of the company! New costumes, new scenery, new appointments! Also: The
thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling Broad-sword conflict In Richard III. ! ! !
Richard III.............Mr. Garrick Richmond................Mr. Kean
Also: (by special request) Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy ! ! By The Illustrious Kean! Done by him 300
consecutive nights in Paris! For One Night Only, On account of imperative European engagements!
Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.
Then we went loafing around town. The stores and houses was most all old, shackly, dried up frame concerns
that hadn't ever been painted; they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach
of the water when the river was over-flowed. The houses had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem
to raise hardly anything in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash piles, and old curled-up boots
and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags, and played-out tinware. The fences was made of different kinds of
boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which way, and had gates that didn't generly have
but one hinge--a leather one. Some of the fences had been white-washed some time or another, but the duke
said it was in Clumbus' time, like enough. There was generly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out.
All the stores was along one street. They had white domestic awnings in front, and the country people hitched
their horses to the awning-posts. There was empty drygoods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting on
them all day long, whittling them with their Barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning
CHAPTER XXI. 86
and stretching--a mighty ornery lot. They generly had on yellow straw hats most as wide as an umbrella, but
didn't wear no coats nor waistcoats, they called one another Bill, and Buck, and Hank, and Joe, and Andy, and
talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cuss words. There was as many as one loafer leaning up
against every awning-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches-pockets, except when he fetched
them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. What a body was hearing amongst them all the time was:
"Gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, Hank."
"Cain't; I hain't got but one chaw left. Ask Bill."
Maybe Bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't got none. Some of them kinds of loafers
never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. They get all their chawing by borrowing;
they say to a fellow, "I wisht you'd len' me a chaw, Jack, I jist this minute give Ben Thompson the last chaw I
had"--which is a lie pretty much everytime; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but Jack ain't no stranger, so
he says:
"YOU give him a chaw, did you? So did your sister's cat's grandmother. You pay me back the chaws you've
awready borry'd off'n me, Lafe Buckner, then I'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't charge you no back
intrust, nuther."
"Well, I DID pay you back some of it wunst."
"Yes, you did--'bout six chaws. You borry'd store tobacker and paid back nigger-head."
Store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. When they borrow a
chaw they don't generly cut it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw with their
teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco
looks mournful at it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic:
"Here, gimme the CHAW, and you take the PLUG."
All the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else BUT mud --mud as black as tar and nigh about
a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in ALL the places. The hogs loafed and grunted
around everywheres. You'd see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop
herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out and shut her eyes and
wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. And pretty soon
you'd hear a loafer sing out, "Hi! SO boy! sick him, Tige!" and away the sow would go, squealing most
horrible, with a dog or two swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would
see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise.
Then they'd settle back again till there was a dog fight. There couldn't anything wake them up all over, and
make them happy all over, like a dog fight--unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire
to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death.
On the river front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent, and about
ready to tumble in, The people had moved out of them. The bank was caved away under one corner of some
others, and that corner was hanging over. People lived in them yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes
a strip of land as wide as a house caves in at a time. Sometimes a belt of land a quarter of a mile deep will
start in and cave along and cave along till it all caves into the river in one summer. Such a town as that has to
be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always gnawing at it.
The nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets, and more
coming all the time. Families fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in the wagons.
CHAPTER XXI. 87
There was considerable whisky drinking going on, and I seen three fights. By and by somebody sings out:
"Here comes old Boggs!--in from the country for his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!"
All the loafers looked glad; I reckoned they was used to having fun out of Boggs. One of them says:
"Wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time. If he'd a-chawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up
in the last twenty year he'd have considerable ruputation now."
Another one says, "I wisht old Boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then I'd know I warn't gwyne to die for a thousan'
year."
Boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an Injun, and singing out:
"Cler the track, thar. I'm on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise."
He was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year old, and had a very red face.
Everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to them
and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't wait now because he'd come to town to kill old Colonel
Sherburn, and his motto was, "Meat first, and spoon vittles to top off on."
He see me, and rode up and says:
"Whar'd you come f'm, boy? You prepared to die?"
Then he rode on. I was scared, but a man says:
"He don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin' on like that when he's drunk. He's the best naturedest old fool
in Arkansaw--never hurt nobody, drunk nor sober."
Boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head down so he could see under the curtain of
the awning and yells:
"Come out here, Sherburn! Come out and meet the man you've swindled. You're the houn' I'm after, and I'm
a-gwyne to have you, too!"
And so he went on, calling Sherburn everything he could lay his tongue to, and the whole street packed with
people listening and laughing and going on. By and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five--and he was a
heap the best dressed man in that town, too--steps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to
let him come. He says to Boggs, mighty ca'm and slow--he says:
"I'm tired of this, but I'll endure it till one o'clock. Till one o'clock, mind--no longer. If you open your mouth
against me only once after that time you can't travel so far but I will find you."
Then he turns and goes in. The crowd looked mighty sober; nobody stirred, and there warn't no more
laughing. Boggs rode off blackguarding Sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the street; and pretty soon
back he comes and stops before the store, still keeping it up. Some men crowded around him and tried to get
him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen minutes, and so he
MUST go home--he must go right away. But it didn't do no good. He cussed away with all his might, and
throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went a-raging down the street
again, with his gray hair a-flying. Everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him off of
his horse so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it warn't no use--up the street he would tear again,
CHAPTER XXI. 88
and give Sherburn another cussing. By and by somebody says:
"Go for his daughter!--quick, go for his daughter; sometimes he'll listen to her. If anybody can persuade him,
she can."
So somebody started on a run. I walked down street a ways and stopped. In about five or ten minutes here
comes Boggs again, but not on his horse. He was a-reeling across the street towards me, bare-headed, with a
friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and hurrying him along. He was quiet, and looked uneasy; and
he warn't hanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. Somebody sings out:
"Boggs!"
I looked over there to see who said it, and it was that Colonel Sherburn. He was standing perfectly still in the
street, and had a pistol raised in his right hand--not aiming it, but holding it out with the barrel tilted up
towards the sky. The same second I see a young girl coming on the run, and two men with her. Boggs and the
men turned round to see who called him, and when they see the pistol the men jumped to one side, and the
pistol-barrel come down slow and steady to a level--both barrels cocked. Boggs throws up both of his hands
and says, "O Lord, don't shoot!" Bang! goes the first shot, and he staggers back, clawing at the air--bang! goes
the second one, and he tumbles backwards on to the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread out. That
young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down she throws herself on her father, crying, and saying,
"Oh, he's killed him, he's killed him!" The crowd closed up around them, and shouldered and jammed one
another, with their necks stretched, trying to see, and people on the inside trying to shove them back and
shouting, "Back, back! give him air, give him air!"
Colonel Sherburn he tossed his pistol on to the ground, and turned around on his heels and walked off.
They took Boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around just the same, and the whole town
following, and I rushed and got a good place at the window, where I was close to him and could see in. They
laid him on the floor and put one large Bible under his head, and opened another one and spread it on his
breast; but they tore open his shirt first, and I seen where one of the bullets went in. He made about a dozen
long gasps, his breast lifting the Bible up when he drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he
breathed it out--and after that he laid still; he was dead. Then they pulled his daughter away from him,
screaming and crying, and took her off. She was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful
pale and scared.
Well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the
window and have a look, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind them was
saying all the time, "Say, now, you've looked enough, you fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for you to stay
thar all the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights as well as you."
There was considerable jawing back, so I slid out, thinking maybe there was going to be trouble. The streets
was full, and everybody was excited. Everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened, and there
was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listening. One long,
lanky man, with long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and a crooked-handled
cane, marked out the places on the ground where Boggs stood and where Sherburn stood, and the people
following him around from one place to t'other and watching everything he done, and bobbing their heads to
show they understood, and stooping a little and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the
places on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff where Sherburn had stood,
frowning and having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, "Boggs!" and then fetched his cane down
slow to a level, and says "Bang!" staggered backwards, says "Bang!" again, and fell down flat on his back.
The people that had seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all happened.
Then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him.
CHAPTER XXI. 89
Well, by and by somebody said Sherburn ought to be lynched. In about a minute everybody was saying it; so
away they went, mad and yelling, and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do the hanging with.
CHAPTER XXI. 90
CHAPTER XXII.
THEY swarmed up towards Sherburn's house, a-whooping and raging like Injuns, and everything had to clear
the way or get run over and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. Children was heeling it ahead of the
mob, screaming and trying to get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of women's heads,
and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches looking over every fence; and as soon as the
mob would get nearly to them they would break and skaddle back out of reach. Lots of the women and girls
was crying and taking on, scared most to death.
They swarmed up in front of Sherburn's palings as thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't hear
yourself think for the noise. It was a little twenty-foot yard. Some sung out "Tear down the fence! tear down
the fence!" Then there was a racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front
wall of the crowd begins to roll in like a wave.
Just then Sherburn steps out on to the roof of his little front porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and
takes his stand, perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. The racket stopped, and the wave sucked
back.
Sherburn never said a word--just stood there, looking down. The stillness was awful creepy and
uncomfortable. Sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little to
out-gaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. Then pretty soon Sherburn sort of
laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's got sand
in it.
Then he says, slow and scornful:
"The idea of YOU lynching anybody! It's amusing. The idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a
MAN! Because you're brave enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come along here,
did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your hands on a MAN? Why, a MAN'S safe in the hands
of ten thousand of your kind--as long as it's daytime and you're not behind him.
"Do I know you? I know you clear through was born and raised in the South, and I've lived in the North; so I
know the average all around. The average man's a coward. In the North he lets anybody walk over him that
wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it. In the South one man all by himself, has
stopped a stage full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. Your newspapers call you a brave people so
much that you think you are braver than any other people--whereas you're just AS brave, and no braver. Why
don't your juries hang murderers? Because they're afraid the man's friends will shoot them in the back, in the
dark--and it's just what they WOULD do.
"So they always acquit; and then a MAN goes in the night, with a hundred masked cowards at his back and
lynches the rascal. Your mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake, and the other is
that you didn't come in the dark and fetch your masks. You brought PART of a man--Buck Harkness,
there--and if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd a taken it out in blowing.
"You didn't want to come. The average man don't like trouble and danger. YOU don't like trouble and danger.
But if only HALF a man--like Buck Harkness, there--shouts 'Lynch him! lynch him!' you're afraid to back
down--afraid you'll be found out to be what you are--COWARDS--and so you raise a yell, and hang
yourselves on to that half-a-man's coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big things you're going to
do. The pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's what an army is--a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in
them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. But a mob without any MAN
at the head of it is BENEATH pitifulness. Now the thing for YOU to do is to droop your tails and go home
and crawl in a hole. If any real lynching's going to be done it will be done in the dark, Southern fashion; and
CHAPTER XXII. 91
when they come they'll bring their masks, and fetch a MAN along. Now LEAVE--and take your half-a-man
with you"--tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it when he says this.
The crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and went tearing off every which way, and Buck
Harkness he heeled it after them, looking tolerable cheap. I could a stayed if I wanted to, but I didn't want to.
I went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watchman went by, and then dived in under the
tent. I had my twenty-dollar gold piece and some other money, but I reckoned I better save it, because there
ain't no telling how soon you are going to need it, away from home and amongst strangers that way. You can't
be too careful. I ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't no other way, but there ain't no
use in WASTING it on them.
It was a real bully circus. It was the splendidest sight that ever was when they all come riding in, two and two,
a gentleman and lady, side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no shoes nor stirrups,
and resting their hands on their thighs easy and comfortable --there must a been twenty of them--and every
lady with a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like a gang of real sure-enough
queens, and dressed in clothes that cost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. It was a powerful
fine sight; I never see anything so lovely. And then one by one they got up and stood, and went a-weaving
around the ring so gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight, with their
heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under the tent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress
flapping soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol.
And then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one foot out in the air and then the other, the
horses leaning more and more, and the ringmaster going round and round the center-pole, cracking his whip
and shouting "Hi!--hi!" and the clown cracking jokes behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins,
and every lady put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded his arms, and then how the horses did
lean over and hump themselves! And so one after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and made the
sweetest bow I ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped their hands and went just about wild.
Well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing things; and all the time that clown carried on so it
most killed the people. The ringmaster couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at him quick as a wink
with the funniest things a body ever said; and how he ever COULD think of so many of them, and so sudden
and so pat, was what I couldn't noway understand. Why, I couldn't a thought of them in a year. And by and by
a drunk man tried to get into the ring--said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well as anybody that ever
was. They argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to a standstill.
Then the people begun to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made him mad, and he begun to rip and
tear; so that stirred up the people, and a lot of men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm towards
the ring, saying, "Knock him down! throw him out!" and one or two women begun to scream. So, then, the
ringmaster he made a little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if the man would
promise he wouldn't make no more trouble he would let him ride if he thought he could stay on the horse. So
everybody laughed and said all right, and the man got on. The minute he was on, the horse begun to rip and
tear and jump and cavort around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle trying to hold him, and the
drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump, and the whole crowd of people
standing up shouting and laughing till tears rolled down. And at last, sure enough, all the circus men could do,
the horse broke loose, and away he went like the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sot laying
down on him and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging most to the ground on one side, and then
t'other one on t'other side, and the people just crazy. It warn't funny to me, though; I was all of a tremble to see
his danger. But pretty soon he struggled up astraddle and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and
the next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood! and the horse a-going like a house afire too.
He just stood up there, a-sailing around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his life--and then
he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. He shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and
altogether he shed seventeen suits. And, then, there he was, slim and handsome, and dressed the gaudiest and
CHAPTER XXII. 92
prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that horse with his whip and made him fairly hum--and finally skipped
off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure and
astonishment.
Then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he WAS the sickest ringmaster you ever see, I
reckon. Why, it was one of his own men! He had got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let on to
nobody. Well, I felt sheepish enough to be took in so, but I wouldn't a been in that ringmaster's place, not for a
thousand dollars. I don't know; there may be bullier circuses than what that one was, but I never struck them
yet. Anyways, it was plenty good enough for ME; and wherever I run across it, it can have all of MY custom
every time.
Well, that night we had OUR show; but there warn't only about twelve people there--just enough to pay
expenses. And they laughed all the time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway, before the
show was over, but one boy which was asleep. So the duke said these Arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up
to Shakespeare; what they wanted was low comedy--and maybe something ruther worse than low comedy, he
reckoned. He said he could size their style. So next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping paper and
some black paint, and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village. The bills said:
AT THE COURT HOUSE! FOR 3 NIGHTS ONLY! The World-Renowned Tragedians DAVID GARRICK
THE YOUNGER! AND EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER! Of the London and Continental Theatres, In their
Thrilling Tragedy of THE KING'S CAMELEOPARD, OR THE ROYAL NONESUCH ! ! ! Admission 50
cents.
Then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said:
LADIES AND CHILDREN NOT ADMITTED.
"There," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, I don't know Arkansaw!"
CHAPTER XXII. 93
CHAPTER XXIII.
WELL, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and a curtain and a row of candles for
footlights; and that night the house was jam full of men in no time. When the place couldn't hold no more, the
duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and come on to the stage and stood up before the
curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most thrillingest one that ever
was; and so he went on a-bragging about the tragedy, and about Edmund Kean the Elder, which was to play
the main principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's expectations up high enough, he rolled up
the curtain, and the next minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over,
ring-streaked-and- striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow. And--but never mind the rest of his
outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. The people most killed themselves laughing; and when the
king got done capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and
haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that they made him do it another time. Well, it
would make a cow laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut.
Then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and says the great tragedy will be performed
only two nights more, on accounts of pressing London engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it
in Drury Lane; and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and
instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and get them to come and
see it.
Twenty people sings out:
"What, is it over? Is that ALL?"
The duke says yes. Then there was a fine time. Everybody sings out, "Sold!" and rose up mad, and was
a-going for that stage and them tragedians. But a big, fine looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts:
"Hold on! Just a word, gentlemen." They stopped to listen. "We are sold--mighty badly sold. But we don't
want to be the laughing stock of this whole town, I reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long as we
live. NO. What we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the REST of the town! Then
we'll all be in the same boat. Ain't that sensible?" ("You bet it is!--the jedge is right!" everybody sings out.)
"All right, then--not a word about any sell. Go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the
tragedy."
Next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid that show was. House was jammed
again that night, and we sold this crowd the same way. When me and the king and the duke got home to the
raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made Jim and me back her out and float her
down the middle of the river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town.
The third night the house was crammed again--and they warn't new-comers this time, but people that was at
the show the other two nights. I stood by the duke at the door, and I see that every man that went in had his
pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat--and I see it warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a
long sight. I smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if I know the signs of a
dead cat being around, and I bet I do, there was sixty-four of them went in. I shoved in there for a minute, but
it was too various for me; I couldn't stand it. Well, when the place couldn't hold no more people the duke he
give a fellow a quarter and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he started around for the stage
door, I after him; but the minute we turned the corner and was in the dark he says:
"Walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after you!"
CHAPTER XXIII. 94
I done it, and he done the same. We struck the raft at the same time, and in less than two seconds we was
gliding down stream, all dark and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a word. I
reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he
crawls out from under the wigwam, and says:
"Well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?" He hadn't been up-town at all.
We never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village. Then we lit up and had a supper, and
the king and the duke fairly laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them people. The duke says:
"Greenhorns, flatheads! I knew the first house would keep mum and let the rest of the town get roped in; and I
knew they'd lay for us the third night, and consider it was THEIR turn now. Well, it IS their turn, and I'd give
something to know how much they'd take for it. I WOULD just like to know how they're putting in their
opportunity. They can turn it into a picnic if they want to--they brought plenty provisions."
Them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that three nights. I never see money hauled in
by the wagon-load like that before. By and by, when they was asleep and snoring, Jim says:
"Don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on, Huck?"
"No," I says, "it don't."
"Why don't it, Huck?"
"Well, it don't, because it's in the breed. I reckon they're all alike,"
"But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat's jist what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions."
"Well, that's what I'm a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as fur as I can make out."
"Is dat so?"
"You read about them once--you'll see. Look at Henry the Eight; this 'n 's a Sunday-school Superintendent to
HIM. And look at Charles Second, and Louis Fourteen, and Louis Fifteen, and James Second, and Edward
Second, and Richard Third, and forty more; besides all them Saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in
old times and raise Cain. My, you ought to seen old Henry the Eight when he was in bloom. He WAS a
blossom. He used to marry a new wife every day, and chop off her head next morning. And he would do it
just as indifferent as if he was ordering up eggs. 'Fetch up Nell Gwynn,' he says. They fetch her up. Next
morning, 'Chop off her head!' And they chop it off. 'Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says; and up she comes, Next
morning, 'Chop off her head'--and they chop it off. 'Ring up Fair Rosamun.' Fair Rosamun answers the bell.
Next morning, 'Chop off her head.' And he made every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he kept
that up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then he put them all in a book, and called it
Domesday Book--which was a good name and stated the case. You don't know kings, Jim, but I know them;
and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest I've struck in history. Well, Henry he takes a notion he wants to
get up some trouble with this country. How does he go at it --give notice?--give the country a show? No. All
of a sudden he heaves all the tea in Boston Harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence,
and dares them to come on. That was HIS style--he never give anybody a chance. He had suspicions of his
father, the Duke of Wellington. Well, what did he do? Ask him to show up? No--drownded him in a butt of
mamsey, like a cat. S'pose people left money laying around where he was--what did he do? He collared it.
S'pose he contracted to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn't set down there and see that he done it--what
did he do? He always done the other thing. S'pose he opened his mouth--what then? If he didn't shut it up
powerful quick he'd lose a lie every time. That's the kind of a bug Henry was; and if we'd a had him along
CHAPTER XXIII. 95
'stead of our kings he'd a fooled that town a heap worse than ourn done. I don't say that ourn is lambs, because
they ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't nothing to THAT old ram, anyway. All I
say is, kings is kings, and you got to make allowances. Take them all around, they're a mighty ornery lot. It's
the way they're raised."
"But dis one do SMELL so like de nation, Huck."
"Well, they all do, Jim. We can't help the way a king smells; history don't tell no way."
"Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways."
"Yes, a duke's different. But not very different. This one's a middling hard lot for a duke. When he's drunk
there ain't no near-sighted man could tell him from a king."
"Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um, Huck. Dese is all I kin stan'."
"It's the way I feel, too, Jim. But we've got them on our hands, and we got to remember what they are, and
make allowances. Sometimes I wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings."
What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings and dukes? It wouldn't a done no good; and, besides, it
was just as I said: you couldn't tell them from the real kind.
I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn. He often done that. When I waked up just at
daybreak he was sitting there with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. I
didn't take notice nor let on. I knowed what it was about. He was thinking about his wife and his children,
away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his
life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their'n. It don't seem natural,
but I reckon it's so. He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and
saying, "Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny! it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no
mo'!" He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was.
But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says:
"What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam,
while ago, en it mine me er de time I treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery. She warn't on'y 'bout fo' year ole, en
she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun',
en I says to her, I says:
"'Shet de do'.'
"She never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. It make me mad; en I says agin, mighty loud, I says:
"'Doan' you hear me? Shet de do'!'
"She jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. I was a-bilin'! I says:
"'I lay I MAKE you mine!'
"En wid dat I fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin'. Den I went into de yuther room, en 'uz
gone 'bout ten minutes; en when I come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open YIT, en dat chile stannin' mos'
right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin', en de tears runnin' down. My, but I WUZ mad! I was a-gwyne for de
chile, but jis' den--it was a do' dat open innerds--jis' den, 'long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile,
CHAPTER XXIII. 96
ker-BLAM!--en my lan', de chile never move'! My breff mos' hop outer me; en I feel so--so--I doan' know
HOW I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in
behine de chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sudden I says POW! jis' as loud as I could yell. SHE NEVER
BUDGE! Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms, en say, 'Oh, de po' little thing! De Lord
God Amighty fogive po' ole Jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long's he live!' Oh, she was plumb
deef en dumb, Huck, plumb deef en dumb--en I'd ben a-treat'n her so!"
CHAPTER XXIII. 97
CHAPTER XXIV.
NEXT day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow towhead out in the middle, where there was a
village on each side of the river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them towns.
Jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and
tiresome to him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope. You see, when we left him all
alone we had to tie him, because if anybody happened on to him all by himself and not tied it wouldn't look
much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. So the duke said it WAS kind of hard to have to lay roped all
day, and he'd cipher out some way to get around it.
He was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. He dressed Jim up in King Lear's outfit--it was
a long curtain-calico gown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his theater paint and
painted Jim's face and hands and ears and neck all over a dead, dull, solid blue, like a man that's been
drownded nine days. Blamed if he warn't the horriblest looking outrage I ever see. Then the duke took and
wrote out a sign on a shingle so:
Sick Arab--but harmless when not out of his head.
And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or five foot in front of the wigwam. Jim was
satisfied. He said it was a sight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all over every
time there was a sound. The duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling
around, he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild beast, and he
reckoned they would light out and leave him alone. Which was sound enough judgment; but you take the
average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. Why, he didn't only look like he was dead, he looked
considerable more than that.
These rapscallions wanted to try the Nonesuch again, because there was so much money in it, but they judged
it wouldn't be safe, because maybe the news might a worked along down by this time. They couldn't hit no
project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said he reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two
and see if he couldn't put up something on the Arkansaw village; and the king he allowed he would drop over
to t'other village without any plan, but just trust in Providence to lead him the profitable way--meaning the
devil, I reckon. We had all bought store clothes where we stopped last; and now the king put his'n on, and he
told me to put mine on. I done it, of course. The king's duds was all black, and he did look real swell and
starchy. I never knowed how clothes could change a body before. Why, before, he looked like the orneriest
old rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his new white beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he
looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old
Leviticus himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe, and I got my paddle ready. There was a big steamboat laying at
the shore away up under the point, about three mile above the town--been there a couple of hours, taking on
freight. Says the king:
"Seein' how I'm dressed, I reckon maybe I better arrive down from St. Louis or Cincinnati, or some other big
place. Go for the steamboat, Huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her."
I didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride. I fetched the shore a half a mile above the
village, and then went scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. Pretty soon we come to a nice
innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful
warm weather; and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him.
"Run her nose in shore," says the king. I done it. "Wher' you bound for, young man?"
"For the steamboat; going to Orleans."
CHAPTER XXIV. 98
"Git aboard," says the king. "Hold on a minute, my servant 'll he'p you with them bags. Jump out and he'p the
gentleman, Adolphus"--meaning me, I see.
I done so, and then we all three started on again. The young chap was mighty thankful; said it was tough work
toting his baggage such weather. He asked the king where he was going, and the king told him he'd come
down the river and landed at the other village this morning, and now he was going up a few mile to see an old
friend on a farm up there. The young fellow says:
"When I first see you I says to myself, 'It's Mr. Wilks, sure, and he come mighty near getting here in time.' But
then I says again, 'No, I reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the river.' You AIN'T him, are
you?"
"No, my name's Blodgett--Elexander Blodgett--REVEREND Elexander Blodgett, I s'pose I must say, as I'm
one o' the Lord's poor servants. But still I'm jist as able to be sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving in time, all
the same, if he's missed anything by it--which I hope he hasn't."
"Well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that all right; but he's missed seeing his brother Peter
die--which he mayn't mind, nobody can tell as to that--but his brother would a give anything in this world to
see HIM before he died; never talked about nothing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since they was
boys together--and hadn't ever seen his brother William at all--that's the deef and dumb one--William ain't
more than thirty or thirty-five. Peter and George were the only ones that come out here; George was the
married brother; him and his wife both died last year. Harvey and William's the only ones that's left now; and,
as I was saying, they haven't got here in time."
"Did anybody send 'em word?"
"Oh, yes; a month or two ago, when Peter was first took; because Peter said then that he sorter felt like he
warn't going to get well this time. You see, he was pretty old, and George's g'yirls was too young to be much
company for him, except Mary Jane, the red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after George and his
wife died, and didn't seem to care much to live. He most desperately wanted to see Harvey--and William, too,
for that matter--because he was one of them kind that can't bear to make a will. He left a letter behind for
Harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted the rest of the property divided
up so George's g'yirls would be all right--for George didn't leave nothing. And that letter was all they could
get him to put a pen to."
"Why do you reckon Harvey don't come? Wher' does he live?"
"Oh, he lives in England--Sheffield--preaches there--hasn't ever been in this country. He hasn't had any too
much time--and besides he mightn't a got the letter at all, you know."
"Too bad, too bad he couldn't a lived to see his brothers, poor soul. You going to Orleans, you say?"
"Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm going in a ship, next Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle
lives."
"It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be lovely; wisht I was a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest? How old is the
others?"
"Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's about fourteen --that's the one that gives herself to good
works and has a hare-lip."
"Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so."
CHAPTER XXIV. 99
"Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter had friends, and they ain't going to let them come to no harm.
There's Hobson, the Babtis' preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and
Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley, and--well, there's a lot of
them; but these are the ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes, when he wrote
home; so Harvey 'll know where to look for friends when he gets here."
Well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied that young fellow. Blamed if he didn't
inquire about everybody and everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about Peter's
business--which was a tanner; and about George's--which was a carpenter; and about Harvey's--which was a
dissentering minister; and so on, and so on. Then he says:
"What did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?"
"Because she's a big Orleans boat, and I was afeard she mightn't stop there. When they're deep they won't stop
for a hail. A Cincinnati boat will, but this is a St. Louis one."
"Was Peter Wilks well off?"
"Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses and land, and it's reckoned he left three or four thousand in cash hid
up som'ers."
"When did you say he died?"
"I didn't say, but it was last night."
"Funeral to-morrow, likely?"
"Yes, 'bout the middle of the day."
"Well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time or another. So what we want to do is to be
prepared; then we're all right."
"Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to always say that."
When we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty soon she got off. The king never said nothing
about going aboard, so I lost my ride, after all. When the boat was gone the king made me paddle up another
mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore and says:
"Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the new carpet-bags. And if he's gone over to
t'other side, go over there and git him. And tell him to git himself up regardless. Shove along, now."
I see what HE was up to; but I never said nothing, of course. When I got back with the duke we hid the canoe,
and then they set down on a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young fellow had said it
--every last word of it. And all the time he was a-doing it he tried to talk like an Englishman; and he done it
pretty well, too, for a slouch. I can't imitate him, and so I ain't a-going to try to; but he really done it pretty
good. Then he says:
"How are you on the deef and dumb, Bilgewater?"
The duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef and dumb person on the histronic boards.
So then they waited for a steamboat.
CHAPTER XXIV. 100
About the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come along, but they didn't come from high enough
up the river; but at last there was a big one, and they hailed her. She sent out her yawl, and we went aboard,
and she was from Cincinnati; and when they found we only wanted to go four or five mile they was booming
mad, and gave us a cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. But the king was ca'm. He says:
"If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin
afford to carry 'em, can't it?"
So they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got to the village they yawled us ashore. About
two dozen men flocked down when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says:
"Kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' Mr. Peter Wilks lives?" they give a glance at one another, and
nodded their heads, as much as to say, "What d' I tell you?" Then one of them says, kind of soft and gentle:
"I'm sorry sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he DID live yesterday evening."
Sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went an to smash, and fell up against the man, and put his chin on his
shoulder, and cried down his back, and says:
"Alas, alas, our poor brother--gone, and we never got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!"
Then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed if he
didn't drop a carpet-bag and bust out a-crying. If they warn't the beatenest lot, them two frauds, that ever I
struck.
Well, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and said all sorts of kind things to them, and
carried their carpet-bags up the hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the king all about his
brother's last moments, and the king he told it all over again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took
on about that dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disciples. Well, if ever I struck anything like it, I'm a
nigger. It was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race.
CHAPTER XXIV. 101
CHAPTER XXV.
THE news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see the people tearing down on the run from
every which way, some of them putting on their coats as they come. Pretty soon we was in the middle of a
crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a soldier march. The windows and dooryards was full; and
every minute somebody would say, over a fence:
"Is it THEM?"
And somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and say:
"You bet it is."
When we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and the three girls was standing in the door.
Mary Jane WAS red-headed, but that don't make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and her face
and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so glad her uncles was come. The king he spread his arms, and
Mary Jane she jumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they HAD it! Everybody
most, leastways women, cried for joy to see them meet again at last and have such good times.
Then the king he hunched the duke private--I see him do it--and then he looked around and see the coffin,
over in the corner on two chairs; so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other's shoulder, and
t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn over there, everybody dropping back to give them room,
and all the talk and noise stopping, people saying "Sh!" and all the men taking their hats off and drooping
their heads, so you could a heard a pin fall. And when they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin,
and took one sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could a heard them to Orleans, most; and then they
put their arms around each other's necks, and hung their chins over each other's shoulders; and then for three
minutes, or maybe four, I never see two men leak the way they done. And, mind you, everybody was doing
the same; and the place was that damp I never see anything like it. Then one of them got on one side of the
coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to
pray all to themselves. Well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like you never see anything like it, and
everybody broke down and went to sobbing right out loud--the poor girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went
up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put their hand on
their head, and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running down, and then busted out and went off
sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman a show. I never see anything so disgusting.
Well, by and by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and works himself up and slobbers out a
speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the
diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive after the long journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial that's
sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and these holy tears, and so he thanks them out of his
heart and out of his brother's heart, because out of their mouths they can't, words being too weak and cold, and
all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody Amen,
and turns himself loose and goes to crying fit to bust.
And the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the crowd struck up the doxolojer, and
everybody joined in with all their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church
letting out. Music is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter and hogwash I never see it freshen up things
so, and sound so honest and bully.
Then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his nieces would be glad if a few of the
main principal friends of the family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set up with the
ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying yonder could speak he knows who he would name,
for they was names that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters; and so he will name the
CHAPTER XXV. 102
same, to wit, as follows, vizz.:--Rev. Mr. Hobson, and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker, and Abner
Shackleford, and Levi Bell, and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley.
Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down to the end of the town a-hunting together--that is, I mean the doctor
was shipping a sick man to t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right. Lawyer Bell was away up to
Louisville on business. But the rest was on hand, and so they all come and shook hands with the king and
thanked him and talked to him; and then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say nothing, but just kept
a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands
and said "Goo-goo--goo-goo-goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk.
So the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty much everybody and dog in town, by his
name, and mentioned all sorts of little things that happened one time or another in the town, or to George's
family, or to Peter. And he always let on that Peter wrote him the things; but that was a lie: he got every
blessed one of them out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat.
Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and the king he read it out loud and cried over it.
It give the dwelling-house and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tanyard (which was
doing a good business), along with some other houses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three
thousand dollars in gold to Harvey and William, and told where the six thousand cash was hid down cellar. So
these two frauds said they'd go and fetch it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told me to
come with a candle. We shut the cellar door behind us, and when they found the bag they spilt it out on the
floor, and it was a lovely sight, all them yaller-boys. My, the way the king's eyes did shine! He slaps the duke
on the shoulder and says:
"Oh, THIS ain't bully nor noth'n! Oh, no, I reckon not! Why, Biljy, it beats the Nonesuch, DON'T it?"
The duke allowed it did. They pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them through their fingers and let them jingle
down on the floor; and the king says:
"It ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man and representatives of furrin heirs that's got left is the
line for you and me, Bilge. Thish yer comes of trust'n to Providence. It's the best way, in the long run. I've
tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no better way."
Most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile, and took it on trust; but no, they must count it. So they
counts it, and it comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. Says the king:
"Dern him, I wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen dollars?"
They worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. Then the duke says:
"Well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake--I reckon that's the way of it. The best way's to
let it go, and keep still about it. We can spare it."
"Oh, shucks, yes, we can SPARE it. I don't k'yer noth'n 'bout that--it's the COUNT I'm thinkin' about. We
want to be awful square and open and above-board here, you know. We want to lug this h-yer money up stairs
and count it before everybody--then ther' ain't noth'n suspicious. But when the dead man says ther's six thous'n
dollars, you know, we don't want to--"
"Hold on," says the duke. "Le's make up the deffisit," and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket.
"It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke--you HAVE got a rattlin' clever head on you," says the king. "Blest if the
old Nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out agin," and HE begun to haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up.
CHAPTER XXV. 103
It most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and clear.
"Say," says the duke, "I got another idea. Le's go up stairs and count this money, and then take and GIVE IT
TO THE GIRLS."
"Good land, duke, lemme hug you! It's the most dazzling idea 'at ever a man struck. You have cert'nly got the
most astonishin' head I ever see. Oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it. Let 'em fetch along
their suspicions now if they want to--this 'll lay 'em out."
When we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, and the king he counted it and stacked it up, three
hundred dollars in a pile--twenty elegant little piles. Everybody looked hungry at it, and licked their chops.
Then they raked it into the bag again, and I see the king begin to swell himself up for another speech. He says:
"Friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous by them that's left behind in the vale of
sorrers. He has done generous by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's left
fatherless and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him knows that he would a done MORE generous by 'em
if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin' his dear William and me. Now, WOULDN'T he? Ther' ain't no question
'bout it in MY mind. Well, then, what kind o' brothers would it be that 'd stand in his way at sech a time? And
what kind o' uncles would it be that 'd rob--yes, ROB--sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at he loved so at sech a
time? If I know William--and I THINK I do--he--well, I'll jest ask him." He turns around and begins to make a
lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the duke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed a while; then
all of a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his might for joy,
and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up. Then the king says, "I knowed it; I reckon THAT 'll
convince anybody the way HE feels about it. Here, Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the money--take it ALL.
It's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful."
Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the hare-lip went for the duke, and then such another hugging and
kissing I never see yet. And everybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands off
of them frauds, saying all the time:
"You DEAR good souls!--how LOVELY!--how COULD you!"
Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased again, and how good he was, and what a
loss he was, and all that; and before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside, and
stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything; and nobody saying anything to him either, because the
king was talking and they was all busy listening. The king was saying--in the middle of something he'd started
in on--
"--they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. That's why they're invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow we
want ALL to come--everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's fitten that his
funeral orgies sh'd be public."
And so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and every little while he fetched in his
funeral orgies again, till the duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper,
"OBSEQUIES, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to
him. The king he reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says:
"Poor William, afflicted as he is, his HEART'S aluz right. Asks me to invite everybody to come to the
funeral--wants me to make 'em all welcome. But he needn't a worried--it was jest what I was at."
Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now and
then, just like he done before. And when he done it the third time he says:
CHAPTER XXV. 104
"I say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't --obsequies bein' the common term--but
because orgies is the right term. Obsequies ain't used in England no more now--it's gone out. We say orgies
now in England. Orgies is better, because it means the thing you're after more exact. It's a word that's made up
out'n the Greek ORGO, outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew JEESUM, to plant, cover up; hence inTER. So,
you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral."
He was the WORST I ever struck. Well, the iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face. Everybody was
shocked. Everybody says, "Why, DOCTOR!" and Abner Shackleford says:
"Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the news? This is Harvey Wilks."
The king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says:
"Is it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? I--"
"Keep your hands off of me!" says the doctor. "YOU talk like an Englishman, DON'T you? It's the worst
imitation I ever heard. YOU Peter Wilks's brother! You're a fraud, that's what you are!"
Well, how they all took on! They crowded around the doctor and tried to quiet him down, and tried to explain
to him and tell him how Harvey 'd showed in forty ways that he WAS Harvey, and knowed everybody by
name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and BEGGED him not to hurt Harvey's feelings and the
poor girl's feelings, and all that. But it warn't no use; he stormed right along, and said any man that pretended
to be an Englishman and couldn't imitate the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar. The poor
girls was hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on THEM. He says:
"I was your father's friend, and I'm your friend; and I warn you as a friend, and an honest one that wants to
protect you and keep you out of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and have nothing to do
with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic Greek and Hebrew, as he calls it. He is the thinnest kind of an
impostor--has come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he picked up somewheres, and you take
them for PROOFS, and are helped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to know better.
Mary Jane Wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish friend, too. Now listen to me; turn this
pitiful rascal out--I BEG you to do it. Will you?"
Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! She says:
"HERE is my answer." She hove up the bag of money and put it in the king's hands, and says, "Take this six
thousand dollars, and invest for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give us no receipt for it."
Then she put her arm around the king on one side, and Susan and the hare-lip done the same on the other.
Everybody clapped their hands and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held up his head
and smiled proud. The doctor says:
"All right; I wash MY hands of the matter. But I warn you all that a time 's coming when you're going to feel
sick whenever you think of this day." And away he went.
"All right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking him; "we'll try and get 'em to send for you;" which made
them all laugh, and they said it was a prime good hit.
CHAPTER XXV. 105
CHAPTER XXVI.
WELL, when they was all gone the king he asks Mary Jane how they was off for spare rooms, and she said
she had one spare room, which would do for Uncle William, and she'd give her own room to Uncle Harvey,
which was a little bigger, and she would turn into the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret
was a little cubby, with a pallet in it. The king said the cubby would do for his valley--meaning me.
So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was plain but nice. She said she'd have her
frocks and a lot of other traps took out of her room if they was in Uncle Harvey's way, but he said they warn't.
The frocks was hung along the wall, and before them was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the
floor. There was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another, and all sorts of little knickknacks
and jimcracks around, like girls brisken up a room with. The king said it was all the more homely and more
pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't disturb them. The duke's room was pretty small, but plenty good
enough, and so was my cubby.
That night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there, and I stood behind the king and the
duke's chairs and waited on them, and the niggers waited on the rest. Mary Jane she set at the head of the
table, with Susan alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and
how ornery and tough the fried chickens was--and all that kind of rot, the way women always do for to force
out compliments; and the people all knowed everything was tiptop, and said so--said "How DO you get
biscuits to brown so nice?" and "Where, for the land's sake, DID you get these amaz'n pickles?" and all that
kind of humbug talky-talk, just the way people always does at a supper, you know.
And when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others
was helping the niggers clean up the things. The hare-lip she got to pumping me about England, and blest if I
didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. She says:
"Did you ever see the king?"
"Who? William Fourth? Well, I bet I have--he goes to our church." I knowed he was dead years ago, but I
never let on. So when I says he goes to our church, she says:
"What--regular?"
"Yes--regular. His pew's right over opposite ourn--on t'other side the pulpit."
"I thought he lived in London?"
"Well, he does. Where WOULD he live?"
"But I thought YOU lived in Sheffield?"
I see I was up a stump. I had to let on to get choked with a chicken bone, so as to get time to think how to get
down again. Then I says:
"I mean he goes to our church regular when he's in Sheffield. That's only in the summer time, when he comes
there to take the sea baths."
"Why, how you talk--Sheffield ain't on the sea."
"Well, who said it was?"
CHAPTER XXVI. 106
"Why, you did."
"I DIDN'T nuther."
"You did!"
"I didn't."
"You did."
"I never said nothing of the kind."
"Well, what DID you say, then?"
"Said he come to take the sea BATHS--that's what I said."
"Well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't on the sea?"
"Looky here," I says; "did you ever see any Congress-water?"
"Yes."
"Well, did you have to go to Congress to get it?"
"Why, no."
"Well, neither does William Fourth have to go to the sea to get a sea bath."
"How does he get it, then?"
"Gets it the way people down here gets Congress-water--in barrels. There in the palace at Sheffield they've got
furnaces, and he wants his water hot. They can't bile that amount of water away off there at the sea. They
haven't got no conveniences for it."
"Oh, I see, now. You might a said that in the first place and saved time."
When she said that I see I was out of the woods again, and so I was comfortable and glad. Next, she says:
"Do you go to church, too?"
"Yes--regular."
"Where do you set?"
"Why, in our pew."
"WHOSE pew?"
"Why, OURN--your Uncle Harvey's."
"His'n? What does HE want with a pew?"
CHAPTER XXVI. 107
"Wants it to set in. What did you RECKON he wanted with it?"
"Why, I thought he'd be in the pulpit."
Rot him, I forgot he was a preacher. I see I was up a stump again, so I played another chicken bone and got
another think. Then I says:
"Blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to a church?"
"Why, what do they want with more?"
"What!--to preach before a king? I never did see such a girl as you. They don't have no less than seventeen."
"Seventeen! My land! Why, I wouldn't set out such a string as that, not if I NEVER got to glory. It must take
'em a week."
"Shucks, they don't ALL of 'em preach the same day--only ONE of 'em."
"Well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?"
"Oh, nothing much. Loll around, pass the plate--and one thing or another. But mainly they don't do nothing."
"Well, then, what are they FOR?"
"Why, they're for STYLE. Don't you know nothing?"
"Well, I don't WANT to know no such foolishness as that. How is servants treated in England? Do they treat
'em better 'n we treat our niggers?"
"NO! A servant ain't nobody there. They treat them worse than dogs."
"Don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, Christmas and New Year's week, and Fourth of July?"
"Oh, just listen! A body could tell YOU hain't ever been to England by that. Why, Hare-l--why, Joanna, they
never see a holiday from year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor nigger shows, nor
nowheres."
"Nor church?"
"Nor church."
"But YOU always went to church."
Well, I was gone up again. I forgot I was the old man's servant. But next minute I whirled in on a kind of an
explanation how a valley was different from a common servant and HAD to go to church whether he wanted
to or not, and set with the family, on account of its being the law. But I didn't do it pretty good, and when I got
done I see she warn't satisfied. She says:
"Honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a lot of lies?"
"Honest injun," says I.
CHAPTER XXVI. 108
"None of it at all?"
"None of it at all. Not a lie in it," says I.
"Lay your hand on this book and say it."
I see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so I laid my hand on it and said it. So then she looked a little better
satisfied, and says:
"Well, then, I'll believe some of it; but I hope to gracious if I'll believe the rest."
"What is it you won't believe, Joe?" says Mary Jane, stepping in with Susan behind her. "It ain't right nor kind
for you to talk so to him, and him a stranger and so far from his people. How would you like to be treated so?"
"That's always your way, Maim--always sailing in to help somebody before they're hurt. I hain't done nothing
to him. He's told some stretchers, I reckon, and I said I wouldn't swallow it all; and that's every bit and grain I
DID say. I reckon he can stand a little thing like that, can't he?"
"I don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big; he's here in our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good
of you to say it. If you was in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't to say a thing to
another person that will make THEM feel ashamed."
"Why, Maim, he said--"
"It don't make no difference what he SAID--that ain't the thing. The thing is for you to treat him KIND, and
not be saying things to make him remember he ain't in his own country and amongst his own folks."
I says to myself, THIS is a girl that I'm letting that old reptle rob her of her money!
Then Susan SHE waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did give Hare-lip hark from the tomb!
Says I to myself, and this is ANOTHER one that I'm letting him rob her of her money!
Then Mary Jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely again--which was her way; but when
she got done there warn't hardly anything left o' poor Hare-lip. So she hollered.
"All right, then," says the other girls; "you just ask his pardon."
She done it, too; and she done it beautiful. She done it so beautiful it was good to hear; and I wished I could
tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it again.
I says to myself, this is ANOTHER one that I'm letting him rob her of her money. And when she got through
they all jest laid theirselves out to make me feel at home and know I was amongst friends. I felt so ornery and
low down and mean that I says to myself, my mind's made up; I'll hive that money for them or bust.
So then I lit out--for bed, I said, meaning some time or another. When I got by myself I went to thinking the
thing over. I says to myself, shall I go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds? No--that won't do. He
might tell who told him; then the king and the duke would make it warm for me. Shall I go, private, and tell
Mary Jane? No--I dasn't do it. Her face would give them a hint, sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide
right out and get away with it. If she was to fetch in help I'd get mixed up in the business before it was done
with, I judge. No; there ain't no good way but one. I got to steal that money, somehow; and I got to steal it
some way that they won't suspicion that I done it. They've got a good thing here, and they ain't a-going to
CHAPTER XXVI. 109
leave till they've played this family and this town for all they're worth, so I'll find a chance time enough. I'll
steal it and hide it; and by and by, when I'm away down the river, I'll write a letter and tell Mary Jane where
it's hid. But I better hive it tonight if I can, because the doctor maybe hasn't let up as much as he lets on he
has; he might scare them out of here yet.
So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms. Upstairs the hall was dark, but I found the duke's room, and started
to paw around it with my hands; but I recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let anybody else take
care of that money but his own self; so then I went to his room and begun to paw around there. But I see I
couldn't do nothing without a candle, and I dasn't light one, of course. So I judged I'd got to do the other
thing--lay for them and eavesdrop. About that time I hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip under
the bed; I reached for it, but it wasn't where I thought it would be; but I touched the curtain that hid Mary
Jane's frocks, so I jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still.
They come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done was to get down and look under the bed.
Then I was glad I hadn't found the bed when I wanted it. And yet, you know, it's kind of natural to hide under
the bed when you are up to anything private. They sets down then, and the king says:
"Well, what is it? And cut it middlin' short, because it's better for us to be down there a-whoopin' up the
mournin' than up here givin' 'em a chance to talk us over."
"Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy; I ain't comfortable. That doctor lays on my mind. I wanted to know your
plans. I've got a notion, and I think it's a sound one."
"What is it, duke?"
"That we better glide out of this before three in the morning, and clip it down the river with what we've got.
Specially, seeing we got it so easy--GIVEN back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, when of course we
allowed to have to steal it back. I'm for knocking off and lighting out."
That made me feel pretty bad. About an hour or two ago it would a been a little different, but now it made me
feel bad and disappointed, The king rips out and says:
"What! And not sell out the rest o' the property? March off like a passel of fools and leave eight or nine
thous'n' dollars' worth o' property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?--and all good, salable stuff,
too."
The duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn't want to go no deeper--didn't want to
rob a lot of orphans of EVERYTHING they had.
"Why, how you talk!" says the king. "We sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this money. The people that
BUYS the property is the suff'rers; because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own it--which won't be long
after we've slid--the sale won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate. These yer orphans 'll git their house
back agin, and that's enough for THEM; they're young and spry, and k'n easy earn a livin'. THEY ain't a-goin
to suffer. Why, jest think--there's thous'n's and thous'n's that ain't nigh so well off. Bless you, THEY ain't got
noth'n' to complain of."
Well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said all right, but said he believed it was blamed
foolishness to stay, and that doctor hanging over them. But the king says:
"Cuss the doctor! What do we k'yer for HIM? Hain't we got all the fools in town on our side? And ain't that a
big enough majority in any town?"
CHAPTER XXVI. 110
So they got ready to go down stairs again. The duke says:
"I don't think we put that money in a good place."
That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I warn't going to get a hint of no kind to help me. The king says:
"Why?"
"Because Mary Jane 'll be in mourning from this out; and first you know the nigger that does up the rooms
will get an order to box these duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run across money
and not borrow some of it?"
"Your head's level agin, duke," says the king; and he comes a-fumbling under the curtain two or three foot
from where I was. I stuck tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and I wondered what them
fellows would say to me if they catched me; and I tried to think what I'd better do if they did catch me. But the
king he got the bag before I could think more than about a half a thought, and he never suspicioned I was
around. They took and shoved the bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and
crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all right now, because a nigger only makes up
the feather-bed, and don't turn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it warn't in no danger of
getting stole now.
But I knowed better. I had it out of there before they was half-way down stairs. I groped along up to my
cubby, and hid it there till I could get a chance to do better. I judged I better hide it outside of the house
somewheres, because if they missed it they would give the house a good ransacking: I knowed that very well.
Then I turned in, with my clothes all on; but I couldn't a gone to sleep if I'd a wanted to, I was in such a sweat
to get through with the business. By and by I heard the king and the duke come up; so I rolled off my pallet
and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to see if anything was going to happen. But nothing
did.
So I held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones hadn't begun yet; and then I slipped down the
ladder.
CHAPTER XXVI. 111
CHAPTER XXVII.
I CREPT to their doors and listened; they was snoring. So I tiptoed along, and got down stairs all right. There
warn't a sound anywheres. I peeped through a crack of the dining-room door, and see the men that was
watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs. The door was open into the parlor, where the corpse was
laying, and there was a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and the parlor door was open; but I see there
warn't nobody in there but the remainders of Peter; so I shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the
key wasn't there. Just then I heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind me. I run in the parlor and
took a swift look around, and the only place I see to hide the bag was in the coffin. The lid was shoved along
about a foot, showing the dead man's face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. I tucked
the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed, which made me creep, they
was so cold, and then I run back across the room and in behind the door.
The person coming was Mary Jane. She went to the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down and looked in; then
she put up her handkerchief, and I see she begun to cry, though I couldn't hear her, and her back was to me. I
slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I thought I'd make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so I looked
through the crack, and everything was all right. They hadn't stirred.
I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing playing out that way after I had took so much
trouble and run so much resk about it. Says I, if it could stay where it is, all right; because when we get down
the river a hundred mile or two I could write back to Mary Jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but
that ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's going to happen is, the money 'll be found when they
come to screw on the lid. Then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he gives anybody another
chance to smouch it from him. Of course I WANTED to slide down and get it out of there, but I dasn't try it.
Every minute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would begin to stir, and I
might get catched--catched with six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take care of.
I don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, I says to myself.
When I got down stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and the watchers was gone. There warn't
nobody around but the family and the widow Bartley and our tribe. I watched their faces to see if anything had
been happening, but I couldn't tell.
Towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and they set the coffin in the middle of the
room on a couple of chairs, and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neighbors till the
hall and the parlor and the dining-room was full. I see the coffin lid was the way it was before, but I dasn't go
to look in under it, with folks around.
Then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls took seats in the front row at the head of the
coffin, and for a half an hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the dead man's
face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats
holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a little. There warn't no other
sound but the scraping of the feet on the floor and blowing noses--because people always blows them more at
a funeral than they do at other places except church.
When the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his black gloves with his softy soothering
ways, putting on the last touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and making
no more sound than a cat. He never spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up
passageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands. Then he took his place over against the wall.
He was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man I ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to
a ham.
CHAPTER XXVII. 112
They had borrowed a melodeum--a sick one; and when everything was ready a young woman set down and
worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and Peter was the only
one that had a good thing, according to my notion. Then the Reverend Hobson opened up, slow and solemn,
and begun to talk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever heard; it was
only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket, and he kept it up right along; the parson he had to stand
there, over the coffin, and wait--you couldn't hear yourself think. It was right down awkward, and nobody
didn't seem to know what to do. But pretty soon they see that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the
preacher as much as to say, "Don't you worry--just depend on me." Then he stooped down and begun to glide
along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the people's heads. So he glided along, and the powwow and
racket getting more and more outrageous all the time; and at last, when he had gone around two sides of the
room, he disappears down cellar. Then in about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up
with a most amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the parson begun his solemn talk
where he left off. In a minute or two here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along the wall
again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of the room, and then rose up, and shaded his mouth
with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the people's heads, and says, in a kind of
a coarse whisper, "HE HAD A RAT!" Then he drooped down and glided along the wall again to his place.
You could see it was a great satisfaction to the people, because naturally they wanted to know. A little thing
like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things that makes a man to be looked up to and liked. There
warn't no more popular man in town than what that undertaker was.
Well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome; and then the king he shoved in and got
off some of his usual rubbage, and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak up on the
coffin with his screw-driver. I was in a sweat then, and watched him pretty keen. But he never meddled at all;
just slid the lid along as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast. So there I was! I didn't know
whether the money was in there or not. So, says I, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?--now how
do I know whether to write to Mary Jane or not? S'pose she dug him up and didn't find nothing, what would
she think of me? Blame it, I says, I might get hunted up and jailed; I'd better lay low and keep dark, and not
write at all; the thing's awful mixed now; trying to better it, I've worsened it a hundred times, and I wish to
goodness I'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole business!
They buried him, and we come back home, and I went to watching faces again--I couldn't help it, and I
couldn't rest easy. But nothing come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing.
The king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody up, and made himself ever so friendly;
and he give out the idea that his congregation over in England would be in a sweat about him, so he must
hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave for home. He was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was
everybody; they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could see it couldn't be done. And he said of
course him and William would take the girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too, because then
the girls would be well fixed and amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls, too--tickled them so
they clean forgot they ever had a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as quick as he wanted to, they
would be ready. Them poor things was that glad and happy it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled
and lied to so, but I didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change the general tune.
Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers and all the property for auction straight off--sale
two days after the funeral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to.
So the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time, the girls' joy got the first jolt. A couple of nigger
traders come along, and the king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they called it, and
away they went, the two sons up the river to Memphis, and their mother down the river to Orleans. I thought
them poor girls and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried around each other, and took on
so it most made me down sick to see it. The girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of seeing the family separated
or sold away from the town. I can't ever get it out of my memory, the sight of them poor miserable girls and
CHAPTER XXVII. 113
niggers hanging around each other's necks and crying; and I reckon I couldn't a stood it all, but would a had to
bust out and tell on our gang if I hadn't knowed the sale warn't no account and the niggers would be back
home in a week or two.
The thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out flatfooted and said it was scandalous to
separate the mother and the children that way. It injured the frauds some; but the old fool he bulled right
along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and I tell you the duke was powerful uneasy.
Next day was auction day. About broad day in the morning the king and the duke come up in the garret and
woke me up, and I see by their look that there was trouble. The king says:
"Was you in my room night before last?"
"No, your majesty"--which was the way I always called him when nobody but our gang warn't around.
"Was you in there yisterday er last night?"
"No, your majesty."
"Honor bright, now--no lies."
"Honor bright, your majesty, I'm telling you the truth. I hain't been a-near your room since Miss Mary Jane
took you and the duke and showed it to you."
The duke says:
"Have you seen anybody else go in there?"
"No, your grace, not as I remember, I believe."
"Stop and think."
I studied awhile and see my chance; then I says:
"Well, I see the niggers go in there several times."
Both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn't ever expected it, and then like they HAD. Then
the duke says:
"What, all of them?"
"No--leastways, not all at once--that is, I don't think I ever see them all come OUT at once but just one time."
"Hello! When was that?"
"It was the day we had the funeral. In the morning. It warn't early, because I overslept. I was just starting
down the ladder, and I see them."
"Well, go on, GO on! What did they do? How'd they act?"
"They didn't do nothing. And they didn't act anyway much, as fur as I see. They tiptoed away; so I seen, easy
enough, that they'd shoved in there to do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing you was up; and
CHAPTER XXVII. 114
found you WARN'T up, and so they was hoping to slide out of the way of trouble without waking you up, if
they hadn't already waked you up."
"Great guns, THIS is a go!" says the king; and both of them looked pretty sick and tolerable silly. They stood
there a-thinking and scratching their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a little raspy chuckle,
and says:
"It does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. They let on to be SORRY they was going out of this
region! And I believed they WAS sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. Don't ever tell ME any more
that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent. Why, the way they played that thing it would fool ANYBODY. In
my opinion, there's a fortune in 'em. If I had capital and a theater, I wouldn't want a better lay-out than
that--and here we've gone and sold 'em for a song. Yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song yet. Say, where IS
that song--that draft?"
"In the bank for to be collected. Where WOULD it be?"
"Well, THAT'S all right then, thank goodness."
Says I, kind of timid-like:
"Is something gone wrong?"
The king whirls on me and rips out:
"None o' your business! You keep your head shet, and mind y'r own affairs--if you got any. Long as you're in
this town don't you forgit THAT--you hear?" Then he says to the duke, "We got to jest swaller it and say
noth'n': mum's the word for US."
As they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and says:
"Quick sales AND small profits! It's a good business--yes."
The king snarls around on him and says:
"I was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out so quick. If the profits has turned out to be none, lackin'
considable, and none to carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?"
"Well, THEY'D be in this house yet and we WOULDN'T if I could a got my advice listened to."
The king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then swapped around and lit into ME again. He give
me down the banks for not coming and TELLING him I see the niggers come out of his room acting that
way--said any fool would a KNOWED something was up. And then waltzed in and cussed HIMSELF awhile,
and said it all come of him not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and he'd be blamed if he'd
ever do it again. So they went off a-jawing; and I felt dreadful glad I'd worked it all off on to the niggers, and
yet hadn't done the niggers no harm by it.
CHAPTER XXVII. 115
CHAPTER XXVIII.
BY and by it was getting-up time. So I come down the ladder and started for down-stairs; but as I come to the
girls' room the door was open, and I see Mary Jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was open and she'd
been packing things in it--getting ready to go to England. But she had stopped now with a folded gown in her
lap, and had her face in her hands, crying. I felt awful bad to see it; of course anybody would. I went in there
and says:
"Miss Mary Jane, you can't a-bear to see people in trouble, and I can't --most always. Tell me about it."
So she done it. And it was the niggers--I just expected it. She said the beautiful trip to England was most
about spoiled for her; she didn't know HOW she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the mother and
the children warn't ever going to see each other no more--and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up
her hands, and says:
"Oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't EVER going to see each other any more!"
"But they WILL--and inside of two weeks--and I KNOW it!" says I.
Laws, it was out before I could think! And before I could budge she throws her arms around my neck and told
me to say it AGAIN, say it AGAIN, say it AGAIN!
I see I had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close place. I asked her to let me think a minute;
and she set there, very impatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and eased-up, like a
person that's had a tooth pulled out. So I went to studying it out. I says to myself, I reckon a body that ups and
tells the truth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many resks, though I ain't had no experience,
and can't say for certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where I'm blest if it don't look to
me like the truth is better and actuly SAFER than a lie. I must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some
time or other, it's so kind of strange and unregular. I never see nothing like it. Well, I says to myself at last,
I'm a-going to chance it; I'll up and tell the truth this time, though it does seem most like setting down on a
kag of powder and touching it off just to see where you'll go to. Then I says:
"Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out of town a little ways where you could go and stay three or four days?"
"Yes; Mr. Lothrop's. Why?"
"Never mind why yet. If I'll tell you how I know the niggers will see each other again inside of two
weeks--here in this house--and PROVE how I know it--will you go to Mr. Lothrop's and stay four days?"
"Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a year!"
"All right," I says, "I don't want nothing more out of YOU than just your word--I druther have it than another
man's kiss-the-Bible." She smiled and reddened up very sweet, and I says, "If you don't mind it, I'll shut the
door--and bolt it."
Then I come back and set down again, and says:
"Don't you holler. Just set still and take it like a man. I got to tell the truth, and you want to brace up, Miss
Mary, because it's a bad kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help for it. These uncles of yourn
ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple of frauds --regular dead-beats. There, now we're over the worst of it, you
can stand the rest middling easy."
CHAPTER XXVIII. 116
It jolted her up like everything, of course; but I was over the shoal water now, so I went right along, her eyes
a-blazing higher and higher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where we first struck that young
fool going up to the steamboat, clear through to where she flung herself on to the king's breast at the front
door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times--and then up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and
says:
"The brute! Come, don't waste a minute--not a SECOND--we'll have them tarred and feathered, and flung in
the river!"
Says I:
"Cert'nly. But do you mean BEFORE you go to Mr. Lothrop's, or--"
"Oh," she says, "what am I THINKING about!" she says, and set right down again. "Don't mind what I
said--please don't--you WON'T, now, WILL you?" Laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that I
said I would die first. "I never thought, I was so stirred up," she says; "now go on, and I won't do so any more.
You tell me what to do, and whatever you say I'll do it."
"Well," I says, "it's a rough gang, them two frauds, and I'm fixed so I got to travel with them a while longer,
whether I want to or not--I druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this town would get me
out of their claws, and I'd be all right; but there'd be another person that you don't know about who'd be in big
trouble. Well, we got to save HIM, hain't we? Of course. Well, then, we won't blow on them."
Saying them words put a good idea in my head. I see how maybe I could get me and Jim rid of the frauds; get
them jailed here, and then leave. But I didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without anybody aboard to
answer questions but me; so I didn't want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night. I says:
"Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll do, and you won't have to stay at Mr. Lothrop's so long, nuther. How
fur is it?"
"A little short of four miles--right out in the country, back here."
"Well, that 'll answer. Now you go along out there, and lay low till nine or half-past to-night, and then get
them to fetch you home again --tell them you've thought of something. If you get here before eleven put a
candle in this window, and if I don't turn up wait TILL eleven, and THEN if I don't turn up it means I'm gone,
and out of the way, and safe. Then you come out and spread the news around, and get these beats jailed."
"Good," she says, "I'll do it."
"And if it just happens so that I don't get away, but get took up along with them, you must up and say I told
you the whole thing beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can."
"Stand by you! indeed I will. They sha'n't touch a hair of your head!" she says, and I see her nostrils spread
and her eyes snap when she said it, too.
"If I get away I sha'n't be here," I says, "to prove these rapscallions ain't your uncles, and I couldn't do it if I
WAS here. I could swear they was beats and bummers, that's all, though that's worth something. Well, there's
others can do that better than what I can, and they're people that ain't going to be doubted as quick as I'd be.
I'll tell you how to find them. Gimme a pencil and a piece of paper. There--'Royal Nonesuch, Bricksville.' Put
it away, and don't lose it. When the court wants to find out something about these two, let them send up to
Bricksville and say they've got the men that played the Royal Nonesuch, and ask for some witnesses--why,
you'll have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, Miss Mary. And they'll come a-biling,
CHAPTER XXVIII. 117
too."
I judged we had got everything fixed about right now. So I says:
"Just let the auction go right along, and don't worry. Nobody don't have to pay for the things they buy till a
whole day after the auction on accounts of the short notice, and they ain't going out of this till they get that
money; and the way we've fixed it the sale ain't going to count, and they ain't going to get no money. It's just
like the way it was with the niggers--it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be back before long. Why, they
can't collect the money for the NIGGERS yet--they're in the worst kind of a fix, Miss Mary."
"Well," she says, "I'll run down to breakfast now, and then I'll start straight for Mr. Lothrop's."
"'Deed, THAT ain't the ticket, Miss Mary Jane," I says, "by no manner of means; go BEFORE breakfast."
"Why?"
"What did you reckon I wanted you to go at all for, Miss Mary?"
"Well, I never thought--and come to think, I don't know. What was it?"
"Why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people. I don't want no better book than what your face
is. A body can set down and read it off like coarse print. Do you reckon you can go and face your uncles when
they come to kiss you good-morning, and never--"
"There, there, don't! Yes, I'll go before breakfast--I'll be glad to. And leave my sisters with them?"
"Yes; never mind about them. They've got to stand it yet a while. They might suspicion something if all of
you was to go. I don't want you to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neighbor was to ask
how is your uncles this morning your face would tell something. No, you go right along, Miss Mary Jane, and
I'll fix it with all of them. I'll tell Miss Susan to give your love to your uncles and say you've went away for a
few hours for to get a little rest and change, or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in the
morning."
"Gone to see a friend is all right, but I won't have my love given to them."
"Well, then, it sha'n't be." It was well enough to tell HER so--no harm in it. It was only a little thing to do, and
no trouble; and it's the little things that smooths people's roads the most, down here below; it would make
Mary Jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost nothing. Then I says: "There's one more thing--that bag of
money."
"Well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think HOW they got it."
"No, you're out, there. They hain't got it."
"Why, who's got it?"
"I wish I knowed, but I don't. I HAD it, because I stole it from them; and I stole it to give to you; and I know
where I hid it, but I'm afraid it ain't there no more. I'm awful sorry, Miss Mary Jane, I'm just as sorry as I can
be; but I done the best I could; I did honest. I come nigh getting caught, and I had to shove it into the first
place I come to, and run--and it warn't a good place."
"Oh, stop blaming yourself--it's too bad to do it, and I won't allow it --you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault.
CHAPTER XXVIII. 118
Where did you hide it?"
I didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and I couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her
what would make her see that corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach. So for a
minute I didn't say nothing; then I says:
"I'd ruther not TELL you where I put it, Miss Mary Jane, if you don't mind letting me off; but I'll write it for
you on a piece of paper, and you can read it along the road to Mr. Lothrop's, if you want to. Do you reckon
that 'll do?"
"Oh, yes."
So I wrote: "I put it in the coffin. It was in there when you was crying there, away in the night. I was behind
the door, and I was mighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane."
It made my eyes water a little to remember her crying there all by herself in the night, and them devils laying
there right under her own roof, shaming her and robbing her; and when I folded it up and give it to her I see
the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook me by the hand, hard, and says:
"GOOD-bye. I'm going to do everything just as you've told me; and if I don't ever see you again, I sha'n't ever
forget you and I'll think of you a many and a many a time, and I'll PRAY for you, too!"--and she was gone.
Pray for me! I reckoned if she knowed me she'd take a job that was more nearer her size. But I bet she done it,
just the same--she was just that kind. She had the grit to pray for Judus if she took the notion--there warn't no
back-down to her, I judge. You may say what you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than
any girl I ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. It sounds like flattery, but it ain't no flattery. And
when it comes to beauty--and goodness, too--she lays over them all. I hain't ever seen her since that time that I
see her go out of that door; no, I hain't ever seen her since, but I reckon I've thought of her a many and a many
a million times, and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever I'd a thought it would do any good for
me to pray for HER, blamed if I wouldn't a done it or bust.
Well, Mary Jane she lit out the back way, I reckon; because nobody see her go. When I struck Susan and the
hare-lip, I says:
"What's the name of them people over on t'other side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?"
They says:
"There's several; but it's the Proctors, mainly."
"That's the name," I says; "I most forgot it. Well, Miss Mary Jane she told me to tell you she's gone over there
in a dreadful hurry--one of them's sick."
"Which one?"
"I don't know; leastways, I kinder forget; but I thinks it's--"
"Sakes alive, I hope it ain't HANNER?"
"I'm sorry to say it," I says, "but Hanner's the very one."
"My goodness, and she so well only last week! Is she took bad?"
CHAPTER XXVIII. 119
"It ain't no name for it. They set up with her all night, Miss Mary Jane said, and they don't think she'll last
many hours."
"Only think of that, now! What's the matter with her?"
I couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so I says:
"Mumps."
"Mumps your granny! They don't set up with people that's got the mumps."
"They don't, don't they? You better bet they do with THESE mumps. These mumps is different. It's a new
kind, Miss Mary Jane said."
"How's it a new kind?"
"Because it's mixed up with other things."
"What other things?"
"Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever,
and I don't know what all."
"My land! And they call it the MUMPS?"
"That's what Miss Mary Jane said."
"Well, what in the nation do they call it the MUMPS for?"
"Why, because it IS the mumps. That's what it starts with."
"Well, ther' ain't no sense in it. A body might stump his toe, and take pison, and fall down the well, and break
his neck, and bust his brains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and some numskull up
and say, 'Why, he stumped his TOE.' Would ther' be any sense in that? NO. And ther' ain't no sense in THIS,
nuther. Is it ketching?"
"Is it KETCHING? Why, how you talk. Is a HARROW catching--in the dark? If you don't hitch on to one
tooth, you're bound to on another, ain't you? And you can't get away with that tooth without fetching the
whole harrow along, can you? Well, these kind of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say--and it ain't
no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on good."
"Well, it's awful, I think," says the hare-lip. "I'll go to Uncle Harvey and--"
"Oh, yes," I says, "I WOULD. Of COURSE I would. I wouldn't lose no time."
"Well, why wouldn't you?"
"Just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. Hain't your uncles obleegd to get along home to England as
fast as they can? And do you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all that journey by
yourselves? YOU know they'll wait for you. So fur, so good. Your uncle Harvey's a preacher, ain't he? Very
well, then; is a PREACHER going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive a SHIP CLERK? --so
as to get them to let Miss Mary Jane go aboard? Now YOU know he ain't. What WILL he do, then? Why, he'll
CHAPTER XXVIII. 120
say, 'It's a great pity, but my church matters has got to get along the best way they can; for my niece has been
exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and so it's my bounden duty to set down here and wait the
three months it takes to show on her if she's got it.' But never mind, if you think it's best to tell your uncle
Harvey--"
"Shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having good times in England whilst we was
waiting to find out whether Mary Jane's got it or not? Why, you talk like a muggins."
"Well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of the neighbors."
"Listen at that, now. You do beat all for natural stupidness. Can't you SEE that THEY'D go and tell? Ther'
ain't no way but just to not tell anybody at ALL."
"Well, maybe you're right--yes, I judge you ARE right."
"But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle Harvey she's gone out a while, anyway, so he won't be uneasy about
her?"
"Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to do that. She says, 'Tell them to give Uncle Harvey and William my
love and a kiss, and say I've run over the river to see Mr.'--Mr.--what IS the name of that rich family your
uncle Peter used to think so much of?--I mean the one that--"
"Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't it?"
"Of course; bother them kind of names, a body can't ever seem to remember them, half the time, somehow.
Yes, she said, say she has run over for to ask the Apthorps to be sure and come to the auction and buy this
house, because she allowed her uncle Peter would ruther they had it than anybody else; and she's going to
stick to them till they say they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's coming home; and if she is, she'll
be home in the morning anyway. She said, don't say nothing about the Proctors, but only about the
Apthorps--which 'll be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their buying the house; I know
it, because she told me so herself."
"All right," they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, and give them the love and the kisses, and tell
them the message.
Everything was all right now. The girls wouldn't say nothing because they wanted to go to England; and the
king and the duke would ruther Mary Jane was off working for the auction than around in reach of Doctor
Robinson. I felt very good; I judged I had done it pretty neat--I reckoned Tom Sawyer couldn't a done it no
neater himself. Of course he would a throwed more style into it, but I can't do that very handy, not being
brung up to it.
Well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards the end of the afternoon, and it strung along,
and strung along, and the old man he was on hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside of the
auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of some kind, and
the duke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself generly.
But by and by the thing dragged through, and everything was sold --everything but a little old trifling lot in
the graveyard. So they'd got to work that off--I never see such a girafft as the king was for wanting to swallow
EVERYTHING. Well, whilst they was at it a steamboat landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd
a-whooping and yelling and laughing and carrying on, and singing out:
"HERE'S your opposition line! here's your two sets o' heirs to old Peter Wilks--and you pays your money and
CHAPTER XXVIII. 121
you takes your choice!"
CHAPTER XXVIII. 122
CHAPTER XXIX.
THEY was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman along, and a nice-looking younger one, with his right
arm in a sling. And, my souls, how the people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. But I didn't see no joke
about it, and I judged it would strain the duke and the king some to see any. I reckoned they'd turn pale. But
no, nary a pale did THEY turn. The duke he never let on he suspicioned what was up, but just went a
goo-gooing around, happy and satisfied, like a jug that's googling out buttermilk; and as for the king, he just
gazed and gazed down sorrowful on them new-comers like it give him the stomach-ache in his very heart to
think there could be such frauds and rascals in the world. Oh, he done it admirable. Lots of the principal
people gethered around the king, to let him see they was on his side. That old gentleman that had just come
looked all puzzled to death. Pretty soon he begun to speak, and I see straight off he pronounced LIKE an
Englishman--not the king's way, though the king's WAS pretty good for an imitation. I can't give the old
gent's words, nor I can't imitate him; but he turned around to the crowd, and says, about like this:
"This is a surprise to me which I wasn't looking for; and I'll acknowledge, candid and frank, I ain't very well
fixed to meet it and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke his arm, and our
baggage got put off at a town above here last night in the night by a mistake. I am Peter Wilks' brother
Harvey, and this is his brother William, which can't hear nor speak--and can't even make signs to amount to
much, now't he's only got one hand to work them with. We are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when
I get the baggage, I can prove it. But up till then I won't say nothing more, but go to the hotel and wait."
So him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and blethers out:
"Broke his arm--VERY likely, AIN'T it?--and very convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs, and
ain't learnt how. Lost their baggage! That's MIGHTY good!--and mighty ingenious--under the
CIRCUMSTANCES!"
So he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or four, or maybe half a dozen. One of these was
that doctor; another one was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned kind made out
of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing
towards the king now and then and nodding their heads--it was Levi Bell, the lawyer that was gone up to
Louisville; and another one was a big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old gentleman said,
and was listening to the king now. And when the king got done this husky up and says:
"Say, looky here; if you are Harvey Wilks, when'd you come to this town?"
"The day before the funeral, friend," says the king.
"But what time o' day?"
"In the evenin'--'bout an hour er two before sundown."
"HOW'D you come?"
"I come down on the Susan Powell from Cincinnati."
"Well, then, how'd you come to be up at the Pint in the MORNIN'--in a canoe?"
"I warn't up at the Pint in the mornin'."
"It's a lie."
CHAPTER XXIX. 123
Several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way to an old man and a preacher.
"Preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. He was up at the Pint that mornin'. I live up there, don't I? Well, I
was up there, and he was up there. I see him there. He come in a canoe, along with Tim Collins and a boy."
The doctor he up and says:
"Would you know the boy again if you was to see him, Hines?"
"I reckon I would, but I don't know. Why, yonder he is, now. I know him perfectly easy."
It was me he pointed at. The doctor says:
"Neighbors, I don't know whether the new couple is frauds or not; but if THESE two ain't frauds, I am an
idiot, that's all. I think it's our duty to see that they don't get away from here till we've looked into this thing.
Come along, Hines; come along, the rest of you. We'll take these fellows to the tavern and affront them with
t'other couple, and I reckon we'll find out SOMETHING before we get through."
It was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's friends; so we all started. It was about sundown.
The doctor he led me along by the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my hand.
We all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles, and fetched in the new couple. First, the doctor
says:
"I don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but I think they're frauds, and they may have complices that we
don't know nothing about. If they have, won't the complices get away with that bag of gold Peter Wilks left? It
ain't unlikely. If these men ain't frauds, they won't object to sending for that money and letting us keep it till
they prove they're all right--ain't that so?"
Everybody agreed to that. So I judged they had our gang in a pretty tight place right at the outstart. But the
king he only looked sorrowful, and says:
"Gentlemen, I wish the money was there, for I ain't got no disposition to throw anything in the way of a fair,
open, out-and-out investigation o' this misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there; you k'n send and see,
if you want to."
"Where is it, then?"
"Well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her I took and hid it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not
wishin' to bank it for the few days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein' used to
niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in England. The niggers stole it the very next mornin' after I
had went down stairs; and when I sold 'em I hadn't missed the money yit, so they got clean away with it. My
servant here k'n tell you 'bout it, gentlemen."
The doctor and several said "Shucks!" and I see nobody didn't altogether believe him. One man asked me if I
see the niggers steal it. I said no, but I see them sneaking out of the room and hustling away, and I never
thought nothing, only I reckoned they was afraid they had waked up my master and was trying to get away
before he made trouble with them. That was all they asked me. Then the doctor whirls on me and says:
"Are YOU English, too?"
I says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, "Stuff!"
CHAPTER XXIX. 124
Well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there we had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and
nobody never said a word about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it--and so they kept it up, and kept it
up; and it WAS the worst mixed-up thing you ever see. They made the king tell his yarn, and they made the
old gentleman tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would a SEEN that the old
gentleman was spinning truth and t'other one lies. And by and by they had me up to tell what I knowed. The
king he give me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so I knowed enough to talk on the right
side. I begun to tell about Sheffield, and how we lived there, and all about the English Wilkses, and so on; but
I didn't get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and Levi Bell, the lawyer, says:
"Set down, my boy; I wouldn't strain myself if I was you. I reckon you ain't used to lying, it don't seem to
come handy; what you want is practice. You do it pretty awkward."
I didn't care nothing for the compliment, but I was glad to be let off, anyway.
The doctor he started to say something, and turns and says:
"If you'd been in town at first, Levi Bell--" The king broke in and reached out his hand, and says:
"Why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote so often about?"
The lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right along
awhile, and then got to one side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says:
"That 'll fix it. I'll take the order and send it, along with your brother's, and then they'll know it's all right."
So they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed his
tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they give the pen to the duke--and then for the first time the
duke looked sick. But he took the pen and wrote. So then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says:
"You and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names."
The old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. The lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says:
"Well, it beats ME"--and snaked a lot of old letters out of his pocket, and examined them, and then examined
the old man's writing, and then THEM again; and then says: "These old letters is from Harvey Wilks; and
here's THESE two handwritings, and anybody can see they didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked
sold and foolish, I tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's THIS old gentleman's hand
writing, and anybody can tell, easy enough, HE didn't write them--fact is, the scratches he makes ain't
properly WRITING at all. Now, here's some letters from--"
The new old gentleman says:
"If you please, let me explain. Nobody can read my hand but my brother there--so he copies for me. It's HIS
hand you've got there, not mine."
"WELL!" says the lawyer, "this IS a state of things. I've got some of William's letters, too; so if you'll get him
to write a line or so we can com--"
"He CAN'T write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "If he could use his right hand, you would see
that he wrote his own letters and mine too. Look at both, please--they're by the same hand."
The lawyer done it, and says:
CHAPTER XXIX. 125
"I believe it's so--and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger resemblance than I'd noticed before, anyway. Well,
well, well! I thought we was right on the track of a solution, but it's gone to grass, partly. But anyway, one
thing is proved--THESE two ain't either of 'em Wilkses"--and he wagged his head towards the king and the
duke.
Well, what do you think? That muleheaded old fool wouldn't give in THEN! Indeed he wouldn't. Said it
warn't no fair test. Said his brother William was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't tried to write
--HE see William was going to play one of his jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. And so he warmed up
and went warbling and warbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he was saying
HIMSELF; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and says:
"I've thought of something. Is there anybody here that helped to lay out my br--helped to lay out the late Peter
Wilks for burying?"
"Yes," says somebody, "me and Ab Turner done it. We're both here."
Then the old man turns towards the king, and says:
"Perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?"
Blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd a squshed down like a bluff bank that the
river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most
ANYBODY sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was HE going to
know what was tattooed on the man? He whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in there,
and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him. Says I to myself, NOW he'll throw up the
sponge--there ain't no more use. Well, did he? A body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't. I reckon he thought
he'd keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the duke could break loose
and get away. Anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says:
"Mf! It's a VERY tough question, AIN'T it! YES, sir, I k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. It's jest a
small, thin, blue arrow --that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see it. NOW what do you
say--hey?"
Well, I never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out cheek.
The new old gentleman turns brisk towards Ab Turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he judged he'd
got the king THIS time, and says:
"There--you've heard what he said! Was there any such mark on Peter Wilks' breast?"
Both of them spoke up and says:
"We didn't see no such mark."
"Good!" says the old gentleman. "Now, what you DID see on his breast was a small dim P, and a B (which is
an initial he dropped when he was young), and a W, with dashes between them, so: P--B--W"--and he marked
them that way on a piece of paper. "Come, ain't that what you saw?"
Both of them spoke up again, and says:
"No, we DIDN'T. We never seen any marks at all."
CHAPTER XXIX. 126
Well, everybody WAS in a state of mind now, and they sings out:
"The whole BILIN' of 'm 's frauds! Le's duck 'em! le's drown 'em! le's ride 'em on a rail!" and everybody was
whooping at once, and there was a rattling powwow. But the lawyer he jumps on the table and yells, and says:
"Gentlemen--gentleMEN! Hear me just a word--just a SINGLE word--if you PLEASE! There's one way
yet--let's go and dig up the corpse and look."
That took them.
"Hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out:
"Hold on, hold on! Collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch THEM along, too!"
"We'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't find them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!"
I WAS scared, now, I tell you. But there warn't no getting away, you know. They gripped us all, and marched
us right along, straight for the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the whole town at
our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only nine in the evening.
As we went by our house I wished I hadn't sent Mary Jane out of town; because now if I could tip her the
wink she'd light out and save me, and blow on our dead-beats.
Well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like wildcats; and to make it more scary the sky
was darking up, and the lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst the leaves.
This was the most awful trouble and most dangersome I ever was in; and I was kinder stunned; everything
was going so different from what I had allowed for; stead of being fixed so I could take my own time if I
wanted to, and see all the fun, and have Mary Jane at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit
come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but just them tattoo-marks. If they didn't
find them--
I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn't think about nothing else. It got darker and
darker, and it was a beautiful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the wrist
--Hines--and a body might as well try to give Goliar the slip. He dragged me right along, he was so excited,
and I had to run to keep up.
When they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed over it like an overflow. And when they got
to the grave they found they had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody hadn't
thought to fetch a lantern. But they sailed into digging anyway by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man
to the nearest house, a half a mile off, to borrow one.
So they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, and the rain started, and the wind swished and
swushed along, and the lightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them people never
took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; and one minute you could see everything and every face
in that big crowd, and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next second the dark wiped it
all out, and you couldn't see nothing at all.
At last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew the lid, and then such another crowding and shouldering
and shoving as there was, to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way, it was awful.
Hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tugging so, and I reckon he clean forgot I was in the world, he
was so excited and panting.
CHAPTER XXIX. 127
All of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare, and somebody sings out:
"By the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!"
Hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and give a big surge to bust his way in and
get a look, and the way I lit out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can tell.
I had the road all to myself, and I fairly flew--leastways, I had it all to myself except the solid dark, and the
now-and-then glares, and the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting of the
thunder; and sure as you are born I did clip it along!
When I struck the town I see there warn't nobody out in the storm, so I never hunted for no back streets, but
humped it straight through the main one; and when I begun to get towards our house I aimed my eye and set
it. No light there; the house all dark--which made me feel sorry and disappointed, I didn't know why. But at
last, just as I was sailing by, FLASH comes the light in Mary Jane's window! and my heart swelled up sudden,
like to bust; and the same second the house and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever going to be
before me no more in this world. She WAS the best girl I ever see, and had the most sand.
The minute I was far enough above the town to see I could make the towhead, I begun to look sharp for a boat
to borrow, and the first time the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained I snatched it and shoved. It was
a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a rope. The towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out
there in the middle of the river, but I didn't lose no time; and when I struck the raft at last I was so fagged I
would a just laid down to blow and gasp if I could afforded it. But I didn't. As I sprung aboard I sung out:
"Out with you, Jim, and set her loose! Glory be to goodness, we're shut of them!"
Jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he was so full of joy; but when I glimpsed him in
the lightning my heart shot up in my mouth and I went overboard backwards; for I forgot he was old King
Lear and a drownded A-rab all in one, and it most scared the livers and lights out of me. But Jim fished me
out, and was going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad I was back and we was shut of the king
and the duke, but I says:
"Not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! Cut loose and let her slide!"
So in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it DID seem so good to be free again and all by
ourselves on the big river, and nobody to bother us. I had to skip around a bit, and jump up and crack my heels
a few times--I couldn't help it; but about the third crack I noticed a sound that I knowed mighty well, and held
my breath and listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted out over the water, here they
come!--and just a-laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! It was the king and the duke.
So I wilted right down on to the planks then, and give up; and it was all I could do to keep from crying.
CHAPTER XXIX. 128
CHAPTER XXX.
WHEN they got aboard the king went for me, and shook me by the collar, and says:
"Tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! Tired of our company, hey?"
I says:
"No, your majesty, we warn't--PLEASE don't, your majesty!"
"Quick, then, and tell us what WAS your idea, or I'll shake the insides out o' you!"
"Honest, I'll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty. The man that had a-holt of me was very
good to me, and kept saying he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to see a boy
in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the
coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, 'Heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and I lit out. It didn't seem no
good for ME to stay--I couldn't do nothing, and I didn't want to be hung if I could get away. So I never
stopped running till I found the canoe; and when I got here I told Jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me
yet, and said I was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and I was awful sorry, and so was Jim, and was
awful glad when we see you coming; you may ask Jim if I didn't."
Jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, "Oh, yes, it's MIGHTY likely!" and shook me
up again, and said he reckoned he'd drownd me. But the duke says:
"Leggo the boy, you old idiot! Would YOU a done any different? Did you inquire around for HIM when you
got loose? I don't remember it."
So the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody in it. But the duke says:
"You better a blame' sight give YOURSELF a good cussing, for you're the one that's entitled to it most. You
hain't done a thing from the start that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with that
imaginary blue-arrow mark. That WAS bright--it was right down bully; and it was the thing that saved us. For
if it hadn't been for that they'd a jailed us till them Englishmen's baggage come--and then--the penitentiary,
you bet! But that trick took 'em to the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the excited
fools hadn't let go all holts and made that rush to get a look we'd a slept in our cravats to-night--cravats
warranted to WEAR, too--longer than WE'D need 'em."
They was still a minute--thinking; then the king says, kind of absent-minded like:
"Mf! And we reckoned the NIGGERS stole it!"
That made me squirm!
"Yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, "WE did."
After about a half a minute the king drawls out:
"Leastways, I did."
The duke says, the same way:
"On the contrary, I did."
CHAPTER XXX. 129
The king kind of ruffles up, and says:
"Looky here, Bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?"
The duke says, pretty brisk:
"When it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask, what was YOU referring to?"
"Shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but I don't know--maybe you was asleep, and didn't know what you
was about."
The duke bristles up now, and says:
"Oh, let UP on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame' fool? Don't you reckon I know who hid that
money in that coffin?"
"YES, sir! I know you DO know, because you done it yourself!"
"It's a lie!"--and the duke went for him. The king sings out:
"Take y'r hands off!--leggo my throat!--I take it all back!"
The duke says:
"Well, you just own up, first, that you DID hide that money there, intending to give me the slip one of these
days, and come back and dig it up, and have it all to yourself."
"Wait jest a minute, duke--answer me this one question, honest and fair; if you didn't put the money there, say
it, and I'll b'lieve you, and take back everything I said."
"You old scoundrel, I didn't, and you know I didn't. There, now!"
"Well, then, I b'lieve you. But answer me only jest this one more--now DON'T git mad; didn't you have it in
your mind to hook the money and hide it?"
The duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says:
"Well, I don't care if I DID, I didn't DO it, anyway. But you not only had it in mind to do it, but you DONE
it."
"I wisht I never die if I done it, duke, and that's honest. I won't say I warn't goin' to do it, because I WAS; but
you--I mean somebody--got in ahead o' me."
"It's a lie! You done it, and you got to SAY you done it, or--"
The king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out:
"'Nough!--I OWN UP!"
I was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more easier than what I was feeling before. So the
duke took his hands off and says:
CHAPTER XXX. 130
"If you ever deny it again I'll drown you. It's WELL for you to set there and blubber like a baby--it's fitten for
you, after the way you've acted. I never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble everything --and I
a-trusting you all the time, like you was my own father. You ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by
and hear it saddled on to a lot of poor niggers, and you never say a word for 'em. It makes me feel ridiculous
to think I was soft enough to BELIEVE that rubbage. Cuss you, I can see now why you was so anxious to
make up the deffisit--you wanted to get what money I'd got out of the Nonesuch and one thing or another, and
scoop it ALL!"
The king says, timid, and still a-snuffling:
"Why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffisit; it warn't me."
"Dry up! I don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the duke. "And NOW you see what you GOT by it.
They've got all their own money back, and all of OURN but a shekel or two BESIDES. G'long to bed, and
don't you deffersit ME no more deffersits, long 's YOU live!"
So the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke tackled HIS
bottle; and so in about a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter they got the lovinger
they got, and went off a-snoring in each other's arms. They both got powerful mellow, but I noticed the king
didn't get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the money-bag again. That made me
feel easy and satisfied. Of course when they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and I told Jim everything.
CHAPTER XXX. 131
CHAPTER XXXI.
WE dasn't stop again at any town for days and days; kept right along down the river. We was down south in
the warm weather now, and a mighty long ways from home. We begun to come to trees with Spanish moss on
them, hanging down from the limbs like long, gray beards. It was the first I ever see it growing, and it made
the woods look solemn and dismal. So now the frauds reckoned they was out of danger, and they begun to
work the villages again.
First they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't make enough for them both to get drunk on. Then in
another village they started a dancing-school; but they didn't know no more how to dance than a kangaroo
does; so the first prance they made the general public jumped in and pranced them out of town. Another time
they tried to go at yellocution; but they didn't yellocute long till the audience got up and give them a solid
good cussing, and made them skip out. They tackled missionarying, and mesmerizing, and doctoring, and
telling fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn't seem to have no luck. So at last they got just about
dead broke, and laid around the raft as she floated along, thinking and thinking, and never saying nothing, by
the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate.
And at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and
confidential two or three hours at a time. Jim and me got uneasy. We didn't like the look of it. We judged they
was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever. We turned it over and over, and at last we made up
our minds they was going to break into somebody's house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-money
business, or something. So then we was pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn't have
nothing in the world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the least show we would give them the cold
shake and clear out and leave them behind. Well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about
two mile below a little bit of a shabby village named Pikesville, and the king he went ashore and told us all to
stay hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of the Royal
Nonesuch there yet. ("House to rob, you MEAN," says I to myself; "and when you get through robbing it
you'll come back here and wonder what has become of me and Jim and the raft--and you'll have to take it out
in wondering.") And he said if he warn't back by midday the duke and me would know it was all right, and we
was to come along.
So we stayed where we was. The duke he fretted and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way. He
scolded us for everything, and we couldn't seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every little thing.
Something was a-brewing, sure. I was good and glad when midday come and no king; we could have a
change, anyway--and maybe a chance for THE change on top of it. So me and the duke went up to the village,
and hunted around there for the king, and by and by we found him in the back room of a little low doggery,
very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and a-threatening with all his
might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and couldn't do nothing to them. The duke he begun to abuse him for an
old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it I lit out and shook the reefs out
of my hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer, for I see our chance; and I made up my mind that it
would be a long day before they ever see me and Jim again. I got down there all out of breath but loaded up
with joy, and sung out:
"Set her loose, Jim! we're all right now!"
But there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. Jim was gone! I set up a shout--and then
another--and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn't
no use--old Jim was gone. Then I set down and cried; I couldn't help it. But I couldn't set still long. Pretty
soon I went out on the road, trying to think what I better do, and I run across a boy walking, and asked him if
he'd seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says:
"Yes."
CHAPTER XXXI. 132
"Whereabouts?" says I.
"Down to Silas Phelps' place, two mile below here. He's a runaway nigger, and they've got him. Was you
looking for him?"
"You bet I ain't! I run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if I hollered he'd cut my
livers out--and told me to lay down and stay where I was; and I done it. Been there ever since; afeard to come
out."
"Well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've got him. He run off f'm down South, som'ers."
"It's a good job they got him."
"Well, I RECKON! There's two hunderd dollars reward on him. It's like picking up money out'n the road."
"Yes, it is--and I could a had it if I'd been big enough; I see him FIRST. Who nailed him?"
"It was an old fellow--a stranger--and he sold out his chance in him for forty dollars, becuz he's got to go up
the river and can't wait. Think o' that, now! You bet I'D wait, if it was seven year."
"That's me, every time," says I. "But maybe his chance ain't worth no more than that, if he'll sell it so cheap.
Maybe there's something ain't straight about it."
"But it IS, though--straight as a string. I see the handbill myself. It tells all about him, to a dot--paints him like
a picture, and tells the plantation he's frum, below NewrLEANS. No-sirree-BOB, they ain't no trouble 'bout
THAT speculation, you bet you. Say, gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?"
I didn't have none, so he left. I went to the raft, and set down in the wigwam to think. But I couldn't come to
nothing. I thought till I wore my head sore, but I couldn't see no way out of the trouble. After all this long
journey, and after all we'd done for them scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything all busted up
and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve Jim such a trick as that, and make him a slave again all
his life, and amongst strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars.
Once I said to myself it would be a thousand times better for Jim to be a slave at home where his family was,
as long as he'd GOT to be a slave, and so I'd better write a letter to Tom Sawyer and tell him to tell Miss
Watson where he was. But I soon give up that notion for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his
rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she'd sell him straight down the river again; and if she
didn't, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful nigger, and they'd make Jim feel it all the time, and so he'd
feel ornery and disgraced. And then think of ME! It would get all around that Huck Finn helped a nigger to
get his freedom; and if I was ever to see anybody from that town again I'd be ready to get down and lick his
boots for shame. That's just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don't want to take no
consequences of it. Thinks as long as he can hide it, it ain't no disgrace. That was my fix exactly. The more I
studied about this the more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and
ornery I got to feeling. And at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here was the plain hand of Providence
slapping me in the face and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in
heaven, whilst I was stealing a poor old woman's nigger that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was
showing me there's One that's always on the lookout, and ain't a-going to allow no such miserable doings to
go only just so fur and no further, I most dropped in my tracks I was so scared. Well, I tried the best I could to
kinder soften it up somehow for myself by saying I was brung up wicked, and so I warn't so much to blame;
but something inside of me kept saying, "There was the Sunday-school, you could a gone to it; and if you'd a
done it they'd a learnt you there that people that acts as I'd been acting about that nigger goes to everlasting
fire."
CHAPTER XXXI. 133
It made me shiver. And I about made up my mind to pray, and see if I couldn't try to quit being the kind of a
boy I was and be better. So I kneeled down. But the words wouldn't come. Why wouldn't they? It warn't no
use to try and hide it from Him. Nor from ME, neither. I knowed very well why they wouldn't come. It was
because my heart warn't right; it was because I warn't square; it was because I was playing double. I was
letting ON to give up sin, but away inside of me I was holding on to the biggest one of all. I was trying to
make my mouth SAY I would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write to that nigger's owner
and tell where he was; but deep down in me I knowed it was a lie, and He knowed it. You can't pray a lie--I
found that out.
So I was full of trouble, full as I could be; and didn't know what to do. At last I had an idea; and I says, I'll go
and write the letter--and then see if I can pray. Why, it was astonishing, the way I felt as light as a feather right
straight off, and my troubles all gone. So I got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down
and wrote:
Miss Watson, your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville, and Mr. Phelps has got him
and he will give him up for the reward if you send.
HUCK FINN.
I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray
now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking--thinking how good it was
all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to
thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time,
sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. But
somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him
standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he
was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud
was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me and do everything he could think of
for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had
small-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the
ONLY one he's got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper.
It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever,
betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:
"All right, then, I'll GO to hell"--and tore it up.
It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay said; and never thought no
more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out of my head, and said I would take up wickedness again,
which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn't. And for a starter I would go to work and steal
Jim out of slavery again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too; because as long as I was
in, and in for good, I might as well go the whole hog.
Then I set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some considerable many ways in my mind; and at
last fixed up a plan that suited me. So then I took the bearings of a woody island that was down the river a
piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark I crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then
turned in. I slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had my breakfast, and put on my store
clothes, and tied up some others and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for
shore. I landed below where I judged was Phelps's place, and hid my bundle in the woods, and then filled up
the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her and sunk her where I could find her again when I wanted her,
about a quarter of a mile below a little steam sawmill that was on the bank.
CHAPTER XXXI. 134
Then I struck up the road, and when I passed the mill I see a sign on it, "Phelps's Sawmill," and when I come
to the farm-houses, two or three hundred yards further along, I kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see nobody
around, though it was good daylight now. But I didn't mind, because I didn't want to see nobody just yet--I
only wanted to get the lay of the land. According to my plan, I was going to turn up there from the village, not
from below. So I just took a look, and shoved along, straight for town. Well, the very first man I see when I
got there was the duke. He was sticking up a bill for the Royal Nonesuch--three-night performance--like that
other time. They had the cheek, them frauds! I was right on him before I could shirk. He looked astonished,
and says:
"Hel-LO! Where'd YOU come from?" Then he says, kind of glad and eager, "Where's the raft?--got her in a
good place?"
I says:
"Why, that's just what I was going to ask your grace."
Then he didn't look so joyful, and says:
"What was your idea for asking ME?" he says.
"Well," I says, "when I see the king in that doggery yesterday I says to myself, we can't get him home for
hours, till he's soberer; so I went a-loafing around town to put in the time and wait. A man up and offered me
ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so I went along; but when we
was dragging him to the boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind him to shove him along,
he was too strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we after him. We didn't have no dog, and so we had to
chase him all over the country till we tired him out. We never got him till dark; then we fetched him over, and
I started down for the raft. When I got there and see it was gone, I says to myself, 'They've got into trouble
and had to leave; and they've took my nigger, which is the only nigger I've got in the world, and now I'm in a
strange country, and ain't got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way to make my living;' so I set down
and cried. I slept in the woods all night. But what DID become of the raft, then?--and Jim--poor Jim!"
"Blamed if I know--that is, what's become of the raft. That old fool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and
when we found him in the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what
he'd spent for whisky; and when I got him home late last night and found the raft gone, we said, 'That little
rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.'"
"I wouldn't shake my NIGGER, would I?--the only nigger I had in the world, and the only property."
"We never thought of that. Fact is, I reckon we'd come to consider him OUR nigger; yes, we did consider him
so--goodness knows we had trouble enough for him. So when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke,
there warn't anything for it but to try the Royal Nonesuch another shake. And I've pegged along ever since,
dry as a powder-horn. Where's that ten cents? Give it here."
I had considerable money, so I give him ten cents, but begged him to spend it for something to eat, and give
me some, because it was all the money I had, and I hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday. He never said
nothing. The next minute he whirls on me and says:
"Do you reckon that nigger would blow on us? We'd skin him if he done that!"
"How can he blow? Hain't he run off?"
"No! That old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money's gone."
CHAPTER XXXI. 135
"SOLD him?" I says, and begun to cry; "why, he was MY nigger, and that was my money. Where is he?--I
want my nigger."
"Well, you can't GET your nigger, that's all--so dry up your blubbering. Looky here--do you think YOU'D
venture to blow on us? Blamed if I think I'd trust you. Why, if you WAS to blow on us--"
He stopped, but I never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. I went on a-whimpering, and says:
"I don't want to blow on nobody; and I ain't got no time to blow, nohow. I got to turn out and find my nigger."
He looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his
forehead. At last he says:
"I'll tell you something. We got to be here three days. If you'll promise you won't blow, and won't let the
nigger blow, I'll tell you where to find him."
So I promised, and he says:
"A farmer by the name of Silas Ph--" and then he stopped. You see, he started to tell me the truth; but when he
stopped that way, and begun to study and think again, I reckoned he was changing his mind. And so he was.
He wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. So pretty
soon he says:
"The man that bought him is named Abram Foster--Abram G. Foster--and he lives forty mile back here in the
country, on the road to Lafayette."
"All right," I says, "I can walk it in three days. And I'll start this very afternoon."
"No you wont, you'll start NOW; and don't you lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the
way. Just keep a tight tongue in your head and move right along, and then you won't get into trouble with US,
d'ye hear?"
That was the order I wanted, and that was the one I played for. I wanted to be left free to work my plans.
"So clear out," he says; "and you can tell Mr. Foster whatever you want to. Maybe you can get him to believe
that Jim IS your nigger--some idiots don't require documents--leastways I've heard there's such down South
here. And when you tell him the handbill and the reward's bogus, maybe he'll believe you when you explain to
him what the idea was for getting 'em out. Go 'long now, and tell him anything you want to; but mind you
don't work your jaw any BETWEEN here and there."
So I left, and struck for the back country. I didn't look around, but I kinder felt like he was watching me. But I
knowed I could tire him out at that. I went straight out in the country as much as a mile before I stopped; then
I doubled back through the woods towards Phelps'. I reckoned I better start in on my plan straight off without
fooling around, because I wanted to stop Jim's mouth till these fellows could get away. I didn't want no
trouble with their kind. I'd seen all I wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them.
CHAPTER XXXI. 136
CHAPTER XXXII.
WHEN I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to the fields; and
there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like
everybody's dead and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful,
because you feel like it's spirits whispering--spirits that's been dead ever so many years--and you always think
they're talking about YOU. As a general thing it makes a body wish HE was dead, too, and done with it all.
Phelps' was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and they all look alike. A rail fence round a
two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different length, to
climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump on to a horse; some
sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed
off; big double log-house for the white folks--hewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and
these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen, with a big broad, open but
roofed passage joining it to the house; log smoke-house back of the kitchen; three little log nigger-cabins in a
row t'other side the smoke-house; one little hut all by itself away down against the back fence, and some
outbuildings down a piece the other side; ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench by
the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds asleep round
about; about three shade trees away off in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place
by the fence; outside of the fence a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton fields begins, and after the
fields the woods.
I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen. When I got a little
ways I heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again; and then I
knowed for certain I wished I was dead--for that IS the lonesomest sound in the whole world.
I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting to Providence to put the right words in
my mouth when the time come; for I'd noticed that Providence always did put the right words in my mouth if I
left it alone.
When I got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went for me, and of course I stopped and
faced them, and kept still. And such another powwow as they made! In a quarter of a minute I was a kind of a
hub of a wheel, as you may say--spokes made out of dogs--circle of fifteen of them packed together around
me, with their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; and more a-coming; you
could see them sailing over fences and around corners from everywheres.
A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, "Begone YOU
Tige! you Spot! begone sah!" and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent them howling,
and then the rest followed; and the next second half of them come back, wagging their tails around me, and
making friends with me. There ain't no harm in a hound, nohow.
And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen
shirts, and they hung on to their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful, the way they
always do. And here comes the white woman running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old,
bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her comes her little white children, acting the
same way the little niggers was doing. She was smiling all over so she could hardly stand--and says:
"It's YOU, at last!--AIN'T it?"
I out with a "Yes'm" before I thought.
CHAPTER XXXII. 137
She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both hands and shook and shook; and the tears
come in her eyes, and run down over; and she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept saying, "You
don't look as much like your mother as I reckoned you would; but law sakes, I don't care for that, I'm so glad
to see you! Dear, dear, it does seem like I could eat you up! Children, it's your cousin Tom!--tell him howdy."
But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on:
"Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away--or did you get your breakfast on the boat?"
I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the house, leading me by the hand, and the children
tagging after. When we got there she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down on a little
low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and says:
"Now I can have a GOOD look at you; and, laws-a-me, I've been hungry for it a many and a many a time, all
these long years, and it's come at last! We been expecting you a couple of days and more. What kep'
you?--boat get aground?"
"Yes'm--she--"
"Don't say yes'm--say Aunt Sally. Where'd she get aground?"
I didn't rightly know what to say, because I didn't know whether the boat would be coming up the river or
down. But I go a good deal on instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up--from down towards
Orleans. That didn't help me much, though; for I didn't know the names of bars down that way. I see I'd got to
invent a bar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on--or--Now I struck an idea, and fetched it out:
"It warn't the grounding--that didn't keep us back but a little. We blowed out a cylinder-head."
"Good gracious! anybody hurt?"
"No'm. Killed a nigger."
"Well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. Two years ago last Christmas your uncle Silas was
coming up from Newrleans on the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man.
And I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist. Your uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that
knowed his people very well. Yes, I remember now, he DID die. Mortification set in, and they had to
amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes, it was mortification--that was it. He turned blue all over, and died
in the hope of a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at. Your uncle's been up to the town
every day to fetch you. And he's gone again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any minute now. You must
a met him on the road, didn't you?--oldish man, with a--"
"No, I didn't see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at daylight, and I left my baggage on the wharf-boat
and went looking around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time and not get here too soon;
and so I come down the back way."
"Who'd you give the baggage to?"
"Nobody."
"Why, child, it 'll be stole!"
"Not where I hid it I reckon it won't," I says.
CHAPTER XXXII. 138
"How'd you get your breakfast so early on the boat?"
It was kinder thin ice, but I says:
"The captain see me standing around, and told me I better have something to eat before I went ashore; so he
took me in the texas to the officers' lunch, and give me all I wanted."
I was getting so uneasy I couldn't listen good. I had my mind on the children all the time; I wanted to get them
out to one side and pump them a little, and find out who I was. But I couldn't get no show, Mrs. Phelps kept it
up and run on so. Pretty soon she made the cold chills streak all down my back, because she says:
"But here we're a-running on this way, and you hain't told me a word about Sis, nor any of them. Now I'll rest
my works a little, and you start up yourn; just tell me EVERYTHING--tell me all about 'm all every one of 'm;
and how they are, and what they're doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think
of."
Well, I see I was up a stump--and up it good. Providence had stood by me this fur all right, but I was hard and
tight aground now. I see it warn't a bit of use to try to go ahead--I'd got to throw up my hand. So I says to
myself, here's another place where I got to resk the truth. I opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me
and hustled me in behind the bed, and says:
"Here he comes! Stick your head down lower--there, that'll do; you can't be seen now. Don't you let on you're
here. I'll play a joke on him. Children, don't you say a word."
I see I was in a fix now. But it warn't no use to worry; there warn't nothing to do but just hold still, and try and
be ready to stand from under when the lightning struck.
I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in; then the bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps she
jumps for him, and says:
"Has he come?"
"No," says her husband.
"Good-NESS gracious!" she says, "what in the warld can have become of him?"
"I can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and I must say it makes me dreadful uneasy."
"Uneasy!" she says; "I'm ready to go distracted! He MUST a come; and you've missed him along the road. I
KNOW it's so--something tells me so."
"Why, Sally, I COULDN'T miss him along the road--YOU know that."
"But oh, dear, dear, what WILL Sis say! He must a come! You must a missed him. He--"
"Oh, don't distress me any more'n I'm already distressed. I don't know what in the world to make of it. I'm at
my wit's end, and I don't mind acknowledging 't I'm right down scared. But there's no hope that he's come; for
he COULDN'T come and me miss him. Sally, it's terrible--just terrible--something's happened to the boat,
sure!"
"Why, Silas! Look yonder!--up the road!--ain't that somebody coming?"
CHAPTER XXXII. 139
He sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give Mrs. Phelps the chance she wanted. She stooped
down quick at the foot of the bed and give me a pull, and out I come; and when he turned back from the
window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smiling like a house afire, and I standing pretty meek and sweaty
alongside. The old gentleman stared, and says:
"Why, who's that?"
"Who do you reckon 't is?"
"I hain't no idea. Who IS it?"
"It's TOM SAWYER!"
By jings, I most slumped through the floor! But there warn't no time to swap knives; the old man grabbed me
by the hand and shook, and kept on shaking; and all the time how the woman did dance around and laugh and
cry; and then how they both did fire off questions about Sid, and Mary, and the rest of the tribe.
But if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what I was; for it was like being born again, I was so glad to find
out who I was. Well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it couldn't hardly
go any more, I had told them more about my family--I mean the Sawyer family--than ever happened to any
six Sawyer families. And I explained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of White
River, and it took us three days to fix it. Which was all right, and worked first-rate; because THEY didn't
know but what it would take three days to fix it. If I'd a called it a bolthead it would a done just as well.
Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. Being Tom
Sawyer was easy and comfortable, and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by I hear a steamboat
coughing along down the river. Then I says to myself, s'pose Tom Sawyer comes down on that boat? And
s'pose he steps in here any minute, and sings out my name before I can throw him a wink to keep quiet?
Well, I couldn't HAVE it that way; it wouldn't do at all. I must go up the road and waylay him. So I told the
folks I reckoned I would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. The old gentleman was for going
along with me, but I said no, I could drive the horse myself, and I druther he wouldn't take no trouble about
me.
CHAPTER XXXII. 140
CHAPTER XXXIII.
SO I started for town in the wagon, and when I was half-way I see a wagon coming, and sure enough it was
Tom Sawyer, and I stopped and waited till he come along. I says "Hold on!" and it stopped alongside, and his
mouth opened up like a trunk, and stayed so; and he swallowed two or three times like a person that's got a
dry throat, and then says:
"I hain't ever done you no harm. You know that. So, then, what you want to come back and ha'nt ME for?"
I says:
"I hain't come back--I hain't been GONE."
When he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn't quite satisfied yet. He says:
"Don't you play nothing on me, because I wouldn't on you. Honest injun now, you ain't a ghost?"
"Honest injun, I ain't," I says.
"Well--I--I--well, that ought to settle it, of course; but I can't somehow seem to understand it no way. Looky
here, warn't you ever murdered AT ALL?"
"No. I warn't ever murdered at all--I played it on them. You come in here and feel of me if you don't believe
me."
So he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see me again he didn't know what to do. And he
wanted to know all about it right off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so it hit him
where he lived. But I said, leave it alone till by and by; and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little
piece, and I told him the kind of a fix I was in, and what did he reckon we better do? He said, let him alone a
minute, and don't disturb him. So he thought and thought, and pretty soon he says:
"It's all right; I've got it. Take my trunk in your wagon, and let on it's your'n; and you turn back and fool along
slow, so as to get to the house about the time you ought to; and I'll go towards town a piece, and take a fresh
start, and get there a quarter or a half an hour after you; and you needn't let on to know me at first."
I says:
"All right; but wait a minute. There's one more thing--a thing that NOBODY don't know but me. And that is,
there's a nigger here that I'm a-trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is JIM--old Miss Watson's Jim."
He says:
"What! Why, Jim is--"
He stopped and went to studying. I says:
"I know what you'll say. You'll say it's dirty, low-down business; but what if it is? I'm low down; and I'm
a-going to steal him, and I want you keep mum and not let on. Will you?"
His eye lit up, and he says:
"I'll HELP you steal him!"
CHAPTER XXXIII. 141
Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most astonishing speech I ever heard--and I'm bound to
say Tom Sawyer fell considerable in my estimation. Only I couldn't believe it. Tom Sawyer a
NIGGER-STEALER!
"Oh, shucks!" I says; "you're joking."
"I ain't joking, either."
"Well, then," I says, "joking or no joking, if you hear anything said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to
remember that YOU don't know nothing about him, and I don't know nothing about him."
Then we took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off his way and I drove mine. But of course I
forgot all about driving slow on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so I got home a heap too quick for
that length of a trip. The old gentleman was at the door, and he says:
"Why, this is wonderful! Whoever would a thought it was in that mare to do it? I wish we'd a timed her. And
she hain't sweated a hair--not a hair. It's wonderful. Why, I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that horse
now--I wouldn't, honest; and yet I'd a sold her for fifteen before, and thought 'twas all she was worth."
That's all he said. He was the innocentest, best old soul I ever see. But it warn't surprising; because he warn't
only just a farmer, he was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of the plantation,
which he built it himself at his own expense, for a church and schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his
preaching, and it was worth it, too. There was plenty other farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way,
down South.
In about half an hour Tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and Aunt Sally she see it through the window,
because it was only about fifty yards, and says:
"Why, there's somebody come! I wonder who 'tis? Why, I do believe it's a stranger. Jimmy" (that's one of the
children) "run and tell Lize to put on another plate for dinner."
Everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a stranger don't come EVERY year, and so he
lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does come. Tom was over the stile and starting for the house;
the wagon was spinning up the road for the village, and we was all bunched in the front door. Tom had his
store clothes on, and an audience--and that was always nuts for Tom Sawyer. In them circumstances it warn't
no trouble to him to throw in an amount of style that was suitable. He warn't a boy to meeky along up that
yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram. When he got a-front of us he lifts his hat ever
so gracious and dainty, like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb
them, and says:
"Mr. Archibald Nichols, I presume?"
"No, my boy," says the old gentleman, "I'm sorry to say 't your driver has deceived you; Nichols's place is
down a matter of three mile more. Come in, come in."
Tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, "Too late--he's out of sight."
"Yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner with us; and then we'll hitch up and take
you down to Nichols's."
"Oh, I CAN'T make you so much trouble; I couldn't think of it. I'll walk --I don't mind the distance."
CHAPTER XXXIII. 142
"But we won't LET you walk--it wouldn't be Southern hospitality to do it. Come right in."
"Oh, DO," says Aunt Sally; "it ain't a bit of trouble to us, not a bit in the world. You must stay. It's a long,
dusty three mile, and we can't let you walk. And, besides, I've already told 'em to put on another plate when I
see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint us. Come right in and make yourself at home."
So Tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and when he
was in he said he was a stranger from Hicksville, Ohio, and his name was William Thompson--and he made
another bow.
Well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about Hicksville and everybody in it he could invent, and I
getting a little nervious, and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and at last, still
talking along, he reached over and kissed Aunt Sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his
chair comfortable, and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with the back of her hand,
and says:
"You owdacious puppy!"
He looked kind of hurt, and says:
"I'm surprised at you, m'am."
"You're s'rp--Why, what do you reckon I am? I've a good notion to take and--Say, what do you mean by
kissing me?"
He looked kind of humble, and says:
"I didn't mean nothing, m'am. I didn't mean no harm. I--I--thought you'd like it."
"Why, you born fool!" She took up the spinning stick, and it looked like it was all she could do to keep from
giving him a crack with it. "What made you think I'd like it?"
"Well, I don't know. Only, they--they--told me you would."
"THEY told you I would. Whoever told you's ANOTHER lunatic. I never heard the beat of it. Who's THEY?"
"Why, everybody. They all said so, m'am."
It was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to scratch
him; and she says:
"Who's 'everybody'? Out with their names, or ther'll be an idiot short."
He got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says:
"I'm sorry, and I warn't expecting it. They told me to. They all told me to. They all said, kiss her; and said
she'd like it. They all said it--every one of them. But I'm sorry, m'am, and I won't do it no more --I won't,
honest."
"You won't, won't you? Well, I sh'd RECKON you won't!"
"No'm, I'm honest about it; I won't ever do it again--till you ask me."
CHAPTER XXXIII. 143
"Till I ASK you! Well, I never see the beat of it in my born days! I lay you'll be the Methusalem-numskull of
creation before ever I ask you --or the likes of you."
"Well," he says, "it does surprise me so. I can't make it out, somehow. They said you would, and I thought you
would. But--" He stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across a friendly eye
somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman's, and says, "Didn't YOU think she'd like me to kiss her,
sir?"
"Why, no; I--I--well, no, I b'lieve I didn't."
Then he looks on around the same way to me, and says:
"Tom, didn't YOU think Aunt Sally 'd open out her arms and say, 'Sid Sawyer--'"
"My land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for him, "you impudent young rascal, to fool a body so--" and
was going to hug him, but he fended her off, and says:
"No, not till you've asked me first."
So she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed him over and over again, and then
turned him over to the old man, and he took what was left. And after they got a little quiet again she says:
"Why, dear me, I never see such a surprise. We warn't looking for YOU at all, but only Tom. Sis never wrote
to me about anybody coming but him."
"It's because it warn't INTENDED for any of us to come but Tom," he says; "but I begged and begged, and at
the last minute she let me come, too; so, coming down the river, me and Tom thought it would be a first-rate
surprise for him to come here to the house first, and for me to by and by tag along and drop in, and let on to be
a stranger. But it was a mistake, Aunt Sally. This ain't no healthy place for a stranger to come."
"No--not impudent whelps, Sid. You ought to had your jaws boxed; I hain't been so put out since I don't know
when. But I don't care, I don't mind the terms--I'd be willing to stand a thousand such jokes to have you here.
Well, to think of that performance! I don't deny it, I was most putrified with astonishment when you give me
that smack."
We had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house and the kitchen; and there was things enough
on that table for seven families --and all hot, too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's laid in a cupboard in a
damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old cold cannibal in the morning. Uncle Silas he asked a pretty
long blessing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit, neither, the way I've seen them kind of
interruptions do lots of times. There was a considerable good deal of talk all the afternoon, and me and Tom
was on the lookout all the time; but it warn't no use, they didn't happen to say nothing about any runaway
nigger, and we was afraid to try to work up to it. But at supper, at night, one of the little boys says:
"Pa, mayn't Tom and Sid and me go to the show?"
"No," says the old man, "I reckon there ain't going to be any; and you couldn't go if there was; because the
runaway nigger told Burton and me all about that scandalous show, and Burton said he would tell the people;
so I reckon they've drove the owdacious loafers out of town before this time."
So there it was!--but I couldn't help it. Tom and me was to sleep in the same room and bed; so, being tired, we
bid good-night and went up to bed right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down the
lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for I didn't believe anybody was going to give the king and the duke a
CHAPTER XXXIII. 144
hint, and so if I didn't hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble sure.
On the road Tom he told me all about how it was reckoned I was murdered, and how pap disappeared pretty
soon, and didn't come back no more, and what a stir there was when Jim run away; and I told Tom all about
our Royal Nonesuch rapscallions, and as much of the raft voyage as I had time to; and as we struck into the
town and up through the middle of it--it was as much as half-after eight, then--here comes a raging rush of
people with torches, and an awful whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we
jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they went by I see they had the king and the duke astraddle of a
rail--that is, I knowed it WAS the king and the duke, though they was all over tar and feathers, and didn't look
like nothing in the world that was human--just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier- plumes. Well, it
made me sick to see it; and I was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed like I couldn't ever feel any
hardness against them any more in the world. It was a dreadful thing to see. Human beings CAN be awful
cruel to one another.
We see we was too late--couldn't do no good. We asked some stragglers about it, and they said everybody
went to the show looking very innocent; and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was in the middle of
his cavortings on the stage; then somebody give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them.
So we poked along back home, and I warn't feeling so brash as I was before, but kind of ornery, and humble,
and to blame, somehow--though I hadn't done nothing. But that's always the way; it don't make no difference
whether you do right or wrong, a person's conscience ain't got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. If I had
a yaller dog that didn't know no more than a person's conscience does I would pison him. It takes up more
room than all the rest of a person's insides, and yet ain't no good, nohow. Tom Sawyer he says the same.
CHAPTER XXXIII. 145
CHAPTER XXXIV.
WE stopped talking, and got to thinking. By and by Tom says:
"Looky here, Huck, what fools we are to not think of it before! I bet I know where Jim is."
"No! Where?"
"In that hut down by the ash-hopper. Why, looky here. When we was at dinner, didn't you see a nigger man go
in there with some vittles?"
"Yes."
"What did you think the vittles was for?"
"For a dog."
"So 'd I. Well, it wasn't for a dog."
"Why?"
"Because part of it was watermelon."
"So it was--I noticed it. Well, it does beat all that I never thought about a dog not eating watermelon. It shows
how a body can see and don't see at the same time."
"Well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he locked it again when he came out. He fetched
uncle a key about the time we got up from table--same key, I bet. Watermelon shows man, lock shows
prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on such a little plantation, and where the people's all so kind
and good. Jim's the prisoner. All right--I'm glad we found it out detective fashion; I wouldn't give shucks for
any other way. Now you work your mind, and study out a plan to steal Jim, and I will study out one, too; and
we'll take the one we like the best."
What a head for just a boy to have! If I had Tom Sawyer's head I wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor mate
of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor nothing I can think of. I went to thinking out a plan, but only just to
be doing something; I knowed very well where the right plan was going to come from. Pretty soon Tom says:
"Ready?"
"Yes," I says.
"All right--bring it out."
"My plan is this," I says. "We can easy find out if it's Jim in there. Then get up my canoe to-morrow night,
and fetch my raft over from the island. Then the first dark night that comes steal the key out of the old man's
britches after he goes to bed, and shove off down the river on the raft with Jim, hiding daytimes and running
nights, the way me and Jim used to do before. Wouldn't that plan work?"
"WORK? Why, cert'nly it would work, like rats a-fighting. But it's too blame' simple; there ain't nothing TO
it. What's the good of a plan that ain't no more trouble than that? It's as mild as goose-milk. Why, Huck, it
wouldn't make no more talk than breaking into a soap factory."
CHAPTER XXXIV. 146
I never said nothing, because I warn't expecting nothing different; but I knowed mighty well that whenever he
got HIS plan ready it wouldn't have none of them objections to it.
And it didn't. He told me what it was, and I see in a minute it was worth fifteen of mine for style, and would
make Jim just as free a man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. So I was satisfied, and said
we would waltz in on it. I needn't tell what it was here, because I knowed it wouldn't stay the way, it was. I
knowed he would be changing it around every which way as we went along, and heaving in new bullinesses
wherever he got a chance. And that is what he done.
Well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that Tom Sawyer was in earnest, and was actuly going to help
steal that nigger out of slavery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy that was
respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters; and he was
bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here he was,
without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and
his family a shame, before everybody. I COULDN'T understand it no way at all. It was outrageous, and I
knowed I ought to just up and tell him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he
was and save himself. And I DID start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says:
"Don't you reckon I know what I'm about? Don't I generly know what I'm about?"
"Yes."
"Didn't I SAY I was going to help steal the nigger?"
"Yes."
"WELL, then."
That's all he said, and that's all I said. It warn't no use to say any more; because when he said he'd do a thing,
he always done it. But I couldn't make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so I just let it go, and
never bothered no more about it. If he was bound to have it so, I couldn't help it.
When we got home the house was all dark and still; so we went on down to the hut by the ash-hopper for to
examine it. We went through the yard so as to see what the hounds would do. They knowed us, and didn't
make no more noise than country dogs is always doing when anything comes by in the night. When we got to
the cabin we took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side I warn't acquainted with--which was
the north side--we found a square window-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed across it. I
says:
"Here's the ticket. This hole's big enough for Jim to get through if we wrench off the board."
Tom says:
"It's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing hooky. I should HOPE we can find a way
that's a little more complicated than THAT, Huck Finn."
"Well, then," I says, "how 'll it do to saw him out, the way I done before I was murdered that time?"
"That's more LIKE," he says. "It's real mysterious, and troublesome, and good," he says; "but I bet we can
find a way that's twice as long. There ain't no hurry; le's keep on looking around."
Betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that joined the hut at the eaves, and was made
CHAPTER XXXIV. 147
out of plank. It was as long as the hut, but narrow--only about six foot wide. The door to it was at the south
end, and was padlocked. Tom he went to the soap-kettle and searched around, and fetched back the iron thing
they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. The chain fell down, and we opened the
door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn't no
connection with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes
and spades and picks and a crippled plow. The match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again,
and the door was locked as good as ever. Tom was joyful. He says;
"Now we're all right. We'll DIG him out. It 'll take about a week!"
Then we started for the house, and I went in the back door--you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they
don't fasten the doors--but that warn't romantical enough for Tom Sawyer; no way would do him but he must
climb up the lightning-rod. But after he got up half way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time,
and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up; but after he was rested he
allowed he would give her one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip.
In the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends
with the nigger that fed Jim--if it WAS Jim that was being fed. The niggers was just getting through breakfast
and starting for the fields; and Jim's nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst
the others was leaving, the key come from the house.
This nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with
thread. That was to keep witches off. He said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and making
him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he
was ever witched so long before in his life. He got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles,
he forgot all about what he'd been a-going to do. So Tom says:
"What's the vittles for? Going to feed the dogs?"
The nigger kind of smiled around gradually over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle,
and he says:
"Yes, Mars Sid, A dog. Cur'us dog, too. Does you want to go en look at 'im?"
"Yes."
I hunched Tom, and whispers:
"You going, right here in the daybreak? THAT warn't the plan."
"No, it warn't; but it's the plan NOW."
So, drat him, we went along, but I didn't like it much. When we got in we couldn't hardly see anything, it was
so dark; but Jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out:
"Why, HUCK! En good LAN'! ain' dat Misto Tom?"
I just knowed how it would be; I just expected it. I didn't know nothing to do; and if I had I couldn't a done it,
because that nigger busted in and says:
"Why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?"
CHAPTER XXXIV. 148
We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says:
"Does WHO know us?"
"Why, dis-yer runaway nigger."
"I don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?"
"What PUT it dar? Didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like he knowed you?"
Tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way:
"Well, that's mighty curious. WHO sung out? WHEN did he sing out? WHAT did he sing out?" And turns to
me, perfectly ca'm, and says, "Did YOU hear anybody sing out?"
Of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one thing; so I says:
"No; I ain't heard nobody say nothing."
Then he turns to Jim, and looks him over like he never see him before, and says:
"Did you sing out?"
"No, sah," says Jim; "I hain't said nothing, sah."
"Not a word?"
"No, sah, I hain't said a word."
"Did you ever see us before?"
"No, sah; not as I knows on."
So Tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe:
"What do you reckon's the matter with you, anyway? What made you think somebody sung out?"
"Oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en I wisht I was dead, I do. Dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos' kill me,
dey sk'yers me so. Please to don't tell nobody 'bout it sah, er ole Mars Silas he'll scole me; 'kase he say dey
AIN'T no witches. I jis' wish to goodness he was heah now --DEN what would he say! I jis' bet he couldn' fine
no way to git aroun' it DIS time. But it's awluz jis' so; people dat's SOT, stays sot; dey won't look into
noth'n'en fine it out f'r deyselves, en when YOU fine it out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan' b'lieve you."
Tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell nobody; and told him to buy some more thread to tie up his
wool with; and then looks at Jim, and says:
"I wonder if Uncle Silas is going to hang this nigger. If I was to catch a nigger that was ungrateful enough to
run away, I wouldn't give him up, I'd hang him." And whilst the nigger stepped to the door to look at the dime
and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers to Jim and says:
"Don't ever let on to know us. And if you hear any digging going on nights, it's us; we're going to set you
free."
CHAPTER XXXIV. 149
Jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the nigger come back, and we said we'd come
again some time if the nigger wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was dark, because the
witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was good to have folks around then.
CHAPTER XXXIV. 150
CHAPTER XXXV.
IT would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left and struck down into the woods; because Tom said we
got to have SOME light to see how to dig by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get us into trouble;
what we must have was a lot of them rotten chunks that's called fox-fire, and just makes a soft kind of a glow
when you lay them in a dark place. We fetched an armful and hid it in the weeds, and set down to rest, and
Tom says, kind of dissatisfied:
"Blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and awkward as it can be. And so it makes it so rotten difficult to
get up a difficult plan. There ain't no watchman to be drugged--now there OUGHT to be a watchman. There
ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture to. And there's Jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to the
leg of his bed: why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off the chain. And Uncle Silas he trusts
everybody; sends the key to the punkin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to watch the nigger. Jim could a
got out of that window-hole before this, only there wouldn't be no use trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on
his leg. Why, drat it, Huck, it's the stupidest arrangement I ever see. You got to invent ALL the difficulties.
Well, we can't help it; we got to do the best we can with the materials we've got. Anyhow, there's one
thing--there's more honor in getting him out through a lot of difficulties and dangers, where there warn't one
of them furnished to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish them, and you had to contrive them all
out of your own head. Now look at just that one thing of the lantern. When you come down to the cold facts,
we simply got to LET ON that a lantern's resky. Why, we could work with a torchlight procession if we
wanted to, I believe. Now, whilst I think of it, we got to hunt up something to make a saw out of the first
chance we get."
"What do we want of a saw?"
"What do we WANT of it? Hain't we got to saw the leg of Jim's bed off, so as to get the chain loose?"
"Why, you just said a body could lift up the bedstead and slip the chain off."
"Well, if that ain't just like you, Huck Finn. You CAN get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing.
Why, hain't you ever read any books at all?--Baron Trenck, nor Casanova, nor Benvenuto Chelleeny, nor
Henri IV., nor none of them heroes? Who ever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as
that? No; the way all the best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it just so, and swallow
the sawdust, so it can't be found, and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest
seneskal can't see no sign of it's being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly sound. Then, the night you're
ready, fetch the leg a kick, down she goes; slip off your chain, and there you are. Nothing to do but hitch your
rope ladder to the battlements, shin down it, break your leg in the moat --because a rope ladder is nineteen
foot too short, you know--and there's your horses and your trusty vassles, and they scoop you up and fling you
across a saddle, and away you go to your native Langudoc, or Navarre, or wherever it is. It's gaudy, Huck. I
wish there was a moat to this cabin. If we get time, the night of the escape, we'll dig one."
I says:
"What do we want of a moat when we're going to snake him out from under the cabin?"
But he never heard me. He had forgot me and everything else. He had his chin in his hand, thinking. Pretty
soon he sighs and shakes his head; then sighs again, and says:
"No, it wouldn't do--there ain't necessity enough for it."
"For what?" I says.
CHAPTER XXXV. 151
"Why, to saw Jim's leg off," he says.
"Good land!" I says; "why, there ain't NO necessity for it. And what would you want to saw his leg off for,
anyway?"
"Well, some of the best authorities has done it. They couldn't get the chain off, so they just cut their hand off
and shoved. And a leg would be better still. But we got to let that go. There ain't necessity enough in this case;
and, besides, Jim's a nigger, and wouldn't understand the reasons for it, and how it's the custom in Europe; so
we'll let it go. But there's one thing--he can have a rope ladder; we can tear up our sheets and make him a rope
ladder easy enough. And we can send it to him in a pie; it's mostly done that way. And I've et worse pies."
"Why, Tom Sawyer, how you talk," I says; "Jim ain't got no use for a rope ladder."
"He HAS got use for it. How YOU talk, you better say; you don't know nothing about it. He's GOT to have a
rope ladder; they all do."
"What in the nation can he DO with it?"
"DO with it? He can hide it in his bed, can't he? That's what they all do; and HE'S got to, too. Huck, you don't
ever seem to want to do anything that's regular; you want to be starting something fresh all the time. S'pose he
DON'T do nothing with it? ain't it there in his bed, for a clew, after he's gone? and don't you reckon they'll
want clews? Of course they will. And you wouldn't leave them any? That would be a PRETTY howdy-do,
WOULDN'T it! I never heard of such a thing."
"Well," I says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's got to have it, all right, let him have it; because I don't wish
to go back on no regulations; but there's one thing, Tom Sawyer--if we go to tearing up our sheets to make
Jim a rope ladder, we're going to get into trouble with Aunt Sally, just as sure as you're born. Now, the way I
look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie
with, and hide in a straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as for Jim, he ain't had no experience, and
so he don't care what kind of a--"
"Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, if I was as ignorant as you I'd keep still --that's what I'D do. Who ever heard of a
state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark ladder? Why, it's perfectly ridiculous."
"Well, all right, Tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take my advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the
clothesline."
He said that would do. And that gave him another idea, and he says:
"Borrow a shirt, too."
"What do we want of a shirt, Tom?"
"Want it for Jim to keep a journal on."
"Journal your granny--JIM can't write."
"S'pose he CAN'T write--he can make marks on the shirt, can't he, if we make him a pen out of an old pewter
spoon or a piece of an old iron barrel-hoop?"
"Why, Tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a better one; and quicker, too."
CHAPTER XXXV. 152
"PRISONERS don't have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. They
ALWAYS make their pens out of the hardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or
something like that they can get their hands on; and it takes them weeks and weeks and months and months to
file it out, too, because they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. THEY wouldn't use a goose-quill if they
had it. It ain't regular."
"Well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?"
"Many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common sort and women; the best authorities uses
their own blood. Jim can do that; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious message
to let the world know where he's captivated, he can write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw
it out of the window. The Iron Mask always done that, and it's a blame' good way, too."
"Jim ain't got no tin plates. They feed him in a pan."
"That ain't nothing; we can get him some."
"Can't nobody READ his plates."
"That ain't got anything to DO with it, Huck Finn. All HE'S got to do is to write on the plate and throw it out.
You don't HAVE to be able to read it. Why, half the time you can't read anything a prisoner writes on a tin
plate, or anywhere else."
"Well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?"
"Why, blame it all, it ain't the PRISONER'S plates."
"But it's SOMEBODY'S plates, ain't it?"
"Well, spos'n it is? What does the PRISONER care whose--"
He broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. So we cleared out for the house.
Along during the morning I borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off of the clothes-line; and I found an old sack
and put them in it, and we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. I called it borrowing, because
that was what pap always called it; but Tom said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. He said we was
representing prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get it, and nobody don't blame
them for it, either. It ain't no crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, Tom said; it's his
right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a perfect right to steal anything on this place
we had the least use for to get ourselves out of prison with. He said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very
different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he warn't a prisoner. So we allowed
we would steal everything there was that come handy. And yet he made a mighty fuss, one day, after that,
when I stole a watermelon out of the nigger-patch and eat it; and he made me go and give the niggers a dime
without telling them what it was for. Tom said that what he meant was, we could steal anything we NEEDED.
Well, I says, I needed the watermelon. But he said I didn't need it to get out of prison with; there's where the
difference was. He said if I'd a wanted it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to Jim to kill the seneskal with, it
would a been all right. So I let it go at that, though I couldn't see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if
I got to set down and chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time I see a chance to hog a
watermelon.
Well, as I was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was settled down to business, and nobody in
sight around the yard; then Tom he carried the sack into the lean-to whilst I stood off a piece to keep watch.
CHAPTER XXXV. 153
By and by he come out, and we went and set down on the woodpile to talk. He says:
"Everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed."
"Tools?" I says.
"Yes."
"Tools for what?"
"Why, to dig with. We ain't a-going to GNAW him out, are we?"
"Ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to dig a nigger out with?" I says.
He turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says:
"Huck Finn, did you EVER hear of a prisoner having picks and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in
his wardrobe to dig himself out with? Now I want to ask you--if you got any reasonableness in you at
all--what kind of a show would THAT give him to be a hero? Why, they might as well lend him the key and
done with it. Picks and shovels--why, they wouldn't furnish 'em to a king."
"Well, then," I says, "if we don't want the picks and shovels, what do we want?"
"A couple of case-knives."
"To dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?"
"Yes."
"Confound it, it's foolish, Tom."
"It don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the RIGHT way--and it's the regular way. And there ain't no
OTHER way, that ever I heard of, and I've read all the books that gives any information about these things.
They always dig out with a case-knife--and not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through solid rock. And it
takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever. Why, look at one of them prisoners in the
bottom dungeon of the Castle Deef, in the harbor of Marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was
HE at it, you reckon?"
"I don't know."
"Well, guess."
"I don't know. A month and a half."
"THIRTY-SEVEN YEAR--and he come out in China. THAT'S the kind. I wish the bottom of THIS fortress
was solid rock."
"JIM don't know nobody in China."
"What's THAT got to do with it? Neither did that other fellow. But you're always a-wandering off on a side
issue. Why can't you stick to the main point?"
CHAPTER XXXV. 154
"All right--I don't care where he comes out, so he COMES out; and Jim don't, either, I reckon. But there's one
thing, anyway--Jim's too old to be dug out with a case-knife. He won't last."
"Yes he will LAST, too. You don't reckon it's going to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a DIRT
foundation, do you?"
"How long will it take, Tom?"
"Well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn't take very long for Uncle Silas to hear
from down there by New Orleans. He'll hear Jim ain't from there. Then his next move will be to advertise Jim,
or something like that. So we can't resk being as long digging him out as we ought to. By rights I reckon we
ought to be a couple of years; but we can't. Things being so uncertain, what I recommend is this: that we
really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can LET ON, to ourselves, that we was at it
thirty-seven years. Then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time there's an alarm. Yes, I
reckon that 'll be the best way."
"Now, there's SENSE in that," I says. "Letting on don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any
object, I don't mind letting on we was at it a hundred and fifty year. It wouldn't strain me none, after I got my
hand in. So I'll mosey along now, and smouch a couple of case-knives."
"Smouch three," he says; "we want one to make a saw out of."
"Tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it," I says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder
sticking under the weather-boarding behind the smoke-house."
He looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says:
"It ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, Huck. Run along and smouch the knives--three of them." So I done
it.
CHAPTER XXXV. 155
CHAPTER XXXVI.
AS soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we went down the lightning-rod, and shut ourselves
up in the lean-to, and got out our pile of fox-fire, and went to work. We cleared everything out of the way,
about four or five foot along the middle of the bottom log. Tom said he was right behind Jim's bed now, and
we'd dig in under it, and when we got through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever know there was any
hole there, because Jim's counter-pin hung down most to the ground, and you'd have to raise it up and look
under to see the hole. So we dug and dug with the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired,
and our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything hardly. At last I says:
"This ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year job, Tom Sawyer."
He never said nothing. But he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped digging, and then for a good little while I
knowed that he was thinking. Then he says:
"It ain't no use, Huck, it ain't a-going to work. If we was prisoners it would, because then we'd have as many
years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was
changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered, and we could keep it up right along, year in and
year out, and do it right, and the way it ought to be done. But WE can't fool along; we got to rush; we ain't got
no time to spare. If we was to put in another night this way we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands
get well--couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner."
"Well, then, what we going to do, Tom?"
"I'll tell you. It ain't right, and it ain't moral, and I wouldn't like it to get out; but there ain't only just the one
way: we got to dig him out with the picks, and LET ON it's case-knives."
"NOW you're TALKING!" I says; "your head gets leveler and leveler all the time, Tom Sawyer," I says.
"Picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and as for me, I don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. When I
start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a Sunday-school book, I ain't no ways particular how it's done so
it's done. What I want is my nigger; or what I want is my watermelon; or what I want is my Sunday-school
book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing I'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or
that Sunday-school book out with; and I don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks about it nuther."
"Well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and letting-on in a case like this; if it warn't so, I wouldn't approve of
it, nor I wouldn't stand by and see the rules broke--because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain't
got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows better. It might answer for YOU to dig Jim out
with a pick, WITHOUT any letting on, because you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me, because I do
know better. Gimme a case-knife."
He had his own by him, but I handed him mine. He flung it down, and says:
"Gimme a CASE-KNIFE."
I didn't know just what to do--but then I thought. I scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a pickaxe
and give it to him, and he took it and went to work, and never said a word.
He was always just that particular. Full of principle.
So then I got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and made the fur fly. We stuck to it about
a half an hour, which was as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it. When
I got up stairs I looked out at the window and see Tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he
CHAPTER XXXVI. 156
couldn't come it, his hands was so sore. At last he says:
"It ain't no use, it can't be done. What you reckon I better do? Can't you think of no way?"
"Yes," I says, "but I reckon it ain't regular. Come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod."
So he done it.
Next day Tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for Jim out of,
and six tallow candles; and I hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin plates.
Tom says it wasn't enough; but I said nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that Jim throwed out, because they'd
fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole--then we could tote them back and he could
use them over again. So Tom was satisfied. Then he says:
"Now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to Jim."
"Take them in through the hole," I says, "when we get it done."
He only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard of such an idiotic idea, and then he
went to studying. By and by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no need to decide
on any of them yet. Said we'd got to post Jim first.
That night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and took one of the candles along, and listened
under the window-hole, and heard Jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him. Then we whirled in
with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours and a half the job was done. We crept in under Jim's bed and
into the cabin, and pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood over Jim awhile, and found him
looking hearty and healthy, and then we woke him up gentle and gradual. He was so glad to see us he most
cried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was for having us hunt up a
cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg with right away, and clearing out without losing any time. But Tom
he showed him how unregular it would be, and set down and told him all about our plans, and how we could
alter them in a minute any time there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid, because we would see he got
away, SURE. So Jim he said it was all right, and we set there and talked over old times awhile, and then Tom
asked a lot of questions, and when Jim told him Uncle Silas come in every day or two to pray with him, and
Aunt Sally come in to see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of them was kind as they
could be, Tom says:
"NOW I know how to fix it. We'll send you some things by them."
I said, "Don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass ideas I ever struck;" but he never paid no
attention to me; went right on. It was his way when he'd got his plans set.
So he told Jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and other large things by Nat, the nigger that
fed him, and he must be on the lookout, and not be surprised, and not let Nat see him open them; and we
would put small things in uncle's coat-pockets and he must steal them out; and we would tie things to aunt's
apron-strings or put them in her apron-pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what they would be and what
they was for. And told him how to keep a journal on the shirt with his blood, and all that. He told him
everything. Jim he couldn't see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed we was white folks and knowed
better than him; so he was satisfied, and said he would do it all just as Tom said.
Jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down good sociable time; then we crawled out
through the hole, and so home to bed, with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. Tom was in high
spirits. He said it was the best fun he ever had in his life, and the most intellectural; and said if he only could
CHAPTER XXXVI. 157
see his way to it we would keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave Jim to our children to get out; for he
believed Jim would come to like it better and better the more he got used to it. He said that in that way it could
be strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be the best time on record. And he said it would make us
all celebrated that had a hand in it.
In the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass candlestick into handy sizes, and Tom
put them and the pewter spoon in his pocket. Then we went to the nigger cabins, and while I got Nat's notice
off, Tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle of a corn-pone that was in Jim's pan, and we went
along with Nat to see how it would work, and it just worked noble; when Jim bit into it it most mashed all his
teeth out; and there warn't ever anything could a worked better. Tom said so himself. Jim he never let on but
what it was only just a piece of rock or something like that that's always getting into bread, you know; but
after that he never bit into nothing but what he jabbed his fork into it in three or four places first.
And whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here comes a couple of the hounds bulging in from
under Jim's bed; and they kept on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly room in there
to get your breath. By jings, we forgot to fasten that lean-to door! The nigger Nat he only just hollered
"Witches" once, and keeled over on to the floor amongst the dogs, and begun to groan like he was dying. Tom
jerked the door open and flung out a slab of Jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was
out himself and back again and shut the door, and I knowed he'd fixed the other door too. Then he went to
work on the nigger, coaxing him and petting him, and asking him if he'd been imagining he saw something
again. He raised up, and blinked his eyes around, and says:
"Mars Sid, you'll say I's a fool, but if I didn't b'lieve I see most a million dogs, er devils, er some'n, I wisht I
may die right heah in dese tracks. I did, mos' sholy. Mars Sid, I FELT um--I FELT um, sah; dey was all over
me. Dad fetch it, I jis' wisht I could git my han's on one er dem witches jis' wunst--on'y jis' wunst--it's all I'd
ast. But mos'ly I wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, I does."
Tom says:
"Well, I tell you what I think. What makes them come here just at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time? It's
because they're hungry; that's the reason. You make them a witch pie; that's the thing for YOU to do."
"But my lan', Mars Sid, how's I gwyne to make 'm a witch pie? I doan' know how to make it. I hain't ever
hearn er sich a thing b'fo'."
"Well, then, I'll have to make it myself."
"Will you do it, honey?--will you? I'll wusshup de groun' und' yo' foot, I will!"
"All right, I'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger. But you
got to be mighty careful. When we come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put in the pan,
don't you let on you see it at all. And don't you look when Jim unloads the pan--something might happen, I
don't know what. And above all, don't you HANDLE the witch-things."
"HANNEL 'm, Mars Sid? What IS you a-talkin' 'bout? I wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten
hund'd thous'n billion dollars, I wouldn't."
CHAPTER XXXVI. 158
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THAT was all fixed. So then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where they keep
the old boots, and rags, and pieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched around
and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and took it
down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails that Tom
said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped
one of them in Aunt Sally's apron-pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck in the band of
Uncle Silas's hat, which was on the bureau, because we heard the children say their pa and ma was going to
the runaway nigger's house this morning, and then went to breakfast, and Tom dropped the pewter spoon in
Uncle Silas's coat-pocket, and Aunt Sally wasn't come yet, so we had to wait a little while.
And when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't hardly wait for the blessing; and then she
went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble with the
other, and says:
"I've hunted high and I've hunted low, and it does beat all what HAS become of your other shirt."
My heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard piece of corn-crust started down my
throat after it and got met on the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the children
in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the size of a warwhoop, and Tom he
turned kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of things for about a quarter of
a minute or as much as that, and I would a sold out for half price if there was a bidder. But after that we was
all right again--it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of cold. Uncle Silas he says:
"It's most uncommon curious, I can't understand it. I know perfectly well I took it OFF, because--"
"Because you hain't got but one ON. Just LISTEN at the man! I know you took it off, and know it by a better
way than your wool-gethering memory, too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday--I see it there myself.
But it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red flann'l one till I can get
time to make a new one. And it 'll be the third I've made in two years. It just keeps a body on the jump to keep
you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to DO with 'm all is more'n I can make out. A body 'd think you
WOULD learn to take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life."
"I know it, Sally, and I do try all I can. But it oughtn't to be altogether my fault, because, you know, I don't see
them nor have nothing to do with them except when they're on me; and I don't believe I've ever lost one of
them OFF of me."
"Well, it ain't YOUR fault if you haven't, Silas; you'd a done it if you could, I reckon. And the shirt ain't all
that's gone, nuther. Ther's a spoon gone; and THAT ain't all. There was ten, and now ther's only nine. The calf
got the shirt, I reckon, but the calf never took the spoon, THAT'S certain."
"Why, what else is gone, Sally?"
"Ther's six CANDLES gone--that's what. The rats could a got the candles, and I reckon they did; I wonder
they don't walk off with the whole place, the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't do it; and if
they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, Silas--YOU'D never find it out; but you can't lay the SPOON on the
rats, and that I know."
"Well, Sally, I'm in fault, and I acknowledge it; I've been remiss; but I won't let to-morrow go by without
stopping up them holes."
CHAPTER XXXVII. 159
"Oh, I wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. Matilda Angelina Araminta PHELPS!"
Whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the sugar-bowl without fooling around any.
Just then the nigger woman steps on to the passage, and says:
"Missus, dey's a sheet gone."
"A SHEET gone! Well, for the land's sake!"
"I'll stop up them holes to-day," says Uncle Silas, looking sorrowful.
"Oh, DO shet up!--s'pose the rats took the SHEET? WHERE'S it gone, Lize?"
"Clah to goodness I hain't no notion, Miss' Sally. She wuz on de clo'sline yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain'
dah no mo' now."
"I reckon the world IS coming to an end. I NEVER see the beat of it in all my born days. A shirt, and a sheet,
and a spoon, and six can--"
"Missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a brass cannelstick miss'n."
"Cler out from here, you hussy, er I'll take a skillet to ye!"
Well, she was just a-biling. I begun to lay for a chance; I reckoned I would sneak out and go for the woods till
the weather moderated. She kept a-raging right along, running her insurrection all by herself, and everybody
else mighty meek and quiet; and at last Uncle Silas, looking kind of foolish, fishes up that spoon out of his
pocket. She stopped, with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, I wished I was in Jeruslem or
somewheres. But not long, because she says:
"It's JUST as I expected. So you had it in your pocket all the time; and like as not you've got the other things
there, too. How'd it get there?"
"I reely don't know, Sally," he says, kind of apologizing, "or you know I would tell. I was a-studying over my
text in Acts Seventeen before breakfast, and I reckon I put it in there, not noticing, meaning to put my
Testament in, and it must be so, because my Testament ain't in; but I'll go and see; and if the Testament is
where I had it, I'll know I didn't put it in, and that will show that I laid the Testament down and took up the
spoon, and--"
"Oh, for the land's sake! Give a body a rest! Go 'long now, the whole kit and biling of ye; and don't come nigh
me again till I've got back my peace of mind."
I'd a heard her if she'd a said it to herself, let alone speaking it out; and I'd a got up and obeyed her if I'd a been
dead. As we was passing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and the shingle-nail fell out
on the floor, and he just merely picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and went
out. Tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says:
"Well, it ain't no use to send things by HIM no more, he ain't reliable." Then he says: "But he done us a good
turn with the spoon, anyway, without knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without HIM knowing
it--stop up his rat-holes."
There was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole hour, but we done the job tight and
good and shipshape. Then we heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes the
CHAPTER XXXVII. 160
old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as year before
last. He went a mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all. Then he stood
about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and thinking. Then he turns off slow and dreamy
towards the stairs, saying:
"Well, for the life of me I can't remember when I done it. I could show her now that I warn't to blame on
account of the rats. But never mind --let it go. I reckon it wouldn't do no good."
And so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left. He was a mighty nice old man. And always is.
Tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he took a
think. When he had ciphered it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the
spoon-basket till we see Aunt Sally coming, and then Tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to
one side, and I slid one of them up my sleeve, and Tom says:
"Why, Aunt Sally, there ain't but nine spoons YET."
She says:
"Go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. I know better, I counted 'm myself."
"Well, I've counted them twice, Aunty, and I can't make but nine."
She looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count--anybody would.
"I declare to gracious ther' AIN'T but nine!" she says. "Why, what in the world--plague TAKE the things, I'll
count 'm again."
So I slipped back the one I had, and when she got done counting, she says:
"Hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's TEN now!" and she looked huffy and bothered both. But Tom says:
"Why, Aunty, I don't think there's ten."
"You numskull, didn't you see me COUNT 'm?"
"I know, but--"
"Well, I'll count 'm AGAIN."
So I smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. Well, she WAS in a tearing way--just
a-trembling all over, she was so mad. But she counted and counted till she got that addled she'd start to count
in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out right, and three times they come out
wrong. Then she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west; and
she said cle'r out and let her have some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that and
dinner she'd skin us. So we had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron-pocket whilst she was a-giving us
our sailing orders, and Jim got it all right, along with her shingle nail, before noon. We was very well satisfied
with this business, and Tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because he said NOW she couldn't
ever count them spoons twice alike again to save her life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she
DID; and said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next three days he judged she'd give it up and
offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count them any more.
CHAPTER XXXVII. 161
So we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting it back and
stealing it again for a couple of days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any more, and she didn't
CARE, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count them again not to
save her life; she druther die first.
So we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and
the rats and the mixed-up counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it would blow over by
and by.
But that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. We fixed it up away down in the woods, and
cooked it there; and we got it done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we had to use
up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and
eyes put out with the smoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but a crust, and we couldn't prop it up
right, and she would always cave in. But of course we thought of the right way at last--which was to cook the
ladder, too, in the pie. So then we laid in with Jim the second night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings
and twisted them together, and long before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could a hung a person with.
We let on it took nine months to make it.
And in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn't go into the pie. Being made of a whole
sheet, that way, there was rope enough for forty pies if we'd a wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or
sausage, or anything you choose. We could a had a whole dinner.
But we didn't need it. All we needed was just enough for the pie, and so we throwed the rest away. We didn't
cook none of the pies in the wash-pan--afraid the solder would melt; but Uncle Silas he had a noble brass
warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long
wooden handle that come over from England with William the Conqueror in the Mayflower or one of them
early ships and was hid away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things that was valuable, not on
account of being any account, because they warn't, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we
snaked her out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the first pies, because we didn't know how,
but she come up smiling on the last one. We took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and
loaded her up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and
stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that
was a satisfaction to look at. But the person that et it would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along,
for if that rope ladder wouldn't cramp him down to business I don't know nothing what I'm talking about, and
lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too.
Nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in Jim's pan; and we put the three tin plates in the bottom of the pan
under the vittles; and so Jim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into the pie
and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of
the window-hole.
CHAPTER XXXVII. 162
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
MAKING them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the saw; and Jim allowed the inscription was
going to be the toughest of all. That's the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. But he had to
have it; Tom said he'd GOT to; there warn't no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave
behind, and his coat of arms.
"Look at Lady Jane Grey," he says; "look at Gilford Dudley; look at old Northumberland! Why, Huck, s'pose
it IS considerble trouble?--what you going to do?--how you going to get around it? Jim's GOT to do his
inscription and coat of arms. They all do."
Jim says:
"Why, Mars Tom, I hain't got no coat o' arm; I hain't got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows I got to
keep de journal on dat."
"Oh, you don't understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different."
"Well," I says, "Jim's right, anyway, when he says he ain't got no coat of arms, because he hain't."
"I reckon I knowed that," Tom says, "but you bet he'll have one before he goes out of this--because he's going
out RIGHT, and there ain't going to be no flaws in his record."
So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, Jim a-making his'n out of the brass and I
making mine out of the spoon, Tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. By and by he said he'd struck so
many good ones he didn't hardly know which to take, but there was one which he reckoned he'd decide on. He
says:
"On the scutcheon we'll have a bend OR in the dexter base, a saltire MURREY in the fess, with a dog,
couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron VERT in a
chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field AZURE, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette
indented; crest, a runaway nigger, SABLE, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of
gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, MAGGIORE FRETTA, MINORE OTTO. Got it out of a
book--means the more haste the less speed."
"Geewhillikins," I says, "but what does the rest of it mean?"
"We ain't got no time to bother over that," he says; "we got to dig in like all git-out."
"Well, anyway," I says, "what's SOME of it? What's a fess?"
"A fess--a fess is--YOU don't need to know what a fess is. I'll show him how to make it when he gets to it."
"Shucks, Tom," I says, "I think you might tell a person. What's a bar sinister?"
"Oh, I don't know. But he's got to have it. All the nobility does."
That was just his way. If it didn't suit him to explain a thing to you, he wouldn't do it. You might pump at him
a week, it wouldn't make no difference.
He'd got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of the work,
which was to plan out a mournful inscription--said Jim got to have one, like they all done. He made up a lot,
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 163
and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so:
1. Here a captive heart busted. 2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful
life. 3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary
captivity. 4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble
stranger, natural son of Louis XIV.
Tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down. When he got done he couldn't no
way make up his mind which one for Jim to scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; but at last he
allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of
truck on to the logs with a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters, besides; but Tom said he would block
them out for him, and then he wouldn't have nothing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says:
"Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the
inscriptions into a rock. We'll fetch a rock."
Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such a pison long time to dig them into a
rock he wouldn't ever get out. But Tom said he would let me help him do it. Then he took a look to see how
me and Jim was getting along with the pens. It was most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn't give
my hands no show to get well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly; so Tom says:
"I know how to fix it. We got to have a rock for the coat of arms and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill
two birds with that same rock. There's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it, and carve
the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too."
It warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone nuther; but we allowed we'd tackle it. It
warn't quite midnight yet, so we cleared out for the mill, leaving Jim at work. We smouched the grindstone,
and set out to roll her home, but it was a most nation tough job. Sometimes, do what we could, we couldn't
keep her from falling over, and she come mighty near mashing us every time. Tom said she was going to get
one of us, sure, before we got through. We got her half way; and then we was plumb played out, and most
drownded with sweat. We see it warn't no use; we got to go and fetch Jim. So he raised up his bed and slid the
chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it round and round his neck, and we crawled out through our hole and
down there, and Jim and me laid into that grindstone and walked her along like nothing; and Tom
superintended. He could out-superintend any boy I ever see. He knowed how to do everything.
Our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to get the grindstone through; but Jim he took the pick and
soon made it big enough. Then Tom marked out them things on it with the nail, and set Jim to work on them,
with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rubbage in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work
till the rest of his candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed, and hide the grindstone under his straw tick
and sleep on it. Then we helped him fix his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves. But
Tom thought of something, and says:
"You got any spiders in here, Jim?"
"No, sah, thanks to goodness I hain't, Mars Tom."
"All right, we'll get you some."
"But bless you, honey, I doan' WANT none. I's afeard un um. I jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'."
Tom thought a minute or two, and says:
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 164
"It's a good idea. And I reckon it's been done. It MUST a been done; it stands to reason. Yes, it's a prime good
idea. Where could you keep it?"
"Keep what, Mars Tom?"
"Why, a rattlesnake."
"De goodness gracious alive, Mars Tom! Why, if dey was a rattlesnake to come in heah I'd take en bust right
out thoo dat log wall, I would, wid my head."
"Why, Jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a little. You could tame it."
"TAME it!"
"Yes--easy enough. Every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they wouldn't THINK of hurting a
person that pets them. Any book will tell you that. You try--that's all I ask; just try for two or three days. Why,
you can get him so, in a little while, that he'll love you; and sleep with you; and won't stay away from you a
minute; and will let you wrap him round your neck and put his head in your mouth."
"PLEASE, Mars Tom--DOAN' talk so! I can't STAN' it! He'd LET me shove his head in my mouf--fer a
favor, hain't it? I lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time 'fo' I AST him. En mo' en dat, I doan' WANT him to sleep
wid me."
"Jim, don't act so foolish. A prisoner's GOT to have some kind of a dumb pet, and if a rattlesnake hain't ever
been tried, why, there's more glory to be gained in your being the first to ever try it than any other way you
could ever think of to save your life."
"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT no sich glory. Snake take 'n bite Jim's chin off, den WHAH is de glory? No,
sah, I doan' want no sich doin's."
"Blame it, can't you TRY? I only WANT you to try--you needn't keep it up if it don't work."
"But de trouble all DONE ef de snake bite me while I's a tryin' him. Mars Tom, I's willin' to tackle mos'
anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but ef you en Huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, I's gwyne to
LEAVE, dat's SHORE."
"Well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed about it. We can get you some garter-snakes, and you
can tie some buttons on their tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and I reckon that 'll have to do."
"I k'n stan' DEM, Mars Tom, but blame' 'f I couldn' get along widout um, I tell you dat. I never knowed b'fo' 't
was so much bother and trouble to be a prisoner."
"Well, it ALWAYS is when it's done right. You got any rats around here?"
"No, sah, I hain't seed none."
"Well, we'll get you some rats."
"Why, Mars Tom, I doan' WANT no rats. Dey's de dadblamedest creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle roun' over
'im, en bite his feet, when he's tryin' to sleep, I ever see. No, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes, 'f I's got to have 'm,
but doan' gimme no rats; I hain' got no use f'r um, skasely."
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 165
"But, Jim, you GOT to have 'em--they all do. So don't make no more fuss about it. Prisoners ain't ever without
rats. There ain't no instance of it. And they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks, and they get to be
as sociable as flies. But you got to play music to them. You got anything to play music on?"
"I ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a juice-harp; but I reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock
in a juice-harp."
"Yes they would. THEY don't care what kind of music 'tis. A jews-harp's plenty good enough for a rat. All
animals like music--in a prison they dote on it. Specially, painful music; and you can't get no other kind out of
a jews-harp. It always interests them; they come out to see what's the matter with you. Yes, you're all right;
you're fixed very well. You want to set on your bed nights before you go to sleep, and early in the mornings,
and play your jews-harp; play 'The Last Link is Broken'--that's the thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything
else; and when you've played about two minutes you'll see all the rats, and the snakes, and spiders, and things
begin to feel worried about you, and come. And they'll just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble good
time."
"Yes, DEY will, I reck'n, Mars Tom, but what kine er time is JIM havin'? Blest if I kin see de pint. But I'll do
it ef I got to. I reck'n I better keep de animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house."
Tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't nothing else; and pretty soon he says:
"Oh, there's one thing I forgot. Could you raise a flower here, do you reckon?"
"I doan know but maybe I could, Mars Tom; but it's tolable dark in heah, en I ain' got no use f'r no flower,
nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful sight o' trouble."
"Well, you try it, anyway. Some other prisoners has done it."
"One er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would grow in heah, Mars Tom, I reck'n, but she wouldn't be
wuth half de trouble she'd coss."
"Don't you believe it. We'll fetch you a little one and you plant it in the corner over there, and raise it. And
don't call it mullen, call it Pitchiola--that's its right name when it's in a prison. And you want to water it with
your tears."
"Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom."
"You don't WANT spring water; you want to water it with your tears. It's the way they always do."
"Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste wid spring water whiles another man's a
START'N one wid tears."
"That ain't the idea. You GOT to do it with tears."
"She'll die on my han's, Mars Tom, she sholy will; kase I doan' skasely ever cry."
So Tom was stumped. But he studied it over, and then said Jim would have to worry along the best he could
with an onion. He promised he would go to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in Jim's coffee-pot, in the
morning. Jim said he would "jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee;" and found so much fault with it, and
with the work and bother of raising the mullen, and jews-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up the
snakes and spiders and things, on top of all the other work he had to do on pens, and inscriptions, and
journals, and things, which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility to be a prisoner than anything
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 166
he ever undertook, that Tom most lost all patience with him; and said he was just loadened down with more
gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to make a name for himself, and yet he didn't know
enough to appreciate them, and they was just about wasted on him. So Jim he was sorry, and said he wouldn't
behave so no more, and then me and Tom shoved for bed.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 167
CHAPTER XXXIX.
IN the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped the
best rat-hole, and in about an hour we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and put it in
a safe place under Aunt Sally's bed. But while we was gone for spiders little Thomas Franklin Benjamin
Jefferson Elexander Phelps found it there, and opened the door of it to see if the rats would come out, and they
did; and Aunt Sally she come in, and when we got back she was a-standing on top of the bed raising Cain, and
the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her. So she took and dusted us both with the
hickry, and we was as much as two hours catching another fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome cub, and
they warn't the likeliest, nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock. I never see a likelier lot of rats
than what that first haul was.
We got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs, and caterpillars, and one thing or another; and
we like to got a hornet's nest, but we didn't. The family was at home. We didn't give it right up, but stayed
with them as long as we could; because we allowed we'd tire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and they
done it. Then we got allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all right again, but couldn't
set down convenient. And so we went for the snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes,
and put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it was supper-time, and a rattling good honest
day's work: and hungry?--oh, no, I reckon not! And there warn't a blessed snake up there when we went
back--we didn't half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, and left. But it didn't matter much, because
they was still on the premises somewheres. So we judged we could get some of them again. No, there warn't
no real scarcity of snakes about the house for a considerable spell. You'd see them dripping from the rafters
and places every now and then; and they generly landed in your plate, or down the back of your neck, and
most of the time where you didn't want them. Well, they was handsome and striped, and there warn't no harm
in a million of them; but that never made no difference to Aunt Sally; she despised snakes, be the breed what
they might, and she couldn't stand them no way you could fix it; and every time one of them flopped down on
her, it didn't make no difference what she was doing, she would just lay that work down and light out. I never
see such a woman. And you could hear her whoop to Jericho. You couldn't get her to take a-holt of one of
them with the tongs. And if she turned over and found one in bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that
you would think the house was afire. She disturbed the old man so that he said he could most wish there
hadn't ever been no snakes created. Why, after every last snake had been gone clear out of the house for as
much as a week Aunt Sally warn't over it yet; she warn't near over it; when she was setting thinking about
something you could touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump right out of her
stockings. It was very curious. But Tom said all women was just so. He said they was made that way for some
reason or other.
We got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way, and she allowed these lickings warn't nothing
to what she would do if we ever loaded up the place again with them. I didn't mind the lickings, because they
didn't amount to nothing; but I minded the trouble we had to lay in another lot. But we got them laid in, and
all the other things; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as Jim's was when they'd all swarm out for music
and go for him. Jim didn't like the spiders, and the spiders didn't like Jim; and so they'd lay for him, and make
it mighty warm for him. And he said that between the rats and the snakes and the grindstone there warn't no
room in bed for him, skasely; and when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it was so lively, and it was always
lively, he said, because THEY never all slept at one time, but took turn about, so when the snakes was asleep
the rats was on deck, and when the rats turned in the snakes come on watch, so he always had one gang under
him, in his way, and t'other gang having a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt a new place the spiders
would take a chance at him as he crossed over. He said if he ever got out this time he wouldn't ever be a
prisoner again, not for a salary.
Well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good shape. The shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and
every time a rat bit Jim he would get up and write a little in his journal whilst the ink was fresh; the pens was
made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had
CHAPTER XXXIX. 168
et up the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. We reckoned we was all going to die, but
didn't. It was the most undigestible sawdust I ever see; and Tom said the same. But as I was saying, we'd got
all the work done now, at last; and we was all pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly Jim. The old man had
wrote a couple of times to the plantation below Orleans to come and get their runaway nigger, but hadn't got
no answer, because there warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise Jim in the St. Louis and
New Orleans papers; and when he mentioned the St. Louis ones it give me the cold shivers, and I see we
hadn't no time to lose. So Tom said, now for the nonnamous letters.
"What's them?" I says.
"Warnings to the people that something is up. Sometimes it's done one way, sometimes another. But there's
always somebody spying around that gives notice to the governor of the castle. When Louis XVI. was going
to light out of the Tooleries, a servant-girl done it. It's a very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. We'll
use them both. And it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him, and she stays in, and he
slides out in her clothes. We'll do that, too."
"But looky here, Tom, what do we want to WARN anybody for that something's up? Let them find it out for
themselves--it's their lookout."
"Yes, I know; but you can't depend on them. It's the way they've acted from the very start--left us to do
EVERYTHING. They're so confiding and mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. So if we
don't GIVE them notice there won't be nobody nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our hard work
and trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly flat; won't amount to nothing--won't be nothing TO it."
"Well, as for me, Tom, that's the way I'd like."
"Shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. So I says:
"But I ain't going to make no complaint. Any way that suits you suits me. What you going to do about the
servant-girl?"
"You'll be her. You slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that yaller girl's frock."
"Why, Tom, that 'll make trouble next morning; because, of course, she prob'bly hain't got any but that one."
"I know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the front
door."
"All right, then, I'll do it; but I could carry it just as handy in my own togs."
"You wouldn't look like a servant-girl THEN, would you?"
"No, but there won't be nobody to see what I look like, ANYWAY."
"That ain't got nothing to do with it. The thing for us to do is just to do our DUTY, and not worry about
whether anybody SEES us do it or not. Hain't you got no principle at all?"
"All right, I ain't saying nothing; I'm the servant-girl. Who's Jim's mother?"
"I'm his mother. I'll hook a gown from Aunt Sally."
"Well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when me and Jim leaves."
CHAPTER XXXIX. 169
"Not much. I'll stuff Jim's clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in disguise, and
Jim 'll take the nigger woman's gown off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together. When a prisoner of
style escapes it's called an evasion. It's always called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance. And the same with a
king's son; it don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one."
So Tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and I smouched the yaller wench's frock that night, and put it on, and
shoved it under the front door, the way Tom told me to. It said:
Beware. Trouble is brewing. Keep a sharp lookout. UNKNOWN FRIEND.
Next night we stuck a picture, which Tom drawed in blood, of a skull and crossbones on the front door; and
next night another one of a coffin on the back door. I never see a family in such a sweat. They couldn't a been
worse scared if the place had a been full of ghosts laying for them behind everything and under the beds and
shivering through the air. If a door banged, Aunt Sally she jumped and said "ouch!" if anything fell, she
jumped and said "ouch!" if you happened to touch her, when she warn't noticing, she done the same; she
couldn't face noway and be satisfied, because she allowed there was something behind her every time--so she
was always a-whirling around sudden, and saying "ouch," and before she'd got two-thirds around she'd whirl
back again, and say it again; and she was afraid to go to bed, but she dasn't set up. So the thing was working
very well, Tom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory. He said it showed it was done right.
So he said, now for the grand bulge! So the very next morning at the streak of dawn we got another letter
ready, and was wondering what we better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they was going to
have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. Tom he went down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the
nigger at the back door was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and come back. This letter said:
Don't betray me, I wish to be your friend. There is a desprate gang of cutthroats from over in the Indian
Territory going to steal your runaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare you so as you will
stay in the house and not bother them. I am one of the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it and lead
an honest life again, and will betray the helish design. They will sneak down from northards, along the fence,
at midnight exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger's cabin to get him. I am to be off a piece and blow a
tin horn if I see any danger; but stead of that I will BA like a sheep soon as they get in and not blow at all;
then whilst they are getting his chains loose, you slip there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure.
Don't do anything but just the way I am telling you, if you do they will suspicion something and raise
whoop-jamboreehoo. I do not wish any reward but to know I have done the right thing. UNKNOWN
FRIEND.
CHAPTER XXXIX. 170
CHAPTER XL.
WE was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took my canoe and went over the river a-fishing, with a
lunch, and had a good time, and took a look at the raft and found her all right, and got home late to supper,
and found them in such a sweat and worry they didn't know which end they was standing on, and made us go
right off to bed the minute we was done supper, and wouldn't tell us what the trouble was, and never let on a
word about the new letter, but didn't need to, because we knowed as much about it as anybody did, and as
soon as we was half up stairs and her back was turned we slid for the cellar cupboard and loaded up a good
lunch and took it up to our room and went to bed, and got up about half-past eleven, and Tom put on Aunt
Sally's dress that he stole and was going to start with the lunch, but says:
"Where's the butter?"
"I laid out a hunk of it," I says, "on a piece of a corn-pone."
"Well, you LEFT it laid out, then--it ain't here."
"We can get along without it," I says.
"We can get along WITH it, too," he says; "just you slide down cellar and fetch it. And then mosey right
down the lightning-rod and come along. I'll go and stuff the straw into Jim's clothes to represent his mother in
disguise, and be ready to BA like a sheep and shove soon as you get there."
So out he went, and down cellar went I. The hunk of butter, big as a person's fist, was where I had left it, so I
took up the slab of corn-pone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up stairs very stealthy, and got
up to the main floor all right, but here comes Aunt Sally with a candle, and I clapped the truck in my hat, and
clapped my hat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says:
"You been down cellar?"
"Yes'm."
"What you been doing down there?"
"Noth'n."
"NOTH'N!"
"No'm."
"Well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of night?"
"I don't know 'm."
"You don't KNOW? Don't answer me that way. Tom, I want to know what you been DOING down there."
"I hain't been doing a single thing, Aunt Sally, I hope to gracious if I have."
I reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl thing she would; but I s'pose there was so many strange things
going on she was just in a sweat about every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so she says, very
decided:
CHAPTER XL. 171
"You just march into that setting-room and stay there till I come. You been up to something you no business
to, and I lay I'll find out what it is before I'M done with you."
So she went away as I opened the door and walked into the setting-room. My, but there was a crowd there!
Fifteen farmers, and every one of them had a gun. I was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair and set
down. They was setting around, some of them talking a little, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety and
uneasy, but trying to look like they warn't; but I knowed they was, because they was always taking off their
hats, and putting them on, and scratching their heads, and changing their seats, and fumbling with their
buttons. I warn't easy myself, but I didn't take my hat off, all the same.
I did wish Aunt Sally would come, and get done with me, and lick me, if she wanted to, and let me get away
and tell Tom how we'd overdone this thing, and what a thundering hornet's-nest we'd got ourselves into, so we
could stop fooling around straight off, and clear out with Jim before these rips got out of patience and come
for us.
At last she come and begun to ask me questions, but I COULDN'T answer them straight, I didn't know which
end of me was up; because these men was in such a fidget now that some was wanting to start right NOW and
lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't but a few minutes to midnight; and others was trying to get
them to hold on and wait for the sheep-signal; and here was Aunty pegging away at the questions, and me
a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in my tracks I was that scared; and the place getting hotter and
hotter, and the butter beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind my ears; and pretty soon, when one
of them says, "I'M for going and getting in the cabin FIRST and right NOW, and catching them when they
come," I most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling down my forehead, and Aunt Sally she see it,
and turns white as a sheet, and says:
"For the land's sake, what IS the matter with the child? He's got the brain-fever as shore as you're born, and
they're oozing out!"
And everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes the bread and what was left of the
butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me, and says:
"Oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful I am it ain't no worse; for luck's against us, and it
never rains but it pours, and when I see that truck I thought we'd lost you, for I knowed by the color and all it
was just like your brains would be if--Dear, dear, whyd'nt you TELL me that was what you'd been down there
for, I wouldn't a cared. Now cler out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of you till morning!"
I was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another one, and shinning through the dark for the
lean-to. I couldn't hardly get my words out, I was so anxious; but I told Tom as quick as I could we must jump
for it now, and not a minute to lose--the house full of men, yonder, with guns!
His eyes just blazed; and he says:
"No!--is that so? AIN'T it bully! Why, Huck, if it was to do over again, I bet I could fetch two hundred! If we
could put it off till--"
"Hurry! HURRY!" I says. "Where's Jim?"
"Right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch him. He's dressed, and everything's ready. Now
we'll slide out and give the sheep-signal."
But then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, and heard them begin to fumble with the pad-lock,
and heard a man say:
CHAPTER XL. 172
"I TOLD you we'd be too soon; they haven't come--the door is locked. Here, I'll lock some of you into the
cabin, and you lay for 'em in the dark and kill 'em when they come; and the rest scatter around a piece, and
listen if you can hear 'em coming."
So in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and most trod on us whilst we was hustling to get under the
bed. But we got under all right, and out through the hole, swift but soft--Jim first, me next, and Tom last,
which was according to Tom's orders. Now we was in the lean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. So
we crept to the door, and Tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't make out nothing, it
was so dark; and whispered and said he would listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us Jim
must glide out first, and him last. So he set his ear to the crack and listened, and listened, and listened, and the
steps a-scraping around out there all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not
breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the fence in Injun file, and got to it all
right, and me and Jim over it; but Tom's britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the
steps coming, so he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise; and as he dropped in our
tracks and started somebody sings out:
"Who's that? Answer, or I'll shoot!"
But we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. Then there was a rush, and a BANG, BANG,
BANG! and the bullets fairly whizzed around us! We heard them sing out:
"Here they are! They've broke for the river! After 'em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!"
So here they come, full tilt. We could hear them because they wore boots and yelled, but we didn't wear no
boots and didn't yell. We was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty close on to us we dodged into
the bush and let them go by, and then dropped in behind them. They'd had all the dogs shut up, so they
wouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them loose, and here they come, making
powwow enough for a million; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up; and
when they see it warn't nobody but us, and no excitement to offer them, they only just said howdy, and tore
right ahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then we up-steam again, and whizzed along after them till
we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in and
pulled for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn't make no more noise than we was obleeged to.
Then we struck out, easy and comfortable, for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling
and barking at each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim and died out.
And when we stepped on to the raft I says:
"NOW, old Jim, you're a free man again, and I bet you won't ever be a slave no more."
"En a mighty good job it wuz, too, Huck. It 'uz planned beautiful, en it 'uz done beautiful; en dey ain't
NOBODY kin git up a plan dat's mo' mixed-up en splendid den what dat one wuz."
We was all glad as we could be, but Tom was the gladdest of all because he had a bullet in the calf of his leg.
When me and Jim heard that we didn't feel so brash as what we did before. It was hurting him considerable,
and bleeding; so we laid him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage him, but he
says:
"Gimme the rags; I can do it myself. Don't stop now; don't fool around here, and the evasion booming along
so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her loose! Boys, we done it elegant!--'deed we did. I wish WE'D a had
the handling of Louis XVI., there wouldn't a been no 'Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven!' wrote down in
HIS biography; no, sir, we'd a whooped him over the BORDER--that's what we'd a done with HIM--and done
it just as slick as nothing at all, too. Man the sweeps--man the sweeps!"
CHAPTER XL. 173
But me and Jim was consulting--and thinking. And after we'd thought a minute, I says:
"Say it, Jim."
So he says:
"Well, den, dis is de way it look to me, Huck. Ef it wuz HIM dat 'uz bein' sot free, en one er de boys wuz to
git shot, would he say, 'Go on en save me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one?' Is dat like Mars Tom
Sawyer? Would he say dat? You BET he wouldn't! WELL, den, is JIM gywne to say it? No, sah--I doan'
budge a step out'n dis place 'dout a DOCTOR, not if it's forty year!"
I knowed he was white inside, and I reckoned he'd say what he did say--so it was all right now, and I told Tom
I was a-going for a doctor. He raised considerable row about it, but me and Jim stuck to it and wouldn't budge;
so he was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn't let him. Then he give us a piece
of his mind, but it didn't do no good.
So when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says:
"Well, then, if you're bound to go, I'll tell you the way to do when you get to the village. Shut the door and
blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full of gold in
his hand, and then take and lead him all around the back alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch
him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search him and take his chalk away from
him, and don't give it back to him till you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can
find it again. It's the way they all do."
So I said I would, and left, and Jim was to hide in the woods when he see the doctor coming till he was gone
again.
CHAPTER XL. 174
CHAPTER XLI.
THE doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man when I got him up. I told him me and my
brother was over on Spanish Island hunting yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found,
and about midnight he must a kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we
wanted him to go over there and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted
to come home this evening and surprise the folks.
"Who is your folks?" he says.
"The Phelpses, down yonder."
"Oh," he says. And after a minute, he says:
"How'd you say he got shot?"
"He had a dream," I says, "and it shot him."
"Singular dream," he says.
So he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. But when he sees the canoe he didn't like the
look of her--said she was big enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. I says:
"Oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy enough."
"What three?"
"Why, me and Sid, and--and--and THE GUNS; that's what I mean."
"Oh," he says.
But he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head, and said he reckoned he'd look around
for a bigger one. But they was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait till he
come back, or I could hunt around further, or maybe I better go down home and get them ready for the
surprise if I wanted to. But I said I didn't; so I told him just how to find the raft, and then he started.
I struck an idea pretty soon. I says to myself, spos'n he can't fix that leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as
the saying is? spos'n it takes him three or four days? What are we going to do?--lay around there till he lets the
cat out of the bag? No, sir; I know what I'LL do. I'll wait, and when he comes back if he says he's got to go
any more I'll get down there, too, if I swim; and we'll take and tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the
river; and when Tom's done with him we'll give him what it's worth, or all we got, and then let him get ashore.
So then I crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time I waked up the sun was away up over my
head! I shot out and went for the doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in the night some time or
other, and warn't back yet. Well, thinks I, that looks powerful bad for Tom, and I'll dig out for the island right
off. So away I shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into Uncle Silas's stomach! He
says:
"Why, TOM! Where you been all this time, you rascal?"
"I hain't been nowheres," I says, "only just hunting for the runaway nigger--me and Sid."
CHAPTER XLI. 175
"Why, where ever did you go?" he says. "Your aunt's been mighty uneasy."
"She needn't," I says, "because we was all right. We followed the men and the dogs, but they outrun us, and
we lost them; but we thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them and
crossed over, but couldn't find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat
out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we paddled over
here to hear the news, and Sid's at the post-office to see what he can hear, and I'm a-branching out to get
something to eat for us, and then we're going home."
So then we went to the post-office to get "Sid"; but just as I suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got
a letter out of the office, and we waited awhile longer, but Sid didn't come; so the old man said, come along,
let Sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got done fooling around--but we would ride. I couldn't get him to let
me stay and wait for Sid; and he said there warn't no use in it, and I must come along, and let Aunt Sally see
we was all right.
When we got home Aunt Sally was that glad to see me she laughed and cried both, and hugged me, and give
me one of them lickings of hern that don't amount to shucks, and said she'd serve Sid the same when he come.
And the place was plum full of farmers and farmers' wives, to dinner; and such another clack a body never
heard. Old Mrs. Hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. She says:
"Well, Sister Phelps, I've ransacked that-air cabin over, an' I b'lieve the nigger was crazy. I says to Sister
Damrell--didn't I, Sister Damrell?--s'I, he's crazy, s'I--them's the very words I said. You all hearn me: he's
crazy, s'I; everything shows it, s'I. Look at that-air grindstone, s'I; want to tell ME't any cretur 't's in his right
mind 's a goin' to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone, s'I? Here sich 'n' sich a person busted his
heart; 'n' here so 'n' so pegged along for thirty-seven year, 'n' all that--natcherl son o' Louis somebody, 'n' sich
everlast'n rubbage. He's plumb crazy, s'I; it's what I says in the fust place, it's what I says in the middle, 'n' it's
what I says last 'n' all the time--the nigger's crazy--crazy 's Nebokoodneezer, s'I."
"An' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, Sister Hotchkiss," says old Mrs. Damrell; "what in the name o'
goodness COULD he ever want of--"
"The very words I was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n this minute to Sister Utterback, 'n' she'll tell you so herself.
Sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; 'n' s'I, yes, LOOK at it, s'I--what COULD he a-wanted of it, s'I.
Sh-she, Sister Hotchkiss, sh-she--"
"But how in the nation'd they ever GIT that grindstone IN there, ANYWAY? 'n' who dug that-air HOLE? 'n'
who--"
"My very WORDS, Brer Penrod! I was a-sayin'--pass that-air sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye?--I was a-sayin' to
Sister Dunlap, jist this minute, how DID they git that grindstone in there, s'I. Without HELP, mind you
--'thout HELP! THAT'S wher 'tis. Don't tell ME, s'I; there WUZ help, s'I; 'n' ther' wuz a PLENTY help, too,
s'I; ther's ben a DOZEN a-helpin' that nigger, 'n' I lay I'd skin every last nigger on this place but I'D find out
who done it, s'I; 'n' moreover, s'I--"
"A DOZEN says you!--FORTY couldn't a done every thing that's been done. Look at them case-knife saws
and things, how tedious they've been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work for six men;
look at that nigger made out'n straw on the bed; and look at--"
"You may WELL say it, Brer Hightower! It's jist as I was a-sayin' to Brer Phelps, his own self. S'e, what do
YOU think of it, Sister Hotchkiss, s'e? Think o' what, Brer Phelps, s'I? Think o' that bed-leg sawed off that a
way, s'e? THINK of it, s'I? I lay it never sawed ITSELF off, s'I--somebody SAWED it, s'I; that's my opinion,
CHAPTER XLI. 176
take it or leave it, it mayn't be no 'count, s'I, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'I, 'n' if any body k'n start a better
one, s'I, let him DO it, s'I, that's all. I says to Sister Dunlap, s'I--"
"Why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o' niggers in there every night for four weeks to a done all
that work, Sister Phelps. Look at that shirt--every last inch of it kivered over with secret African writ'n done
with blood! Must a ben a raft uv 'm at it right along, all the time, amost. Why, I'd give two dollars to have it
read to me; 'n' as for the niggers that wrote it, I 'low I'd take 'n' lash 'm t'll--"
"People to HELP him, Brother Marples! Well, I reckon you'd THINK so if you'd a been in this house for a
while back. Why, they've stole everything they could lay their hands on--and we a-watching all the time, mind
you. They stole that shirt right off o' the line! and as for that sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther' ain't
no telling how many times they DIDN'T steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons, and
the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that I disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me
and Silas and my Sid and Tom on the constant watch day AND night, as I was a-telling you, and not a one of
us could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold you, they
slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only fools US but the Injun Territory robbers too, and
actuly gets AWAY with that nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-two dogs right on
their very heels at that very time! I tell you, it just bangs anything I ever HEARD of. Why, SPERITS couldn't
a done better and been no smarter. And I reckon they must a BEEN sperits--because, YOU know our dogs,
and ther' ain't no better; well, them dogs never even got on the TRACK of 'm once! You explain THAT to me
if you can!--ANY of you!"
"Well, it does beat--"
"Laws alive, I never--"
"So help me, I wouldn't a be--"
"HOUSE-thieves as well as--"
"Goodnessgracioussakes, I'd a ben afeard to live in sich a--"
"'Fraid to LIVE!--why, I was that scared I dasn't hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or SET down, Sister
Ridgeway. Why, they'd steal the very--why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster I was in by
the time midnight come last night. I hope to gracious if I warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the family! I was
just to that pass I didn't have no reasoning faculties no more. It looks foolish enough NOW, in the daytime;
but I says to myself, there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way up stairs in that lonesome room, and I declare to
goodness I was that uneasy 't I crep' up there and locked 'em in! I DID. And anybody would. Because, you
know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all the time, and
your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you think to yourself,
spos'n I was a boy, and was away up there, and the door ain't locked, and you--" She stopped, looking kind of
wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on me--I got up and took a walk.
Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that room this morning if I go out to one side
and study over it a little. So I done it. But I dasn't go fur, or she'd a sent for me. And when it was late in the
day the people all went, and then I come in and told her the noise and shooting waked up me and "Sid," and
the door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt
a little, and we didn't never want to try THAT no more. And then I went on and told her all what I told Uncle
Silas before; and then she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and about what a
body might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as long
as no harm hadn't come of it, she judged she better put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and
she had us still, stead of fretting over what was past and done. So then she kissed me, and patted me on the
CHAPTER XLI. 177
head, and dropped into a kind of a brown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says:
"Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not come yet! What HAS become of that boy?"
I see my chance; so I skips up and says:
"I'll run right up to town and get him," I says.
"No you won't," she says. "You'll stay right wher' you are; ONE'S enough to be lost at a time. If he ain't here
to supper, your uncle 'll go."
Well, he warn't there to supper; so right after supper uncle went.
He come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't run across Tom's track. Aunt Sally was a good DEAL
uneasy; but Uncle Silas he said there warn't no occasion to be--boys will be boys, he said, and you'll see this
one turn up in the morning all sound and right. So she had to be satisfied. But she said she'd set up for him a
while anyway, and keep a light burning so he could see it.
And then when I went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her candle, and tucked me in, and mothered
me so good I felt mean, and like I couldn't look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and talked with
me a long time, and said what a splendid boy Sid was, and didn't seem to want to ever stop talking about him;
and kept asking me every now and then if I reckoned he could a got lost, or hurt, or maybe drownded, and
might be laying at this minute somewheres suffering or dead, and she not by him to help him, and so the tears
would drip down silent, and I would tell her that Sid was all right, and would be home in the morning, sure;
and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again, and keep on saying it, because
it done her good, and she was in so much trouble. And when she was going away she looked down in my eyes
so steady and gentle, and says:
"The door ain't going to be locked, Tom, and there's the window and the rod; but you'll be good, WON'T you?
And you won't go? For MY sake."
Laws knows I WANTED to go bad enough to see about Tom, and was all intending to go; but after that I
wouldn't a went, not for kingdoms.
But she was on my mind and Tom was on my mind, so I slept very restless. And twice I went down the rod
away in the night, and slipped around front, and see her setting there by her candle in the window with her
eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and I wished I could do something for her, but I couldn't, only to
swear that I wouldn't never do nothing to grieve her any more. And the third time I waked up at dawn, and
slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle was most out, and her old gray head was resting on her hand,
and she was asleep.
CHAPTER XLI. 178
CHAPTER XLII.
THE old man was uptown again before breakfast, but couldn't get no track of Tom; and both of them set at the
table thinking, and not saying nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold, and not eating
anything. And by and by the old man says:
"Did I give you the letter?"
"What letter?"
"The one I got yesterday out of the post-office."
"No, you didn't give me no letter."
"Well, I must a forgot it."
So he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres where he had laid it down, and fetched it, and
give it to her. She says:
"Why, it's from St. Petersburg--it's from Sis."
I allowed another walk would do me good; but I couldn't stir. But before she could break it open she dropped
it and run--for she see something. And so did I. It was Tom Sawyer on a mattress; and that old doctor; and
Jim, in HER calico dress, with his hands tied behind him; and a lot of people. I hid the letter behind the first
thing that come handy, and rushed. She flung herself at Tom, crying, and says:
"Oh, he's dead, he's dead, I know he's dead!"
And Tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or other, which showed he warn't in his right
mind; then she flung up her hands, and says:
"He's alive, thank God! And that's enough!" and she snatched a kiss of him, and flew for the house to get the
bed ready, and scattering orders right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her tongue could
go, every jump of the way.
I followed the men to see what they was going to do with Jim; and the old doctor and Uncle Silas followed
after Tom into the house. The men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang Jim for an example to
all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn't be trying to run away like Jim done, and making such a
raft of trouble, and keeping a whole family scared most to death for days and nights. But the others said, don't
do it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't our nigger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay for him, sure.
So that cooled them down a little, because the people that's always the most anxious for to hang a nigger that
hain't done just right is always the very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him when they've got their
satisfaction out of him.
They cussed Jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two side the head once in a while, but Jim never
said nothing, and he never let on to know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his own clothes on
him, and chained him again, and not to no bed-leg this time, but to a big staple drove into the bottom log, and
chained his hands, too, and both legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but bread and water to eat after this
till his owner come, or he was sold at auction because he didn't come in a certain length of time, and filled up
our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns must stand watch around about the cabin every night, and a
bulldog tied to the door in the daytime; and about this time they was through with the job and was tapering off
with a kind of generl good-bye cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a look, and says:
CHAPTER XLII. 179
"Don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged to, because he ain't a bad nigger. When I got to where I
found the boy I see I couldn't cut the bullet out without some help, and he warn't in no condition for me to
leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and a little worse, and after a long time he went out of his
head, and wouldn't let me come a-nigh him any more, and said if I chalked his raft he'd kill me, and no end of
wild foolishness like that, and I see I couldn't do anything at all with him; so I says, I got to have HELP
somehow; and the minute I says it out crawls this nigger from somewheres and says he'll help, and he done it,
too, and done it very well. Of course I judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there I WAS! and there I had
to stick right straight along all the rest of the day and all night. It was a fix, I tell you! I had a couple of
patients with the chills, and of course I'd of liked to run up to town and see them, but I dasn't, because the
nigger might get away, and then I'd be to blame; and yet never a skiff come close enough for me to hail. So
there I had to stick plumb until daylight this morning; and I never see a nigger that was a better nuss or
faithfuller, and yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too, and I see plain enough he'd
been worked main hard lately. I liked the nigger for that; I tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is worth a
thousand dollars--and kind treatment, too. I had everything I needed, and the boy was doing as well there as
he would a done at home--better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but there I WAS, with both of 'm on my
hands, and there I had to stick till about dawn this morning; then some men in a skiff come by, and as good
luck would have it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head propped on his knees sound asleep; so I
motioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and grabbed him and tied him before he knowed what he
was about, and we never had no trouble. And the boy being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the
oars and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very nice and quiet, and the nigger never made the least row
nor said a word from the start. He ain't no bad nigger, gentlemen; that's what I think about him."
Somebody says:
"Well, it sounds very good, doctor, I'm obleeged to say."
Then the others softened up a little, too, and I was mighty thankful to that old doctor for doing Jim that good
turn; and I was glad it was according to my judgment of him, too; because I thought he had a good heart in
him and was a good man the first time I see him. Then they all agreed that Jim had acted very well, and was
deserving to have some notice took of it, and reward. So every one of them promised, right out and hearty,
that they wouldn't cuss him no more.
Then they come out and locked him up. I hoped they was going to say he could have one or two of the chains
took off, because they was rotten heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread and water; but they
didn't think of it, and I reckoned it warn't best for me to mix in, but I judged I'd get the doctor's yarn to Aunt
Sally somehow or other as soon as I'd got through the breakers that was laying just ahead of me
--explanations, I mean, of how I forgot to mention about Sid being shot when I was telling how him and me
put in that dratted night paddling around hunting the runaway nigger.
But I had plenty time. Aunt Sally she stuck to the sick-room all day and all night, and every time I see Uncle
Silas mooning around I dodged him.
Next morning I heard Tom was a good deal better, and they said Aunt Sally was gone to get a nap. So I slips
to the sick-room, and if I found him awake I reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that would wash.
But he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too; and pale, not fire-faced the way he was when he come.
So I set down and laid for him to wake. In about half an hour Aunt Sally comes gliding in, and there I was, up
a stump again! She motioned me to be still, and set down by me, and begun to whisper, and said we could all
be joyful now, because all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been sleeping like that for ever so long, and
looking better and peacefuller all the time, and ten to one he'd wake up in his right mind.
So we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened his eyes very natural, and takes a look, and
says:
CHAPTER XLII. 180
"Hello!--why, I'm at HOME! How's that? Where's the raft?"
"It's all right," I says.
"And JIM?"
"The same," I says, but couldn't say it pretty brash. But he never noticed, but says:
"Good! Splendid! NOW we're all right and safe! Did you tell Aunty?"
I was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says: "About what, Sid?"
"Why, about the way the whole thing was done."
"What whole thing?"
"Why, THE whole thing. There ain't but one; how we set the runaway nigger free--me and Tom."
"Good land! Set the run--What IS the child talking about! Dear, dear, out of his head again!"
"NO, I ain't out of my HEAD; I know all what I'm talking about. We DID set him free--me and Tom. We laid
out to do it, and we DONE it. And we done it elegant, too." He'd got a start, and she never checked him up,
just set and stared and stared, and let him clip along, and I see it warn't no use for ME to put in. "Why, Aunty,
it cost us a power of work --weeks of it--hours and hours, every night, whilst you was all asleep. And we had
to steal candles, and the sheet, and the shirt, and your dress, and spoons, and tin plates, and case-knives, and
the warming-pan, and the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, and you can't think what work it
was to make the saws, and pens, and inscriptions, and one thing or another, and you can't think HALF the fun
it was. And we had to make up the pictures of coffins and things, and nonnamous letters from the robbers, and
get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the hole into the cabin, and made the rope ladder and send it in
cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things to work with in your apron pocket--"
"Mercy sakes!"
"--and load up the cabin with rats and snakes and so on, for company for Jim; and then you kept Tom here so
long with the butter in his hat that you come near spiling the whole business, because the men come before we
was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, and they heard us and let drive at us, and I got my share, and we
dodged out of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come they warn't interested in us, but went for
the most noise, and we got our canoe, and made for the raft, and was all safe, and Jim was a free man, and we
done it all by ourselves, and WASN'T it bully, Aunty!"
"Well, I never heard the likes of it in all my born days! So it was YOU, you little rapscallions, that's been
making all this trouble, and turned everybody's wits clean inside out and scared us all most to death. I've as
good a notion as ever I had in my life to take it out o' you this very minute. To think, here I've been, night
after night, a--YOU just get well once, you young scamp, and I lay I'll tan the Old Harry out o' both o' ye!"
But Tom, he WAS so proud and joyful, he just COULDN'T hold in, and his tongue just WENT it--she
a-chipping in, and spitting fire all along, and both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she says:
"WELL, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it NOW, for mind I tell you if I catch you meddling with
him again--"
"Meddling with WHO?" Tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised.
CHAPTER XLII. 181
"With WHO? Why, the runaway nigger, of course. Who'd you reckon?"
Tom looks at me very grave, and says:
"Tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right? Hasn't he got away?"
"HIM?" says Aunt Sally; "the runaway nigger? 'Deed he hasn't. They've got him back, safe and sound, and
he's in that cabin again, on bread and water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed or sold!"
Tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils opening and shutting like gills, and sings out to
me:
"They hain't no RIGHT to shut him up! SHOVE!--and don't you lose a minute. Turn him loose! he ain't no
slave; he's as free as any cretur that walks this earth!"
"What DOES the child mean?"
"I mean every word I SAY, Aunt Sally, and if somebody don't go, I'LL go. I've knowed him all his life, and so
has Tom, there. Old Miss Watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him
down the river, and SAID so; and she set him free in her will."
"Then what on earth did YOU want to set him free for, seeing he was already free?"
"Well, that IS a question, I must say; and just like women! Why, I wanted the ADVENTURE of it; and I'd a
waded neck-deep in blood to --goodness alive, AUNT POLLY!"
If she warn't standing right there, just inside the door, looking as sweet and contented as an angel half full of
pie, I wish I may never!
Aunt Sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her, and cried over her, and I found a good
enough place for me under the bed, for it was getting pretty sultry for us, seemed to me. And I peeped out, and
in a little while Tom's Aunt Polly shook herself loose and stood there looking across at Tom over her
spectacles--kind of grinding him into the earth, you know. And then she says:
"Yes, you BETTER turn y'r head away--I would if I was you, Tom."
"Oh, deary me!" says Aunt Sally; "IS he changed so? Why, that ain't TOM, it's Sid; Tom's--Tom's--why,
where is Tom? He was here a minute ago."
"You mean where's Huck FINN--that's what you mean! I reckon I hain't raised such a scamp as my Tom all
these years not to know him when I SEE him. That WOULD be a pretty howdy-do. Come out from under that
bed, Huck Finn."
So I done it. But not feeling brash.
Aunt Sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons I ever see --except one, and that was Uncle Silas,
when he come in and they told it all to him. It kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he didn't know
nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a prayer-meeting sermon that night that gave him a rattling
ruputation, because the oldest man in the world couldn't a understood it. So Tom's Aunt Polly, she told all
about who I was, and what; and I had to up and tell how I was in such a tight place that when Mrs. Phelps
took me for Tom Sawyer--she chipped in and says, "Oh, go on and call me Aunt Sally, I'm used to it now, and
'tain't no need to change"--that when Aunt Sally took me for Tom Sawyer I had to stand it--there warn't no
CHAPTER XLII. 182
other way, and I knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make
an adventure out of it, and be perfectly satisfied. And so it turned out, and he let on to be Sid, and made things
as soft as he could for me.
And his Aunt Polly she said Tom was right about old Miss Watson setting Jim free in her will; and so, sure
enough, Tom Sawyer had gone and took all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and I couldn't
ever understand before, until that minute and that talk, how he COULD help a body set a nigger free with his
bringing-up.
Well, Aunt Polly she said that when Aunt Sally wrote to her that Tom and SID had come all right and safe,
she says to herself:
"Look at that, now! I might have expected it, letting him go off that way without anybody to watch him. So
now I got to go and trapse all the way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out what that creetur's up
to THIS time, as long as I couldn't seem to get any answer out of you about it."
"Why, I never heard nothing from you," says Aunt Sally.
"Well, I wonder! Why, I wrote you twice to ask you what you could mean by Sid being here."
"Well, I never got 'em, Sis."
Aunt Polly she turns around slow and severe, and says:
"You, Tom!"
"Well--WHAT?" he says, kind of pettish.
"Don t you what ME, you impudent thing--hand out them letters."
"What letters?"
"THEM letters. I be bound, if I have to take a-holt of you I'll--"
"They're in the trunk. There, now. And they're just the same as they was when I got them out of the office. I
hain't looked into them, I hain't touched them. But I knowed they'd make trouble, and I thought if you warn't
in no hurry, I'd--"
"Well, you DO need skinning, there ain't no mistake about it. And I wrote another one to tell you I was
coming; and I s'pose he--"
"No, it come yesterday; I hain't read it yet, but IT'S all right, I've got that one."
I wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but I reckoned maybe it was just as safe to not to. So I never
said nothing.
CHAPTER XLII. 183
CHAPTER THE
LAST
THE first time I catched Tom private I asked him what was his idea, time of the evasion?--what it was he'd
planned to do if the evasion worked all right and he managed to set a nigger free that was already free before?
And he said, what he had planned in his head from the start, if we got Jim out all safe, was for us to run him
down the river on the raft, and have adventures plumb to the mouth of the river, and then tell him about his
being free, and take him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and pay him for his lost time, and write word
ahead and get out all the niggers around, and have them waltz him into town with a torchlight procession and
a brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so would we. But I reckoned it was about as well the way it
was.
We had Jim out of the chains in no time, and when Aunt Polly and Uncle Silas and Aunt Sally found out how
good he helped the doctor nurse Tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and give
him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and nothing to do. And we had him up to the sick-room, and had a
high talk; and Tom give Jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us so patient, and doing it up so good, and Jim
was pleased most to death, and busted out, and says:
"DAH, now, Huck, what I tell you?--what I tell you up dah on Jackson islan'? I TOLE you I got a hairy breas',
en what's de sign un it; en I TOLE you I ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich AGIN; en it's come true; en
heah she is! DAH, now! doan' talk to ME--signs is SIGNS, mine I tell you; en I knowed jis' 's well 'at I 'uz
gwineter be rich agin as I's a-stannin' heah dis minute!"
And then Tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all three slide out of here one of these nights
and get an outfit, and go for howling adventures amongst the Injuns, over in the Territory, for a couple of
weeks or two; and I says, all right, that suits me, but I ain't got no money for to buy the outfit, and I reckon I
couldn't get none from home, because it's likely pap's been back before now, and got it all away from Judge
Thatcher and drunk it up.
"No, he hain't," Tom says; "it's all there yet--six thousand dollars and more; and your pap hain't ever been
back since. Hadn't when I come away, anyhow."
Jim says, kind of solemn:
"He ain't a-comin' back no mo', Huck."
I says:
"Why, Jim?"
"Nemmine why, Huck--but he ain't comin' back no mo."
But I kept at him; so at last he says:
"Doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down de river, en dey wuz a man in dah, kivered up, en I went in
en unkivered him and didn' let you come in? Well, den, you kin git yo' money when you wants it, kase dat
wuz him."
Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing
what time it is, and so there ain't nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if I'd a
knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. But I
CHAPTER THE 184
reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and
sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before.
THE END. YOURS TRULY, HUCK FINN.
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190

A Time To Kill - John Grisham(page 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Love Heda) — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 18:54:00 +0530

She wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry for crying, and I'm sorry for being so irritable lately."
You've been irritable for forty years, Jake thought. "That's okay."
"What about these?" she asked, pointing to the invoices.
"I'll get the money. Don't worry about it."
Willie Hastings finished the second shift at 10:00 P.M. and punched the clock next to
Ozzie's office. He drove straight to the Hailey house. It was his night to sleep on the couch. Someone slept on Owen's couch every night; a brother, a cousin, or a friend.
Wednesday was his night.
It was impossible to sleep with the lights on. Tonya refused to go near the bed unless every light in the house was on. Those men could be in the dark, waiting for her. She had seen them many times crawling along the floor toward her bed, and lurking in the closets.
She had heard their voices outside her window, and she had seen their bloodshot eyes peering in, watching her as she got ready for bed. She heard noises in the attic, like the footsteps of the bulky cowboy boots they had kicked her with. She knew they were up there, waiting for everyone to go to sleep so they could come down and take her back to the woods.
Once a week her mother and oldest brother climbed the folding stairs and inspected the attic with a flashlight and a pistol.

Not a single room in the house could be dark when she went to bed. One night, as she lay wide awake next to her mother, a light in the hall burned out. She screamed violently until Gwen's brother drove to Clanton to an all-night quick shop for more bulbs.
She slept with her mother, who held her firmly for hours until the demons faded into the night and she drifted away. At first, Gwen had trouble with the lights, but after five weeks she napped periodically through the night. The small body next to her wiggled and jerked even while it slept. Willie said good night to the boys and kissed Tonya. He showed her his gun and promised to stay awake on the couch. He walked through the house and checked the closets. When Tonya was satisfied, she lay next to her mother and stared at the ceiling. She cried softly.
Around midnight, Willie took off his boots and relaxed on the couch. He removed his holster and placed the gun on the floor. He was almost asleep when he heard the scream.
It was the horrible, high-pitched cry of a child being tortured. He grabbed his gun and ran to the bedroom. Tonya was sitting on the bed, facing the wall, screaming and shaking.
She had seen them in the window, waiting for her. Gwen hugged her. The three boys ran to the foot of the bed and watched helplessly. Carl Lee, Jr., went to the window and saw nothing. They had been through it many times in five weeks, and knew there was little they could do.
Gwen soothed her and laid her head gently on the pillow. "It's okay, baby, Momma's here and Uncle Willie's here. Nobody's gonna get you. It's okay, baby."
She wanted Uncle Willie to sit under the window with his gun and the boys to sleep on the floor around the bed. They took their positions. She moaned pitifully for a few moments, then grew quiet and still.
Willie sat on the floor by the window until they were all asleep. He carried the boys one at a time to their beds and tucked them in. He sat under her window and waited for the morning sun. Jake and Atcavage met for lunch at Claude's on Friday. They ordered ribs and slaw. The place was packed as usual, and for the first time in four weeks there were no strange faces. The regulars talked and gossiped like old times. Claude was in fine form-ranting and scolding and cursing his loyal customers. Claude was one of those rare people who could curse a man and make him enjoy it.
Atcavage had watched the venue hearing, and would have testified had he been needed.
The bank had discouraged his testifying, and Jake did not want to cause trouble. Bankers have an innate fear of courtrooms, and Jake admired his friend for overcoming this paranoia and attending the hearing. In doing so, he became the first banker in the history of Ford County to voluntarily appear in a courtroom without a subpoena while court was in session. Jake was proud of him.
Claude raced by and told them they had ten minutes, so shut up and eat. Jake finished a rib and mopped his face. "Say, Stan, speaking of loans, I need to borrow five thousand for ninety days, unsecured."
"Who said anything about loans?"
"You said something about banks."
"I thought we were condemning Buckley. I was enjoying it."
"You shouldn't criticize, Stan. It's an easy habit to acquire and an impossible one to break. It robs your soul of . character."
"I'm terribly sorry. How can you ever forgive me?"
"About the loan?"
"Okay. Why do you need it?"
"Why is that relevant?"
"What do you mean, 'Why is that relevant?' "
"Look Stan, all you should worry about is whether or not I can repay the money in .ninety days."
"Okay. Can you repay the money in ninety days?"
"Good question. Of course I can."
The banker smiled. "Hailey's got you bogged down, huh?"
The lawyer smiled. "Yeah," he admitted. "It's hard to concentrate on anything else. The trial is three weeks from Monday, and until then I won't concentrate on anything else."
"How much will you make off this case?"
"Nine hundred minus ten thousand."
"Nine hundred dollars!"
"Yeah, he couldn't borrow on his land, remember?"
"Cheap shot."
"Of course, if you'd loan Carl Lee the money on his land, then I wouldn't have to borrow any."
"I prefer to loan it to you."
"Great. When can I get a check?"
"You sound desperate."
"I know how long you guys take, with your loan committees and auditors and vice-presidents here and vice-presidents there, and maybe a vice-president will finally approve my loan in a month or so, if the manual says he can and if the home office is in the right mood. I know how you operate."
Atcavage looked at his watch. "Three o'clock soon enough?"
"I guess."
"Unsecured?"
Jake wiped his mouth and leaned across the table. He spoke quietly. "My house is a landmark with landmark mortgages, and you've got the lien on my car, remember? I'll give you the first mortgage on my daughter, but if you try to foreclose I'll kill you. Now what security do you have in mind?"
"Sorry I asked."
"When can I get the check?"
"Three P.M."
Claude appeared and refilled the tea glasses. "You got five minutes," he said loudly.
"Eight," replied Jake.
"Listen Mr. Big Shot," Claude said with a grin. "This ain't no courtroom, and your picture in the paper ain't worth two cents in here. I said five minutes."
"Just as well. My ribs were tough anyway."
"I notice you didn't leave any."
"Might as well eat them, as much as they cost."
"They cost more if you complain." "We're leaving," Atcavage said as he stood and threw a dollar on the table.
Sunday afternoon the Haileys picnicked under the tree away from the violence under the basketball goal. The first heat wave of the summer had settled in, and the heavy, sticky humidity hung close to the ground and penetrated the shade. Gwen
swatted flies as the children and their daddy ate warm fried chicken and sweated. The children ate hurriedly and ran to a new swing Ozzie had installed for the children of his inmates.
"What'd they do at Whitfield?" Gwen asked.
"Nothin' really. Asked a bunch of questions, made me do some tests. Bunch of crap."
"How'd they treat you?"
"With handcuffs and padded walls."
"No kiddin'. They put you in a room with padded walls?" Gwen was amused and managed a rare giggle.
"Sure did. They watched me like I was some animal. Said I was famous. My guards told me they was proud of me -one was white and one was black. Said that I did the right thing and they hoped I got off. They was nice to me."
"What'd the doctors say?"
"They won't say nothin' till we get to trial, and then they'll say I'm fine."
"How do you know what they'll say?"
"Jake told me. He ain't been wrong yet."
"Has he found you a doctor?"
"Yeah, some crazy drunk he drug up somewhere. Says he's a psychiatrist. We've talked a couple of times in Ozzie's office."
"What'd he say?"
"Not much. Jake said he'll say whatever we want him to say."
"Must be a real good doctor."
"He'd fit in good with those folks in Whitfield."
"Where's he from?"
"Jackson, I think. He wasn't too sure of anything. He acted like I was gonna kill him too.
I swear he was drunk bolh times we talked. He asked some questions that neither one of us understood. Took some notes like a real big shot. Said he thought he could help me. I asked Jake about him. Jake said not to worry, that he would be sober at the trial. But I think Jake's worried too."
"Then why are we usin' him?"
" 'Cause he's free. Owes somebody some favors. A real shrink'd cost over a thousand dollars just to evaluate me, and then another thousand or so to come testify at trial. A cheap shrink. Needless to say, I can't pay it."

Gwen lost her smile and looked away. "We need some money around the house," she said without looking at him.
"How much?"
"Coupla hundred for groceries and bills."
"How much you got?"
"Less than fifty."
"I'll see what I can do."
She looked at him. "What does that mean? What makes you think you can get money while you're in jail?"
Carl Lee raised his eyebrows and pointed at his wife. She was not to question him. He still wore the pants, even though he put them on in jail. He was the boss.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Reverend Agee peered through a crack in one of the huge stained glass windows of his church and watched with satisfaction as the clean Cadillacs and Lincolns arrived just before five Sunday afternoon. He had called a meeting of the council to assess the Hailey situation and plan strategy for the final three weeks before the trial, and to prepare for the arrival of the NAACP lawyers. The weekly collections had gone well-over seven thousand dollars had been gathered throughout the county and almost six thousand had been deposited by the reverend in a special account for the Carl Lee Hailey Legal
Defense Fund. None had been given to the family. Agee was waiting for the NAACP to direct him in spending the money, most of which, 'he thought, should go to the defense fund. The sisters in the church could feed the famil y if they got hungry. The cash was needed elsewhere.
The council talked of ways to raise more money. It was not easy getting money from poor people, but the issue was hot and the time was right, and if they didn't raise it now it would not be raised. They agreed to meet the following day at the Springdale Church in Clanton. The NAACP people were expected in town by morning. No press; it was to be a work session.
Norman Reinfeld was a thirty-year-old genius in criminal law who held the record for finishing Harvard's law school at the age of twenty-one, and after graduation declined a most generous offer to join his father and grandfather's prestigious Wall Street law factory, opting instead to take a job with the NAACP and spend his time fighting furiously to keep Southern blacks off death row. He was very good at what he did although, through no fault of his own, he was not very successful at what he did. Most
Southern blacks along with most Southern whites who faced the gas chamber deserved the gas chamber. But Reinfeld and his team of capital murder defense specialists won more than their share, and even in the ones they lost they usually managed to keep the convicts alive through a myriad of exhausting delays and appeals. Four of his former clients had either been gassed, electrocuted, or lethally injected, and that was four too many for Reinfeld. He had watched them all die, and with each execution he renewed his vow to break any law, violate any ethic, contempt any court, disrespect any judge, ignore any mandate, or do whatever it took to prevent a human from legally killing another human. He didn't worry much about the illegal killings of humans, such as those killings so artfully and cruelly achieved by his clients. It wasn't his business to think about those killings, so he didn't. Instead he vented his righteous and sanctimonious anger and zeal at the legal killings.
He seldom slept more than three hours a night. Sleep was difficult with thirty-one clients on death row. Plus seventeen clients awaiting trial. Plus eight egotistical attorneys to supervise. He was thirty and looked forty-five. He was old, abrasive, and ill-tempered. In the normal course of his business, he would have been much too busy to attend a gathering of local black ministers in Clanton, Mississippi. But this was not the normal case. This was Hailey. The vigilante. The father driven to revenge. The most famous criminal case in the country at the moment. This was Mississippi, where for years whites shot blacks for any reason or no reason and no one cared; where whites raped blacks and it was considered sport; where blacks were hanged for fighting back. And now a black father had killed two white men who raped his daughter, and faced the gas chamber for something that thirty years earlier would have gone unnoticed had he been white. This was the case, his case, and he would handle it personally.
On Monday he was introduced to the council by Reverend Agee, who opened the meeting with a lengthy and detailed review of the activities in Ford County. Reinfeld was brief. He and his team could not represent Mr. Hailey because he had not been hired by
Mr. Hailey, so a meeting was imperative. Today, preferably. Tomorrow morning at the latest, because he had a flight out of Memphis at noon. He was needed in a murder trial somewhere in Georgia. Reverend Agee promised to arrange a meeting with the defendant as soon as possible. He was friends with the sheriff. Fine, said Reinfeld, just get it done.
"How much money have you raised?" Reinfeld asked.
"Fifteen thousand from you folks," Agee answered.
"I know that. How much locally?"
"Six thousand," Agee said proudly.
"Six thousand!" repeated Reinfeld. "Is that all? I thought you people were organized.
Where's all this great local support you were talking about? Six thousand! How much more can you raise? We've only got three weeks."
The council members were silent. This Jew had a lot of nerve. The only white man in the group and he was on the attack.
"How much do we need?" asked Agee.
"That depends, Reverend, on how good a defense you want for Mr. Hailey. I've only got eight other attorneys on my staff. Five are in trial at this very moment. We've got thirty-one capital murder convictions at various stages of appeal. We've got seventeen trials scheduled in ten states over the next five months. We get ten requests each week to represent defendants, eight of which we turn down because we simply don't have the staff or the money. For Mr. Hailey, fifteen thousand has been contributed by two local chapters and the home office. Now you tell me that only six thousand has been raised locally. That's twenty-one thousand. Fpr that amount you'll get the best defense we can afford. Two attorneys, at least one psychiatrist, but nothing fancy. Twenty-one thousand gets a good defense, but not what I had in mind."
"What exactly did you have in mind?"
"A first-class defense. Three or four attorneys. A battery of psychiatrists. Half dozen investigators. A jury psychologist, just to name a few. This is not your run-of-the-mill murder case. I want to win. I was led to believe that you folks wanted to win."
"How much?" asked Agee.
"Fifty thousand, minimum. A hundred thousand would be nice."
"Look, Mr. Reinfeld, you're in Mississippi. Our people are poor. They've given generously so far, but there's no way we can raise another thirty thousand here."
Reinfeld adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and scratched his graying beard. "How much more can you raise?"
"Another five thousand, maybe."
"That's not much money."
"Not to you, but it is to the black folk of Ford County."
Reinfeld studied the floor and continued stroking his beard. "How much has the Memphis chapter given?"
"Five thousand," answered someone from Memphis.
"Atlanta?"
"Five thousand."
"How about the state chapter?"
"Which state?"
"Mississippi."
"None."
"None?"
"None."
"Why not?"
"Ask him," Agee said, pointing at Reverend Henry Hillman, the state director.
"Uh, we tryin' to raise some money now," Hillman said weakly. "But-"
"How much have you raised so far?" asked Agee.
"Well, uh, we got-"
"Nothin', right? You ain't raised nothin', have you, Hillman?" Agee said loudly.
"Come on, Hillman, tell us how much you raised," chimed in Reverend Roosevelt, vice-chairman of the council.
Hillman was dumbfounded and speechless. He had been sitting quietly on the front pew minding his own business, half asleep. Suddenly he was under attack.
"The state chapter will contribute."
"Sure you will, Hillman. You folks at state are constantly badgerin' us locals to contribute here and donate there for this cause and that cause, and we never see any of the money.
You always cryin' about bein' so broke, and we're always sendin' money to state. But when we need help, state don't do a thing but show up here and talk."
"That's not true."
"Don't start lyin', Hillman."
Reinfeld was embarrassed and immediately aware that a nerve had been touched.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, let's move on," he said diplomatically.
"Good idea," Hillman said.
"When can we meet with Mr. Hailey?" Reinfeld asked.
"I'll arrange a meetin' for in the mornin'," Agee said.
"Where can we meet?"
"I suggest we meet in Sheriff Walls' office in the jail. He's black, you know, the only black sheriff in Mississippi."
"Yes, I've heard."
"I think he'll let us meet in his office."
"Good. Who is Mr. Hailey's attorney?"
"Local boy. Jake Brigance."
"Make sure he's invited. We'll ask him to help us on the case. It'll ease the pain." Ethel's obnoxious, high-pitched, bitchy voice broke the tran-quility of the late afternoon and startled her boss. "Mr. Brigance, Sheriff Walls is on line two," she said through the intercom.
"Okay."
"Do you need me for anything else, sir?"
"No. See you in the morning."
Jake punched line two. "Hello, Ozzie. What's up?"
"Listen Jake, we've got a bunch of NAACP big shots in town."
"What else is new?"
"No, this is different. They wanna meet with Carl Lee in the mornin'."
"Why?"
"Some guy named Reinfeld."
"I've heard of him. He heads up their capital murder team. Norman Reinfeld."
"Yeah, that's him."
"I've been waiting for this."
"Well, he's here, and he wants to talk to Carl Lee."
"Why are you involved?"
"Reverend Agee called me. He wants a favor, of course. He asked me to call you."
"The answer is no. Emphatically no."
Ozzie paused a few seconds. "Jake, they want you 10 oe present."
"You mean I'm invited?"
"Yes. Agee said Reinfeld insisted on it. He wants you to be here."
"Where?"
"In my office. Nine A.M."
Jake breathed deeply and replied slowly. "Okay, I'll be there. Where's Carl Lee?"
"In his cell."
"Get him in your office. I'll be there in five minutes."
"What for?"
"We need to have a prayer meeting."
Reinfeld and Reverends Agee, Roosevelt, and Hillman sat in a perfect row of folding chairs and faced the sheriff, the defendant, and Jake, who puffed a cheap cigar in a determined effort to pollute the small office. He puffed mightily and stared nonchalantly at the floor, trying his best to show nothing but absolute contempt for Reinfeld and the reverends. Reinfeld was no pushover when it came to arrogance, and his disdain for this simple, small-time lawyer was not well hidden because he made no attempt to hide it. He was arrogant and insolent by nature. Jake had to work at it.
"Who called this meeting?" Jake asked impatiently, after a long, uncomfortable silence.
"Uh, well, I guess we did," answered Agee as he searched Reinfeld for guidance.
"Well, get on wi th it. What do you want?"
"Take it easy now, Jake," Ozzie said. "Reverend Agee asked me to arrange the meeting so Carl Lee could meet Mr. Reinfeld here."
"Fine. They've met. Now what, Mr. Reinfeld?"
"I'm here to offer my services, and the services of my staff and the entire NAACP to Mr.
Hailey," said Reinfeld.
"What type of services?" asked Jake.
"Legal, of course."
"Carl Lee, did you ask Mr. Reinfeld to come here?" asked Jake.
"Nope."
"Sounds like solicitation to me, Mr. Reinfeld."
"Skip the lecture, Mr. Brigance. You know what I do, and you know why I'm here."
"So you chase all your cases?"
"We don't chase anything. We're called in by local NAACP members and other civil rights activists. We handle only capital murder cases, and we're very good at what we do."
"I suppose you're the only attorney competent to handle a case of this magnitude?"
"I've handled my share."
"And lost your share."
"Most of my cases are supposed to be lost."
"I see. Is that your position on this case? Do you expect to lose it?"
Reinfeld picked at his beard and glared at Jake. "I didn't come here to argue with you,
Mr. Brigance."
"I know. You came here to offer your formidable legal skills to a defendant who's never heard of you and happens to be satisfied with his attorney. You came here to take my client. I know exactly why you're here."
"I'm here because the NAACP invited me. Nothing more or less."
"I see. Do you get all your cases from the NAACP?"
"I work for the NAACP, Mr. Brigance. I'm in charge of its capital murder defense team. I go where the NAACP sends me."
"How many clients do you have?"
"Several dozen. Why is that important?"
"Did they all have attorneys before you pushed yourself into their cases?"
"Some did, some didn't. We always try to work with the local attorney."
Jake smiled. "That's marvelous. You're offering me a chance to carry your briefcase and chauffeur you around Clanton. I might even get to fetch you a sandwich during the noon recess. What a thrill."
Carl Lee sat frozen with arms crossed and his eyes fixed on a spot in the rug. The reverends watched him closely, waiting for him to say something to his lawyer, to tell him to shut up, that he was fired and the NAACP lawyers would handle the case. They watched and waited, DUI sat calmly and listened.
"We have a lot to offer, Mr. Hailey," Reinfeld said. It was best to stay calm until the defendant decided who would represent him. A tantrum might ruin things.
"Such as?" Jake asked.
"Staff, resources, expertise, experienced trial lawyers who do nothing but capital defense.
Plus we have a number of highly competent doctors we use in these cases. You name it, we have it."
"How much money do you have to spend?"
"That's none of your business."
"Is that so? Is it Mr. Hailey's business? After all, it's his case. Perhaps Mr. Hailey would like to know how much you have to spend in his defense. Would you, Mr. Hailey?"
"Yep."
"All right, Mr. Reinfeld, how much do you have to spend?"
Reinfeld squirmed and looked hard at the reverends, who looked hard at Carl Lee.
"Approximately twenty thousand, so far," Reinfeld admitted sheepishly.
Jake laughed and shook his head in disbelief. "Twenty thousand! Y'all are really serious about this, aren't you? Twenty thousand! I thought you guys played in the big leagues.
You raised a hundred and fifty thousand for the cop killer in Birmingham last year. And he was convicted, by the way. You spent a hundred thousand for the whore in Shreve-port who killed her customer. And she, too, was convicted, I might add. And you think this case is worth only twenty thousand."
"How much do you have to spend?" asked Reinfeld.
"If you can explain to me how that's any of your business, I'll be glad to discuss it with you."
Reinfeld started to speak, then leaned forward and rubbed his temples. "Why don't you talk to him, Reverend Agee."
The reverends stared at Carl Lee. They wished they were alone with him, with no white folks around. They could talk to him like he was a nigger. They could explain things to. him; tell him to fire this young white boy and get him some real lawyers. NAACP lawyers. Lawyers who knew how to fight for blacks. But they were not alone with him, and they couldn't curse him. They had to show respect for the white folks present. Agee spoke first.
"Look here, Carl Lee, we tryin' to help you. We brought in Mr. Reinfeld here, and he's got all his lawyers and ever-body at your disposal, to help you now. We ain't got nothin' against Jake here; he's a fine young lawyer. But he can work with Mr. Reinfeld. We don't want you to fire Jake; we just want you to hire Mr. Reinfeld too. They can all work together."
"Forget that," said Jake.
Agee paused and looked helplessly at Jake.
"Come on, Jake. We ain't got nothin' against you. It's a big chance for you. You can work with some real big lawyers. Get some real good experience. We-"
"Let me make it real clear, Reverend. If Carl Lee wants your lawyers, fine. But I'm not playing gofer for anyone. I'm either in or out. Nothing in between. My case or your case.
The courtroom is not big enough for me, Reinfeld, and Ru-fus Buckley."
Reinfeld rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling, shaking his head slowly and grinning with an arrogant little smirk.
"You sayin' it's up to Carl Lee?" asked Reverend Agee.
"Of course it's up to him. He's hired me. He can fire me. He's already done it once. I'm not the one facing the gas chamber."
"How 'bout it, Carl Lee?" asked Agee.
Carl Lee uncrossed his arms and stared at Agee. "This twenty thousand, what's it for?"
"Really, it's more like thirty thousand," answered Reinfeld. "The local folks have pledged another ten thousand. The money will be used for your defense. None of it's attorney fees. We'll need two or three investigators. Two, maybe three,
psychiatric experts. We often use a jury psychologist to assist us in selecting the jury. Our defenses are very expensive."
"Uh huh. How much money has been raised by local people?" asked Carl Lee.
"About six thousand," answered Reinfeld.
"Who collected mis money:
Reinfeld looked at Agee. "The churches," answered the reverend.
"Who collected the money from the churches?" asked Carl Lee.
"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'l l 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 Oldsmobile 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 hide outside 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 would've 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. Pirtl e 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 gro in. 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?"
"Just me and the deputies. I think we can keep it under wraps until after the trial, but I can't guarantee anything."
"I understand. Try your best."
"I will, Jake."
"I know you will, Ozzie. I appreciate you."
Jake drove to the office, made the coffee and lay on the couch in his office. He wanted a quick nap, but sleep was impossible. His eyes burned, but he could not close them. He stared at the ceiling fan.
"Mr. Brigance," Ethel called over the intercom.
No response.
"Mr. Brigance!"
Somewhere in the deep recesses of his subconscious, Jake heard himself being paged/.He bolted upright. "Yes!" he yelled.
"Judge Noose is on the phone."
"Okay, okay," he mumbled as he staggered to his desk. He checked his watch. Nine A.M.
He had slept for an hour.
"Good morning, Judge," he said cheerfully, trying to sound alert and awake.
"Good morning, Jake. How are you?"
"Just fine, Judge. Busy getting ready for the big trial."
"I thought so. Jake, what is your schedule today?"
What's today, he thought. He grabbed his appointment book. "Nothing but office work."
"Good. I would like to have lunch with you at my home. Say around eleven-thirty."
"I would be delighted, Judge. What's the occasion?"
"I want to discuss the Hailey case."
"Fine, Judge. I'll see you at eleven-thirty."
The Nooses lived in a stately antebellum home off the town square in Chester. The home had been in the wife's family for over a century, and although it could stand some maintenance and repair, it was in decent condition. Jake had never been a guest in the house, and had never met Mrs. Noose, although he had heard she was a snobby blue blood whose family at one time had money but lost it.
She was as unattractive as Ichabod, and Jake wondered what the children looked like. She was properly polite when she met Jake at the door and attempted small talk as she led him to the patio, where His Honor was drinking iced tea and reviewing correspondence.
A maid was preparing a small table nearby.
"Good to see you, Jake," Ichabod said warmly. "Thanks for coming over."
"My pleasure, Judge. Beautiful place you have here."
They discussed the Hailey trial over soup and chicken salad sandwiches. Ichabod was dreading the ordeal, although he didn't admit it. He seemed tired, as if the case was already a burden. He surprised Jake with an admission that he detested Buckley. Jake said he felt the same way.
"Jake, I'm perplexed over this venue ruling," he said. "I've studied your brief and
Buckley's brief, and I've researched the law myself. It's a tough question. Last weekend I attended a judges' conference on the Gulf Coast, and I had a few drinks with Judge
Denton on the Supreme Court. He and I were in law school together, and we were colleagues in the state senate. We're very close. He's from Dupree County in south
Mississippi, and he says that everybody down there talks about the case. People on the street ask him how he's gonna rule if the case winds up on appeal.
Everybody's got an opinion, and that's almost four hundred miles away. Now, if I agree to change venue, where do we go? We can't leave the state, and I'm convinced that everyone has not only heard about your client, but already prejudged him. Would you agree?"
"Well, there's been a lot of publicity," Jake said carefully.
"Talk to me, Jake. We're not in court. That's why I invited you here. I want to pick your brain. I know there's been a lot of publicity. If we move it, where do we go?"
"How about the delta?"
Noose smiled. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Of course. We could pick us a good jury over there. One that would truly understand the issues."
"Yeah, and one that would be half black."
"I hadn't thought about that."
"Do you really believe those folks haven't already prejudged this defendant?"
"I suppose so."
"So where do we go?"
"Did Judge Denton have a suggestion?"
"Not really. We discussed the court's traditional refusal to allow changes of venue except in the most heinous of cases. It's a difficult issue with a notorious crime that arouses passion both for and against the defendant. With television and all the press nowadays, these crimes are instant news, and everyone knows the details long before the trial. And this case tops them all. Even Denton admitted he'd never seen a case with this much publicity, and he admitted it would be impossible to find a fair and impartial jury anywhere in Mississippi. Suppose I leave it in Ford County and your man is convicted.
Then you appeal claiming venue should have been changed. Denton indicated he would be sympathetic with my decision not to move it. He thinks a majority of the court would uphold my denial of the venue change. Of course, that's no guarantee, and we discussed it over several long drinks. Would you like a drink?"
"No thanks."
"I just don't see any reason to move the trial from Clanton. If we did, we'd be fooling ourselves if we thought we could find twelve people who are undecided about Mr.
Hailey's guilt."
"Sounds like you've already made up your mind, Judge."
"I have. We're not changing venue. The trial will be held in Clanton. I'm not comfortable with it, but I see no reason to move the trial. Besides, I like Clanton. It's close to home and the air conditioning works in the courthouse."
Noose reached for a file and found an envelope. "Jake, this is an order, dated today, overruling the request to change venue. I've sent a copy to Buckley, and there's a copy for you. The original is in here, and I would appreciate you filing this with the clerk in Clanton."
"I'll be glad to."
"I just hope I'm doing the right thing. I've really struggled with this."
"It's a tough job," Jake offered, attempting sympathy.
Noose called the maid and ordered a gin and tonic. He insisted that Jake view his rose garden, and they spent an hour in the sprawling rear lawn admiring His Honor's flow- ers.
Jake thought of Carla, and Hanna, and his home, and the dynamite, but gallantly remained interested in Ichabod's handiwork.
Friday afternoons often reminded Jake of law school, when, depending on the weather, he and his friends would either group in their favorite bar in Oxford and guzzle happy-hour beer and debate their new-found theories of law or curse the insolent, arrogant, terroristic law professors, or, if the weather was warm and sunny, pile the beer in Jake's well-used convertible Beetle and head for the beach at Sardis Lake, where the women from sorority row plastered their beautiful, bronze
bodies with oil and sweated in the sun and coolly ignored the catcalls from the drunken law students and fraternity rats. He missed those innocent days. He hated law school-every law student with any sense hated law school-but he missed the friends and good times, especially the Fridays. He missed the pressureless lifestyle, although at times the pressure had seemed unbearable, especially during the first year when the professors were more abusive than normal. He missed being broke, because when he had nothing he owed nothing and most of his classmates were in the same boat. Now that he had an income he worried constantly about mortgages, the overhead, credit cards, and realizing the American dream of becoming affluent. Not wealthy, just affluent. He missed his Volkswagen because it had been his first new car, a gift at high school graduation, and it was paid for, unlike the Saab. He missed being single, occasionally, although he was happily married. And he missed beer, either from a pitcher, can, or bottle. It didn't matter. He had been a social drinker, only with friends, and he spent as much time as possible with his friends, He didn't drink every day in law school, and he seldom got drunk. But there had been several painful, memorable hangovers.
Then came Carla. He met her at the beginning of his last semester, and six months later they married. She was beautiful, and that's what got his attention. She was quiet, and a little snobby at first, like most of the wealthy sorority girls at Ole Miss. But he found her to be warm and personable and lacking in self-confidence. He had never under- stood how someone as beautiful as Carla could be insecure. She was a Dean's List scholar in liberal arts with no intention of ever doing more than teaching school for a few years. Her family had money, and her mother had never worked. This appealed to Jake-the family money and the absence of a career ambition. He wanted a wife who would stay home and stay beautiful and have babies and not try to wear the pants. It was love at first sight.
But she frowned on drinking, any type of drinking. Her father drank heavily when she was a child, and there were painful memories. So Jake dried out his last semester in law school and lost fifteen pounds. He looked great, felt great, and he was madly in love. But he missed beer.
There was a country grocery a few miles out of Chester with a Coors sign in the window.
Coors had been his favorite in law school, although at that time it was not for sale east of the river. It was a delicacy at Ole Miss, and the bootlegging of Coors had
been profitable around the campus. Now that it was available everywhere most folks had returned to Budweiser.
It was Friday, and hot. Carla was nine hundred miles away. He had no desire to go to the office, and anything there could wait until tomorrow. Some nut just tried to kill his family and remove his landmark from the National Register of Historic Places. The biggest trial of his career was ten days away. He was not ready.and the pressure was mounting. He had just lost his most critical pretrial motion. And he was thirsty. Jake stopped and bought a six-pack of Coors.
It took almost two hours to travel the sixty miles from Chester to Clanton. He enjoyed the diversion, the scenery, the beer. He stopped twice to relieve himself and once to get another sixpack. He felt great.
There was only one place to go in his condition. Not home, not the office, certainly not the courthouse to file Ichabod's villainous order. He parked the Saab behind the nasty little Porsche and glided up the sidewalk with cold beer in hand. As usual, Lucien was rocking slowly on the front porch, drinking and reading a treatise on the insanity defense.
He closed the book and, noticing the beer, smiled at his former associate. Jake just grinned at him.
"What's the occasion, Jake?"
"Nothing, really. Just got thirsty."
"I see. What about your wife?"
"She doesn't tell me what to do. I'm my own man. I'm the boss. If I want beer, I'll drink some beer, and she'll say nothing." Jake took a long sip.
"She must be outta town."
"North Carolina."
"When did she leave?"
"Six this morning. Flew from Memphis with Hanna. She'll stay with her parents in
Wilmington until the trial's over. They've got a fancy little beach house where they spend their summers."
"She left this morning, and you're drunk by mid-afternoon."
"I'm not drunk," Jake answered. "Yet."
"How long you been drinkin'?"
"Coupla hours. I bought a six-pack when I left Noose's house around one-thirty. How long have you been drinking?"
"I normally drink my breakfast. Why were you at his house?"
"We discussed the trial over lunch. He refused to change venue."
"He what?"
"You heard me. The trial will be in Clanton."
Lucien took a drink and rattled his ice. "Sallie!" he screamed. "Did he give any reason?"
"Yeah. Said it would be impossible to find jurors anywhere who hadn't heard of the case."
"I told you so. That's a good common sense reason not to move it, but it's a poor legal reason. Noose is wrong."
Sallie returned with a fresh drink and took Jake's beer to the refrigerator. Lucien took a slug and smacked his lips. He wiped his mouth with his arm, and took another long drink.
"You know what that means, don't you?" he asked.
"Sure. An all-white jury."
"That, plus a reversal on appeal if he's convicted."
"Don't bet on it. Noose has already consulted with the Supreme Court. He thinks the
Court will affirm him if challenged. He thinks he's on solid ground."
"He's an idiot. I can show him twenty cases that say the trial should be moved. I think he's afraid to move it."
"Why would Noose be afraid?"
"He's taking some heat."
"From who?"
Lucien admired the golden liquid in his large glass and slowly stirred the ice cubes with a finger. He grinned and looked as though he knew something but wouldn't tell unless he was begged.
"From who?" Jake demanded, glaring at his friend with shiny, pink eyes.
"Buckley," Lucien said smugly.
"Buckley," Jake repeated. "I don't understand."
"I knew you wouldn't."
"Do you mind explaining?"
"I guess I could. But you can't repeat it. It's very confidential. Came from good sources."
"Who?"
"Can't tell."
"Who are your sources?" Jake insisted.
"I said I can't tell. Won't tell. Okay?"
"How can Buckley put pressure on Noose?"
"If you'll listen, I'll tell you."
"Buckley has no influence over Noose. Noose despises him. Told me so himself. Today. Over lunch."
"I realize that."
"Then how can you say Noose is feeling some heat from Buckley?"
"If you'll shut up, I'll tell you."
Jake finished a beer and called for Sallie.
"You know what a cutthroat and political whore Buckley is."
Jake nodded.
"You know how bad he wants to win this trial. If he wins, he thinks it will launch his campaign for attorney general."
"Governor," said Jake.
"Whatever. He's ambitious, okay?"
"Okay."
"Well, he's been getting political chums throughout the district to call Noose and suggest that the trial be held in Ford County. Some have been real blunt with Noose. Like, move the trial, and we'll get you in the next election. Leave it in Clanton, and we'll help you get reelected."
"I don't believe that."
"Fine. But it's true."
"How do you know?"
"Sources."
"Who's called him?"
"One example. Remember that thug that used to be sheriff in Van Buren County? Motley? FBI got him, but he's out now. Still a very popular man in that county."
"Yeah, I remember."
"I know for a fact he went to Noose's house with a couple of sidekicks and suggested very strongly that Noose leave the trial here. Buckley put them up to it."
"What did Noose say?"
"They all cussed each other real good. Motley told Noose he wouldn't get fifty votes in
Van Buren County next election. They promised to stuff ballot boxes, harass the blacks, rig the absentee ballots, the usual election practices in Van Buren County. And Noose knows they'll do it."
"Why should he worry about it?"
"Don't be stupid, Jake. He's an old man who can do nothing but be a judge. Can you imagine him trying to start a law practice. He makes sixty thousand a year and would starve if he got beat. Most judges are like that. He's got to keep that job. Buckley knows it, so he's talking to the local bigots and pumping them up and telling how this no-good nigger might be acquitted if the trial is moved and that they should put a little heat on the judge. That's why Noose is feeling some pressure."
They drank for a few minutes in silence, both rocking quietly in the tall wooden rockers.
The beer felt great.
"There's more," Lucien said.
"To what?"
"To Noose."
"What is it?"
"He's had some threats. Not political threats, but death threats. I hear he's scared to death.
Got the police over there guarding his house. Carries a gun now."
"I know the feeling," Jake mumbled.
"Yeah, I heard."
"Heard what?"
"About the dynamite. Who was he?"
Jake was flabbergasted. He stared blankly at Lucien, unable to speak.
"Don't ask. I got connections. Who was he?"
"No one knows."
"Sounds like a pro."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome to stay here. I've got five bedrooms."
The sun was gone by eight-fifteen when Ozzie parked his patrol car behind the Saab, which was still parked behind the Porsche. He walked to the foot of the steps leading up to the porch. Lucien saw him first.
"Hello, Sheriff," he attempted to say, his tongue thick and ponderous.
"Evenin', Lucien. Where's Jake?"
Lucien nodded toward the end of the porch, where Jake lay sprawled on the swing.
"He's taking a nap," Lucien explained helpfully.
Ozzie walked across the squeaking boards and stood above the comatose figure snoring peacefully. He punched him gently in the ribs. Jake opened his eyes, and struggled desperately to sit up.
"Carla called my office lookin' for you. She's worried sick. She's been callin' all afternoon and couldn't find you. Nobody's seen you. She thinks you're dead."
Jake rubbed his eyes as the swing rocked gently. "Tell her I'm not dead. Tell her you've seen me and talked to me and you are convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not dead. Tell her I'll call her tomorrow. Tell her, Ozzie, please tell her."
"No way, buddy. You're a big boy, you call her and tell her." Ozzie walked off the porch.
He was not amused.
Jake struggled to his feet and staggered into the house. "Where's the phone?" he yelled at
Sallie. As he dialed, he could hear Lucien on the porch laughing uncontrollably.
The last hangover had been in law school, six or seven years earlier; he couldn't remember. The date, that is. He couldn't remember the date, but the pounding head, dry mouth, short breath, and burning eyes brought back painful, vivid memories of long and unforgettable bouts with the tasty brown stuff.
He knew he was in trouble immediately, when his left eye opened. The eyelids on the right one were matted firmly together, and they would not open, unless manually opened with fingers, and he did not dare move. He lay there in the dark room on a couch, fully dressed, including shoes, listening to his head pound and watching the ceiling fan rotate slowly. He felt nauseated. His neck ached because there was no pillow. His feet throbbed because of the shoes. His stomach rolled and flipped and promised to erupt. Death would have been welcome.
Jake had problems with hangovers because he could not sleep them off. Once his eyes opened and his brain awoke and began spinning again, and the throbbing between his temples set in, he could not sleep. He had never understood this. His
friends in law school could sleep for days with a hangover, but not Jake. He never managed more than a few hours after the last can or bottle was empty.
Why? That was always the question the next morning. Why did he do it? A cold beer was refreshing. Maybe two or three. But ten, fifteen, even twenty? He had lost count. After six, beer lost its taste, and from then on the drinking was just for the sake of drinking and getting drunk. Lucien had been very helpful. Before dark he had sent Sallie to the store for a whole case of Coors, which he gladly paid for, then encouraged Jake to drink. There were a few cans left. It was Lucien's fault.
Slowly he lifted his legs, one at a time, and placed his feet on the floor. He gently rubbed his temples, to no avail. He breathed deeply, but his heart pounded rapidly, pumping more blood to his br ain and fueling the small jackhammers at work on the inside of his head. He had to have water.
His ..v^.guv, rraa uciiyuiaieu ana putted to the point where it was easier to leave his mouth open like a dog in heat. Why, oh why?
He stood, carefully, slowly, retardedly, and crept into the kitchen. The light above the stove was shielded and dim, but it penetrated the darkness and pierced his eyes. He rubbed his eyes and tried to clean them with his smelly fingers. He drank the warm-water slowly and allowed it to run from his mouth and drip on the floor. He didn't care. Sallie would clean it. The clock on the counter said it was two-thirty.
Gaining momentum, he walked awkwardly yet quietly through the living room, past the couch with no pillow, and out the door. The porch was littered with empty cans and bottles. Why?
He sat in the hot shower in his office for an hour, unable to move. It relieved some of the aches and soreness, but not the violence swirling around his brain. Once in law school, he had managed to crawl from his bed to the refrigerator for a beer. He drank it, and it helped; then he drank another, and felt much better. He remembered this now while sitting in the shower, and the thought of another beer made him vomit.
He lay on the conference table in his underwear and tried his best to die. He had plenty of life insurance. They would leave his house alone. The new lawyer could get a continuance.
Nine days to trial. Time was scarce, precious,, and he had just wasted one day with a massive hangover. Then he thought of Carla, and his head pounded harder. He had tried to sound sober.
Told her he and Lucien had spent the afternoon reviewing insanity cases, and he would have called earlier but the phones weren't working, at least Lucien's weren't. But his tongue was heavy and his speech slow, and she knew he was drunk. She was furious-a controlled fury. Yes, her house was still standing. That was all she believed.
At six-thirty he called her again. She might be impressed if she knew he was at the office by dawn working diligently. She wasn't. With great pain and fortitude, he sounded cheerful, even hyper. She was not impressed.
"How do you feel?" she insisted.
"Great!" he answered with closed eyes.
"What time did you go to bed?"
What bed, thought Jake. "Right after I called you."
She said nothing.
"I got to the office at three o'clock this morning," he said proudly.
"Three o'clock!"
"Yeah, I couldn't sleep."
"But you didn't sleep any Thursday night." A touch of concern edged through her icy words, and he felt better.
"I'll be okay. I may stay with Lucien some this week and next. It might be safer over there."
"What about the bodyguard?"
"Yeah, Deputy Nesbit. He's parked outside asleep in his car."
She hesitated and Jake could feel the phone lines thawing. "I'm worried about you," she said warmly.
"I'll be fine, dear. I'll call tomorrow. I've got work to do."
He replaced the receiver, ran to the restroom and vomited again.
The knocking persisted at the front door. Jake ignored it for fifteen minutes, but whoever it was knew he was there and kept knocking.
He walked to the balcony. "Who is it?" he yelled at the street.
The woman walked from the sidewalk under the balcony and leaned on a black BMW parked next to the Saab. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of faded, starched, well-fitting jeans. The noon sun burned brightly and blinded her as she looked up in his direction. It also illuminated her light, goldish red hair.
"Are you Jake Brigance?" she asked, shielding her eyes with a forearm.
"Yeah. Whatta you want?"
"I need to talk to you."
"I'm very busy."
"It's very important."
"You're not a client, are you?" he asked, focusing his anu Knowing sne was indeed not a client.
"No. I just need five minutes of your time."
Jake unlocked the door. She walked in casually as if she owned the place. She shook his hand firmly.
"I'm Ellen Roark."
He pointed to a seat by the door. "Nice to meet you. Sit down."
Jake sat on the edge of Ethel's desk. "One syllable or two?"
"I beg your pardon."
She had a quick, cocky Northeast accent, but tempered with some time in the South.
"Is it Rork or Row Ark?"
"R-o-a-r-k. That's Rork in Boston, and Row Ark in Mississippi."
"Mind if I call you Ellen?"
"Please do, with two syllables. Can I call you Jake?"
"Yes, please."
"Good, I hadn't planned to call you Mister."
"Boston, huh?"
"Yeah, I was born there. Went to Boston College. My dad is Sheldon Roark, a notorious criminal lawyer in Boston."
"I guess I've missed him. What brings you to Mississippi?"
"I'm in law school at Ole Miss."
"Ole Miss! How'd you wind up down here?"
"My mother's from Natchez. She was a sweet little sorority girl at Ole Miss, then moved to New York!, where she met my father."
"I married a sweet little sorority girl from Ole Miss."
"They have a great selection."
"Would you like coffee?"
"No thanks."
"Well, now that we know each other, what brings you to Clanton?"
"Carl Lee Hailey."
"I'm not surprised."
"I'll finish law school in December, and I'm killing time in Oxford this summer. I'm taking criminal procedure under Guthrie, and I'm bored."
"Crazy George Guthrie."
"Yeah, he's still crazy.
"He flunked me in constitutional law my first year."
"Anyway, I'd like to help you with the trial."
Jake smiled and took a seat in Ethel's heavy-duty, rotating secretarial chair. He studied her carefully. Her black cotton polo shirt was fashionably weathered and neatly pressed.
The outlines and subtle shadows revealed a healthy bustline, no bra. The thick, wavy hair fell perfectly on her shoulders.
"What makes you think I need help?"
"I know you practice alone, and I know you don't have a law clerk."
"How do you know all this?"
"Newsweek."
"Ah, yes. A wonderful publication. It was a good picture, wasn't it?"
"You looked a bit stuffy, but it was okay. You look better in person."
"What credentials do you bring with you?"
"Genius runs in my family. I finished summa cum laude at BC, and I'm second in my law class. Last summer I spent three months with the Southern Prisoners Defense League in
Birmingham and played gofer in seven capital trials. I watched Elmer Wayne Doss die in the Florida electric chair and I watched Willie Ray Ash get lethally injected in Texas. In my spare time at Ole Miss I write briefs for the ACLU and I'm working on two death penalty appeals for a law firm in Spartanburg, South Carolina. I was raised in my father's law office, and I was proficient in legal research before I could drive. I've watched him defend murderers, rapists, embezzlers, extortionists, terrorists, assassins, child abusers, child fondlers, child killers, and children who killed their parents. I worked forty hours a week in his office when I was in high school and fifty when I was in college. He has eighteen lawyers in his firm, all very bright, very talented. It's a great training ground for criminal lawyers, and I've been there for fourteen years. I'm twenty-five years old, and when I grow up I want to be a radical criminal lawyer like my dad . 0.--"" ~c.i^i stamping out me death penalty."
"Is that all?"
"My dad's filthy rich, and even though we're Irish Catholic I'm an only child. I've got more money than you do so I'll work for free. No charge. A free law clerk for three weeks. I'll do all the research, typing, answering the phone. I'll even carry your briefcase and make the coffee."
"I was afraid you'd want to be a law partner."
"No. I'm a woman, and I'm in the South. I know my place."
"Why are you so interested in this case?"
"I want to be in the courtroom. I love criminal trials, big trials where there's a life on the line and pressure so thick you can see it in the air. Where the courtroom's packed and security is tight. Where half the people hate the defendant and his lawyers and the other half pray he gets off. I love it. And this is the trial of all trials. I'm not a Southerner and I find this place bewildering most of the time, but I have developed a perverse love for it.
It'll never make sense to me, but it is fascinating. The racial implications are enormous.
The trial of a black father for killing two white men who raped his daughter-my father said he would take the case for free."
"Tell him to stay in Boston."
"It's a trial lawyer's dream. I just want to be there. I'll stay out of the way, I promise. Just let me work in the background and watch the trial."
"Judge Noose hates women lawyers."
"So does every male lawyer in the South. Besides, I'm not a lawyer, I'm a law student."
"I'll let you explain that to him."
"So I've got the job."
Jake stopped staring at her and breathed deeply. A minor wave of nausea vibrated through his stomach and lungs and took his breath. The jackhammers had returned with a fury and he needed to be near the restroom.
"Yes, you've got the job. I could use some free research. These cases are complicated, as
I'm sure you are aware."
She flashed a comely, confident smile. "When do I start?"
"Now."
Jake led her through a quick tour of the office, and assigned her to the war room upstairs.
They laid the Hailey file on the conference table and she spent an hour copying it.
At two-thirty Jake awoke from a nap on his couch. He walked downstairs to the conference room.
She had removed half the books from the shelves and had them scattered the length of the table with page markers sticking up every fifty or so pages. She was busy taking notes.
"Not a bad library," she said.
"Some of these books haven't been used in twenty years."
"I noticed the dust."
"Are you hungry?"
"Yes. I'm starving."
"There's a little cafe around the corner where the specialty is grease and fried corn meal.
My system needs a shot of grease."
"Sounds delicious."
They walked around the square to Claude's, where the crowd was thin for a Saturday afternoon.
There were no other whites in the place. Claude was absent and the silence was deafening. Jake ordered a cheeseburger, onion rings, and three headache powders.
"Got a headache?" Ellen asked.
"Massive."
"Stress?"
"Hangover."
"Hangover? I thought you were a teetotaler."
"And where'd you hear that?"
"Newsweek. The article said you were a clean-cut family man, workaholic, devout
Presbyterian who drank nothing and smoked cheap cigars. Remember? How could you forget, right?"
"You believe everything you read?"
"No."
"Good, because last night I got plastered, and I've puked all morning."
The law clerk was amused. "What do you drink?"
"I don't-remember. At least I didn't until last night. _ i, ano i nope it's my last. I'd forgotten how terrible these things are."
"Why do lawyers drink so much?"
"They learn how in law school. Does your dad drink?"
"Are you kidding? We're Catholic. He's careful, though."
"Do you drink?"
"Sure, all the time," she said proudly.
"Then you'll make a great lawyer."
Jake carefully mixed the three powders in a glass of ice water and slugged it down. He grimaced and wiped his mouth. She watched intently with an amused smile.
"What'd your wife say?"
"About what?"
"The hangover, from such a devout and religious family man."
"She doesn't know about it. She left me early yesterday morning."
"I'm sorry."
"She went to stay with her parents until the trial is over. We've had anonymous phone calls and death threats for two months now, and early yesterday morning they planted dynamite outside our bedroom window. The cops found it in time and
they caught the men, probably the Klan. Enough dynamite to level the house and kill all of us. That was a good excuse to get drunk."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"The job you've just taken could be very dangerous. You should know that at this point."
"I've been threatened before. Last summer in Dothan, Alabama, we defended two black teenagers who had sodomized and strangled an eighty-year-old woman. No lawyer in the state would take the case so they called the Defense League. We rode into town on black horses and the mere sight of us would cause lynch mobs to form instantly on street corners. I've never felt so hated in my life. We hid in a motel in another town and felt safe, until one night two men cornered me in the motel lounge and tried to abduct me."
"What happened?"
"I carry a snub-nosed .38 in my purse and I convinced them I knew how to use it."
"A snub-nosed .38?"
"My father gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday. I have a license."
"He must be a hell of a guy."
"He's been shot at several times. He takes very controversial cases, the kind you read about in the papers where the public is outraged and demanding that the
defendant be hanged without a trial or a lawyer. Those are the cases he likes best. He has a full-time bodyguard."
"Big deal. So do I. His name is Deputy Nesbit, and he couldn't hit the side of a barn with a shotgun. He was assigned to me yesterday."
The food arrived. She removed the onions and tomatoes from her Claudeburger, and offered him the french fries. She cut it in half and nibbled around the edges like a bird.
Hot grease dripped to her plate. With each small bite, she carefully wiped her mouth.
Her face was gentle and pleasant with an easy smile that belied the ACLU, ERA, burn-the-bra, I- can-outcuss-you bitchiness Jake knew was lurking somewhere near the surface. There was not a trace of makeup anywhere on the face. None was needed. She was not beautiful, not cute, and evidently determined not to be so. She had the pale skin of a redhead, but it was healthy skin with seven or eight freckles splattered about the small, pointed nose. With each frequent smile, her lips spread wonderfully and folded her cheeks into neat, transient, hollow dimples. The smiles were confident, challenging, and mysterious. The metallic green eyes radiated a soft fury and were fixed and unblinking when she talked.
It was an intelligent face, attractive as hell.
Jake chewed on his burger and tried to nonchalantly ignore her eyes. The heavy food settled his stomach, and for the first time in ten hours he began to think he might live.
"Seriously, why'd you choose Ole Miss?" he asked.
"It's a good law school."
"It's my school. But we don't normally attract the brightest students from the Northeast.
That's Ivy League country. We send our smartest kids up there."
"My father hates every lawyer with an Ivy League degree. He was dirt poor and scratched his way through law _--. -. .,.6,*i. ,*v o cuuuicu me snuos from rich, well-educated, and incompetent lawyers all his life. Now he laughs at them. He told me I could go to law school anywhere in the country, but if I chose an Ivy League school he would not pay for it. Then there's my mother. I was raised on these enchanting stories of life in the Deep
South, and I had to see for myself. Plus, the Southern states seemed determined to practice the death penalty, so I think I'll end up here."
"Why are you so opposed to the death penalty?"
"And you're not?"
"No, I'm very much in favor of it."
"That's incredible! Coming from a criminal defense lawyer."
"I'd like to go back to public hangings on the courthouse lawn."
"You're kidding, aren't you? I hope. Tell me you are."
"I am not."
She stopped chewing and smiling. The eyes glowed fiercely and watched him for a signal of weakness. "You are serious."
"I am very serious. The problem with the death penalty is that we don't use it enough."
"Have you explained that to Mr. Hailey?"
"Mr. Hailey does not deserve the death penalty. But the two men who raped his daughter certainly did."
"I see. How do you determine who gets it and who doesn't?"
"That's very simple. You look at the crime and you look at the criminal. If it's a dope dealer who guns down an undercover narcotics officer, then he gets the gas. If it's a drifter who rapes a three- year-old girl, drowns her by holding her little head in a mudhole, then throws her body off a bridge, then you take his life and thank God he's gone. If it's an escaped convict who breaks into a farmhouse late at night and beats and tortures an elderly couple before burning them with their house, then you strap him in a chair, hook up a few wires, pray for his soul, and pull the switch. And if it's two dopeheads who gang-rape a ten-year-old girl and kick her with pointed-toe cowboy boots until her jaws break, then you happily, merrily, thankfully, gleefully lock them in a gas chamber and listen to them squeal. It's very simple."
"It's barbaric."
"Their crimes were barbaric. Death is too good for them, much too good."
"And if Mr. Hailey is convicted and sentenced to die?"
"If that happens, I'm sure I'll spend the next ten years cranking out appeals and fighting furiously to save his life. And if they ever strap him in the chair, I'm sure I'll be outside the prison with you and the Jesuits and a hundred other kindly souls marching and holding candles and singing hymns. And then I'll stand beside his grave behind his church with his widow and children and wish I'd never met him."
"Have you ever witnessed an execution?"
"Not that I recall."
"I've watched two. You'd change your mind if you saw one."
"Good. I won't see one."
"It's a horrible thing to watch."
"Were the victims' families there?"
"Yes, in both instances."
"Were they horrified? Were their minds changed? Of course not. Their nightmares were over."
"I'm surprised at you."
"And I'm bewildered by people like you. How can you be so zealous and dedicated in trying to save people who have begged for the death penalty and according to the law should get it?"
"Whose law? It's not the law in Massachusetts."
"You don't say. What do you expect from the only state McGovern carried in 1972? You folks have always been tuned in with the rest of the country."
The Claudeburgers were being ignored and their voices had grown too loud. Jake glanced around and caught a few stares. Ellen smiled again, and took one of his onion rings.
"What do you think of the ACLU?" she asked, crunching.
"I suppose you've got a membership card in your purse."
"I do."
"Then you're fired."
"I joined when I was sixteen."
"Why so late? You must have been the last one in your Girl Scout troop to join."
"Do you have any respect for the Bill of Rights?"
"I adore the Bill of Rights. I despise the judges who interpret them. Eat."
They finished the burgers in silence, watching each other carefully. Jake ordered coffee and two more headache powders.
"So how do we plan to win this case?" she asked.
"We?"
"I still have the job, don't I?"
"Yes. Just remember that I'm the boss and you're the clerk."
"Sure, boss. What's your strategy?"
"How would you handle it?"
"Well, from what I gather, our client carefully planned the killings and shot them in cold blood, six days after the rape. It sounds exactly like he knew what he was doing."
"He did."
"So we have no defense and I think you should plead him guilty for a life sentence and avoid the gas chamber."
"You're a real fighter."
"Just kidding. Insanity is our only defense. And it sounds impossible to prove."
"You're familiar with the M'Naghten Rule?" Jake asked.
"Yes. Do we have a psychiatrist?"
"Sort of. He'll say anything we want him to say; that is, if he's sober at trial. One of your more difficult tasks as my new law clerk will be to make sure he is sober at trial. It won't be easy, believe me."
"I live for new challenges in the courtroom."
"All right Row Ark, take a pen. Here's a napkin. Your boss is about to give you instructions." She began making notes on a paper napkin.
"I want a brief on the M'Naghten decisions rendered by the Mississippi Supreme Court in the^past fifty years. There's probably a hundred. There's a big case from 1976, State vs.
Hill, where the court was bitterly divided five to four, with the dissenters opting for a more liberal definition of insanity. Keep the brief short, less than twenty pages. Can you type?"
"Ninety words a minute."
"I should've known. I'd like it by Wednesday."
"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 Gillespie. 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 Buckley?"
"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."
"Sounds like fun. I'll be here. What's your model juror?"
"I'm not sure. I think the vigilante would appeal to rednecks. Guns, violence, protection of women.
The rednecks would eat it up. But my man is black, and a bunch of rednecks would fry him. He killed two of their own."
"I agree. I'd stay away from women. They would have no sympathy for the rapists, but they place a higher value on life. Taking an M-16 and blowing their heads off is something women just don't understand. You and I understand it because we're fathers. It appeals to us. The violence and blood doesn't bother us. We admire him. You've got to pick young fathers on tnat jury. Young fathers with some education."
"That's interesting. Lucien said he would stick with women because they're more sympathetic."
"I don't think so. I know some women who'd cut your throat if you crossed them."
"Some of your clients?"
"Yeah, and one is on that list. Frances Burdeen. Pick her, and I'll tell her how to vote."
"You serious?"
"Yep. She'll do anything I tell her."
"Can you be in court Monday? I want you to watch the jury during the selection process, then help me decide on the twelve."
"I wouldn't miss it."
Jake heard voices downstairs and pressed his finger to his lips. He listened, then smiled and motioned for Harry Rex to follow him. They tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened to the commotion around Ethel's desk.
"You most certainly do not work here," Ethel insisted.
"I most certainly do. I was hired Saturday by Jake Brigance, who I believe is your boss."
"Hired for what?" Ethel demanded.
"As a law clerk."
"Well, he didn't discuss it with me."
"He discussed it with me, and gave me the job."
"How much is he paying you?"
"A hundred bucks an hour."
"Oh my God! I'll have to speak with him first."
"I've already spoken with him, Ethel."
"It's Mrs. Twitty to you." Ethel studied her carefully from head to toe. Acid-washed jeans, penny loafers, no socks, an oversized white cotton button-down with, evidently, nothing on underneath.
"You're not dressed appropriately for this office. You're, you're indecent."
Harry Rex raised his eyebrows and smiled at Jake. They watched the stairs and listened.
"My boss, who happens to be your boss, said I could dress like this."
"But you forgot something, didn't you?"
“Jake said I could forget it. He told me you hadn't worn a bra in twenty years. He said most of the women in Clanton go braless, so I left mine at home."
"He what?" Ethel screamed with arms crossed over her chest.
"Is he upstairs?" Ellen asked coolly.
"Yes, I'll call him."
"Don't bother."
Jake and Harry Rex retreated into the big office and waited for the law clerk. She entered carrying a large briefcase.
"Good morning, Row Ark," Jake said. "I want you to meet a good friend, Harry Rex Vonner."
Harry Rex shook her hand and stared at her shirt. "Nice to meet you. What was your first name?"
"Ellen."
"Just call her Row Ark," Jake said. "She'll clerk here until Hailey's over."
"That's nice," said Harry Rex, still staring.
"Harry Rex is a local lawyer, Row Ark, and one of the many you cannot trust."
"What'd you hire a female law clerk for, Jake?" he asked bluntly.
"Row Ark's a genius in criminal law, like most third-year law students. And she works very cheap."
"You have something against females, sir?" Ellen asked.
"No ma'am. I love females. I've married four of them."
"Harry Rex is the meanest divorce lawyer in Ford County," Jake explained. "In fact, he's the meanest lawyer, period. Come to think of it, he's the meanest man I know."
"Thanks," said Harry Rex. He had stopped staring at her.
She looked at his huge, dirty, scuffed, worn wingtips, his ribbed nylon socks that had drooped into thick wads around his ankles, his soiled and battered khaki pants, his frayed navy blazer, his brilliant pink wool tie that fell eight inches above his belt, and she said,
"I think he's cute."
"I might make you wife number five," Harry Rex said.
"The attraction is purely physical," she said.
"Watch it," Jake said. "There's been no sex in this office since Lucien left."
" -,-.",eu iwxi mm j^ucien," said Harry Rex.
"Who's Lucien?"
Jake and Harry Rex looked at each other. "You'll meet him soon enough," Jake explained.
"Your secretary is very sweet," Ellen said.
"I knew y'all would hit it off. She's really a doll once you get to know her."
"How long does that take?"
"I've known her for twenty years," said Harry Rex, "and I'm still waiting."
"How's the research coming?" Jake asked.
"Slow. There are dozens of M'Naghten cases, and they are all very long. I'm about half through. I planned to work on it all day here; that is, if that pit bull downstairs doesn't attack me."
"I'll take care of her," Jake said.
Harry Rex headed for the door. "Nice meetin' you, Row Ark. I'll see you around."
"Thanks, Harry Rex," said Jake. "See you Wednesday night."
The dirt and gravel parking lot of Tank's Tonk was full when Jake finally found it after dark. There had been no reason to visit Tank's before, and he was not thrilled about seeing the place now. It was well hidden off a dirt road, six miles out of Clanton. He parked far away from the small cinderblock building and toyed with the idea of leaving the engine running in case Tank was not there and a quick escape became necessary. But he quickly dismissed the stupid idea because he liked his car, and theft was not only likely but highly probable. He locked it, then double-checked it, almost certain that all or part of it would be missing when he returned.
The juke box blasted from the open windows, and he thought he heard a bottle crash on the floor, or across a table or someone's head. He hesitated beside his car and decided to leave. No, it was important. He sucked in his stomach, held his breath, and opened the ragged wooden door.
Forty sets of black eyes immediately focused on this poor lost white boy with a coat and tie who was squinting and trying to focus inside the vast blackness of their tonk. He stood there awkwardly, desperately searching for a friend. There were none. Michael Jackson conveniently finished his song on the juke box, and for an eternity the tonk was silent.
Jake stayed close to the door. He nodded and smiled and tried to act like one of the gang.
There were no other smiles.
Suddenly, there was movement at the bar and Jake's knees began vibrating. "Jake! Jake!" someone shouted. It was the sweetest two words he had ever heard. From behind the bar he saw his friend Tank removing his apron and heading for him. They shook hands warmly.
"What brings you here?"
"I need to talk to you for a minute. Can we step outside?"
"Sure. What's up?"
"Just business."
Tank flipped on a light switch by the front door. "Say, everbody, this here is Carl Lee
Hailey's lawyer, Jake Brigance. A good friend of mine. Let's hear it for him."
The small room exploded in applause and bravos. Several of the boys at the bar grabbed
Jake and shook his hand. Tank reached in a drawer under the bar and pulled out a handful of Jake's cards, which he passed out like candy. Jake was breathing again and the color returned to his face.
Outside, they leaned on the hood of Tank's yellow Cadillac. Lionel Richie echoed through the windows and the crowd returned to normal. Jake handed Tank a copy of the list.
"Look at each name. See how many of these folks you know. Ask around and find out what you can."
Tank held the list near his eyes. The light from the Michelob sign in the window glowed over his shoulder. "How many are black?"
"You tell me. That's one reason I want you to look at it. Circle the black ones. If you're not sure, find out. If you know any of the white folks, make a note."
"I'll be glad to, Jake. This ain't illegal, is it?"
"Naw, but don't tell anybody. I need it back by Wednesday morning."
"You're the boss."
_ - _- (tm)*, u..u JUK.C ncaciea tor the office. It was almost ten. Ethel had retyped the list from the initial one provided by Harry Rex, and a dozen copies had been hand-delivered to selected, trusted friends. Lucien, Stan Atcavage, Tank, Dell at the Coffee
Shop, a lawyer in Karaway named Roland Isom, and a few others. Even Ozzie got a list.
Less than three miles from the tonk was a small, neat white-framed country house where
Ethel and Bud Iwitty had lived for almost forty years. It was a pleasant house with pleasant memories of raising children who were now scattered up North. The retarded son, the one who greatly resembled Lucien, lived in Miami for some reason. The house was quieter now. Bud hadn't worked in years, not since his first stroke in '75. Then a heart attack, followed by two more major strokes and several small ones. His days were numbered, and he had long since accepted the fact that he would most likely catch the big one and die on his front porch shelling butterbeans. That's what he hoped for, anyway.
Monday night he sat on the porch shelling butterbeans and listening to the Cardinals on the radio.
Ethel was working in the kitchen. In the bottom of the eighth with the Cards at bat and two on, he heard a noise from the side of the house. He turned the volume down.
Probably just a dog. Then another noise. He stood and walked to the end of the porch.
Suddenly, a huge figure dressed in solid black with red, white, and black war paint smeared wickedly across his face jumped from the bushes, grabbed Bud and yanked him off the porch. Bud's anguished cry was not heard in the kitchen. Another warrior joined in and they dragged the old man to the foot of the steps leading up to the front porch. One maneuvered him into a half-nelson while the other pounded his soft belly and bloodied his face. Within seconds, he was unconscious.
Ethel heard noises and scurried through the front door. She was grabbed by a third member of the gang, who twisted her arm tightly behind her and wrapped a huge arm around her throat. She couldn't scream or talk or move, and was held there on the porch, terrified, watching below as the two thugs took turns with her husband. On the front sidewalk ten feet behind the violence stood three figures, each garbed in a full, flowing, white robe with red garnishment, each with a tall, white, pointed headdress from which fell a red and white mask that loosely covered each face. They emerged from the darkness and watched over the scene as though they were the three wise men attending the manger.
After a long, agonizing minute, the beating grew monotonous. "Enough," said the ruler in the middle. The three terrorists in black ran. Ethel rushed down the steps and slumped over her battered husband. Th e three in white disappeared.
Jake left the hospital after midnight with Bud still alive but everyone pessimistic. Along with the broken bones he had suffered another major heart attack. Ethel had made a scene and blamed it all on Jake.
"You said there was no danger!" she screamed. "Tell that to my husband! It's all your fault!"
He had listened to her rant and rave, and the embarrassment turned to anger. He glanced around the small waiting room at the friends and relatives. All eyes were on him. Yes, they seemed to say, it was all his fault.
Gwen called the office early Tuesday morning and the new secretary, Ellen Roark, answered the phone. She fumbled with the intercom until she broke it, then walked to the stairs and yelled: "Jake, it's Mr. Hailey's wife."
He slammed a book shut and angrily picked up the receiver. "Hello."
"Jake, are you busy?"
"Very. What's on your mind?"
She started crying. "Jake, we need money. We're broke, and the bills are past due. I haven't paid the house note in two months and the mortgage company is callin'. I don't know who else to turn to."
"What about your family?"
"They're poor folks, Jake, you know that. They'll feed us and do what they can, but they can't make our house notes and pay the utilities."
"Have you talked to Carl Lee?"
"Not about money. Not lately. There's not much he can do except worry, and Lord knows he's got enough to worry about."
"What about the churches?"
"Ain't seen a dime."
"How much do you need?"
"At least five hundred, just to catch up. I don't know 'bout next month. I'll guess I'll worry then."
Nine hundred minus five hundred left Jake with four hundred dollars for a capital murder defense.
That had to be a record. Four hundred dollars! He had an idea.
"Can you be at my office at two this afternoon?"
"I'll have to bring the kids."
"That's okay. Just be here."
"I'll be there."
He hung up and quickly searched the phone book for Reverend Ollie Agee. He found him at the church. Jake fed him a line about meeting to discuss the Hailey trial and covering Agee's testimony. Said the reverend would be an important witness. Agee said he would be there at two.
The Hailey clan arrived first, and Jake seated them around the conference table. The kids remembered the room from the press conference and were awed by the long table, thick swivel chairs, and impressive rows of books. When the reverend arrived he hugged Gwen and made a fuss over the kids, especially Tonya.
"I'll be very brief, Reverend," started Jake. "There are some things we need to discuss.
For several weeks now, you and the other black ministers in this county have been raising money for the Haileys. And you've done a real good job. Over six thousand, I believe. I don't know where the money is, and it's none of my business. You offered the money to the NAACP lawyers to represent Carl Lee, but as you and I know, those lawyers won't be involved in this case. I'm the lawyer, the only lawyer, and so far none of the money has been offered to me. I don't expect any of it.
Evidently you don't care about what kind of defense he gets if you can't pick his lawyer.
That's fine. I can live with that. What really bothers me, Reverend, is the fact that none, and I repeat none, of the money has been given to the Haileys. Right, Gwen?"
The empty look on her face had turned to one of amazement, then disbelief, then anger as she glared at the reverend.
"Six thousand dollars," she repeated.
"Over six thousand, at last reported count," said Jake. "And the money is lying in some bank while Carl Lee sits in jail, Gwen's not working, the bills are past due, the only food comes from friends, and foreclosure is a few days away. Now, tell us, Reverend, what're your plans with the money?"
Agee smiled and said with an oily voice, "That's none of your business."
"But it's my business!" Gwen said loudly. "You used my name and my family's name when you raised that money, didn't you, Reverend. I heard it myself. Told all the church folk that the love offerin', as you called it, was for my family. I figured you had done spent the money on lawyers' fee or somethin' like that. And now, today, I find out you've got it stuck in the bank. I guess you plan to keep it."
Agee was unmoved. "Now wait a minute, Gwen. We thought the money could best be spent on Carl Lee. He declined the money when he refused to hire the NAACP lawyers.
So I asked Mr. Reinfeld, the head lawyer, what to do with the money. He told me to save it because Carl Lee will need it for his appeal."
Jake cocked his head sideways and clenched his teeth. He started to rebuke this ignorant fool, but realized Agee did not understand what he was saying. Jake bit his lip.
"I don't understand," said Gwen.
"It's simple," said the reverend with an accommodating smile. "Mr. Reinfeld said that
Carl Lee would be convicted because he didn't hire him. So then we've got to appeal, right? And after Jake here loses the trial, you and Carl Lee will of course be lookin' for another lawyer who can save his life. That's when we'll need Reinfeld and that's when we'll need the money. So you see, it's all for Carl Lee."
Jake shook his head and silently cursed. He cursed Reinfeld more than Agee.
Gwen's eyes flooded and she clenched her fists. "I don't understand all that, and I don't want to understand it. All I know is that I'm tired of beggin' for food, tired of dependin' on others, and tired of worryin' about losin' my house."
Agee looked at her sadly. "I understand, Gwen, but-"
"And if you got six thousand dollars of our money in the bank, you're wrong not to give it to us. We've got enough sense to spend it right."
Carl Lee, Jr., and Jarvis stood next to their mother and comforted her. They stared at Agee.
"But it's for Carl Lee," the reverend said.
"Good," Jake said. "Have you asked Carl Lee how he wants his money spent?"
The dirty little grin left Agee's face and he squirmed in his chair. "Carl Lee understands what we're doin'," he said without much conviction.
"Thank you. That's not what I asked. Listen to me carefully. Have you asked Carl Lee how he wants his money spent?"
"I think it's been discussed with him," Agee lied.
"Let's see," Jake said. He stood and walked to the door leading to the small office next to the conference room. The reverend watched nervously, almost in panic. Jake opened the door and nodded to someone. Carl Lee and Ozzie casually walked in. The kids yelled and ran to their father. Agee looked devastated.
After a few awkward minutes of hugs and kisses, Jake moved in for the kill. "Now,
Reverend, why don't you ask Carl Lee how he wants to spend his six thousand dollars."
"It ain't exactly his," said Agee.
"And it ain't exactly yours," shot Ozzie.
Carl Lee removed Tonya from his knee and walked to the chair where Agee was sitting.
He sat on the edge of the table, above the reverend, poised and ready to strike if necessary. "Let me make it real simple, preacher, so you won't have trouble understandin' it. You raised that money in my name, for the benefit of my family. You took it from the black folk of this county, and you took it with the promise that it'd go to help me and my family. You lied. You raised it so you could impress the NAACP, not to help my family.
You lied in church, you lied in the newspapers, you lied everwhere."
Agee looked around the room and noticed that everyone, including the kids, was staring at him and nodding slowly.
Carl Lee put his foot in Agee's chair and leaned closer. "If you don't give us that money,
I'll tell ever nigger I know that you're a lyin' crook. I'll call ever member of your church, and I'm one too, remember, and tell them we ain't • got a dime from you, and when I get through you won't be able to raise two dollars on Sunday mornin'. You'll lose your fancy
Cadillacs and your fancy suits. You may even lose your church, 'cause I'll ask everbody to leave."
"You finished?" Agee asked. "If you are, I just wanna say that I'm hurt. Hurt real bad that you and Gwen feel this way."
"That's the way we feel, and I don't care how hurt you are."
Ozzie stepped forward. "I agree with them, Reverend Agee, you ain't done right, and you know it."
"That hurts, Ozzie, comin' from you. It really hurts."
"Lemme tell you what's gonna hurt a whole lot worse than that. Next Sunday me and Carl
Lee will be in your church. I'll sneak him outta the jail early Sunday and we'll take a little drive. Just about the time you get ready to preach, we'll walk in the front door, down the aisle and up to the pulpit. If you get in my way, I'll put handcuffs on you. Carl Lee will do the preachin'. He'll tell all your people that the money they've given so generously has so far not left your pocket, that Gwen and the kids are about to lose their house 'cause you're tryin' to big-shot with the NAACP. He'll tell them that you lied to them. He may preach for an hour or so. And when he gets through, I'll say a few words. I'll tell them what a lyin', sleazy nigger you are. I'll tell them about the time you bought that stolen
Lincoln in Memphis for a hundred dollars and almost got indicted. I'll tell them about the kickbacks from the funeral home. I'll tell them about the DUI charge in Jackson I got dismissed for you two years ago. And, Reverend, I'll tell-"
"Don't say it, Ozzie," Agee begged.
"I'll tell them a dirty little secret that only you and me and a certain woman of ill repute know about."
"When do y'all want the money?"
"How soon can you get it?" Carl Lee demanded.
"Awfully damned quick."
Jake and Ozzie left the Haileys to themselves and went upstairs to the big office, where
Ellen was bu ried in law books. Jake introduced Ozzie to his law clerk, and the three sat around the big desk.
"How are my buddies?" Jake asked.
"The dynamite boys? They're recuperatin' nicely. We'll keep them in the hospital until the trial's over. We fixed a lock on the door, and I keep a deputy in the hall. They ain't goin' anywhere."
"Who's the main man?"
"We still don't know. Fingerprint tests haven't come back yet. There may be no prints to match. He ain't talkin'."
"The other is a local boy, isn't he?" asked Ellen.
"Yeah. Terrell Grist. He wants to sue because he got hurt during the arrest. Can you imagine?"
"I can't believe it's been kept quiet so far," Jake said.
"Me neither. Of course, Grist and Mr. X ain't talkin'. My men are quiet. That leaves you and your clerk here."
"And Lucien, but I didn't tell him."
"Figures."
"When will you process them?"
"After the trial we'll move them to the jail and start the paperwork. It's up to us."
"How's Bud?" Jake asked.
"I stopped by this mornin' to check on the other two, and I went downstairs to see Ethel.
He's still critical. No changes."
"Any suspects?"
"Gotta be the Klan. With the white robes and all. It all adds up. First there was the burnin' cross in your yard, then the dynamite, and now Bud. Plus all the death threats. I figure it's them. And we got an informant."
"You what!"
"You heard me. Calls himself Mickey Mouse. He called me at home Sunday and told me that he saved your life. 'That nigger's lawyer' is what he called you. Said the Klan has officially arrived in Ford County. They've set up a klavern, whatever that is."
"Who's in it?"
"He ain't much on details. He promised to call me only if someone is about to get hurt."
"How nice. Can you trust him?"
"He saved your life."
"Good point. Is he a member?"
"Didn't say. They've got a big march planned Thursday."
"The Klan?"
"Yep. NAACP has a rally tomorrow in front of the courthouse. Then they're gonna march for a while. The Klan's supposed to show up for a peaceful march on Thursday."
"How many?"
"The Mouse didn't say. Like I said, he ain't much on details."
"The Klan, marching in Clanton. I can't believe it."
"This is heavy stuff," Ellen said.
"It'll get heavier," Ozzie replied. "I've asked the gover- nor to keep the highway patrol on standby. It could be a rough week."
"Can you believe Noose is willing to try this case in this town?" asked Jake.
"It's too big to move, Jake. It would draw marches, and protests, and Klansmen anywhere you tried it."
"Maybe you're right. How about your jury list?"
"I'll have it tomorrow."
After supper Tuesday Joe Frank Ferryman sat on his front porch with the evening paper and a fresh chew of Red Man, and spat carefully, neatly through a small hand-carved hole in the porch. This was the evening ritual. Lela would finish the dishes and fix them a tall glass of iced tea, and they would sit on the porch until dark and talk about the crops, the grandchildren, the humidity. They lived out from Karaway on eighty acres of neatly trimmed and cultivated farmland that Joe Frank's father had stolen during the Depression.
They were quiet, hardworking Christian folks.
After a few discharges through the hole, a pickup slowed out on the highway and turned into the Perrymans' long gravel driveway. It parked next to the front lawn, and a familiar face emerged. It was Will Tierce, former president of the Ford County Board of
Supervisors. Will had served his district for twenty-four years, six consecutive terms, but had lost the last election in '83 by seven votes. The Perrymans had always supported
Tierce because he took care of them with an occasional load of gravel or a culvert for the driveway.
"Evenin', Will," said Joe Frank as the ex-supervisor walked across the lawn and up the steps.
"Evenin', Joe Frank." They shook hands and relaxed on the porch.
"Gimme a chew," Tierce said.
"Sure. What brings you around here?"
"Just passin' by. Thought about Lela's iced tea and got real thirsty. Hadn't seen you folks in a while."
They sat and talked, chewed and spat, and drank iced tea until it was dark and time for the mosquitoes. The drought required most of their time and Joe Frank talked at length of the dry spell and how it was the worst in ten years. Hadn't had a drop of rain since the third week of June. And if it didn't let up, he could forget the cotton crop. The beans might make it, but he was worried about the cotton.
"Say, Joe Frank, I hear you got one of those jury summons for the trial next week."
"Yeah, afraid so. Who told you?"
"I don't know. I just heard it around." tf
"I didn't know it was public knowledge."
"Well, I guess I must've heard it in Clanton today. I had business at the courthouse. That's where I heard it. It's that nigger's trial, you know."
"That's what I figured."
"How do you feel about that nigger shootin' them boys like he did?"
"I don't blame him," inserted Lela.
"Yeah, but you can't take the law into your own hands," explained Joe Frank to his wife.
"That's what the court system is for."
"I'll tell you what bothers me," said Tierce, "is this insanity crap. They're gonna say the nigger was crazy and try to get him off by insanity. Like that nut who shot Reagan. It's a crooked way to get off. Plus it's a lie. That nigger planned to kill them boys, and just sat there and waited on them. It was cold-blooded murder."
"What if it was your daughter, Will?" asked Lela.
"I'd let the courts handle it. When we catch a rapist around here, especially a nigger, we generally lock him up. Parchman's full of rapists who'll never get out. This ain't New York or California or some crazy place where criminals go free. We've got a good system, and old Judge Noose hands down tough sentences. You gotta let the courts handle it. Our system won't survive if we allow people, especially niggers, to take the law into their own hands. That's what really scares me. Suppose this nigger gets off, walks out of the courthouse a free man. Everbody in the country will know it, and the niggers will go crazy. Evertime somebody crosses a nigger, he'll just kill him, then say he was insane, and try to get off. That's what's dangerous about this trial."
"You gotta keep the niggers under control," agreed Joe Frank.
"You better believe it. And if Hailey gets off, none of us will be safe. Ever nigger in this county'll carry a gun and just look for trouble."
"I hadn't really thought about that," admitted Joe Frank.
"I hope you do the right thing, Joe Frank. I just hope they put you in that jury box. We need some people with some sense."
"Wonder why they picked me?"
"I heard they fixed up a hundred and fifty summonses. They're expectin' about a hundred to show up."
"What're my chances of gettin' picked?"
"One in a hundred," said Lela.
"I feel better then. I really ain't got time to serve, what with my farmin' and all."
"We sure need you on that jury," said Tierce.
The conversation drifted to local politics and the new supervisor and what a sorry job he was doing with the roads. Darkness meant bedtime for the Perrymans. Tierce said good night and drove home.
He sat at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee and reviewed the jury list. His friend
Rufus would be proud. Six names had been circled on Will's list, and he had talked to all six. He put an okay by each name. They would be good jurors, people Rufus could count on to keep law and order in Ford County. A couple had been noncommittal at first, but their good and trusted friend Will Tierce had explained justice to them and they were now ready to convict.
Rufus would be real proud. And he had promised that young Jason Tierce, a nephew, would never be tried on those dope charges.
Jake picked at the greasy pork chops and butterbeans, and watched Ellen across the table do the same thing. Lucien sat at the head of the table, ignored his food, fondled his drink, and flipped through the jury list offering comments on every name he recognized. He was drunker than normal.
Most of the names he didn't recognize, but he commented on them anyway. Ellen was amused and winked repeatedly at her boss.
He dropped the list, and knocked his fork off the table.
"Sallie!" he yelled.
"Do you know how many ACLU members are in Ford County?" he asked Ellen.
"At least eighty percent of the population," she said.
"One. Me. I was the first in history and evidently the last. These people are fools around here, Row Ark. They don't appreciate civil liberties. They're a bunch of right-wing knee-jerk conservative Republican fanatics, like our friend Jake here."
"That's not true. I eat at Claude's at least once a week," Jake said.
"So that makes you progressive?" asked Lucien.
"It makes me a radical."
"I still think you're a Republican."
"Look, Lucien, you can talk about my wife, or my mother, or my ancestors, but don't call me a Republican."
"You look like a Republican," said Ellen.
"Does he look like a Democrat?" Jake asked, pointing at Lucien.
"Of course. I knew he was a Democrat the moment I saw him."
"Then I'm a Republican."
"See! See!" yelled Lucien. He dropped his glass on the floor and it shattered.
"Sallie!"
"Row Ark, guess who was the third white man in Mississippi to join the NAACP?"
"Rufus Buckley," said Jake.
"Me. Lucien Wilbanks. Joined in 1967. White people thought I was crazy."
"Can you imagine," Jake said.
"Of course, black folks, or Negroes as we called them back then, thought I was crazy too.
Hell, everybody thought I was crazy back then."
"Have they ever changed their minds?" Jake asked.
"Shut up, Republican. Row Ark, why don't you move to Clanton and we'll start us a law firm handling nothing but ACLU cases. Hell, bring your old man down from Boston and we'll make him a partner."
"Why don't you just go to Boston?" Jake asked.
"Why don't you just go to hell?"
"What will we call it?" asked Ellen.
"The nut house," said Jake.
"Wilbanks, Row and Ark. Attorneys at law."
"None of whom have licenses," said Jake.
Lucien's eyelids weighed several pounds each. His head nodded forward involuntarily.
He slapped Sallie on the rear as she cleaned up his mess.
"That was a cheap shot, Jake," he said seriously.
"Row Ark," Jake said, imitating Lucien, "guess who was the last lawyer permanently disbarred by the Mississippi Supreme Court?"
Ellen gracefully smiled at both men and said nothing.
"Row Ark," Lucien said loudly, "guess who will be the next lawyer in this county to be evicted from his office?" He roared with laughter, screaming and shaking. Jake winked at her.
When he settled down, he asked, "What's this meeting tomorrow night?"
"I want to cover the jury list with you and a few others."
"Who?"
"Harry Rex, Stan Atcavage, maybe one other."
"Where?"
"Eight o'clock. My office. No alcohol."
"It's my office, and I'll bring a case of whiskey if I want to. My grandfather built the building, remember?"
"How could I forget."
"Row Ark, let's get drunk."
"No thanks, Lucien. I've enjoyed dinner, and the conversation, but I need to get back to Oxford."
They stood and left Lucien at the table. Jake declined the usual invitation to sit on the porch. Ellen left, and he went to his temporary room upstairs. He had promised Carla he would not sleep at home. He called her. She and Hanna were fine. Worried, but fine. He didn't mention Bud Twitty.
A convoy of converted school buses, each with an original paint job of white and red or green and black or a hundred other combinations and the name of a church emblazoned along the sides under the windows, rolled slowly around the Clanton square after lunch
Wednesday. There were thirty- one in all, each packed tightly with elderly black people who waved paper fans and handkerchiefs in a futile effort to overcome the stifling heat.
After three trips around the courthouse, the lead bus stopped by the post office and thirty-one doors flew open. The buses emptied in a frenzy. The people were directed to a gazebo on the courthouse lawn, where Reverend Ollie Agee was shouting orders and handing out blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards.
The side streets leading into the square became congested as cars from all directions inched toward the courthouse and finally parked when they could move no closer.
Hundreds of blacks left their vehicles in the streets and walked solemnly toward the square. They mingled around the gazebo and waited for their placards, then wandered through the oaks and magnolias looking for shade and greeting friends. More church buses arrived and were unable to circle the square because of the traffic. They unloaded next to the Coffee Shop.
For the first time that year the temperature hit a hundred and promised to go higher. The sky produced no clouds for protection, and there were no winds or breezes to weaken the burning rays or to blow away the humidity. A man's shirt
would soak and stick to his back in fifteen minutes under a shade tree; five minutes without shade. Some of the weaker old folks found refuge inside the courthouse.
The crowd continued to grow. It was predominantly elderly, but there were many younger, militant, angry-looking blacks who had missed the great civil rights marches and demonstrations of the sixties and now realized that this might be a rare opportunity to shout and protest and sing "We Shall Overcome," and in general celebrate being black and oppressed in a white world. They meandered about waiting for someone to take charge.
Finally, three students marched to the front steps of the courthouse, lifted their placards, and shouted, "Free Carl Lee. Free Carl Lee."
Instantly, the mob repeated the war cry:
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
They left the shade trees and courthouse and moved closer together near the steps where a makeshift podium and PA system had been set up. They yelled in unison at no one or no place or nothing in particular, just howled the newly established battle cry in a perfect chorus:
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
The windows of the courthouse flew open as the clerks and secretaries gawked at the happening below. The roar could be heard for blocks and the small shops and offices around the square emptied. The owners and customers filled the sidewalks and watched in astonishment. The demonstrators noticed their spectators, and the attention fueled the chanting, which increased in tempo and volume. The vultures had loitered about waiting and watching, and the noise excited them. They descended upon the front lawn of the courthouse with cameras and microphones. Ozzie and his men directed traffic until the highway and the streets were hopelessly gridlocked. They maintained a presence, although there was no hint they would be needed.
Agee and every full-time, part-time, retired, and prospective black preacher in three counties paraded through the dense mass of black screaming faces and made their way to the podium. The sight of the ministers pumped up the celebrants, and their unified chants reverberated around the square, down the side streets into the sleepy residential districts and out into the countryside. Thousands of blacks waved their placards and yelled their lungs out. Agee swayed with the crowd.
He danced across the small podium. He slapped hands with the other ministers. He led the rhythmic noise like a choir director. He was a sight.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
For fifteen minutes, Agee whipped the crowd into a frenzied, coalescent mob. Then, when with his finely trained ear he detected the first hint of fatigue, he walked to the microphones and asked for quiet. The panting, sweating faces yelled on but with less volume. The chants of freedom died quickly. Agee asked for room near the front so the press could congregate and do its job. He asked for stillness so they could go to the Lord in prayer. Reverend Roosevelt offered a marathon to the
Lord, an eloquent, alliterative oratorical fiesta that brought tears to the eyes of many.
When he finally said "Amen," an enormous black woman with a sparkling red wig stepped to the microphones and opened her vast mouth. The opening stanza of "We Shall
Overcome" flowed forth in a deep, rich, mellow river of glorious a cappella. The ministers behind her immediately clasped hands and began to sway. Spontaneity swept the crowd and two thousand voices joined her in surprising harmony. The mournful, promising anthem rose above the small town.
When they finished, someone shouted "Free Carl Lee!" and ignited another round of chanting. Agee quieted them again, and stepped to the microphones. He pulled an index card from his pocket, and began his sermon.
As expected, Lucien arrived late and half loaded. He brought a bottle and offered a drink to Jake, Atcavage, and Harry Rex, and each declined.
"It's a quarter till nine, Lucien," Jake said. "We've been waiting for almost an hour."
"I'm being paid for this, am I?" he asked.
"No, but I asked you to be here at eight sharp."
"And you also told me not to bring a bottle. And I informed you this was my building, built by my grandfather, leased to you as my tenant, for a very reasonable rent I might add, and I will come and go as I please, with or without a bottle."
"Forget it. Did you-"
"What're those blacks doing across the street walking around the courthouse in the dark?"
"It's called a vigil," explained Harry Rex. "They've vowed to walk around the courthouse with candles, keeping a vigil until their man is free."
"That could be an awfully long vigil. I mean, those poor people could be walking until they die. I mean, this could be a twelve-, fifteen-year vigil. They might set a record. They might have candle wax up to their asses. Evenin', Row Ark."
Ellen sat at the rolltop desk under William Faulkner. She looked at a well-marked copy of the jury list. She nodded and smiled at Lucien.
"Row Ark," Lucien said, "I have all the respect in the world for you. I view you as an equal. I believe in your right to equal pay for equal work. I believe in your right to choose whether to have a child or abort. I believe in all that crap. You are a woman and entitled to no special privileges because of your gender. You should be treated just like a man."
Lucien reached in his pocket and pulled out a clip of cash. "And since you are a law clerk, genderless in my eyes, I think you should be the one to go buy a case of cold Coors."
"No, Lucien," Jake said.
"Shut up, Jake."
Ellen stood and stared at Lucien. "Sure, Lucien. But I'll pay for the beer."
She left the office.
Jake shook his head and fumed at Lucien. "This could be a long night."
Harry Rex changed his mind and poured a shot of whiskey into his coffee cup.
"Please don't get drunk," Jake begged. "We've got work to do."
"I work better when I'm drunk," said Lucien.
"Me too," said Harry Rex.
"This could be interesting," said Atcavage.
Jake laid his feet on his desk and puffed on a cigar. "Okay, the first thing I want to do is decide on a model juror."
"Black," said Lucien.
"Black as old Coaly's ass," said Harry Rex.
"I agree," said Jake. "But we won't get a chance. Buckley will save his peremptory challenges for the blacks. We know that. We've got to concentrate on white people."
"Women," said Lucien. "Always pick wo men for crimi- nal trials. They have bigger hearts, bleeding hearts, and they're much more sympathetic. Always go for women."
"Naw," said Harry Rex. "Not in this case. Women don't understand things like taking a gun and blowing people away. You need fathers, young fathers who would want to do the same thing Hailey did. Daddies with little girls."
"Since when did you get to be such an expert on picking juries?" asked Lucien. "I thought you were a sleazy divorce lawyer."
"I am a sleazy divorce lawyer, but I know how to pick juries."
"And listen to them through the wall."
"Cheap shot."
Jake raised his arms. "Fellas, please. How about Victor Onzell? You know him, Stan?"
"Yeah, he banks with us. He's about forty, married, three or four kids. White. From somewhere up North. Runs the truck stop on the highway north of town. He's been here about five years."
"I wouldn't take him," Lucien said. "If he's from up North, he doesn't think like we do.
Probably in favor of gun control and all that crap. Yankees always scare me in criminal cases. I've always thought we should have a law in Mississippi that no certified yankee could sit on a jury down here regardless of how long he's lived here."
"Thank you so much," said Jake.
"I'd take him," said Harry Rex.
"Why?"
"He's got kids, probably a daughter. If he's from the North he's probably not as prejudiced. Sounds good to me."
"John Tate Aston."
"He's dead," said Lucien.
"What?"
"I said he's dead. Been dead for three years."
"Why's he on the list?" asked Atcavage, the non-lawyer.
"They don't purge the voter registration list," explained Harry Rex, between drinks.
"Some die and some move away, and it's impossible to keep the list up to date. They've issued a hundred and fifty summons, and you can expect a hundred to a hundred and twenty to show up. The rest have died or moved away."
"Caroline Baxter. Ozzie says she's black," Jake said flipping through his notes. "Works at the carburetor plant in Karaway."
"Take her," said Lucien.
"I wish," said Jake.
Ellen returned with the beer. She dropped it in Lucien's lap and -tore a sixteen-ounce can out of a six-pack. She popped the top and returned to the rolltop desk. Jake declined, but
Atcavage decided he was thirsty. Jake remained the non-drinker.
"Jpe Kitt Shepherd."
"Sounds like a redneck," said Lucien.
"Why do you say that?" asked Harry Rex.
"The double first name," Lucien explained. "Most rednecks have double first names. Like
Billy Ray, Johnny Ray, Bobby Lee, Harry Lee, Jesse Earl, Billy Wayne, Jerry Wayne,
Eddie Mack. Even their women have double first names. Bobbie Sue, Betty Pearl, Mary
Belle, Thelma Lou, Sally Faye."
"What about Harry Rex?" asked Harry Rex.
"Never heard of a woman named Harry Rex."
"I mean for a male redneck."
"I guess it'll do."
Jake interrupted. "Dell Perry said he used to own a bait shop down by the lake. I take it no one knows him."
"No, but I bet he's a redneck," said Lucien. "Because of .his name. I'd scratch him."
"Aren't you given their addresses, ages, occupations, basic information like that?" asked Atcavage.
"Not until the day of trial. On Monday each prospective juror fills out a questionnaire in the courtroom. But until then we have only the names."
"What kind of juror are we looking for, Jake?" Ellen asked.
"Young to middle-aged men with families. I would prefer to have no one over fifty."
"Why?" Lucien asked belligerently.
"Younger whites are more tolerant of blacks."
"Like Cobb and Willard," Lucien said.
"Most of the older folks will always dislike blacks, but the younger generation has accepted an integrated society. Less bigotry, as a rule, with youth."
"I agree," said Harry Rex, "and I would stay away from women and rednecks."
"That's my plan."
"I think you're wrong," said Lucien. "Women are more sympathetic. Just look at Row
Ark. She's sympathetic toward everyone. Right, Row Ark?"
"Right, Lucien."
"She has sympathy for criminals, child pornographers, atheists, illegal immigrants, gays. Don't you, Row Ark?"
"Right, Lucien."
"She and I hold the only two ACLU cards existing at this very moment in Ford County, Mississippi."
"That's sick," said Atcavage, the banker.
"Clyde Sisco," Jake said loudly, trying to minimize controversy.
"He can be bought," Lucien said smugly.
"What do you mean 'He can be bought'?" Jake asked.
"Just what I said. He can be bought."
"How do you know?" asked Harry Rex.
"Are you kidding? He's a Sisco. Biggest bunch of crooks in the eastern part of the county.
They all live around the Mays community. They're professional thieves and insurance defrauders. They burn their houses every three years. You've never heard of them?" He was shouting at Harry Rex.
"No. How do you know he can be bought?"
"Because I bought him once. In a civil case, ten years ago. He was on the jury list, and I got word to him that I'd give him ten percent of the jury verdict. He's very persuasive."
Jake dropped the jury lists and rubbed his eyes. He knew this was probably true, but didn't want to believe it.
"And?" asked Harry Rex.
"And he was selected for the jury, and I got the largest verdict in the history of Ford County. It's still the record."
"Stubblefield?" Jake asked in disbelief.
"That's it, my boy. Stubblefield versus North Texas Pipeline. September 1974. Eight hundred thousand dollars. Appealed and affirmed by the Supreme Court."
"Did you pay him?" asked Harry Rex.
Lucien finished a long drink and smacked his lips. "Eighty thousand cash, in one-hundred-dollar bills," he said proudly. "He built a new house, then burned it down."
"What was your cut?" asked Atcavage.
"Forty percent, minus eighty thousand."
The room was silent as everybody but Lucien made the calculation.
"Wow," Atcavage mumbled.
"You're kidding, aren't you, Lucien?" Jake asked halfheartedly.
"You know I'm serious, Jake. You know I lie compulsively, but never about things like this. I'm telling the truth, and I'm telling you this guy can be bought."
"How much?" asked Harry Rex.
"Forget it!" said Jake.
"Five thousand cash, just guessing."
"Forget it!"
There was a pause as each one looked at Jake to make sure he was not interested in Clyde
Sisco, and when it was obvious he was not interested, they took a drink and waited for the next name.
Around ten-thirty Jake had his first beer, and an hour later the case was gone and forty names remained. Lucien staggered to the balcony and watched the blacks carry their candles along the sidewalks next to the streets around the courthouse.
"Jake, why is this deputy sitting in his car in front of my office?" he asked.
"That's my bodyguard."
"What's his name?"
"Nesbit."
"Is he awake?"
"Probably not."
Lucien leaned dangerously over the railing. "Hey, Nesbit," he yelled.
Nesbit opened the door of his patrol car. "Yeah, what is it?".
"Jake here wants you to go to the store and get us some more beer. He's very thirsty.
Here's a twenty. He'd like a case of Coors."
"I can't buy it when I'm on duty," Nesbit protested.
"Since when?" Lucien laughed at himself. .
"I can't do it."
"It's not for you, Nesbit. It's for Mr. Brigance, and he really needs it. He's already called the sheriff, and it's okay."
"Who called the sheriff?"
"Mr. Brigance," lied Lucien. "Sheriff said he didn't care what you did as long as you didn't drink any."
Nesbit shrugged and appeared satisfied. Lucien dropped a twenty from the balcony.
Within minutes Nesbit was back with a case minus one which had been opened and was sitting on his radar gun.
Lucien ordered Atcavage to fetch the beer from below and distribute the first six-pack.
An hour later the list was finished and the party was over. Nesbit loaded Harry Rex,
Lucien, and Atcavage into his patrol car and took them home. Jake and'his clerk sat on the balcony, sipping and watching the candles flicker and move slowly around the courthouse. Several cars were parked on the west side of the square, and a small group of blacks sat nearby in lawn chairs waiting to take their turns with the candles.
"We didn't do bad," Jake said quietly, staring at the vigil. "We made notes on all but twenty of the hundred and fifty."
"What's next?"
"I'll try to find something on the other twenty, then we'll make an index card for each juror. We'll know them like family by Monday."
Nesbit returned to the square and circled twice, watching the blacks. He parked between the Saab and the BMW.
"The M'Naghten brief is a masterpiece. Our psychiatrist, Dr. Bass, will be here tomorrow, and I want you to review M'Naghten with him. You need to outline in detail the necessary questions to ask him at trial, and cover these with him. He worries me. I don't know him, and I'm relying on Lucien. Get his resume and investigate his background.
Make whatever phone calls are necessary. Check with the state medical association to make sure he has no history of disciplinary problems. He is very important to our case, and I don't want any surprises."
"Okay, boss."
Jake finished his last beer. "Look, Row Ark, this is a very small town. My wife left five days ago, and I'm sure people will know it soon. You look suspicious. People love to talk, so be discreet. Stay in the office and do your research and tell anyone who asks that you're Ethel's replacement."
"That's a big bra to fill."
"You could do it if you wanted to."
"I hope you know that I'm not nearly as sweet as I'm being forced to act."
"I know that."
They watched the blacks change shifts and a new crew take up the candles. Nesbit threw an empty beer can ont o the sidewalk.
"You're not driving home are you?" Jake asked.
"It would not be a good idea. I'd register at least .20."
"You can sleep on the couch in my office."
"Thanks. I will."
Jake said good night, locked the office, and spoke briefly to Nesbit. Then he placed himself carefully behind the wheel of the Saab.. Nesbit followed him to his home on
Adams. He parked under the carport, next to Carla's car, and Nesbit parked in the driveway. It was 1:00 A.M., Thursday, July 18.
They arrived in groups of two and three and came from all over the state. They parked along the gravel road by the cabin deep in the woods. They entered the cabin dressed as normal working men, but once inside they slowly and meticulously changed into their neatly pressed and neatly folded robes and headdresses. They admired one another's uniforms and helped each other into the bulky outfits. Most of them knew each other, but a few introductions were necessary. They were forty in number; a good turnout.
Stump Sisson was pleased. He sipped whiskey and moved around the room like a head coach reassuring his team before the kickoff. He inspected the uniforms and made adjustments. He was proud of his men, and told them so. It was the biggest meeting of its kind in years, he said. He admired them and their sacrifices in being there. He knew they had jobs and families, but this was important. He talked about the glory days when they were feared in Mississippi and had clout.
Those days must return, and it was up to this very group of dedicated men to take a stand for white people. The march could be dangerous, he explained. Niggers could march and demonstrate all day long and no one cared. But let white folks try and march and it was dangerous. The city had issued a permit, and the nigger sheriff promised order, but most
Klan marches nowadays were disrupted by roving bands of young wild nigger punks. So be careful, and keep ranks. He, Stump, would do the talking.
They listened intently to Stump's^rep talk, and when he finished they loaded into a dozen cars and followed him to town.
Few if any people in Clanton had ever seen the Klan march, and as 2:00 P.M. approached a great wave of excitement rippled around the square. The merchants and their customers found excuses to inspect the sidewalks. They milled about importantly and watched the side streets. The vultures were out in full force and had congregated near the gazebo on the front lawn. A group of young blacks gathered nearby under a massive oak. Ozzie smelled trouble. They assured him they had only come to watch and listen. He threatened them with jail if trouble started. He stationed his men at various points around the courthouse.
"Here they come!" someone yelled, and the spectators strained to get a glimpse of the marching Klansmen as they strutted importantly from a small street onto Washington
Avenue, the north border of the square. They walked cautiously, but arrogantly, their faces hidden by the sinister red and white masks hanging from the royal headdresses. The spectators gawked at the faceless figures as the procession moved slowly along
Washington, then south along Caffey Street, then east along Jackson Street. Stump waddled proudly in front of his men. When he neared the front of the courthouse, he made a sharp left turn and led his troops down the long sidewalk in the center of the front lawn. They closed ranks in a loose semicircle around the podium on the courthouse steps.
The vultures had scrambled and fallen over themselves following the march, and when
Stump stopped his men the podium was quickly adorned with a dozen microphones trailing wires in all directions to the cameras and recorders. Under the tree the group of blacks had grown larger, much larger, and some of them walked to within a few feet of the semicircle. The sidewalks emptied as the merchants and shopkeepers, their customers, and the other curious streamed across the streets onto the lawn to hear what the leader, the short fat one, was about to say. The deputies walked slowly through the crowd, paying particular attention to the group of blacks. Ozzie placed himself under the oak, in the midst of his people.
Jake watched intently from the window in Jean Gilles-pie's second floor office. The sight of the Klansmen, in full regalia, their cowardly faces hidden behind the ominous masks, gave him a sick feeling. The white hood, for decades a symbol of hatred and violence in the South, was back.
Which one of those men had burned the cross in his yard? Were they all active in planning the bombing of his home? Which one would try something next? From the second floor, he could see the blacks inch closer.
"You niggers were not invited to this rally!" Stump screamed into the microphone, pointing at the blacks. "This is a Klan meetin', not a meetin' for a buncha niggers!"
From the side streets and small alleys behind the rows of red brick buildings, a steady stream of blacks moved toward the courthouse. They joined the others, and in seconds
Stump and.his boys were outnumbered ten to one. Ozzie radioed for backup.
"My name's Stump Sisson," he said as he removed his mask. "And I'm proud to say I'm the Mississippi Imperial Wizard for the Invisible Empire of the Ku Klux Klan. I'm here to say that the law-abidin' white folks of Mississippi are sick and tired of niggers stealin', rapin', killin', and gettin' by with it. We demand justice, and we demand that this Hailey nigger be convicted and his black ass sent to the gas chamber!"
"Free Carl Lee!" screamed one of the blacks.
"Free Carl Lee!" they repeated in unison.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Shut up, you wild niggers!" Stump shrieked back. "Shut up, you animals!" His troops stood facing him, frozen, with their backs to the screaming crowd. Ozzie and six deputies moved between the groups.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
Stump's naturally colorful face had turned an even deeper red. His teeth nearly touched the microphones. "Shut up, you wild niggers! You had your rally yesterday and we didn't disturb you. We have a right to assemble in peace, just like you do! Now, shut up!"
The chanting intensified. "Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!"
"Where's the sheriff? He's supposed to keep law and order. Sheriff, do your job. Shut those niggers up so we can assemble in peace. Can't you do your job, Sheriff?
Can't you control your own people? See, folks, that's what you get when you elect niggers to public office."
The shouting continued and Stump stepped back from the microphones and watched the blacks.
The photographers and TV crews spun in circles trying to record it all. No one noticed a small window on the third floor of the courthouse. It opened slowly, and from the darkness within a wuuc mcuumo was tnrown onto the podium below. It landed perfectly at Stump's feet and exploded, engulfing the wizard in dames.
The riot was on. Stump screamed and rolled wildly down the front steps. Three of his men shed their heavy robes and masks and attempted to cover him and smother the flames. The wooden podium and platform burned with the thick, unmistakable smell of gasoline. The blacks charged, wielding sticks and knives and hacking at anything with a white face or white robe. Under each white robe was a short black nightstick, and the Klansmen proved ready for the assault. Within seconds of the explosion, the front lawn of the Ford County Courthouse was a battlefield as men screamed and cursed and howled in pain through thick, heavy smoke. The air was filled with rocks and stones and nightsticks as the two groups brawled in hand-to-hand combat.
Bodies began falling on the lush, green grass. Ozzie fell first; the victim of a wicked smash to the base of his skull with a wrecking bar. Nesbit, Prather, Hastings, Pirtle,
Tatum, and other deputies ran here and there attempting unsuccessfully to separate various combatants before they killed each other. Instead of running for cover, the vultures darted cra-zily through the midst of the smoke and violence valiantly trying to capture yet a better shot of the blood and gore. They were sitting ducks. One cameraman, his right eye buried deep in his camera, caught a jagged piece of brick with his left eye.
He and his camera dropped quickly to the sidewalk, where, after a few seconds, another cameraman appeared and filmed his fallen comrade. A fearless, busy female reporter from a Memphis station charged into the melee with her
microphone in hand and her cameraman at her heels. She dodged a brick, then maneuvered too close to a large
Klansman who was just finishing off a couple of black teenagers, when, with a loud piercing scream, he slapped her pretty head with his nightstick, kicked her as she fell, then brutally attacked her cameraman.
Fresh troops from the Clanton City Police arrived. In the center of the battle, Nesbit,
Prather, and Hastings came together, stood with their backs to each other, and began firing their Smith & Wesson .357 magnum service revolvers into the air. The sound of the gunfire quelled the riot. The warriors froze and searched for the gunfire, then quickly separated and glared at each other. They retreated slowly to their own groups.
The officers formed a dividing line between the blacks and the Klansmen, all of whom were thankful for the truce.
A dozen wounded bodies were unable to retreat. Ozzie sat dazed, rubbing his neck. The lady from Memphis was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the head. Several
Klansmen, their white robes soiled and bloody, lay sprawled near the sidewalk. The fire continued to burn.
The sirens drew closer and finally the fire trucks and ambulances arrived and drove onto the battlefield. Firemen and medics at tended the wounded. None were dead. Stump
Sisson was taken away first. Ozzie was half dragged and half carried to a patrol car. More police arrived and broke up the crowd.
Jake, Harry Rex, and Ellen ate a lukewarm pizza and watched intently as the small television in the conference room broadcasted the day's events in Clanton, Mississippi.
CBS ran the story halfway through the news. The reporter had apparently escaped the riot unscathed, and he narrated the video with a play by play of the march, the shouting, the firebomb, and the melee. "As of late this afternoon," he reported, "the exact number of casualties is unknown. The most serious injuries are believed to be the extensive burns suffered by a Mr. Sisson, who identified himself as an imperial wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. He is listed in serious condition at the Mid South Burn Hospital in Memphis."
The video showed a closeup of Stump burning while all hell broke loose. He continued:
"The trial of Carl Lee Hai-ley is scheduled to start Monday here in Clanton. It is unknown at this time what effect, if any, today's riot will have on this trial. There is some speculation the trial will be postponed and/or moved to another county."
"That's news to me," said Jake.
"You haven't heard anything?" asked Harry Rex.
"Not a word. And I presume I would be notified before CBS."
The reporter disappeared and Dan Rather said he would return in a moment.
"What does this mean?" asked Ellen.
"It means Noose is stupid for not changing venue."
"Be glad he didn't," said Harry Rex. "It'll give you something to argue on appeal."
"Thanks, Harry Rex. I appreciate your confidence in my ability as a trial lawyer."
The phone rang. Harry Rex grabbed it and said hello to Carla. He handed it to Jake. "It's your wife.
Can we listen?"
"No! Go get another pizza. Hello dear."
"Jake, are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right."
"I just saw it on the news. It's awful. Where were you?"
"I was wearing one of those white robes."
"Jake, please. This is not funny."
"I was in Jean Gillespie's office on the second floor. We had wonderful seats. Saw the whole thing.
It was very exciting."
"Who are those people?"
"Same ones who burned the cross in our front yard and tried to blow up the house."
"Where are they from?"
"Everywhere. Five are in the hospital and their addresses are scattered all over the state.
One is a local boy. How's Hanna?"
"She's fine. She wants to come home. Will the trial be postponed?"
"I doubt it."
"Are you safe?"
"Sure. I've got a full-time bodyguard and I carry a .38 in my briefcase. Don't worry."
"But I'm worried, Jake. I need to be home with you."
"No."
"Hanna can stay here until it's over, but I want to come home."
"No, Carla. I know you're safe out there. You won't be safe if you're here."
"Then you're not safe either."
"I'm as safe as I can get. But I'm not taking chances with you and Hanna. It's out of the question. That's final. How are your parents?"
"I didn't call to talk about my parents. I called because I'm scared and I want to be with you."
"And I want to be with you, but not now. Please understand."
She hesitated. "Where are you staying?"
"At Lucien's most of the time. Occasionally at home, with my bodyguard in the driveway."
"How's my house?"
"It's still there. Dirty, but still there."
"I miss it."
"Believe me, it misses you."
"I love you, Jake, and I'm scared."
"I love you, and I'm not scared. Just relax and take care of Hanna."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
Jake handed the receiver to Ellen. "Where is she?"
"Wilmington, North Carolina. Her parents spend the summers there."
Harry Rex had left for another pizza.
"You miss her, don't you?" asked Elleri.
"In more ways than you can imagine."
"Oh, I can imagine."
At midnight they were in the cabin drinking whiskey, cussing niggers, and comparing wounds. Several had returned from the hospital in Memphis where they had visited briefly with Stump Sisson. He told them to proceed as planned. Eleven had been released from the Ford County Hospital with various cuts and bruises, and the others admired their wounds as each took his turn describing to the last detail how he had gallantly battled multiple niggers before being wounded, usually from the rear or blind side. They were the heroes, the ones with the bandages. Then the others told their stories and the whiskey flowed. They heaped praise upon the
largest one when he told of his attack on the pretty television reporter and her nigger cameraman.
After a couple of hours of drinking and storytelling the talk turned to the task at hand. A map of the county was produced, and one of the locals pinpointed the targets. There were twenty homes this night-twenty names taken from the list of prospective jurors someone had furnished.
Five teams of four each left the cabin in pickups and headed into the darkness to further their mischief. In each pickup were four wooden crosses, the smaller models, nine feet by four feet, each soaked with kerosene. They avoided Clanton and the small towns in the county and instead kept to the dark countryside. The targets were in isolated areas, away from traffic and neighbors, out in the country where things go unnoticed and people go to bed early and sleep soundly.
The plan of attack was simple: a truck would stop a few hundred feet down the road, out of sight, no headlights, and the driver remained with engine running while the other three carried the cross to the front yard, stuck it in the ground, and threw a torch on it. The pickup then met them in front of the house for a quiet getaway and joyride to the next target.
The plan worked simply and with no complications at nineteen of the twenty targets. But at Luther Pickett's residence a strange noise earlier in the night had aroused Luther, and he sat in the darkness of his front porch waiting for nothing in particular when he saw a strange pickup move suspiciously along the gravel road out beyond his pecan tree. He grabbed his shotgun and listened as the truck turned around and stopped down the road.
He heard voices, and then saw three figures carrying a pole or something into his front yard, next to the gravel road. Luther crouched behind a shrub next to the porch, and aimed.
The driver took a slug of cold beer and watched to see the cross go up in flames. He heard a shotgun instead. His buddies abandoned the cross and the torch and the front yard, and jumped into a small ditch next to the road. Another shotgun blast. The driver could hear the screams and obscenities. They had to be rescued! He
threw down his beer and stepped on the gas, Old Luther fired again as he came off the porch, and again as the truck appeared and stopped by the shallow ditch. The three scrambled desperately from the mud, stum- bling and sliding, cussing and yelling as they attacked the truck and furiously fought to jump into the bed.
"Hang on!" yelled the driver just as old Luther fired again, this time spraying the pickup.
He watched with a smile as the truck sped away, spinning gravel and fishtailing from ditch to ditch. Just a bunch of drunk kids, he thought.
From a pay phone, a Kluxer held the list of twenty names and twenty phone numbers. He called them all, simply to ask them to take a look in their front yards.
Friday morning Jake phoned the Noose home and was informed by Mrs. Ichabod that His
Honor was presiding over a civil trial in Polk County. Jake gave instructions to Ellen and left for Smithfield, an hour away. He nodded at His Honor as he entered the empty courtroom and sat on the front row. Except for the jurors, there were no other spectators.
Noose was bored, the jurors were bored, the lawyers were bored, and after two minutes
Jake was bored. After the witness finished Noose called for a short recess, and Jake went to his chambers.
"Hello, Jake. Why're you here?"
"You heard what happened yesterday."
"I saw it on the news last night."
"Have you heard what happened this morning?"
"No."
"Evidently someone gave the Klan a list of the prospective jurors. Last night they burned crosses in the yards of twenty of the jurors."
Noose was shocked. "Our jurors!"
"Yes, sir."
"Did they catch anybody?"
"Of course not. They were too busy putting out fires. Besides, you don't catch these people."
"Twenty of our jurors," Noose repeated.
"Yes, sir."
Noose pawed at his mangled mass of brilliant gray hair and walked slowly around the small room, shaking his head and occasionally scratching his crotch.
"Sounds like intimidation to me," he muttered.
What a mind, thought Jake. A real genius. "I would say so."
"So what am I supposed to do?" he asked with a touch of frustration.
"Change venue."
"To where?"
"Southern part of the state."
"I see. Perhaps Carey County. I believe it's sixty percent black. That would generate at least a hung jury, wouldn't it? Or maybe you would like Brower County. I think it's even blacker. You'd probably get an acquittal there, wouldn't you?"
"I don't care where you move it. It's not fair to try him in Ford County. Things were bad enough before the war yesterday. Now the white folks are really in a lynching mood, and my man's got the nearest available neck. The situation was terrible before the Klan started decorating the county with Christmas trees. Who knows what else they'll try before
Monday. There's no way to pick a fair and impartial jury in Ford County."
"You mean black jury?"
"No, sir! I mean a jury that hasn't prejudged this case. Carl Lee Hailey is entitled to twelve people who haven't already decided his guilt or innocence."
Noose lumbered to ward his chair and fell into it. He removed those glasses from that nose and picked at the end of it.
"We could excuse the twenty," he wondered aloud.
"That won't help. The entire county knows about it or will know about it within a few hours. You know how fast word travels. The entire panel will feel threatened."
"Then we could disqualify the entire panel and summon a new one."
"Won't work," Jake answered sharply, frustrated by Noose's stubbornness. "All jurors must come from Ford County, and everybody in the county knows about it. And how do you keep the Klan from harassing the next panel? It won't work."
"What makes you so confident the Klan won't follow the case if I move it to another county?" The sarcasm dripped from every word.
"I think they will follow it," Jake admitted. "But we don't know that for sure. What we do know is that the Klan is already in Ford County, that it's quite active now, and that it has already intimidated some potential jurors. That's the issue. The question is, what will you do about it?"
"Nothing," Noose said bluntly.
"Sir?"
"Nothing. I will do nothing but dismiss the twenty. I will carefully interrogate the panel next Monday, when the trial starts in Clanton."
Jake stared in disbelief. Noose had a reason, a motive, a fear, something he was not telling. Lucien was right-someone had gotten to him. ' "May I ask why?"
"I don't think it matters where we try Carl Lee Hailey. I don't think it matters who we put in the jury box. I don't think it matters what color they are. Their minds are made up. All of them, wherever and whoever they are. They've already made up their minds, Jake, and it's your job to pick those who think your man is a hero."
That's probably true, thought Jake, but he wouldn't admit it. He continued staring at the trees outside. "Why are you afraid to move it?"
Ichabod's eyes narrowed, and he glared at Jake. "Afraid? I'm not afraid of any ruling I make. Why are you afraid to try it in Ford County?"
"I thought I just explained it."
"Mr. Hailey will be tried in Ford County starting Monday. That's three days from today.
And he will be tried there not because I'm afraid to move it, but because it wouldn't do any good to move it. I've considered all this very carefully, Mr. Brigance, many times, and I feel comfortable with the trial in Clanton. It will not be moved. Anything further?"
"No, sir."
"Good. See you Monday."
Jake entered his office through the rear door. The front door had been locked for a week now, and there was always someone banging on it and yelling at it. Most of them were reporters, but many were friends just stopping by to gossip and find out what they could about the big trial. Clients were a thing of the past. The phone rang constantly. Jake never touched it and Ellen grabbed it if she was nearby.
He found her in the conference room up to her elbows in law books. The M'Naghten brief was a masterpiece. He had requested no more than twenty pages. She gave him seventy-five perfectly typed and plainly worded pages, and explained there was no way to cover the Mississippi version of M'Naghten in fewer words. Her research was painstaking and detailed. She had started with the original M'Naghten case in England in the 1800's and worked through a hundred and fifty years of insanity law in Mississippi. She discarded insignificant or confusing cases, and explained in wonderful simplicity the complicated, major cases. The brief concluded with a summary of current law, and applied it to the trial of Carl Lee Hailey.
In a smaller brief, only fourteen pages, she had reached the unmistakable conclusion that the jury would see the sickening pictures of Cobb and Willard with their brains splattered about the stairway. Mississippi admitted such inflammatory evidence, and she had found no way around it. She had typed thirty-one pages of research on the defense of justifiable homicide, something Jake had considered briefly after the killings. She reached the same conclusion Jake had reached-it wouldn't work. She had found an old Mississippi case where a man had caught and killed an escaped convict who was armed. He had been acquitted, but the differences in that case and Carl Lee's case were enormous. Jake had not asked for the brief, and was irritated that so much energy had been spent on it. He said nothing, however, since she had produced everything he had asked for.
The most pleasant surprise had been her work with Dr. W.T. Bass. She had met with him twice during the week, and they had covered M'Naghten in great detail. She prepared a twenty-five-page script of the questions to be asked by Jake and the answers to be given by Bass. It was a skillfully crafted dialogue, and he marveled at her seasoning. When he was her age, he was an average student more concerned with romance than research. She, on the other hand, as a third-year law student was writing briefs that read like treatises.
"How'd it go?" she asked.
"As expected. He did not budge. The trial will start here Monday with the same panel, minus the twenty who received their subtle warnings."
"He's crazy."
"What're you working on?"
"I'm finishing the brief to support our position that the details of the rape should be discussed before the jury. It looks good, at this point."
"When will you finish it?"
"Is there some hurry?"
"By Sunday, if possible. I've got another chore, something a little different."
She slid her legal pad away and listened.
"The State's psychiatrist will be Dr. Wilbert Rode-heaver, head of staff at Whitfield. He's been there forever, and has testifed in hundreds of cases. I want you to dig a little and see how often his name appears in court decisions."
"Fve already run across his name."
"Good. As you know, the only cases we read about from the Supreme Court are the ones where the defendant at trial was convicted and has appealed. The acquittals are not reported. I'm more interested in these."
"Where are you coming from?"
"I have a hunch Rodeheaver is very reluctant to give an opinion that a defendant was legally insane.
There's a chance he's never done it. Even in cases where the defendant was clearly crazy and did not know what he was doing. I'd like to ask Rodeheaver, on cross-examination, about some of the cases in which he's said there's nothing wrong with an obviously sick man, and the jury acquitted him."
"Those cases will be very hard to find."
"I know, but you can do it, Row Ark. I've watched you work for a week now, and I know you can do it."
"I'm flattered, boss."
"You may have to make phone calls to attorneys around the state who've crossed
Rodeheaver before. It'll be hard, Row Ark, but get it done."
"Yes, boss. I'm sure you wanted it yesterday."
"Not really. I doubt if we'll get to Rodeheaver next week, so you have some time."
"I don't know how to act. You mean it's not urgent?"
"No, but that rape brief is."
"Yes, boss."
"Have you had lunch?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Good. Don't make any plans for dinner."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've got an idea."
"Sort of like a date?"
"No, sort of like a business lunch with two professionals."
Jake packed two briefcases and left. "I'll be at Lu-cien's," he told her, "but don't call unless it's a dire emergency. Don't tell anyone where I am."
"What are you working on?"
"The jury."
Lucien had passed out drunk in the swing on the porch, and Sallie was not around. Jake helped himself to the spacious study upstairs. Lucien had more law books in his home than most lawyers had in their offices. He unpacked his mess in a chair, and on the desk he placed an alphabetical list of the jurors, a stack of three-by-five notecards, and several Magic Markers.
The first name was Acker, Barry Acker. The last name was written in large print across the top of a notecard with a blue Magic Marker. Blue for men, red for women, black for blacks, regardless of gender. Under Acker's name he made notes with a pencil. Age, about forty. Married to his second wife, three children, two daughters. Runs a small unprofitable hardware store on the highway in Clanton. Wife, secretary at a bank. Drives a pickup. Likes to hunt. Wears cowboy boots. Pretty nice guy. Atcavage had gone to the hardware store Thursday to get a look at Barry Acker. Said he looked okay, talked like he had .some education. Jake wrote the number nine by the name Acker. Jake was impressed with his research. Surely Buckley would not be as thorough.
The next name was Bill Andrews. What a name. There were six of them in the phonebook. Jake knew one, Harry Rex knew another one, and Ozzie knew a black one, but nobody knew which one got the summons. He pvut a question mark by the name.
Gerald Ault. Jake smiled when he wrote the name on the notecard. Ault had passed through his office a few years back when the bank foreclosed on his house in Clanton.
His wife was stricken with kidney disease, and the medical bills broke them. He was an intellectual, educated at Princeton, where he met his wife. She was from Ford County, the only child of a once prominent family of fools who had invested all their money in railroads. He arrived in Ford County just in time for his in-laws
to go under, and the easy life he had married dissolved into one of struggle. He taught school for a while, then ran the library, then worked as a clerk in the courthouse. He developed an aversion to hard work. Then his wife got sick, and they lost their modest house. He now worked in a convenience store.
Jake knew something about Gerald Ault that no one else knew. As a child in
Pennsylvania, his family lived in a farmhouse near the highway. One night while they sl ept, the house caught fire. A passing motorist stopped, kicked in the front door and began rescuing the Aults. The fire spread quickly, and when Gerald and his brother awoke they were trapped in their upstairs bedroom. They ran to the window and screamed. Their parents and siblings yelled helplessly from the front lawn. Flames poured from every window in the house except for their bedroom. Suddenly, the rescuer soaked himself with water from the garden hose, dashed into the burning house, fought the flames and smoke as he raced upstairs, then bolted through the bedroom door. He kicked out the window, grabbed Gerald and his brother, and jumped to the ground. Miraculously, they were not hurt. They thanked him, through tears and embraces. They thanked this stranger, whose skin was black. He was the first Negro the children had ever seen.
Gerald Ault was one of the few white people in Ford County who truly loved black people. Jake put a ten by his name.
For six hours he went through the jury list, making note-cards, concentrating on each name, envisioning each juror in the box and in deliberation, talking to each one. He rated them. Every black got an automatic ten; the whites were not so easy. The men rated higher than the women; the young men higher than the old men; the educated slightly higher than the uneducated; the liberals, both of them, received the highest ratings.
He eliminated the twenty Noose planned to exclude. He knew something about one hundred and eleven of the prospective jurors. Surely, Buckley could not know so much.
Ellen was typing on Ethel's machine when Jake returned from Lucien's. She turned it off, closed the law books she was typing from, and watched him.
"Where's dinner?" she asked with a wicked smile.
"We're taking a road trip."
"All right! Where to?"
"Have you ever been to Robinsonville, Mississippi?"
"No, but I'm ready. What's there?"
"Nothing but cotton, soybeans, and a great little restaurant."
"What's the dress code?"
Jake inspected her. She wore the usual-jeans, neatly starched and faded, no socks, a navy button- down that was four sizes too big but tucked in nicely above her slender hips.
"You look fine," he said.
They turned off the copier and the lights and left Clanton in the Saab. Jake stopped at a liquor store in the black section of town and bought a six-pack of Coors and a tall, cold bottle of Chablis.
"You have to bring your own bottle to this place," he explained as they left town. The sun was setting into the highway ahead, and Jake flipped down the sun visors. Ellen played bartender and opened two cans.
"How far is this place?" she asked.
"Hour and a half."
"Hour and a half! I'm starving."
"Then fill up on beer. Believe me it's worth it."
"What's on the menu?"
"Barbecued, sauteed shrimp, frog legs, and charbroiled catfish."
She sipped on the beer. "We'll see."
Jake stepped on the gas, and they raced across bridges over the countless tributaries of
Lake Chatulla. They climbed steep hills covered with layers of dark green kudzu. They flew around corners and dodged pulpwood trucks making their last runs of the day. Jake opened the sunroof, lowered the windows and let the wind blow. Ellen leaned back in the seat and dosed her eyes. Her thick, wavy hair swirled around her face.
"Look, Row Ark, this dinner is strictly business-"
"Sure, sure."
"I mean it. I'm the employer, you're the employee, and this is a business meal. Nothing more or less. So don't get any lustful ideas in your ERA, sexually liberated brain."
"Sounds like you're the one with the ideas."
"Nope. I just know what you're thinking."
"How do you know what I'm thinking? Why do you assume you're so irresistible and that
I'm planning a big seduction scene?"
"Just keep your hands to yourself. I'm a wonderfully happily married man with a gorgeous wife who'd kill if she thought I was fooling around."
"Okay, let's pretend to be friends. Just two friends having dinner."
"That doesn't work in the South. A male friend cannot have dinner with a female friend if the male friend has a wife. It just doesn't work down here."
"Why not?"
"Because men don't have female friends. No way. I don't know of a single man in the entire South who is married and has a female friend. I think it goes back to the Civil War."
"I think it goes back to the Dark Ages. Why are Southern women so jealous?"
"Because that's the way we've trained them. They learned from us. If my wife met a male friend for lunch or dinner, I'd tear his head off and file for divorce. She learned it from me."
"That makes absolutely no sense."
"Of course it doesn't."
"Your wife has no male friends?"
"None that I know of. If you learn of any, let me know."
"And you have no female friends?"
"Why would I want female friends? They can't talk about football, or duck hunting, or politics, or lawsuits, or anything that I want to talk about. They talk about kids, clothes, recipes, coupons, furniture, stuff I know nothing about. No, I don't have any female friends. Don't want any."
"That's what I love about the South. The people are so tolerant."
"Thank you."
"Do you have any Jewish friends?"
"I don't know of any in Ford County. I had a real good friend in law school, Ira Tauber, from New Jersey. We were very close. I love Jews. Jesus was a Jew, you know. I've never understood anti- Semitism."
"My God, you are a liberal. How about, uh, homosexuals?"
"I feel sorry for them. They don't know what they're missing. But that's their problem."
"Could you have a homosexual friend?"
"I guess, as long as he didn't tell me."
"Nope, you're a Republican."
She took his empty can and threw it in the back seat. She opened two more. The sun was gone, and the heavy, humid air felt cool at ninety miles an hour.
"So we can't be friends?" she said.
"Nope."
"Nor lovers."
"Please. I'm trying to drive."
"So what are we?"
"I'm the lawyer, you're the law clerk. I'm the employer, you're the employee. I'm the boss, you're the gofer."
"You're the male, I'm the female."
Jake admired her jeans and bulky shirt. "There's not much doubt about that."
Ellen shook her head and stared at the mountains of kudzu flying by. Jake smiled, drove faster, and sipped his beer. He negotiated a series of intersections on the rural, deserted highways and, suddenly, the hills disappeared and the land became flat.
"What's the name of the restaurant?" she asked.
"The Hollywood."
"The what?"
"The Hollywood."
"Why is it called that?"
"It was once located in a small town a few miles away by the name of Hollywood,
Mississippi. It burned, and they moved it to Robinsonville. They still call it the Hollywood."
"What's so great about it?"
"Great food, great music, great atmosphere, and it's a thousand miles from Clanton and no one will see me having dinner with a strange and beautiful woman."
"I'm not a woman, I'm a gofer."
"A strange and beautiful gofer."
Ellen smiled to herself and ran her fingers through her hair. At another intersection, he turned left and headed west until they found a settlement near a railroad. A row of wooden buildings sat empty on one side of the road, and across the street, all by itself, was an old dry goods store with a dozen cars parked around it and music rolling softly out the windows. Jake grabbed the bottle of Chablis and escorted his law clerk up the steps, onto the front porch, and inside the building.
Next to the door was a small stage, where a beautiful old black lady, Merle, sat at her piano and sang "Rainy Night in Georgia." Three long rows of tables ran to the front and stopped next to the stage. The tables were half full, and* a waitress in the back poured beer from a pitcher and motioned for them to come on in. She seated them in the rear, at a small table with a red-checkered tablecloth.
"Y'all want some fried dill pickles, honey?" she asked Jake.
"Yes! Two orders."
Ellen frowned and looked at Jake. "Fried dill pickles?"
"Yes, of course. They don't serve them in Boston?"
"Do you people fry everything?"
"Everything that's worth eating. If you don't like them, I'll eat them."
A yell went up from the table across the aisle. Four couples toasted something or somebody, then broke into riotous laughing. The restaurant maintained a constant roar of yelling and talking.
"The good thing about the Hollywood," Jake explained, "is that you can make all the noise you want and stay as long as you want, and nobody cares. When you get a table here, it's yours for the night. They'll start singing and dancing in a minute."
Jake ordered sauteed shrimp and charbroiled catfish for both of them. Ellen passed on the frog legs. The waitress hurried back with the Chablis and two chilled glasses. They toasted Carl Lee Hailey and his insane mind.
"Whatta you think of Bass?" Jake asked.
"He's the perfect witness. He'll say anything we want him to say."
"Does that bother you?"
"It would if he was a fact witness. But he's an expert, and he can get by with his opinions.
Who will challenge him?"
"Is he believable?"
"When he's sober. We talked twice this week. On lues-day he was lucid and helpful. On
Wednesday, he was drunk and indifferent. I think he'll be as helpful as any psychiatrist we could find. He doesn't care what the truth is, and he'll tell us what we want to hear."
"Does he think Carl Lee was legally insane?"
"No. Do you?"
"No. Row Ark, Carl Lee told me five days before the 'killings that he would do it. He showed me the exact place where he would ambush them, although at the time I didn't realize it. Our client knew exactly what he was doing."
"Why didn't you stop him?"
"Because I didn't believe him. His daughter had just been raped and was fighting for her life."
"Would you have stopped him if you could?"
"I did tell Ozzie. But at the time neither of us dreamed it could happen. No, I would not have stopped him if I knew for certain. I would have done the same thing."
"How?"
"Exactly as he did it. It was very easy."
Ellen approached a fried dill pickle with her fork and played with it suspiciously. She cut it in half, pierced it with the fork, and sniffed it carefully. She put it in her mouth and chewed slowly. She swallowed, then pushed her pile of pickles across the table toward Jake.
"Typical yankee," he said. "I don't understand you, Row Ark. You don't like fried dill pickles, you're attractive, very bright, you could go to work with any blue-chip law firm in the country for megabucks, yet you want to spend your career losing sleep over cutthroat murderers who are on death row and about to get their just rewards. What makes you tick, Row Ark?"
"You lose sleep over the same people. Now it's Carl Lee Hailey. Next year it'll be some other murderer who everybody hates but you'll lose sleep over him because he happens to be your client. One of these days, Brigance, you'll have a client on death row, and you'll learn how terrible it is. When they strap him in the chair and he looks at you for the last time, you'll be a changed man. You'll know how barbaric the system is, and you'll remember Row Ark."
"Then I'll grow a beard and join the ACLU."
"Probably, if they would accept you."
The sauteed shrimp arrived in a small black skillet. It simmered in butter and garlic and barbeque sauce. Ellen dipped spoonfuls onto her plate and ate like a refugee. Merle lit into a stirring rendition of "Dixie," and the crowd sang and clapped along.
The waitress ran by and threw a platter of battered and crunchy frog legs on the table.
Jake finished a glass of wine and grabbed a handful of the frog legs. Ellen tried to ignore them. When they were full of appetizers, the catfish was served. The grease popped and fizzed and they did not touch the china. It was charbroiled to a deep brown crisp with black squares from the grill burned on each side. They ate and drank slowly, watching each other and savoring the delicious entree.
At midnight, the bottle was empty and the lights were dimmed. They said good night to the waitress and to Merle. They walked carefully down the steps and to the car. Jake buckled his seat belt.
"I'm too drunk to drive," he said.
"So am I. I saw a little motel not far down the road."
"I saw it too, and there were no vacancies. Nice try, Row Ark. Get me drunk and try to take advantage of me."
"I would if I could, mister."
For a moment their eyes met. Ellen's face reflected the red light cast by the neon sign that flashed HOLLYWOOD atop the restaurant.
The moment grew longer and then the sign was turned off. The restaurant had closed.
Jake started the Saab, let it warm, and raced away into the darkness.
Mickey Mouse called Ozzie early Saturday morning at his home and promised more trouble from the Klan. 'file riot on Thursday had not been their fault, he explained, yet they were being blamed for it. They had marched in peace, and now their leader lay near death with seventy percent of his body covered with third-degree burns. There would be retaliation; it had been ordered from above. Reinforcements were on the way from other states, and there would be violence. No specifics now, but he would call later when he knew more.
Ozzie sat on the side of his bed, rubbed the swollen hump on the back of his neck and called the mayor. And he called Jake. An hour later they met in Ozzie's office.
"The situation is about to get outta hand," Ozzie said, holding an ice pack to his neck and grimacing with every word. "I've got it from a reliable informant that the Klan plans to retaliate for what happened Thursday. They're supposed to bring fresh troops from other states."
"Do you believe it?" asked the mayor.
"I'm afraid not to believe it."
"Same informant?" asked Jake.
"Yep."
"Then I believe it."
"Somebody said there was talk of movin' or postponin' the trial," Ozzie said. "Any chance of it?"
"No. I met with Judge Noose yesterday. It won't be moved and it'll start Monday."
"Did you tell him about the burnin' crosses?"
"I told him everything."
"Is he crazy?" asked the mayor.
"Yes, and stupid. But don't quote me on that."
"Is he on solid legal ground?" asked Ozzie.
Jake shook his head. "More like quicksand."
"What have you got in mind?" asked the mayor.
Ozzie changed ice packs and carefully rubbed his neck. He spoke with pain. "I have a strong desire to prevent another riot. Our hospital is not big enough to allow
this crap to continue. We must do something. The blacks are angry and volatile, and it wouldn't take much to ignite them. Some blacks are just lookin' for a reason to start shootin', and those white robes are good targets. I've got a hunch the Klan may do somethin' really stupid, like try to kill somebody. They're gettin' more national exposure off this than they've had in ten years. The informant told me that after Thursday they've had calls from all over the country from volunteers wantin' to come down here and join the fun."
He slowly rolled his head around his shoulders and changed ice packs again. "I hate to say it, Mayor, but I think you should call the governor and ask for the National Guard. I know it's a drastic step, but I'd hate to get someone killed."
"The National Guard!" the mayor repeated in disbelief.
"That's what I said."
"Occupying Clanton?" .
"Yep. Protectin' your people."
"Patrolling the streets?"
"Yep. With guns and everthing."
"Oh my, this is drastic. Aren't you overreacting a bit?"
"No. It's evident I don't have enough men to keep peace around here. We couldn't even stop a riot that happened right in front of us. The Klan's burnin' crosses all
over the county, and we can't do anything about it. What will we do when the blacks decide to start some trouble? I don't have enough men, Mayor. I need some help."
Jake thought it was a marvelous idea. How could a fair and impartial jury be chosen when the National Guard had the courthouse surrounded? He thought of the jurors arriving for court Monday and walking past the soldiers with guns and jeeps and maybe even a tank or two parked in front of the courthouse. How could they be fair and impartial? How could Noose insist on trying the case in Clanton? How could the
Supreme Court refuse to reverse if, heaven forbid, there was a conviction?
It was a great idea.
"Whatta you think, Jake?" asked the mayor, looking for help.
"I don't think you have a choice, Mayor. We can't stand another riot. It could hurt you politically."
"I'm not worried about politics," the mayor replied angrily, knowing Jake and O/zie knew better.
The mayor had been reelected last time by less than fifty votes and did not make a move without weighing the political fallout. Ozzie caught a grin from Jake as the mayor squirmed with the thought of having his quiet little town occupied by the army.
After dark Saturday, Ozzie and Hastings led Carl Lee out the rear door of the jail and into the sheriff's patrol car. They talked and laughed as Hastings drove in slow motion out into the country, past Bates Grocery and onto Craft Road. The Haileys' front yard was covered with cars when they arrived, so he parked in the road. Carl
Lee walked through his front door like a free man and was immediately embraced by a mob of kinfolks, friends, and his children. They had not been told he was coming. He hugged them desperately, all four at the same time in one long bear hug as if there might be no more for a long time. The crowd watched in silence as this huge man knelt on the floor and buried his head among his weeping children. Most of those in the crowd wept too.
The kitchen was covered with food, and the guest of honor was seated in his usual chair at the head of the table with his wife and children seated around him. Reverend Agee returned thanks with a short prayer of hope and home-coming. A hundred friends waited on the family. Ozzie and Hastings filled their plates and retreated to the front porch, where they swatted mosquitoes and planned strategy for the trial. Ozzie was deeply concerned about Carl Lee's safety while they moved him from the jail to court and back each day. The defendant himself had proven clearly that such journeys are not always safe.
After supper the crowd spilled out into the front yard. The children played while the adults stayed on the porch, as close as possible to Carl Lee. He was their hero, the most famous man most of them would ever see, and they knew him personally. To his people he was on trial for one reason only. Sure he killed those boys, but that wasn't the issue. If he was white, he would receive civic awards for what he did. They would half-heartedly prosecute him, but with a white jury the trial would be a joke. Carl Lee was on trial because he was black. And if they convicted him, it would be because he was black. No other reason. They believed that. They listened carefully as he talked about the trial. He wanted their prayers and support, and wanted them all to be there and watch it and to protect his family.
They sat for hours in the sweltering humidity; Carl Lee and Gwen in the swing rocking slowly, surrounded by admirers all wanting to be near this great man. When they began to leave they all embraced him and promised to be there Monday. They wondered if they would see him again sitting on his front porch.
At midnight Ozzie said it was ti me to go. Carl Lee hugged Gwen and the kids one last time, then took his seat in Ozzie's car.
Bud Twitty died during the night. The dispatcher called Nes-bit, who told Jake. He made a note to send flowers.
Sunday. One day before trial. Jake awoke at 5:00 A.M. with a knot in his stomach that he attributed to the trial, and a headache that he attributed to the trial and a late Saturday night session on Lucien's porch with his law clerk and former boss. Ellen had decided to sleep in a guest room at Lucien's, so Jake spent the night on his couch in the office.
He lay on the couch and heard voices from the street below. He staggered in the dark to the balcony, and stopped in amazement at the scene around the courthouse. D-Day! The war was on! Patton had arrived! The streets around the square were lined with transport trucks, jeeps, and soldiers busy running here and there in an effort to get organized and look military. Radios squawked, and potbellied commanders yelled to their men to hurry and get organized. A command post was set up near the gazebo on the front lawn. Three squads of soldiers hammered on stakes and pulled ropes and strung up three enormous canvas camouflage pavilions. Barricades were set up on the four corners of the square, and sentries took their positions. They smoked cigarettes and leaned on the street lights.
Nesbit sat on the trunk of his car and watched the fortifying of downtown Clanton. He chatted with a few of the guardsmen. Jake made coffee and took him a cup. He was awake now, safe and secure, and Nesbit could go home and rest until dark. Jake returned to the balcony and watched the activity until dawn. Once the troops were unloaded, the transport trucks were moved to the National Guard armory north of town, where the men would sleep. He estimated their number at two hundred. They piddled around the courthouse and walked in small groups around the square, looking in shops, waiting for daylight and the hope of some excitement.
Noose would be furious. How dare they call the National Guard without asking him. It was his trial. The mayor had mentioned this, and Jake had explained that it was the mayors responsiomiy 10 Keep ^laniun saie, iiui me iriai judge's. Ozzie concurred, and
Noose was not called.
The sheriff and Moss Junior latum arrived and met with the colonel in the gazebo. They walked around the courthouse, inspecting troops and pavilions. Ozzie pointed in various directions and the colonel seemed to agree with whatever he wanted. Moss Junior unlocked the' courthouse so the troops would have drinking water and toilet facilities. It was after nine before the first of the vultures stumbled onto the occupation of downtown
Clanton. Within an hour they were running everywhere with cameras and microphones gathering important words from a sergeant or a corporal.
"What is your name, sir?"
"Sergeant Drumwright."
"Where are you from?"
"Booneville."
"Where's that?"
" 'Bout a hundred miles from here."
"Why are you here?"
"Governor called us."
"Why did he call you?"
"Keep things under control."
"Are you expecting trouble?"
"No."
"How long will you be here?"
"Don't know."
"Will you be here until the trial's over?"
"Don't know."
"Who knows?"
"The governor, I reckon."
And so on.
Word of the invasion spread quickly through the quiet Sunday morning, and after church the townfolk streamed to the square to verify for themselves that the army had indeed captured the courthouse. The sentries removed the barricades and allowed the curious to drive around their square and gawk at the real live soldiers with their rifles and jeeps.
Jake sat on the balcony, drinking coffee and memorizing the notecards of his jurors.
He called Carla and explained that the National Guard had been deployed, but he was still sate, in tact, ne naa never felt so safe. As he talked to her, he explained, there were hundreds of heavily armed army militiamen across Washington Street just waiting to protect him. Yes, he still had his bodyguard. Yes, the house was still standing. He doubted if the death of Bud Twitty had been reported yet, so he did not tell her. Maybe she would not hear of it. They were going fishing on her father's boat, and Hanna wanted her daddy to go. He said goodbye, and missed the two women in his life more than ever.
Ellen Roark unlocked the rear door of the office and placed a small grocery sack on the table in the kitchen. She pulled a file out of her briefcase and began looking for her boss.
He was on the balcony, staring at notecards and watching the courthouse. "Evenin', Row Ark."
"Good evening, boss." She handed him a brief an inch thick. "It's the research you requested on the admissibility of the rape. It's a tough issue, and it got involved. I apologize for the size of it."
It was as neat as her other briefs, complete with a table of contents, bibliography, and numbered pages. He flipped through it. "Damn, Row Ark, I didn't ask for a textbook."
"I know you're intimidated by scholarly work, so I made a conscious effort to use words with fewer than three syllables."
"My, aren't we frisky today. Could you summarize this in a dissertation of, say, thirty pages or so?"
"Look, it's a thorough study of the law by a gifted law student with a remarkable ability to think and write clearly. It's a work of genius, and it's yours, and it's absolutely free. So quit bitching."
"Yes, ma'am. Does your head hurt?"
"Yes. It's been aching since I woke up this morning. I've typed on that brief for ten hours, and I need a drink. Do you have a blender?"
"A what?"
"Blender. It's a new invention we have up North. They're kitchen appliances."
. "There's one in the shelves next to the microwave." she disappeared. It was almost dark, and the traffic had thinned around the square as the Sunday drivers had grown bored with the sight of soldiers guarding their courthouse. After twelve hours of suffocating heat and foglike humidity in downtown Clanton, the troops were weary and homesick.
They sat under trees and on folding canvas chairs, and cursed the governor. As it grew darker, they strung wires from inside the courthouse and hung floodlights around -the pavilions. By the post office a carload of blacks arrived with lawn chairs and candles to start the nightly vigil. They began pacing the sidewalk along Jackson Street under the suddenly aroused stares of two hundred heavily armed guardsmen. The lead walker was
Miss Rosia Alfie Gatewood, a two-hundred-pound widow who had raised eleven children and sent nine to college. She was the first black known to have sipped cold water from the public fountain on the square and live to tell about it. She glared at the soldiers. They did not speak.
Ellen returned with two Boston College beer mugs filled with a pale green liquid. She sat them on the table and pulled up a chair.
"What's that?"
"Drink it. It'll help you relax."
"I'll drink it. But I'd like to know what it is."
"Margaritas."
Jake studied the top of his mug. "Where's the salt?"
"I don't like salt on mine."
"Well, I don't either then. Why margaritas?"
"Why not?"
Jake closed his eyes and took a long drink. And then another. "Row Ark, you are a talented woman."
"Gofer."
He took another long drink. "I haven't had a margarita in eight years."
"I'm very sorry." Her twenty-ounce mug was half empty.
"What kind of rum?"
"I would call you a dumbass if you weren't my boss."
"Thank you."
"It's not rum. It's tequila, with lime juice and Coin-treau. I thought every law student knew that."
"How can you ever forgive me? I'm sure I knew it when I was a law student." •
She gazed around the square.
"This is incredible! It looks like a war zone."
Jake drained his glass.and licked his lips. Under the pavilions they played cards and laughed. Others sought'refuge from the mosquitoes in the courthouse. The candles turned the corner and made a pass down Washington Street.
"Yes," Jake said with a smile. "It's beautiful, isn't it? Think of our fair and impartial jurors as they arrive in the morning and are confronted with that. I'll renew my motion for a change of venue. It'll be denied. I'll ask for a mistrial, and Noose will say no. And then I'll make sure the court reporter records the fact that this trial is being conducted in the middle of a three-ring circus."
"Why are they here?"
"The sheriff and the mayor called the governor, and convinced him the National Guard was needed to preserve peace in Ford County. They told him our hospital is not large enough for this trial."
"Where are they from?"
"Booneville and Columbus. I counted two hundred and twenty around lunch."
"They've been here all day?"
"They woke me at five this morning. I've followed their movements all day. They were pinned down a couple of times, but reinforcements arrived. A few minutes ago they met the enemy when Miss Gatewood and her friends arrived with their candles. She stared them down, so now they're playing cards."
Ellen finished her drink and left for more. Jake picked up the stack of notecards for the hundredth time and flashed them on the table. Name, age, occupation, family, race, education-he had read and repeated the information since early morning. Round Two arrived with haste, and she took the cards.
"Correen Hagan," she said, sipping.
He thought a second. "Age, about fifty-five. Secretary for an insurance agent. Divorced, two grown children. Education, probably high school, no more. Native of Florida, for what that's worth."
"Rating?"
"I think I gave her a six."
"Very good. Millard Sills."
"Owns a pecan orchard near Mays. About seventy years old. Hi s nephew was shot in the head by two blacks during a robbery in Little Rock several years ago. Hates blacks. He will not be on the jury."
"Rating?"
"Zero, I believe."
"Clay Bailey."
"Age, about thirty. Six kids. Devout Pentecostal. Works at the furniture plant west of town."
"You've given him a ten."
"Yeah. I'm sure he's read that part in the Bible about an eye for an eye, etc. Plus, out of six kids, I'd think at least two would be daughters."
"Do you have all of them memorized?"
He nodded and took a drink. "I feel like I've known them for years."
"How many will you recognize?"
"Very few. But I'll know more about them than Buck-ley."
"I'm impressed."
"What! What did you say! I have impressed you with my intellect!"
"Among other things."
"I feel so honored. I've impressed a genius in criminal law. The daughter of Sheldon
Roark, whoever he is. A real live summa cum laude. Wait'111 tell Harry Rex."
"Where is that elephant? I miss him. I think he's cute."
"Go call him. Ask him to join us for a patio party as we watch the troops prepare for the
Third Battle of Bull Run."
She headed for the phone on Jake's desk. "What about Lucien?"
"No! I'm tired of Lucien."
Harry Rex brought a fifth of tequila he found somewhere deep in his liquor cabinet. He and the law clerk argued violently over the proper ingredients of a good margarita. Jake voted with his clerk. They sat on the balcony, calling names from index cards, drinking the tangy concoction, yelling at the soldiers, and singing Jimmy Buffet songs. At midnight, Nesbit loaded Ellen in his patrol car and took her to Lucien's. Harry Rex walked home. Jake slept on the couch.
Monday, July 22. Not long after the last margarita Jake bolted from the couch and stared at the clock on his desk. He had slept for three hours. A swarm of wild butterflies fought violently in his stomach. A nervous pain shot through his groin. He had no time for a hangover.
Nesbit slept like an infant behind the wheel. Jake roused him and jumped in the back seat.
He waved at the sentries, who watched curiously from across the street. Nesbit drove two blocks to Adams, released his passenger, and waited in the driveway as instructed. He showered and shaved quickly. He chose a charcoal worsted wool suit, a white pinpoint button-down, and a very neutral, noncontro-versial, expressionless burgundy silk tie with a few narrow navy stripes for good measure. The pleated pants hung perfectly from his trim waist. He looked great, much more stylish than the enemy.
Nesbit was asleep again when Jake released the dog and jumped in the back seat.
"Everything okay in there?" Nesbit asked, wiping the saliva from his chin.
"I didn't find any dynamite, if that's what you mean."
Nesbit laughed at this, with the same irritating, laughing response he made to almost everything. They circled the square and Jake got out in front of his office. Thirty minutes after he left, he turned on the front lights and made the coffee.
He took four aspirin and drank a quart of grapefruit juice. His eyes burned and his head ached from abuse and fatigue, and the tiring part had not yet begun. On the conference table he spread out his file on Carl Lee Hailey. It had been organized and indexed by his law clerk, but he wanted to break it down and put it back together. If a document or case can't be found in thirty seconds, it's no good.
He smiled at Jier talent for organization. She had files and sub-files on everything, all ten seconds away at a fingertip. In a one-inch, three-ring notebook she had a summary of Dr.
Bass's qualifi- cations and the outline of his testimony. She had made notes on anticipated objections from Buckley, and provided case authority to fight his objections. Jake took great pride in his trial preparation, but it was humbling to learn from a third-year law student.
He repacked the file in his trial briefcase, the heavy black leather one with his initials in gold on the side. Nature called, and he sat on the toilet flipping through the index cards.
He knew them all. He was ready.
A few minutes after five, Harry Rex knocked on the door. It was dark and he looked like a burglar.
"Whatta you doing up so early?" Jake asked.
"I couldn't sleep. I'm kinda nervous." He thrust forward a loaded paper sack with grease spots.
"Dell sent these over. They're fresh and hot. Sausage biscuits, bacon and cheese biscuits, chicken and cheese biscuits, you name it. She's worried about you."
"Thanks, Harry Rex, but I'm not hungry. My system is in revolt."
"Nervous?"
"As a whore in church."
"You look pretty haggard."
"Thanks."
"Nice suit though."
"Carla picked it out."
Harry Rex reached into the sack and produced a handful of biscuits wrapped in foil. He piled them on the conference table and fixed his coffee. Jake sat across from him and flipped through Ellen's brief on M'Naghten.
"She write that?" Harry Rex asked with both cheeks full and his jaws grinding rapidly.
"Yeah, it's a seventy-five-page summary of the insanity defense in Mississippi. It took her three days."
"She seems very bright."
"She's got the brains, and she writes fluidly. The intellect is there, but she has trouble applying what she knows to the real world."
"Whatta you know about her?" Crumbs fell from his mouth and bounced on the table. He brushed them onto the floor with a sleeve.
"She's solid. Number two in her class at Ole Miss. I called Nelson Battles, Assistant Dean of the Law School, and she checked out fine. She has a good chance of finishing number one."
"I finished ninety-third outta ninety-eight. I would've finished ninety-second but they caught me cheating on an exam. I started to protest, but I figured ninety-third was just as good. Hell, I figured, who cares in Clanton. These people were just glad I came back here to practice when I graduated instead of going to Wall Street or some pjace like that."
Jake smiled at the story he had heard a hundred times.
Harry Rex unwrapped a chicken and cheese biscuit. "You look nervous, buddy."
"I'm okay. The first day is always the hardest. The preparation has been done. I'm ready..
It's just a matter of waiting now."
"What time does Row Ark make her entrance?"
"I don't know."
"Lord, I wonder what she'll wear."
"Or not wear. I just hope she's decent. You know what a prude Noose is."
"You're not gonna let her sit at counsel table are you?"
"I don't think so. She'll stay in the background, sort of like you. She might offend some of the women jurors."
"Yeah, keep her there, but outta sight."
Harry Rex wiped his mouth with a huge paw. "You sleeping with her?"
"No! I'm not crazy, Harry Rex."
"You're crazy if you don't. That woman could be had."
"Then have her. I've got enough on my mind."
"She thinks I'm cute, don't she?"
"She says she does."
"I think I'll give it a shot," he said with a straight face, then he smiled, then he burst into laughter with crumbs spraying the bookshelves.
The phone rang. Jake shook his head, and Harry Rex picked up the receiver. "He's not here, but I'll be glad to give him the message." He winked at Jake. "Yes sir, yes sir, uh huh, yes sir. It's a terrible thing, ain't it. Can you believe a man would do it? Yes sir, yes sir, I agree one hundred percent. Yes sir, and what's your name, sir? Sir?" Harry Rex smiled at the receiver and laid it down.
"What'd he want?"
"Said you was a shame to the white race for being that nigger's lawyer, and that he didn't see how any lawyer could represent a nigger such as Hailey. And that he hoped the Klan got ahold of you, and if they didn't he hoped the bar association looked into it and took away your license for helping niggers. Said he knew you were no 'count because you were trained by Lucien Wilbanks who lives with a nigger woman."
"And you agreed with him!"
"Why not? He was really sincere, not hateful, and he feels better now that it's off his chest." The phone rang again. Harry Rex snatched the receiver. "Jake Brigance, Attorney, Counselor, Consultant, Adviser, and Guru at Law."
Jake left for the restroom. "Jake, it's a reporter!" Harry Rex yelled.
"I'm on the potty."
"He's got the runs!" Harry Rex told the reporter.
At six-seven in Wilmington-Jake called Carla. She was awake, reading the paper, drinking coffee. He told her about Bud Twitty, and Mickey Mouse', and the promise of more violence. No, he wasn't afraid of that. It did not bother him. He was afraid of the jury, of the twelve who would be chosen, and their reaction to him and his client. His only fear, at the moment, was of what the jury might do to his client. Everything else was irrelevant. For the first time, she did not mention coming home. He promised to call that night.
When he hung up, he heard a commotion downstairs. Ellen had arrived, and Harry Rex was talking loudly. She's wearing a see-through blouse with a miniskirt, thought Jake as he walked downstairs. She was not. Harry Rex was congratulating her on dressing like a
Southern woman with all the accessories. She was wearing a gray glen plaid suit with a
V-necked jacket and short slim skirt. The silk blouse was black, and apparently the necessary garment was underneath. Her hair was pulled back and braided in some fashion. Incredibly, traces of mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick were visible.
In the words of Harry Rex, she looked as much like a lawyer as a woman could look.
"Thanks, Harry Rex," she said. "I wish I had your taste in clothes."
"You look nice, Row Ark," Jake said.
"So do you," she said. She looked at Harry Rex, but said nothing.
"Please forgive us, Row Ark," Harry Rex said. "We're impressed because we had no idea you owned so many types of garments. We apologize for admiring you and we know how much this infuriates your little liberated heart. Yes, we're sexist pigs, but you chose to come to the South. And in the South we, as a rule, drool over well-dressed attractive females, liberated or not."
"What's in the sack?" she said.
"Breakfast."
She tore it open and unwrapped a sausage and biscuit. "No bagels?" she asked.
"What's that?" asked Harry Rex.
"Forget it."
Jake rubbed his hands together and tried to sound enthusiastic. "Well, now that we've gathered here three hours before trial, what would y'all like to do?"
"Let's make some margaritas," said Harry Rex.
"No!" said Jake.
"It'll take the edge off."
"Not me," said Ellen. "This is business."
Harry Rex unwrapped a biscuit, the last of the sack. "What happens first today?"
"After the sun comes up, we start the trial. At nine, Noose will say a few words to the jurors and we start the selection process."
"How long will it take?" asked Ellen.
"Two or three days. In Mississippi, we have the right to interrogate each juror individually in chambers. That takes time."
"Where do I sit and what do I do?"
"She certainly sounds experienced," Harry Rex said to Jake. "Does she know where the courthouse is?"
"You do not sit at counsel table," said Jake. "Just me and Carl Lee."
She wiped her mouth. "I see. Just you and the defen- dant sitting alone, surrounded by the forces of evil, facing death alone."
"Something like that."
"My father uses that tactic occasionally."
"I'm glad you approve. You'll sit behind me, next to the railing. I'll ask Noose to allow you into chambers for the private discussions."
"What about me?" asked Harry Rex.
"Noose doesn't like you, Harry Rex. He never has. He'd have a stroke if I asked if you could go in chambers. It'd be best if you pretended we'd never met."
"Thanks."
"But we do appreciate your assistance," Ellen said.
"Up yours, Ellie Mae."
"And you can still drink with us," she said.
"And furnish the tequila."
"There will be no more alcohol in this office," Jake said.
"Until the noon recess," said Harry Rex.
"I want you to stand behind the clerk's table, just loiter about like you always do, and take notes on the jury. Try to match them with the notecards. There'll probably be a hundred and twenty."
"Whatever you say."
Daybreak brought the army out in force. The barricades were reinstalled, and on each corner of the square soldiers clustered around the orange and white barrels blocking the street. They were poised and anxious, watching every car intently, waiting for the enemy to attack, wanting some excitement. Things stirred a little when a few of the vultures in their compact wagons and minivans with fancy logos on the doors appeared at seven-thirty. The troops surrounded the vehicles and informed everyone there would be no parking around the courthouse during the trial. The vultures disappeared down the side streets, then moments later reappeared on foot with their bulky cameras and equipment.
Some set up camp on the front steps of the courthouse, others by the back door, and another group in the rotunda outside the main door of the courtroom on the second floor.
Murphy, the janitor and only real eyewitness to the killings of Cobb and Willard, informed the press, as best he could, that the courtroom would be opened at eight, and not a minute before. A line formed and soon circled the rotunda.
The church buses parked somewhere off the square, and the marchers were led slowly down Jackson Street by the ministers. They carried FREE CARL LEE signs and sang
"We Shall Overcome" in a perfect chorus. As they neared the square, the soldiers heard them and the radios began squawking. Ozzie and the colonel conferred quickly, and the soldiers relaxed. The marchers were led by Ozzie to a section of the front lawn where they milled about and waited under the watchful eyes of the Mississippi National Guard.
At eight, a metal detector was moved to the front doors of the courtroom, and a trio of heavily armed deputies began slowly searching and admitting the crowd of spectators that now filled the rotunda and trailed off into the halls. Inside the courtroom, Prather directed traffic, seating people on the long pews on one side of the aisle while reserving the other side for the jurors. The front pew was reserved for the family, and the second row was filled with courtroom artists who
immediately began sketching the bench and the bar and the portraits of Confederate heroes.
The Klan felt obligated to make its presence known on opening day, especially to the prospective jurors as they arrived. Two dozen Kluxers in full parade dress walked quietly onto Washington Street. They were immediately stopped and surrounded by soldiers. The potbellied colonel swaggered across the street and for the first time in his life came face to face with a white-robed and white-hooded Ku Klux Klansman, who happened to be a foot taller. He then noticed the cameras, which had gravitated to this confrontation, and the bully in him vanished. His usual bark and growl was instantly replaced by a high-pitched, nervous, trembling stutter that was incomprehensible even to himself.
Ozzie arrived and saved him. "Good mornin', fellas," he said coolly as he stepped beside the faltering colonel. "We've got you surrounded, and we've got you outnumbered. We also know we can't keep you from being here."
"That's right," said the leader.
"If you'll just follow me and do as I say, we won't have any trouble."
They followed Ozzie and the colonel to a small area on the front lawn, where it was explained that this was their turf for the trial. Stay there and stay quiet, and the colonel would personally keep the troops off them. They agreed.
As expected, the sight of the white robes aroused the blacks who were some two hundred feet away. They began shouting: "Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!"
The Klansmen shook their fists and shouted back:
"Fry Carl Lee!"
"Fry Carl Lee!"
"Fry Carl Lee!"
Two rows of troops lined the main sidewalk that divided the lawn and led to the front steps.
Another row stood between the sidewalk and the Klansmen, and one between the sidewalk and the blacks.
As the jurors began arriving, they walked briskly through the rows of soldiers. They clutched their summonses and listened in disbelief as the two groups screamed at each other.
The Honorable Rufus Buckley arrived in Clanton and politely informed the guardsmen of who he was and what that meant, and he was allowed to park in his spot marked
RESERVED FOR D.A. next to the courthouse. The reporters went wild. This must be important, someone had broken through the barricade. Buckley sat in his well-used
Cadillac for a moment to allow the reporters to catch him. They surrounded him as he slammed the door. He smiled and smiled and made his way ever so slowly to the front door of the courthouse. The rapid fire of questions proved irresistible, and Buckley violated the gag order at least eight times, each time smiling and explaining that he could not answer the question he had just answered. Musgrove trailed behind carrying the great man's briefcase.
Jake paced nervously in his office. The door was locked. Ellen was downstairs working on another brief. Harry Rex was at ,the Coffee Shop eating another breakfast and gossiping. The notecards were scattered on his desk, and he was tired of them. He flipped through a brief, then walked to the French doors. The shouting echoed through the open windows. He returned to the desk and studied the outline of his opening comments to the prospective jurors. The first impression was critical.
He lay on the couch, closed his eyes, and thought of a thousand things he'd rather be doing. For the most part, he enjoyed his work. But there were moments, frightening moments like this one, when he wished he'd become an insurance agent or a stockbroker.
Or maybe even a tax lawyer. Surely those guys didn't regularly suffer from nausea and diarrhea at critical moments in their careers. Lucien had taught him that fear was good; fear was an ally; that every lawyer was afraid when he stood before a new jury and presented his case. It was okay to be afraid- just don't show it. Jurors would not follow the lawyer with the quickest tongue or prettiest words. They would not follow the sharpest dresser. They would not follow a clown or court jester. They would not follow the lawyer who preached the loudest or fought the hardest. Lucien had convinced him that jurors followed the lawyer who told the truth, regardless of his looks, words, or superficial abilities. A lawyer had to be himself in the courtroom, and if he was afraid, so be it. The jurors were afraid too.
Make friends with fear, Lucien always said, because it will not go away, and it will destroy you if left uncontrolled.
The fear hit deep in his bowels, and he walked carefully downstairs to the rest room.
"How are you, boss?" Ellen asked when.he checked on her.
"Ready, I guess. We'll leave in a minute."
"There are some reporters waiting outside. I told them you had withdrawn from the case and left town."
"At this moment, I wish I had."
"Have you heard of Wendall Solomon?"
"Not right off hand."
"He's with the Southern Prisoner Defense Fund. I worked under him last summer. He's tried over a hundred capital cases all over the South. He gets so nervous before a trial he can neither eat nor sleep. His doctor gives him seda- tives, but he's still so jumpy no one speaks to him on opening day. And that's after a hundred of these trials."
"How does your father handle it?"
" He has a couple of martinis with a Valium. Then he lies on his desk with the door locked and the lights off until it's time for court. His nerves are ragged and he's ill-tempered. Of course, a lot of that is natural."
"So you know the feeling?"
"I know it well."
"Do I look nervous?"
"You look tired. But you'll do."
Jake checked his watch. "Let's go."
The reporters on the sidewalk pounced on their prey. "No comment" he insisted as he moved slowly across the street toward the courthouse. The barrage continued.
"Is it true you plan to ask for a mistrial?"
"I can't do that until the trial starts."
"Is it true the Klan has threatened you?"
"No comment."
"Is it true you sent your family out of town until after the trial?"
Jake hesitated and glanced at the reporter. "No comment."
"What do you think of the National Guard?"
"I'm proud of them."
"Can your client get a fair trial in Ford County?"
Jake shook his head, then added, "No comment."
A deputy stood guard a few feet from where the bodies had come to rest. He pointed at Ellen.
"Who's she, Jake?"
"She's harmless. She's with me."
They ran up the rear stairs. Carl Lee sat alone at the defense table, his back to the packed courtroom. Jean Gil-lespie was busy checking in jurors while deputies roamed the aisles looking for anything suspicious. Jake greeted his client warmly, taking special care to shake his hand, smile broadly at him, and put his hand on his shoulder. Ellen unpacked the briefcases and neatly arranged the files on the table.
Jake whispered to his client and looked around the courtroom. All eyes were on him. The
Hailey clan sat handsomely in the front row. Jake smiled at them and nodded at Lester.
Tbnya and the boys were decked out in their Sunday clothes, and they sat between Lester and Gwen like perfect little statues. -The jurors sat across the aisle, and they were carefully studying Hailey's lawyer. Jake thought this would be a good time for the jurors to see the family, so he walked through the swinging gate in the railing and went to speak to the Haileys. He patted Gwen on the shoulder, shook hands with Lester, pinched each of the boys, and, finally, hugged Tonya, the little Hailey girl, the one who had been raped by the two rednecks who got what they deserved. The jurors watched every move of this production, and paid special attention to the little girl.
"Noose wants us in chambers," Musgrove whispered to Jake as he returned to the defense table.
Ichabod, Buckley, and the court reporter were chatting when Jake and Ellen entered chambers. Jake introduced his clerk to His Honor and Buckley and Musgrove, and to
Norma Gallo, the court reporter. He explained that Ellen Roark was a third-year law student at Ole Miss who was clerking in his office, and requested that she be allowed to sit near counsel table and participate in the proceedings in chambers. Buckley had no objections. It was common practice, Noose explained, and he welcomed her.
"Preliminary matters, gentlemen?" Noose asked.
"None," said the D.A.
"Several," said Jake as he opened a file. "I want this on the record." Norma Gallo started writing.
"First of all, I want to renew my motion for a change of venue-"
"We object," interrupted Buckley.
"Shut up, Governor!" Jake yelled. "I'm not through, and don't interrupt me again!"
Buckley and the others were startled by this loss of composure. It's all those margaritas, thought Ellen.
"I apologize, Mr. Brigance," Buckley said calmly. "Please don't refer to me as governor."
"Let me say something at this point," Noose started. "This trial will be a long and arduous ordeal. I can appreciate the pressure you're both under. I've been in your shoes many times myself, and I know what you're going through. You're both excellent lawyers, and
I'm thankful that I have two fine lawyers for a trial of this magnitude. I can also detect a certain amount of ill will between you. That's certainly not uncommon, and I will not ask you to shake hands and be good friends. But I will insist that when you're in my courtroom or in these chambers that you refrain from interrupting each other, and that the shouting be held to a bare minimum. You will refer to each other as Mr. Brigance, and
Mr. Buckley, and Mr. Musgrove. Now do each of you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Then continue, Mr. Brigance."
"Thank you, Your Honor, I appreciate that. As I was saying, the defendant renews his motion for a change of venue. I want the record to reflect that as we sit here now in chambers, at nine-fifteen, July twenty-second, as we are about to select a jury, the Ford
County Courthouse is surrounded by the Mississippi National Guard. On the front lawn a group of Ku Klux Klansmen, in white robes, is at this very moment yelling at a group of black demonstrators, who are, of course, yelling back.
The two groups are separated by heavily armed National Guardsmen. As the jurors arrived for court this morning, they witnessed this circus on the courthouse lawn. It will be impossible to select a fair and impartial jury."
Buckley watched with a cocky grin on his huge face, and when Jake finished he said,
"May I respond, Your Honor?"
"No," Noose said bluntly. "Motion is overruled. What else do you have?"
"The defense moves to strike this entire panel."
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that there has been an overt effort by the Klan to intimidate this panel.
We know of at least twenty cross burnings."
"I intend to excuse those twenty, assuming they all showed up," said Noose.
"Fine," Jake replied sarcastically. "What about the threats we don't know about? What about the jurors who've heard of the cross burnings?"
Noose wiped his eyes and said nothing. Buckley had a speech but didn't want to interrupt.
"I've got a list here," Jake said, reaching into a file, "of the twenty jurors who received visits. I've also got copies of the police reports, and an affidavit from Sheriff Walls in which he details the acts of intimidation. I am submitting these to the court in support of my motion to strike this panel. I want this made a part of the record so the Supreme Court can see it in black and white."
"Expecting an appeal, Mr. Brigance?" asked Mr. Buck-ley. Ellen had just met Rufus
Buckley, and now, seconds later, she understood exactly why Jake and Harry Rex hated him.
"No, Governor, I'm not expecting an appeal. I'm trying to insure that my man gets a fair trial from a fair jury. You should understand that."
"I'm not going to strike this panel. That would cost us a week," Noose said.
"What's time when a man's life is at stake? We're talking about justice. The right to a fair trial, remember, a most basic constitutional right. It's a travesty not to strike this panel when you know for a fact that some of these people have been intimidated by a bunch of goons in white robes who want to see my client hanged."
"Your motion is overruled," Noose said flatly. "What else do you have?"
"Nothing, really. I request that when you do excuse the twenty, you so do in such a way that the other jurors don't know the reason."
"I can handle that, Mr. Brigance."
Mr. Pate was sent to find Jean Gillespie. Noose handed her a list of the twenty names.
She returned to the courtroom and read the list. They were not needed for jury duty, and were free to go. She returned to chambers.
"How many jurors do we have?" Noose asked her.
"Ninety-four."
"That's enough. I'm sure we can find twelve who are fit to serve."
"You couldn't find two," Jake mumbled to Ellen, loud enough for Noose to hear and
Norma Gallo to record. His Honor excused them and they took their places in the courtroom. Ninety-four names were written on small strips of paper that were placed in a short wooden cylinder. Jean Gillespie spun the cylinder, stopped it, and picked a name at random. She handed it to Noose, who sat above her and everyone else on his throne, or bench, as it was called. The courtroom watched in dead silence as he squinted down that nose and looked at the first name.
"Carlene Malone, juror number one," he shrieked in his loudest voice. The front row had been cleared, and Mrs. Malone took her seat next to the aisle. Each pew would seat ten, and there were ten pews, all to be filled with jurors. The ten pews on the other side of the aisle were packed with family, friends, spectators, but mainly reporters who scribbled down the name of Carlene Malone.
Jake wrote her name too. She was white, fat, divorced, lower income. She was a two on the Brigance scale. Zero for one, he thought.
Jean spun again.
"Marcia Dickens, juror number two," yelled Noose. White, fat, over sixty with a rather unforgiving look. Zero for two.
"Jo Beth Mills, number three."
Jake sank a little in his seat. She was white, about fifty, and worked for minimum wage at a shirt factory in Karaway. Thanks to affirmative action, she had a black boss who was ignorant and abusive. She had a zero by her name on the Brigance notecard. Zero for three.
Jake stared desperately at Jean as she spun again. "Reba Betts, number four."
He sunk lower and began pinching his forehead. Zero for four. "This is incredible," he mumbled in the direction of Ellen. Harry Rex shook his head.
"Gerald Ault, number five."
Jake smiled as his number-one juror took a seat next to Reba Betts. Buckley placed a nasty black mark by his name.
"Alex Summers, number six."
Carl Lee managed a weak smile as the first black emerged from the rear and took a seat next to Gerald Ault. Buckley smiled too as he neatly circled the name of the first black.
The next four were white women, none of whom rated ab ove three on the scale. Jake was worried as the first pew filled. By law he had twelve peremptory challenges, free strikes with no reason required. The luck of the draw would force him to use at least half of his peremptories on the first pew.
"Walter Godsey, number eleven," announced Noose, his voice declining steadily in volume. Godsey was a middle-aged sharecropper with no compassion and no potential.
When Noose finished the second row, it contained seven white women, two black men, and Godsey. Jake sensed a disaster. Relief didn't come until the fourth row when Jean hit a hot streak and pulled the names of seven men, four of whom were black.
It took almost an hour to seat the entire panel. Noose recessed for fifteen minutes to allow
Jean time to type a numerical list of names. Jake and Ellen used the break to review their notes and place the names with the faces. Harry Rex had sat at the counter behind the red docket books and feverishly taken notes while Noose called the names. He huddled with
Jake and agreed things were not going well.
At eleven, Noose reassumed the bench, and the courtroom was silenced. Someone suggested he should use the mike, and he placed it within inches of his nose. He spoke loudly, and his fragile, obnoxious voice rattled violently around the courtroom as he asked a lengthy series of statu-torily required questions. He introduced Carl Lee and asked if any juror was kin to him or knew him.
They all knew of him, and Noose assumed that, but only two of the panel admitted knowing him prior to May. Noose introduced the lawyers, then explained briefly the nature of the charges. Not a single juror confessed to being ignorant of the Hailey case.
Noose rambled on and on, and mercifully finished at twelve-thirty. He recessed until two.
Dell delivered hot sandwiches and iced tea to the conference room. Jake hugged and thanked her, and told her to send him the bill. He ignored his food, and laid the notecards on the table in the order the jurors had been seated. Harry Rex attacked a roast beef and cheddar sandwich. "We got a terrible draw," he kept repeating with both cheeks stretched to the limit. "We got a terrible draw."
When the ninety-fourth card was in place, Jake stood back and studied them. Ellen stood beside him and nibbled on a french fry. She studied the cards.
"We got a terrible draw," Harry Rex said, washing it all down with a pint of tea.
"Would you shut up," Jake snapped.
"Of the first fifty, we have eight black men, three black women, and thirty white women.
That leaves nine white men, and most are unattractive. Looks like a white female jury," Ellen said.
"White females, white females," Harry Rex said. "The worst possible jurors in the world. White females!"
Ellen stared at him. "I think fat white men are the worst jurors."
"Don't get me wrong, Row Ark, I love white females. I've married four of them, remember. I just hate white female jurors."
"I wouldn't vote to convict him."
"Row Ark, you're an ACLU communist. You wouldn't vote to convict anybody of anything. In your little demented mind you think child pornographers and PLO terrorists are really swell people who've been abused by the system and should be given a break."
"And in your rational, civilized, and compassionate mind, what do you think we should do with them?"
"Hang them by their toes, castrate them, and let them bleed to death, without a trial."
"And the way you understand the law, that would be constitutional?"
"Maybe not, but it'd stop a lot of child pornography and terrorism. Jake, are you gonna eat this sandwich?"
"No."
Harry Rex unwrapped a ham and cheese. "Stay away from number one, Carlene Malone.
She's one of those Malones from Lake Village. White trash and mean as hell."
"I'd like to stay away from this entire panel," Jake said, still staring at the table.
"We got a terrible draw."
"Whatta you think, Row Ark?" Jake asked.
Harry Rex swallowed quickly. "I think we oughtta plead him guilty and get the hell outta there. Run like a scalded dog."
Ellen stared at the cards. "It could be worse."
Harry Rex forced a loud laugh. "Worse! The only way it could be worse would be if the first thirty were sitting there wearing white robes with pointed hats and little masks."
"Harry Rex, would you shut up," Jake said.
"Just trying to help. Do you want your french fries?"
"No. Why don't you put all of them in your mouth and chew on them for a long time?"
"I think you're wrong about some of these women," Ellen said. "I'm inclined to agree with
Lucien. Women, as a very general rule, will have more sympathy. We're the ones who get raped, remember?"
"I have no response to that," Harry Rex said.
"Thanks," replied Jake. "Which one of these girls is your former client who'll supposedly do anything for you if you'll simply wink at her?"
Ellen snickered. "Must be number twenty-nine. She's five feet tall and weighs four hundred pounds."
Harry Rex wiped his mouth with a sheet of paper. "Very funny. Number seventy-four.
She's too far back. Forget her."
Noose rapped his gavel at two and the courtroom came to order.
"The State may examine the panel," he said.
The magnificent district attorney rose slowly and walked importantly to the bar, where he stood and gazed pensively at the spectators and jurors. He realized the artists were sketching him, and he seemed to pose for just a moment. He smiled sincerely at the jurors, then introduced himself. He explained that he was the people's lawyer; his client, the State of Mississippi. He had served as their prosecutor for nine years now, and it was an honor for which he would always be grateful to the fine folks of Ford County. He pointed at them and told them that they, the very ones sitting there, were the folks who had elected him to represent them. He thanked them, and hoped he did not let them down.
Yes, he was nervous and frightened. He had prosecuted thousands of criminals, but he was always scared with each trial. Yes! He was scared, and not ashamed to admit it.
Scared because of the awesome responsibility the people had bestowed upon him as the man responsible for sending criminals to jail and protecting the people. Scared because he might fail to adequately represent his client, the people of this great state.
Jake had heard all this crap many times before. He had it memorized. Buckley the good guy, the state's lawyer, united with the people to seek justice, to save society. He was a smooth, gifted orator who one moment could chat softly with a jury, much like a grandfather giving advice to his grandchildren. The next moment he would launch into a tirade and deliver a sermon that any black preacher would envy. A split second later, in a fluid burst of eloquence, he could convince a jury that the stability of our society, yes, even the future of the human race, depended upon a guilty verdict. He was at his best in big trials, and this was his biggest. He spoke without notes, and held the courtroom captivated as he portrayed himself as the underdog, the friend and partner of the jury, who, together with him, would find the truth, and punish this man for his monstrous deed.
After ten minutes, Jake had enough. He stood with a frustrated look. "Your Honor, I object to this. Mr. Buckley is not selecting a jury. I'm not sure what he's doing, but he's not interrogating the panel."
"Sustained!" Noose yelled into the mike. "If you don't have any questions for the panel,
Mr. Buckley, then please sit down."
"I apologize, Your Honor," Buckley said awkwardly, pretending to be hurt. Jake had drawn first blood.
Buckley picked up a legal pad and launched into a list of a thousand questions. He asked if anyone on the panel had ever served on a jury before. Several hands went up. Civil or criminal? Did you vote to acquit or convict? How long ago? Was the defendant black or white? Victim, black or white? Had anyone been the victim of a violent crime? Two hands. When? Where? Was the assailant caught? Convicted? Black or white? Jake, Harry
Rex, and Ellen took pages of notes. Any member of your family been the victim of a violent crime? Several more hands. When? Where? What happened to the criminal? Any member of your family ever been charged with a crime? Indicted? Put on trial?
Convicted? Any friends or family members employed in law enforcement? Who?
Where?
For three nonstop hours Buckley probed and picked like a surgeon. He was masterful.
The preparation was obvious. He asked questions that Jake had not considered. And he asked virtually every question Jake had written in his outline. He delicately pried details of personal feelings and opinions. And when the time was right, he would say something funny so everyone could laugh and relieve the tension. He held the courtroom in his palm, and when Noose stopped him at five o'clock he was in full stride. He would finish in the morning.
His Honor adjourned until nine the next morning. Jake talked to his client for a few moments while the crowd moved toward the rear. Ozzie stood nearby with the handcuffs.
When Jake finished, Carl Lee knelt before his family on the front row and hugged them all. He would see them tomorrow, he said. Ozzie led him into the holding room and down the stairs, where a swarm of deputies waited to take him to jail.
For Day TWo the sun rose quickly in the east and in seconds burned the dew off the thick green Bermuda around the Ford County Courthouse. A sticky, invisible fog smoldered from the grass and clung to the heavy boots and bulky pants of the soldiers. The sun baked them as they nonchalantly paced the sidewalks of downtown Clanton. They loitered under shade trees and the canopies of small shops . By the time breakfast was served under the pavilions, the soldiers had stripped to their pale green undershirts and were drenched in sweat.
The black preachers and their followers went directly to their spot and set up camp. They unfolded lawn chairs under oak trees' and placed coolers of ice water on card tables. Blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards were tacked on tomato stakes and stuck in the ground like neat fencerows.
Agee had printed some new posters with an enlarged black and white photo of Carl Lee in the center and a red, white, and blue border. They were slick and professional.
The Klansmen went obediently to their section of the front lawn. They brought their own placards- white backgrounds with bold red letters screaming FRY CARL LEE, FRY
CARL LEE. They waved them at the blacks across the lawn, and the two groups started shouting. The soldiers formed neat lines along the sidewalk, and stood armed but casual as obscenities and chants flew over their heads. It was 8:00 A.M. of Day Two.
The reporters were giddy with all the newsworthiness. They rushed to the front lawn when the yelling started. Oz-zie and the colonel walked around and around the courthouse, pointing here and there and yelling into their radios.
At nine, Ichabod said good morning to the standing-room-only crowd. Buckley stood slowly and with great animation informed His Honor that he had no further questions for the panel. Lawyer Brigance rose from his seat with rubber knees and turbulence in his stomach. He walked to the railing and gazed into the anxious eyes of ninety- four prospective jurors.
The crowd listened intently to this young, cocky mouthpiece who had once boasted of never having lost a murder case. He appeared relaxed and confident. His voice was loud, yet warm. His words were educated, yet colloquial. He introduced himself again, and his client, then his client's family, saving the little girl for last. He complimented the D.A. for such an exhaustive interrogation yesterday afternoon, and confessed that most of his questions had already been asked. He glanced at his notes. His first question was a bombshell.
"Ladies and gentlemen, do any of you believe that the insanity defense should not be used under any circumstances?"
They squirmed a little, but no hands. He caught them off-guard, right off the bat.
Insanity! Insanity! The seed had been planted.
"If we prove Carl Lee Hailey was legally insane when he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard, is there a person on this panel who cannot find him not guilty?"
The question was hard to follow-intentionally so. There were no hands. A few wanted to respond, but they were not certain of the appropriate response.
Jake eyed them carefully, knowing most of them were confused, but also knowing that for this moment every member of the panel was thinking about his client being insane.
That's where he would leave them.
"Thank you," he said with all the charm he had ever mustered in his life. "I have nothing further, Your Honor."
Buckley looked confused. He stared at the judge, who was equally bewildered.
"Is that all?" Noose asked incredulously. "Is that all, Mr. Brigance?"
"Yes, sir, Your Honor, the panel looks fine to me," Jake said with an air of trust, as opposed to Buckley, who had grilled them for three hours. The panel was anything but acceptable to Jake, but there was no sense repeating the same questions Buckley had asked.
"Very well. Let me see the attorneys in chambers."
Buckley, Musgrove, Jake, Ellen, and Mr. Pate followed icnaDod through the door behind the bench and sat around the desk in chambers. Noose spoke: "I assume, gentlemen, that you want each juror questioned individually on the death penalty."
"Yes, sir," said Jake.
"That's correct, Your Honor," said Buckley.
"Very well. Mr. Bailiff, would you bring in juror number one, Carlene Malone."
Mr. Pate left, walked to the courtroom and yelled for Carlene Malone. Moments later she followed him into chambers. She was terrified. The attorneys smiled but said nothing: Noose's instructions.
"Please have a seat," Noose offered as he removed his robe. "This will only take a minute, Mrs. Malone. Do you have any strong feelings one way or the other about the death penalty?" asked Noose.
She shook her head nervously and stared at Ichabod. "Uh, no, sir."
"You realize that if you're selected for this jury and Mr. Hailey is convicted, you will be called upon to sentence him to death?"
"Yes, sir."
"If the State proves beyond a reasonable doubt that the killings were premeditated, and if you believe Mr. Hailey was not legally insane at the time of the killings, could you consider imposing the death penalty?"
"Certainly. I think it should be used all the time. Might stop some of this meanness. I'm all for it."
Jake continued smiling and nodding politely at juror number one. Buckley smiled too, and winked at Musgrove.
"Thank you, Mrs. Malone. You may return to your seat in the courtroom," Noose said.
"Bring in number two," Noose ordered Mr. Pate. Mar-cia Dickens, an elderly white
woman with a hard frown, was led to chambers. Yes, sir, she said, she was very much in favor of the death penalty. Would have no problems voting for it. Jake sat there and smiled. Buckley winked again. Noose thanked her and called for number three.
Three and four were equally unforgiving, ready to kill if the proof was there. Then number five, Gerald Ault, Jake's secret weapon, was seated in chambers.
"Thank you Mr. Ault, this will only take a minute, Noose repeated. "First of all, do you have strong feelings for or against the death penalty?"
"Oh, yes, sir." Ault answered eagerly, his voice and face radiating compassion. "I'm very much against it. It's cruel and unusual. I'm ashamed I live in a society which permits the legal killing of a human being."
"I see. Could you, under any circumstances, if you were a juror, vote to impose the death penalty?"
"Oh, no, sir. Under no circumstances. Regardless of the crime. No, sir."
Buckley cleared his throat and somberly announced, "Your Honor, the State would challenge Mr. Ault for cause and move to excuse him under the authority of State vs. Witherspoon."
"Motion sustained. Mr. Ault, you are excused from jury duty," Noose said. "You may leave the courtroom if you wish. If you choose to remain in the courtroom, I ask that you not sit with the other jurors."
Ault was puzzled and looked helplessly at his friend Jake, who at the moment was staring at the floor with a tight mouth.
"May I ask why?" Gerald asked.
Noose removed his glasses and became the professor. "Under the law, Mr. Ault, the court is required to excuse any potential juror who admits he or she cannot consider, and the key word is consider, the death penalty. You see, whether you like it or not, the death penalty is a legal method of punishment in Mississippi and in most states. Therefore, it is unfair to select jurors who cannot follow the law."
The curiosity of the crowd was piqued when Gerald Ault emerged from behind the bench, walked through the small gate in the railing, and left the courtroom. The bailiff fetched number six, Alex Summers, and led him to chambers. He returned moments later and took his seat on the first row. He lied about the death penalty. He opposed it as did most blacks, but he told Noose he had no objections to it. No problem. Later during a recess, he quietly met with other black jurors and explained how the questions in chambers should be answered.
The slow process continued until mid-afternoon, when the last juror left chambers.
Eleven had been excused due to reservations about capital punishment. Noose recessed at three-thirty and gave the lawyers until four to review their notes.
In the library on the third floor, Jake and his team stared at the jury lists and notecards. It was time to decide. He had dreamed about names written in blue and red and black with numbers beside them. He had watched them in the courtroom for two full days now. He knew them. Ellen wanted women. Harry Rex wanted men.
Noose stared at his master list, with the jurors renumbered to reflect the dismissals for cause, and looked at his lawyers. "Gentlemen, are you ready? Good. As you know this is a capital case, so each of you have twelve peremptory challenges. Mr. Buckley, you are required to submit a list of twelve jurors to the defense. Please start with juror number one and refer to each juror only by number."
"Yes sir. Your Honor, the State will accept jurors number one, two, three, four, use our first challenge on number five, accept numbers six, seven, eight, nine, use our second challenge on number ten, accept numbers eleven, twelve, thirteen, use our third challenge on number fourteen, and accept number fifteen. That's twelve, I believe." Jake and Ellen circled and made notes on their lists. Noose methodically recounted. "Yes, that's twelve. Mr. Brigance."
Buckley submitted twelve white females. Two blacks and a white male had been stricken.
Jake studied his list and scratched names. "The defense will strike jurors number one, two, three, accept four, six, and seven, strike eight, nine, eleven, twelve, accept thirteen, strike fifteen. I believe that's eight of our challenges."
His Honor drew lines and check marks down his list, calculating slowly as he went.
"Both of you have accepted jurors number four, six, seven, and thirteen. Mr. Buckley, it's back to you. Give us eight more jurors."
"The State will accept sixteen, use our fourth challenge on seventeen, accept eighteen, nineteen, twenty, strike twenty-one, accept twenty-two, strike twenty-three, accept twenty-four, strike twenty-five and twenty-six, and accep t twenty-seven and twenty-eight. That's twelve with four challenges remaining." Jake was flabbergasted. Buckley had again stricken all the blacks and all the men. He was reading Jake's mind.
"Mr. Brigance, it's back to you."
"May we have a moment to confer, Your Honor?"
"Five minutes," Noose replied.
Jake and his clerk stepped next door to the coffee room, where Harry Rex was waiting.
"Look at this," Jake said as he laid the list on a table and the three huddled around it.
"We're down to twenty- nine. I've got four challenges left and so does Buckley. He's struck every black and every male. It's an all-white female jury right now. The next two are white females, thirty-one is Clyde Sisco, and thirty-two is Barry Acker."
"Then four of the next six are black," Ellen said.
"Yeah, but Buckley won't take it that far. In fact, I'm surprised he's let us get this close to the fourth row."
"I know you want Acker. What about Sisco?" asked Harry Rex.
"I'm afraid of him. Lucien said he's a crook who could be bought."
"Great! Let's get him, then go buy him."
"Very funny. How do you know Buckley hasn't already bought him?"
"I'd take him."
Jake studied the list, counting and recounting. Ellen wanted to strike both men-Acker and Sisco.
They returned to chambers and sat down. The court reporter was ready. "Your Honor, we will strike number twenty-two and number twenty-eight, with two challenges remaining."
"Back to you, Mr. Buckley. Twenty-nine and thirty."
"The State will take them both. That's twelve with four challenges left."
"Back to you, Mr. Brigance."
"We will strike twenty-nine and thirty."
"And you're out of challenges, correct?" Noose asked.
"Correct."
"Very well. Mr. Buckley, thirty-one and thirty-two."
"The State will take them both," Buckley said quickly. looking at the names of the blacks coming after Clyde Sisco.
"Good. That's twelve. Let's select two alternates. You will both have two challenges for the alternates. Mr. Buck-ley, thirty-three and thirty-four."
Juror thirty-three was a black male. Thirty-four was a white female Jake wanted. The next two were black males.
"We'll strike thirty-three, accept thirty-four and thirty-five."
"The defense will accept both," Jake said.
Mr. Pate brought the courtroom to order as Noose and the lawyers took their places. His
Honor called the names of the twelve and they slowly, nervously made their way to the jury box, where they were seated in order by Jean Gillespie. Ten women, two men, all white. The blacks in the courtroom mumbled and eyed each other in disbelief.
"Did you pick that jury?" Carl Lee whispered to Jake.
"I'll explain later," Jake said.
The two alternates were called and seated next to the jury box.
"What's the black dude for?" Carl Lee whispered, nodding at the alternate.
"I'll explain later," Jake said.
Noose cleared his throat and looked down at his new jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, you have been carefully selected to serve as jurors in this case. You have been sworn to fairly try all issues presented before you and to follow the law as I instruct. Now, according to Mississippi law, you will be sequestered until this trial is over. This means you will be housed in a motel and will not be allowed to return home until it's over. I realize this is an extreme hardship, but it's one the law requires. In just a few moments we will recess until in the morning, and you will be given the chance to call home and order your clothes, toiletries, and whatever else you need. Each night you will stay in a motel at an undisclosed location outside of Clanton. Any questions?"
The twelve appeared dazed, bewildered by the thought of not going home for several days. They thought of families, kids, jobs, laundry. Why them? Out of all those people in the courtroom, why them?
With no response, Noose banged his gavel and the courtroom began to empty, juror to the judge's chambers, where she called home and ordered clothes and a toothbrush.
"Where are we going?" she asked Jean.
"It's confidential," Jean said.
"It's confidential," she repeated over the phone to her husband.
By seven, the families had responded with a wild assortment of luggage and boxes. The chosen ones loaded a chartered Greyhound bus outside the rear door. Preceded by two patrol cars and an army jeep and followed by three state troopers, the bus circled the square and left Clanton. Stump Sisson died Tuesday night at the burn hospital in Memphis. His short, fat body had been neglected over the years and proved itself deficient in resisting the complications bred by the serious burns. His death brought to four the number of fatalities related to the rape of Tonya Hailey. Cobb, Willard, Bud
Twitty, and now Sisson.
Immediately, word of his death reached the cabin deep in the woods where the patriots met, ate, and drank each night after the trial. Revenge, they vowed, an eye for an eye and so on. There were new recruits from Ford County-five in all-making a total of eleven local boys. They were eager and hungry, and wanted some action.
The trial had been too quiet so far. It was time for excitement.
Jake paced in front of the couch and delivered his opening statement for the hundredth time. Ellen listened intently. She had listened, interrupted, objected, criticized, and argued for two hours. She was tired now. He had it perfect. The margaritas had calmed him and plated his tongue silver. The words flowed smoothly. He was gifted. Especially after a drink or two.
When he finished they sat on the balcony and watched the candles inch slowly in the darkness around the square. The laughter from the poker games under the pavilions echoed softly through the night. There was no moon.
Ellen left for the final round of drinks. She returned with her same beer mugs filled with ice and margaritas. She sat them on the table and stood behind her boss. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began rubbing the lower part of his neck with her thumbs. He relaxed and moved his head from side to side. She massaged his shoulders and upper back, and pressed her body against his.
"Ellen, it's ten-thirty, and I'm sleepy. Where are you staying tonight?"
"Where do you think I should stay?"
"I think you should stay at your apartment at Ole Miss."
"I'm too drunk to drive."
"Nesbit will drive you."
"Where, may I ask, are you staying?"
"At the house my wife and I own on Adams Street."
She stopped rubbing and grabbed her drink. Jake stood and leaned over the rail and yelled at Nesbit. "Nesbit! Wake up! You're driving to Oxford!"
Carla found the story on the second page of the front section. "All White Jury Chosen for
Hailey" read the headline. Jake had not called Tuesday night. She read the story and ignored her coffee. The beach house sat by itself in a semisecluded area of the beach. The nearest neighbor was two hundred yards away. Her father owned the land in between and had no plans to sell it. He had built the house ten years earlier when he sold his company in Knoxville and retired wealthy. Carla was the only child, and now Hanna would be the only grandchild. The house-with four bedrooms and four bathrooms scattered over three levels-had room for a dozen grandchildren.
She finished the article and walked to the bay windows in the breakfast room overlooking the beach, and then the ocean. The brilliant orange mass of the sun had just cleared the horizon. She preferred the warmth of the bed until well after daybreak, but life with Jake had brought new adventure to the first seven hours of each day. Her body was conditioned to at least wake up at five- thirty. He once told her his goal was to go to work in the dark and return from work in the dark. He usually achieved this goal. He took great pride in working more hours each day than any lawyer in Ford County. He was different, but she loved him.
Forty-eight miles northeast of Clanton, the Milburn county seat of Temple lay peacefully beside the Tippah River. It had three thousand people and two motels. The Temple Inn was deserted, there being no moral reason to be there this time of year. At the end of one secluded wing, eight rooms were occupied and guarded by soldiers and a couple of state troopers. The ten women had paired off nicely, as had Barry Acker and Clyde Sisco. The black alternate, Ben Lester Newton, was awarded a room to himself, as was the other alternate, Francie Pitts. The televisions had been disconnected and no newspapers were allowed. Supper Tuesday night had been delivered to the rooms, and Wednesday's breakfast arrived promptly at seven-thirty while the Greyhound warmed and blew diesel fumes all over the parking lot. Thirty minutes later the fourteen loaded aboard and the entourage set out for Clanton.
They talked on the bus about their families and jobs. Two or three had known each other prior to Monday; most were strangers. They awkwardly avoided any mention of why they were all together and the task before them. Judge Noose had been very plain on this point; no discussions about the case. They wanted to talk about many things: the rape, the rapists, Carl Lee, Jake, Buckley, Noose, the Klan, lots of things. Everyone knew of the burning crosses, but they weren't discussed, at least they weren't discussed on the bus.
There had been many discussions back in the motel rooms. The Greyhound arrived at the courthouse five minutes before nine, and the jurors stared through dark windows to see how many blacks and how many Klansmen and how many others were being separated by the guardsmen. It eased past the barricades and parked at the rear of the courthouse, where the deputies were waiting to escort them upstairs as soon as possible. They went up the back stairs to the jury room, where coffee and doughnuts were waiting. The bailiff informed them it was nine, and His Honor was ready to start. He led them into the crowded courtroom and into the jury box, where they sat in their designated seats.
"All rise for the court," Mr. Pate yelled.
"Please be seated," Noose said as he fell into the tall leather chair behind the bench.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he said warmly to the jurors. "I trust you're all feeling well this morning, and ready to go."
They all nodded.
"Good. I'm going to ask you this question every morning: Did anybody attempt to contact you, talk to you, or influence you in any way last night?"
They all shook their heads.
"Good. Did you discuss this case among yourselves?"
They all lied and shook their heads.
"Good. If anyone attempts to contact you and discuss me as soon as possible. Do you understand?"
They nodded.
"Now at this time we are ready to start the trial. The first order of business is to allow the attorneys to make opening statements. I want to caution you that nothing the attorneys say is testimony and is not to be taken as evidence. Mr. Buckley, do you wish to make an opening statement?"
Buckley rose and buttoned his shiny polyester coat. "Yes, Your Honor."
"I thought so. You may proceed."
Buckley lifted the small, wooden podium and moved it squarely in front of the jury box, where he stood behind it and breathed deeply and slowly flipped through some notes on a legal pad. He enjoyed the brief period of quietness with all eyes on him and all ears anxious for his words. He started by thanking the jurors for being there, for their sacrifices, for their citizenship (as if they had a choice, thought Jake). He was proud of them and honored to be associated with them in this most important case. Again, he was their lawyer. His client, the State of Mississippi. He expressed fear at this awesome responsibility that they, the people, had given to him, Rufus Buckley, a simple country lawyer from Smith-field. He rambled on about himself and his thoughts on the trial, and his hopes and prayers that he would do a good job for the people of this state.
He gave pretty much the same spiel in all of his opening statements, but this was a better performance. It was refined and polished garbage, and objectionable. Jake wanted to burn him, but from experience he knew Ichabod would not sustain an objection during an opening statement unless the offense was flagrant, and Buckley's rhetoric did not qualify -yet. All this fake sincerity and gushiness irritated Jake to no end, primarily because the jury listened to it and, more often than not, fell for it. The prosecutor was always the good guy, seeking to right an injustice and punish a criminal for some heinous crime; to lock him away forever
so he could sin no more. Buckley was master at convincing a jury, right off the mark, during the opening statement, that it was up to them, He and The Twelve
Chosen Ones, to search diligently for the truth, together as a team, united against evil. It was the truth they were after, nothing but the truth. Find the truth and justice would win.
Follow him, Rufus Buckley, the people's lawyer, and they would find the truth.
The rape was a terrible deed. He was a father, in fact had a daughter the same age of
Tonya Hailey, and when he first heard of the rape he was sick at his stomach. He grieved for Carl Lee and his wife. Yes, he thought of his own little girls and had thoughts of retribution.
Jake smiled quickly at Ellen. This was interesting. Buck-ley had chosen to confront the rape instead of keeping it from the jury. Jake was expecting a critical confrontation with him on the admissibility of any testimony regarding the rape. Ellen's research found the law to be clear that the lurid details were inadmissible, but it wasn't so clear as to whether it could be mentioned or referred to. Evidently Buckley felt it was better to acknowledge the rape than try to hide it. Good move, thought Jake, since all twelve and the rest of the world knew the details anyway.
Ellen smiled too. The rape of Tonya Hailey was about to be tried for the first time.
Buckley explained it would be natural for any parent to want revenge. He would too, he admitted. But, he continued with his voice growing heavier, there is a mighty distinction between wanting revenge and getting revenge.
He was warming up now as he paced deliberately back and forth, ignoring the podium, getting his rhythm. He launched himself into a twenty-minute discourse on the criminal justice system and how it was practiced in Mississippi, and how many rapists that he,
Rufus Buckley, had personally sent to Parchman, for life, most of them. The system worked because Mississippians had enough good common sense to make it work, and it would collapse if people like Carl Lee Hailey were allowed to short-circuit the system and dispense justice according to their own terms. Imagine that.
A lawless society where vigilantes roamed at will. No police, no jails, no courts, no trials, no juries. Every man for himself.
It was sort of ironic, he said, winding down for a moment. Carl Lee Hailey now sat before them asking for due process and a fair trial, yet he did not believe in such things.
Ask the mothers ot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard. Ask them what kind of fair trials their sons received.
He paused to allow the jury and the courtroom to absorb and ponder that last thought. It sunk in heavy, and every person in the jury box looked at Carl Lee Hailey. They were not looks of compassion, Jake cleaned his fingernails with a small knife and looked thoroughly bored. Buckley pretended to review his notes at the podium, then checked his watch. He started again, this time in a most confident businesslike tone of voice. The
State would prove that Carl Lee Hailey carefully planned the killings. He waited for almost an hour in a small room next to the stairs where he knew the boys would eventually be led as they were taken back to jail. He somehow managed to sneak an M-16 into the courthouse. Buckley walked to a small table by the court reporter and hoisted the M 16. "This is the M-16!" he announced to the jury, waving it wildly about with one hand. He sat it on the podium and talked about how it was carefully selected by Carl Lee
Hailey because he had used one before in close combat, and he knew how to kill with it.
He had been trained with an M-16. It's an illegal weapon. You can't buy one down at the
Western Auto. He had to go find it. He planned it. The proof would be clear: premeditated, carefully planned, cold-blooded murder.
And then there was Deputy DeWayne Looney. A fourteen-year veteran of the Sheriffs
Department. A family man -one of the finest law enforcement officers he had ever known. Gunned down in the line of duty by Carl Lee Hailey. His leg was partially amputated. What was his sin? Perhaps the defense would say it was accidental, that it shouldn't count. That's no defense in Mississippi.
There's no excuse, ladies and gentlemen, for any of this violence. The verdict must be guilty.
They each had an hour for their openings, and the lure of that much time proved irresistible for the D.A., whose remarks were becoming repetitive. He lost himself twice during his condemnation of the insanity ruse. The jurors began to look bored and searched for other points of interest around the courtroom. The artists quit sketching, the reporters quit writing, and Noose cleaned his glasses seven or eight times. It was a known fact that Noose cleaned the glasses to stay awake and fight boredom, and he usually deaned them throughout the trial. Jake had seen him rub them with a handkerchief or tie or shirttail while witnesses broke down and cried and lawyers screamed and flailed their arms at each other. He didn't miss a word or objection or trick; he was just bored with it all, even a case of this magnitude. He never slept on the bench, although he was sorely tempted at times. Instead he removed his glasses, held them upward in the light, blew on them, rubbed them as though they were caked with grease, then remounted them just north of the wart. No more than five minutes later they would be dirty again. The longer
Buckley droned on, the more they were cleaned. Finally, after an hour and a half,
Buckley shut up and the courtroom sighed.
"Ten-minute recess," Noose announced, and lunged off the bench, through the door, past chambers to the men's room.
Jake had planned a brief opening, and after Buckley's marathon, he decided to make it even shorter. Most people don't like lawyers to begin with, especially long-winded, tall-talking, wordy lawyers who feel that every insignificant point must be repeated at least three times, and the major ones have to be hammered and drilled by constant repetition into whoever happened to be listening.
Jurors especially dislike lawyers who waste time, for two very good reasons. First, they can't tell the lawyers to shut up. They're captives. Outside the courtroom a person can curse a lawyer and shut him up, but in the jury box they become trapped and forbidden to speak. Thus, they must resort to sleeping, snoring, glaring, squirming, checking their watches, or any one of a dozen signals which boring lawyers never recognize. Second, jurors don't like long trials. Cut the crap and get it over with. Give us the facts and we'll give you a verdict.
He explained this to his client during the recess.
"I agree. Keep it short," said Carl Lee.
He did. Fourteen minutes worth of opening statement, and the jury appreciated every word. He began by talking about daughters and how special they are. How they are diffe rent from little boys and need special protection. He told them of his own daughter and trie special oonu mat exists between father and daughter, a bond that could not be explained and should not be tampered with. He admitted admiration for Mr. Buckley and his alleged ability to be so forgiving and compassionate to any drunken pervert who might rape his daughter. He was a big man indeed. But in reality, could they, as jurors, as parents, be so tender and trusting and indulging if their daughter had been raped-by two drunk, stoned, brutal animals who tied her to a tree and-"
"Objection!" shouted Buckley.
"Sustained," Noose shouted back.
He ignored the shouting and continued softly. He asked them to try to imagine, throughout the trial, how they would feel had it been their daughter. He asked them not to convict Carl Lee but to send him home to his family. He didn't mention insanity. They knew it was coming.
He finished shortly after he started, and left the jury with a marked contrast in the two styles.
"Is that all?" Noose asked in amazement.
Jake nodded as he sat by his client.
"Very well. Mr. Buckley, you may call your first witness."
"The State calls Cora Cobb."
The bailiff went to the witness room and fetched Mrs. Cobb, He led her through the door by the jury box, into the courtroom where she was sworn by Jean Gillespie, and then he seated her in the witness chair.
"Speak into the microphone," he instructed.
"You are Cora Cobb?" Buckley asked with full volume as he situated the podium near the railing.
"Yes, sir."
"Where do you live?"
"Route 3, Lake Village, Ford County."
"You are the mother of Billy Ray Cobb, deceased?"
"Yes, sir," she said as her eyes watered. She was a rural woman whose husband had left when the boys were small. They had raised themselves while she worked two shifts at a cheap furniture factory between Karaway and Lake Village. She lost control over them at an early age. She was about fifty, tried to look forty with hair dye and makeup, but could easily pass for early sixties.
"How old was your son at the time of his death?"
"Twenty-three."
"When did you last see him alive?"
"Just a few seconds before he was kilt."
"Where did you see him?"
"Here in this courtroom."
"Where was he killed?"
"Downstairs."
"Did you hear the shots that killed your son?"
She began to cry. "Yes, sir."
"Where did you last see him?"
"At the funeral home."
"And what was his condition?"
"He was dead."
"Nothing further," Buckley announced.
"Cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?"
She was a harmless witness, called to establish that the victim was indeed dead, and to evoke a little sympathy. Nothing could be gained by cross-examination, and normally she would have been left alone. But Jake saw an opportunity he couldn't pass. He saw a chance to set the tone for the trial, to wake Noose and Buckley and the jury; to just get everyone aroused. She was not really that pitiful; she was faking some. Buckley had probably instructed her to cry if possible.
"Just a few questions," Jake said as he walked behind Buckley and Musgrove to the podium. The D.A. was immediately suspicious.
"Mrs. Cobb, is it true that your son was convicted of selling marijuana?"
"Objection!" Buckley roared, springing to his feet. "The criminal record of the victim is inadmissible!"
"Sustained!"
"Thank you, Your Honor," Jake said properly, as if Noose had done him a favor.
She wiped her eyes and cried harder.
"You say your son was twenty-three when he died?"
"Yes."
"In his twenty-three years, how many other children am he rape?"
"Objection! Objection!" yelled Buckley, waving his arms and looking desperately at
Noose, who was yelling, "Sustained! Sustained! You're out of order, Mr. Brigance!
You're out of order!" Mrs. Cobb burst into tears and bawled uncontrollably as the shouting erupted. She managed to keep the microphone in her face, and her wailing and carrying on resounded through the stunned courtroom.
"He should be admonished, Your Honor!" Buckley demanded, his face and eyes glowing with violent anger and his neck a deep purple.
"I'll withdraw the question," Jake replied loudly as he returned to his seat.
"Cheap shot, Brigance," Musgrove mumbled.
"Please admonish him," Buckley begged, "and instruct the jury to disregard."
"Any redirect?" asked Noose.
"No," answered Buckley as he dashed to the witness stand with a handkerchief to rescue
Mrs. Cobb, who had buried her head in her hands and was sobbing and shaking violently.
"You are excused, Mrs. Cobb," Noose said. "Bailiff, please assist the witness."
The bailiff lifted her by the arm, with Buckley's assistance, and led her down from the witness stand, in front of the jury box, through the railing, down the center aisle. She shrieked and whined every step of the way, and her noises increased as she neared the back door until she was roaring at full throttle when she made her exit.
Noose glared at Jake until she was gone and the courtroom was quiet again. Then he turned to the jury and said: "Please disregard the last question by Mr. Brigance."
"What'd you do that for?" Carl Lee whispered to his lawyer.
"I'll explain later."
"The State calls Earnestine Willard," Buckley announced in a quieter tone and with much more hesitation.
Mrs. Willard was brought from the witness room above the courtroom. She was sworn and seated.
"You are Earnestine Willard?" asked Buckley.
"Yes, sir," she said in a fragile voice. Life had been rough on her too, but she had a certain dignity that made her more pitiful and believable than Mrs. Cobb. The clothes were inexpensive, but clean and neatly pressed. The hair was minus the cheap black dye that Mrs. Cobb relied on so heavily.
The face was minus the layers of makeup. When she began crying, she cried to herself.
"And where do you live?"
"Out from Lake Village."
"Pete Willard was your son?"
"Yes, sir."
"When did you last see him alive?"
"Right here in this room, just before he was killed."
"Did you hear the gunfire that killed him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did you last see him?"
"At the funeral home."
"And what was his condition?"
"He was dead," she said, wiping tears with a Kleenex.
"I'm very sorry," Buckley offered. "No further questions," he added, eyeing Jake carefully.
"Any cross-examination?" Noose asked, also eyeing Jake suspiciously.
"Just a couple," Jake said.
"Mrs. Willard, I'm Jake Brigance." He stood behind the podium and looked at her without compassion.
She nodded.
"How old was your son when he died?"
"Twenty-seven."
Buckley pushed his chair from the table and sat on its edge, ready to spring. Noose removed his glasses and leaned forward. Carl Lee lowered his head.
"During his twenty-seven years, how many other children did he rape?"
Buckley bolted upright. "Objection! Objection! Objection!"
"Sustained! Sustained! Sustained!"
The yelling frightened Mrs. Willard, and she cried louder.
"Admonish him, Judge! He must be admonished!"
"I'll withdraw the question," Jake said on his way back to his seat.
Buckley pleaded with his hands. "But that's not good enough, Judge! He must be admonished!"
"Let's go into chambers," Noose ordered. He excused the witness and recessed until one.
Harry Rex was waiting on the balcony of Jake's office with sandwiches and a pitcher of margaritas. Jake declined and drank grapefruit juice. Ellen wanted just one, a small one she said to calm her nerves. For the third day, lunch had been prepared by Dell and personally delivered to Jake's office.
Compliments of the Coffee Shop.
They ate and relaxed on the balcony and watched the carnival around the courthouse.
What happened in chambers? Harry Rex demanded. Jake nibbled on a Reuben. He said he wanted to talk about something other than the trial.
"What happened in chambers, dammit?"
"Cardinals are three games out, did you know that, Row Ark?"
"I thought it was four."
"What happened in chambers!"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"Okay. I've got to go use the rest room. I'll tell you when I get back." Jake left.
"Row Ark, what happened in chambers?"
"Not much. Noose rode Jake pretty good, but no permanent damage. Buckley wanted blood, and Jake said he was sure, some was forthcoming if Buckley's face got any redder.
Buckley ranted and screamed and condemned Jake for intentionally inflaming the jury, as he called it. Jake just smiled at him and said he was sorry, Governor. Every time he would say governor, Buckley would scream at Noose, 'He's calling me governor, Judge, do something.' And Noose would say, 'Please, gentlemen, I expect you to act like professionals.' And Jake would say, 'Thank you, Your Honor.'
Then he would wait a few minutes and call him governor again."
"Why did he make those two old ladies cry?"
"It was a brilliant move, Harry Rex. He showed the jury, Noose, Buckley, everybody, that it's his courtroom and he's not afraid of a damned person in it. He drew first blood.
He's got Buckley so jumpy right now he'll never relax. Noose respects him because he's not intimidated by His Honor. The jurors were shocked, but he woke them up and told them in a not so subtle way that this is war. A brilliant move."
"Yeah, I thought so myself."
"It didn't hurt us. Those women were asking for sympathy, but Jake reminded the jury of what their sweet little boys did before they died."
"The scumbags."
"If there's any resentment by the jury, they'll forget by the time the last witness testifies."
"Jake's pretty smooth, ain't he?"
"He's good. Very good. He's the best I've seen for his age."
"Wait till his closing argument. I've heard a couple. He could get sympathy out of a drill sergeant."
Jake returned and poured a small margarita. Just a very small one, for his nerves. Harry
Rex drank like a sailor.
Ozzie was the first State witness after lunch. Buckley produced large, multicolored plats of the first and second floors of the courthouse, and together they traced the precise, last movements of Cobb and Willard.
Then Buckley produced a set of ten 16 x 24 color photographs of Cobb and Willard lying freshly dead on the stairs. They were gruesome. Jake had seen lots of pictures of dead bodies, and although none were particularly pleasant given their nature, some weren't so bad. In one of his cases, the victim had been shot in the heart with a .357 and simply fell over dead on his porch. He was a large, muscular old man, and the bullet never found its way out of the body. So there was no blood, just a small hole in his overalls, and then a small sealed hole in his chest. He looked as though he could have fallen asleep and slumped over, or passed out drunk on the porch, like Lucien. It was not a spectacular scene, and Buckley had not been proud of those photo- graphs. They had not been enlarged. He had just
handed the small Polaroids to the jury and looked disgusted because they were so clean.
But most murder pictures were grisly and sickening, with blood splashed on walls and ceilings, and parts of bodies blown free and scattered everywhere. Those were always enlarged by the D.A. and entered into evidence with great fanfare, then waved around the courtroom by Buckley as he and the witness described the scenes in the pictures. Finally, with the jurors fidgeting with curiosity, Buckley would politely ask the judge for permission to show the photographs to the jury, and the judge would always consent.
Then Buck-ley and everybody else would watch their faces intently as they were shocked, horrified, and occasionally nauseated. Jake had actually seen two jurors vomit when handed photos of a badly slashed corpse.
Such pictures were highly prejudicial and highly inflammatory, and also highly admissible.
"Probative" was the word used by the Supreme Court. Such pictures could aid the jury, according to ninety years of decisions from the Court. It was well settled in Mississippi that murder pictures, regardless of their impact on the jury, were always admissible. Jake had seen the Cobb and Willard photographs weeks earlier, and had filed the standard objection and received the standard denial.
These were mounted professionally on heavy pos-terboard, something the D.A. had not done before. He handed the first one into the jury box to Reba Betts. It was the one of
Willard's head and brains taken at close range.
"My God!" she gasped, and shoved it to the next juror, who gawked in horror, and passed it on.
They handed it to one another, then to the alternates. Buckley took it, and gave Reba another one.
The ritual continued for thirty minutes until all the pictures were returned to the D.A.
Then he grabbed the M-16 and thrust it at Ozzie. "Can you identify this?"
"Yes, it's the weapon found at the scene."
"Who picked it up at the scene?"
"I did."
"And what did you do with it?"
"Wrapped in a plastic bag and placed in a vault at the jail. Kept it locked up until I handed it to Mr. Laird with the crime lab in Jackson."
"Your Honor, the State would offer the weapon, Exhibit S-13, into evidence," Buckley said, waving it wildly.
"No objections," Jake said.
"We have nothing further of this witness," Buckley announced.
"Cross-examination?"
Jake flipped through his notes as he walked slowly to the podium. He had just a few questions for his friend.
"Sheriff, did you arrest Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?"
Buckley pushed his chair back and perched his ample frame on the edge, poised to leap and scream if necessary.
"Yes I did," answered the sheriff.
"For what reason?"
"For the rape of Tonya Hailey," he answered perfectly.
"And how old was she at the time she; was raped by Cobb and Willard?"
"She was ten."
"Is it true, Sheriff, that Pete Willard signed a written confession in-"
"Objection! Objection! Your Honor! That's inadmissible and Mr. Brigance knows it."
Ozzie nodded affirmatively during the objection.
"Sustained."
Buckley was shaking. "I ask that the question be stricken from the record and the jury be instructed to disregard it."
"I'll withdraw the question," Jake said to Buckley with a smile.
"Please disregard the last question from Mr. Brigance," Noose instructed the jury.
"No further questions," said Jake.
"Any redirect examination, Mr. Buckley?"
"No, sir."
"Very well. Sheriff, you may step down."
Buckley's next witness was a fingerprint man from Washington who spent an hour telling the jurors what they had known for weeks. His dramatic final conclusion unmis- takably linked the prints on M-10 to those of Carl Lee Hailey. Then came the ballistics expert from the state crime lab whose testimony was as boring and uninformative as his predecessor on the stand. Yes, without a doubt, the fragments recovered from the crime scene were fired from the M16 lying there on the table. That was his final opinion, and with the charts and diagrams, it took Buckley an hour to get it to the jury. Prosecutorial overkill, as Jake called it; a debility suffered by all prosecutors.
The defense had no questions for either expert, and at five-fifteen Noose said goodbye to the jurors with strict instructions against discussing the case. They nodded politely as they filed from the courtroom. Then he banged his gavel and adjourned until nine in the morning.
The great civic duty of jury service had grown old rapidly. The second night in the
Temple Inn had seen the telephones removed-judge's orders. Some old magazines donated by the Clanton library were circulated and quickly discarded, there being little interest among the group in The New Yorker, The Smith-sonian, and Architectural Digest.
"Got any PenthousesT Clyde Sisco had whispered to the bailiff as he made the rounds.
He said no, but he'd see what he could do.
Confined to their rooms with no television, newspapers, or phones, they did little but play cards and talk about the trial. A trip to the end of the hall for ice and a soft drink became a special occasion, something the roommates planned and rotated. The boredom descended heavily.
At each end of the hall two soldiers guarded the darkness and solitude, the stillness interrupted only by the systematic emergence of the jurors with change for the drink machine. Sleep came early, and when the sentries knocked on the doors at 6:00 A.M., all the jurors were awake, some even dressed. They devoured Thursday's breakfast of pancakes and sausage, and eagerly boarded the Greyhound at eight for the trip back home.
For the fourth straight day the rotunda was crowded by eight o'clock. The spectators had learned that all seats were taken by eight-thirty. Prather opened the door and the crowd filed slowly through the metal detector, past the careful eyes of the deputies and finally into the courtroom, where the blacks filled the left side and the whites the right. The front row was again reserved by Hastings for Gwen,
Lester, the kids, and other relatives. Agee and other council members sat in the second row with the kinfolks who couldn't fit up front. Agee was in charge of alternating courtroom duty and outside demonstration duty for the ministers. Personally, he preferred the courtroom duty, wnere ne ieu miss the cameras and reporters which were so abundant on the front lawn. To his right, across the aisle, sat the families and friends of the victims. They had behaved so far.
A few minutes before nine, Carl Lee was escorted from the small holding room. The handcuffs were removed by one of the many officers surrounding him. He flashed a big smile at his family and sat in his chair. The lawyers took their places and the courtroom grew quiet. The bailiff poked his head through the door beside the jury box, and, satisfied with whatever he saw, opened the door and released the jurors to their assigned seats. Mr.
Pate was watching all this from the door leading to chambers, and when all was perfect, he stepped forward and yelled: "All rise for the Court!"
Ichabod, draped in his favorite wrinkled and faded black robe, loped to the bench and instructed everyone to have a seat. He greeted the jury and questioned them about what happened or didn't happen since yesterday's adjournment.
He looked at the lawyers. "Where's Mr. Musgrove?"
"He's running a bit late, Your Honor. We are ready to proceed," Buckley announced.
"Call your next witness," Noose ordered Buckley.
The pathologist from the state crime lab was located in the rotunda and entered the courtroom.
Normally, he would have been much too busy for a simple trial and would have sent one of his underlings to explain to the jury precisely what killed Cobb and Willard. But this was the Hailey case, and he felt compelled to do the job himself. It was actually the simplest case he had seen in a while; the bodies were found as they were dying, the weapon was with the bodies, and there were enough holes in the boys to kill them a dozen times. Everybody in the world knew how those boys died. But the D.A. had insisted on the most thorough pathological workup, so the doctor took the stand Thursday morning laden with photos of the autopsies and multicolored anatomy charts.
Earlier in chambers, Jake had offered to stipulate to the causes of death, but Buckley would have no part of it. No sir, he wanted the jury to hear and know how they died.
"We will admit that they died by multiple wounds from bullets fired from the M-16,"
Jake had stated precisely.
"No, sir. I have a right to prove it," Buckley said stubbornly.
"But he's offering to stipulate to the causes of death," Noose said incredulously.
"I have the right to prove it," Buckley hung on.
So he proved it. In a classic case of prosecutorial overkill, Buckley proved it. For three hours the pathologist talked about how many bullets hit Cobb and how many hit Willard, and what each bullet did upon penetration, and the ghastly damage thereafter. The anatomy charts were placed on easels before the jury, and the expert took a plastic, numbered pellet that represented a bullet, and moved it ever so slowly through the body.
Fourteen pellets for Cobb and eleven for Willard.
Buckley would ask a question, elicit a response, then interrupt to belabor a point.
"Your Honor, we would be glad to stipulate as to the causes of death," Jake announced with great frustration every thirty minutes.
"We won't," Buckley replied tersely, and moved to the next pellet.
Jake fell into his chair, shook his head, and looked at the jurors, those who were awake.
The doctor finished at noon and Noose, tired and numb with boredom, awarded a two-hour lunch break. The jurors were awakened by the bailiff and led to the jury room where they dined on barbeque specials on plastic plates, then struck up card games. They were forbidden to leave the courthouse.
In every small Southern town there's a kid who was born looking for the quick buck. He was the kid who at the age of five set up the first lemonade stand on his street and charged twenty-five cents a cup for four ounces of artificially flavored water. He knew it tasted awful, but he knew the adults thought he was adorable. He was the first kid on the street to purchase a lawn mower on credit at the Western Auto and knock on doors in
February to line up_yard work for the summer.
He was the first kid to pay for his own bike, which he used for morning and afternoon paper routes. He sent Christmas cards to old ladies in August.
He sold fruitcakes door to door in November. On Saturday mornings when his friends were watching cartoons, he was at the flea markets at the courthouse selling roasted peanuts and corn dogs. At the age of twelve he bought his first certificate of deposit. He had his own banker. At fifteen, he paid cash for his new pickup the same day he passed his driver's license exam. He bought a trailer to follow the
truck and filled it with lawn equipment. He sold T-shirts at high school football games. He was a hustler; a millionaire to be.
In Clanton, his name was Hinky Myrick, age sixteen. He waited nervously in the rotunda until Noose broke for lunch, then moved past the deputies and entered the courtroom.
Seating was so precious that almost none of the spectators left for lunch. Some would stand, glare at their neighbors, point at their seats and make sure everybody knew it was theirs for the day, then leave for the rest room. But most of them sat in their highly treasured spaces on the pews, and suffered through lunch.
Hinky could smell opportunity. He could sense people in need. On Thursday, just as he had on Wednesday, he rolled a shopping cart down the aisle to the front of the courtroom.
It was filled with a wide assortment of sandwiches and plate lunches in plastic containers.
He began yelling toward the far end of the rows, then passing food down to his customers. He worked his way slowly toward the rear of the courtroom. He was a vicious scalper. A tuna salad on white bread went for two dollars; his cost, eighty cents. A plate lunch of cold chicken with a few peas went for three dollars; his cost, a buck twenty-five.
A canned soft drink was one-fifty. But they gladly paid his prices and kept their seats. He sold out before he reached the fourth row from the front, and began taking orders from the rest of the courtroom. Hinky was the man of the hour.
With a fistful of orders, he raced from the courthouse, across the lawn, through the crowd of blacks, across Caffey Street and into Claude's. He ran to the kitchen, shoved a twenty-dollar bill at the cook and handed him the orders. He waited and watched his watch. The cook moved slowly. Hinky gave him another twenty.
The trial ushered a wave of prosperity Claude naa never dreamed of. Breakfast and lunch in his small cafe became happenings as demand greatly exceeded the number of chairs and the hungry lined the sidewalk, waiting in the heat and haze for a
table. After the lunch recess on Monday, he had dashed around Clanton buying every folding card table and matching chair set he could find.
At lunch the aisles disappeared, forcing his waitresses to maneuver nimbly among and between the rows of people, virtually all of whom were black.
The trial was the only topic of conversation. On Wednesday, the composition of the jury had been hotly condemned. By Thursday, the talk centered on the growing dislike for the prosecutor.
"I hear tell he wants to run for governor."
"He Democrat or Republican?"
"Democrat."
"He can't win without the black vote, not in this state."
"Yeah, and he ain't likely to get much after this trial."
"I hope he tries."
"He acts more like a Republican."
In pretrial Clanton, the noon hour began ten minutes before twelve when the young, tanned, pretty, coolly dressed secretaries from the banks, law offices,
insurance agencies, and courthouse left their desks and took to the sidewalks. During lunch they ran errands around the square. They went to the post office. They did their banking. They shopped.
Most of them bought their food at the Chinese Deli and ate on the park benches under the shade trees around the courthouse. They met friends and gossiped. At noon the gazebo in front of the courthouse attracted more beautiful women than the Miss Mississippi pageant. It was an unwritten rule in Clanton that an office girl on the square got a headstart on lunch and did not have to return until one. The men followed at twelve, and watched the girls.
But the trial changed things. The shade trees around the courthouse were in a combat zone. The cafes were full from eleven to one with soldiers and strangers who couldn't get seats in the courtroom. The Chinese Deli was packed with foreigners. The office girls ran their errands and ate at their desks.
At the Tea Shoppe the bankers and other white collars discussed the trial more in terms of its publicity and how the town was being perceived. Of particular concern was the Klan.
Not a single customer knew anyone connected with the Klan, and it had long been forgotten in north Mississippi. But the vultures loved the white robes, and as far as the outside world knew, Clanton, Mississippi, was the home of the Ku Klux Klan. They hated the Klan for being there. They cussed the press for keeping them there.
For lunch Thursday, the Coffee Shop offered the daily special of country-fried pork chops, turnip greens, and either candied yams, creamed corn, or fried okra. Dell served the specials to a packed house that was evenly divided among locals, foreigners, and soldiers. The unwritten but firmly established rule of not speaking to anyone with a beard or funny accent was strictly enforced, and for a friendly people it was awkward not to smile and carry on with those from the outside. A tight- lipped arrogance had long since replaced the warm reception given to the visitors in the first few days after the shootings.
Too many of the press hounds had betrayed their hosts and printed unkind, unflattering, and unfair words about the county and its people. It was amazing how they could arrive in packs from all over and within twenty-four hours become experts on a place they had never heard of and a people they had never met.
The locals had watched them as they scrambled like idiots around the square chasing the sheriff, the prosecutor, the defense lawyer, or anybody who might know anything. They watched them wait at the rear of the courthouse like hungry wolves to pounce on the defendant, who was invariably surrounded by cops, and who invariably ignored them as they yelled the same ridiculous questions at him. The locals watched with distaste as they kept their cameras on the Kluxers and the rowdier blacks, always searching for the most radical elements, and then making those elements appear to be the norm.
They watched them, and they hated them.
"What's that orange crap all over her face?" Tim Nunley asked, looking at a reporter sitting in a booth by the window. Jack Jones crunched on his okra and studied the orange face.
"I think it's something they use for the cameras. Makes her face look white on TV."
"But it's already white."
"I know, but it don't look white on TV unless it's painted orange."
Nunley was not convinced. "Then what do the niggers use on TV?" he asked.
No one could answer.
"Did you see her on TV last night?" asked Jack Jones.
"Nope. Where's she from?"
"Channel Four, Memphis. Last night she interviewed Cobb's mother, and of course she kept on pushing till the old woman broke down. All they showed on TV was the cryin'. It was sickenin'. Night before she had some Klansmen from Ohio talkin' about what we need here in Mississippi. She's the worst."
The State finished its case against Carl Lee Thursday afternoon. After lunch Buckley put
Murphy on the stand. It was gut-wrenching, nerve-wracking testimony as the poor little man stuttered uncontrollably for an hour.
"Calm down, Mr. Murphy," Buckley said a hundred times.
He would nod, and take a drink of water. He nodded affirmatively and shook negatively as much as possible, but the court reporter had an awful time picking up the nods and shakes.
"I didn't get that," she would say, her back to the witness stand. So he would try to answer and get hung, usually on a hard consonant like a "P" or "T." He would blurt out something, then stutter and spit incoherently.
"I didn't get that," she would say helplessly when he finished. Buckley would sigh. The jurors rocked furiously. Half the spectators chewed their fingernails.
"Could you repeat that?" Buckley would say with as much .patience as he could find.
"I'm s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-sorry," he would say frequently. He was pitiful.
Through it all, it was determined that he had been drinking a Coke on the rear stairs, facing the stairs where the boys were killed. He had noticed a black man peeking out of a small closet some forty feet away. But he didn't think much about it. Then when the boys came down, the black man just stepped out and opened fire, screaming and laughing.
When he stopped shooting, he threw down the. gun and took off. Yes, that was him, sitting right there. The black one.
Noose rubbed holes in his glasses listening to Murphy. When Buckley sat down, His
Honor looked desperately at Jake. "Any cross-examination?" he asked painfully.
Jake stood with a legal pad. The court reporter glared at him. Harry Rex hissed at him.
Ellen closed her eyes. The jurors wrung their hands and watched him carefully.
"Don't do it," Carl Lee whispered firmly.
"No, Your Honor, we have no questions."
"Thank you, Mr. Brigance," Noose said, breathing again.
The next witness was Officer Rady, the investigator for the Sheriffs Department. He informed the jury that he found a Royal Crown Cola can in the closet next to the stairs, and the prints on the can matched those of Carl Lee Hailey.
"Was it empty or full?" Buckley asked dramatically.
"It was completely empty."
Big deal, thought Jake, so he was thirsty. Oswald had a chicken dinner waiting on
Kennedy. No, he had no questions for this witness.
"We have one final witness, Your Honor," Buckley said with great finality at 4:00 P.M.
"Officer DeWayne Looney."
Looney limped with a cane into the courtroom and to the witness stand. He removed his gun and handed it to Mr. Pate.
Buckley watched him proudly. "Would you state your name, please, sir?"
"DeWayne Looney."
"And your address?"
"Fourteen sixty-eight Bennington Street, Clanton, Mississippi."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-nine."
"Where are you employed?"
"Ford County Sheriff's Department."
"And what do you do there?"
"I'm a dispatcher."
"Where did you work on Monday, May 20?"
"I was a deputy."
"Were you on duty?"
"Yes. I was assigned to transport two subjects from the jail to court and back."
"Who were those two subjects?"
"Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard."
"What time did you leave court with them?"
"Around one-thirty, I guess."
"Who was on duty with you?"
"Marshall Prather. He and I were in charge of the two subjects. There were some other deputies in the courtroom helpin' us, and we had two or three men outside waitin' on us.
But me and Marshall were in charge."
"What happened when the hearing was over?"
"We immediately handcuffed Cobb and Willard and got them outta here. We took them to that little room over there and waited a second or two, and Prather walked on down the stairs."
"Then what happened?"
"We started down the back stairs. Cobb first, then Willard, then me. Like I said, Prather had already gone on down. He was out the door."
"Yes, sir. Then what happened?"
"When Cobb was near 'bout to the foot of the stairs, the shootin' started. I was on the landing, fixin' to go on down. I didn't see anybody at first for a second, then I seen Mr.
Hailey with the machine gun firin' away. Cobb was blown backward into Willard, and they both screamed and fell in a heap, tryin' to get back up where I was."
"Yes, sir. Describe what you saw."
"You could hear the bullets bouncin' off the walls and hittin' everywhere. It was the loudest gun I ever heard and seemed like he kept shootin' forever. The boys just twisted and thrashed about, screamin' and squealin'. They were handcuffed, you know."
"Yes, sir. What happened to you?"
"Like I said, I never made it past the landing. I think one of the bullets ricocheted off the wall and caught me in the leg. I was tryin' to get back up the steps when I felt my leg burn."
"And what happened to your leg?"
"They cut it off," Looney answered matter-of-factly, as if an amputation happened monthly. "Just below the knee."
"Did you get a good look at the man with the gun?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you identify him for the jury?"
"Yes, sir. It's Mr. Hailey, the man sittin' over there."
That answer would have been a logical place to end Looney's testimony. He was brief, to the point, sympathetic and positive of the identification. The jury had
listened to every word so far. But Buckley and Musgrove retrieved the large diagrams of the courthouse and arranged them before the jury so that Looney could limp around for a while. Under
Buckley's direction, he retraced everybody's exact movements just before the killings.
Jake rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. Noose cleaned and recleaned his glasses. The jurors fidgeted.
"Any cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?" Noose asked at last.
"Just a few questions," Jake said as Musgrove cleared the debris from the courtroom.
"Officer Looney, who was Carl Lee looking at when he was shooting?"
"Them boys, as far as I could tell."
"Did he ever look at you?"
"Well, now, I didn't spend a lotta time tryin' to make eye contact with him. In fact, I was movin' in the other direction."
"So he didn't aim at you?"
"Oh, no, sir. He just aimed at those boys. Hit them too."
"What did he do when he was shooting?"
"He just screamed and laughed like he was crazy. It was the weirdest thing I ever heard, like he was some kinda madman or something. And you know, what I'll always remember is that with all the noise, the gun firin', the bullets whistlin', the boys screamin' as they got hit, over all the noise I could hear him laughin' that crazy laugh."
The answer was so perfect Jake had to fight off a smile. He and Looney had worked on it a hundred times, and it was a thing of beauty. Every word was perfect. Jake busily flipped through his legal pad and glanced at the jurors. They all stared at Looney, enthralled by his answer. Jake scribbled something, anything, nothing, just to kill a few more seconds before the most important questions of the trial.
"Now, Deputy Looney, Carl Lee Hailey shot you in the leg."
"Yes, sir, he did."
"Do you think it was intentional?"
"Oh, no, sir. It was an accident."
"Do you want to see him punished for shooting you?" •
"No, sir. I have no ill will toward the man.
He did what I would've done."
Buckley dropped his pen and slumped in his chair. He looked sadly at his star witness.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean I don't blame him for what he did. Those boys raped his little girl. I gotta little girl. Somebody rapes her and he's a dead dog. I'll blow him away, just like Carl Lee did.
We oughtta give him a trophy."
"Do you want the jury to convict Carl Lee?"
Buckley jumped and roared, "Objection! Objection! Improper question!"
"No!" Looney yelled. "I don't want him convicted. He's a hero. He-"
"Don't answer, Mr. Looney!" Noose said loudly. "Don't answer!"
"Objection! Objection!" Buckley continued, on his tiptoes.
"He's a hero! Turn him loose!" Looney yelled at Buckley.
"Order! Order!" Noose banged his gavel.
Buckley was silent. Looney was silent. Jake walked to his chair and said, "I'll withdraw the question."
"Please disregard," Noose instructed the jury.
Looney smiled at the jury and limped from the courtroom.
"Call your next witness," Noose said, removing nis glasses.
Buckley rose slowly and with a great effort at drama, said, "Your Honor, the State rests."
"Good," Noose replied, looking at Jake. "I assume you have a motion or two, Mr. Brigance."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Very well, we'll take those up in chambers."
Noose excused his jury with the same parting instructions and adjourned until nine Friday.
Jake awoke in the darkness with a slight hangover, a headache due to fatigue and Coors, and the distant but unmistakable sound of his doorbell ringing continually as if held firmly in place by a large and determined thumb. He opened the front
door in his nightshirt and tried to focus on the two figures standing on the porch. Ozzie and Nesbit, it was finally determined.
"Can I help you?" he asked as he opened the door. They followed him into the den.
"They're gonna kill you today," Ozzie said.
Jake sat on the couch and massaged his temples. "Maybe they'll succeed."
"Jake, this is serious. They plan to kill you."
"Who?"
"The Klan."
"Mickey Mouse?"
"Yeah. He called yesterday and said something was up. He called back two hours ago and said you're the lucky man. Today is the big day. Time for some excitement. They bury
Stump Sisson this morning in Loydsville, and it's time for the eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth routine."
"Why me? Why don't they kill Buckley or Noose or someone more deserving?"
"We didn't get a chance to talk about that."
"What method of execution?" Jake asked, suddenly feeling awkward sitting there in his nightshirt.
"He didn't say."
"Does he know?"
"He ain't much on details. He just said they'd try to do it sometime today."
"So what am I supposed to do? Surrender?"
"What time you goin' to the office?"
"What time is it?"
"Almost five."
"As soon as I can shower and dress."
"We'll wait."
At f ive-thirty, they rushed him into his office and locked the door. At eight, a platoon of soldiers gathered on the sidewalk under the balcony and waited for the target. Harry Rex and Ellen watched from the second floor of the courthouse. Jake squeezed between Ozzie and Nesbit, and the three of them crouched in the center
tight formation. Off they went across Washington Street in the direction of the courthouse. The vultures sniffed something and surrounded the entourage.
The abandoned feed mill sat near the abandoned railroad tracks halfway down the tallest hill in Clanton, two blocks north and east of the square. Beside it was a neglected asphalt and gravel street that ran downhill and intersected Cedar Street, after which it became much smoother and wider and continued downward until finally it terminated and merged into Quincy Street, the eastern boundary of the Clanton square.
From his position inside an abandoned silo, the marksman had a clear but distant view of the rear of the courthouse. He crouched in the darkness and aimed through a small opening, confident no one in the world could see him. The whiskey helped the confidence, and the aim, which he practiced a thousand times from seven-thirty until eight, when he noticed activity around the nigger's lawyer's office.
A comrade waited in a pickup hidden in a run-down warehouse next to the silo. The engine was running and the driver chain-smoked Lucky Strikes, waiting anxiously to hear the clapping sounds from the deer rifle.
As the armored mass stepped its way across Washington, the marksman panicked.
Through the scope he could barely see the head of the nigger's lawyer as it bobbed and weaved awkwardly among the sea of green, which was surrounded and chased by a dozen reporters. Go ahead, the whiskey said, create some excitement. He timed the bobbing and weaving as best he could, and pulled the trigger as the target approached the rear door of the courthouse.
The rifle shot was clear and unmistakable.
Half the soldiers hit the ground rolling and the other half grabbed Jake and threw him violently under the veranda/A guardsman screamed in anguish. The reporters and TV people crouched and stumbled to the ground, but valiantly kept the
cameras rolling to record the carnage. The soldier clutched his throat and screamed again. Another shot.
Then another.
"He's hit!" someone yelled. The soldiers scrambled on all fours across the driveway to the fallen one. Jake escaped through the doors to the safety of the courthouse. He fell onto the floor of the rear entrance and buried his head in his hands. Ozzie stood next to him, watching the soldiers through the door.
The gunman dropped from the silo, threw his gun behind the back seat, and disappeared with his comrade into the countryside. They had a funeral to attend in south Mississippi.
"He's hit in the throat!" someone screamed as his buddies waded around the reporters.
They lifted him and dragged him to a jeep.
"Who got hit?" Jake asked without removing his palms from his eyes.
"One of the guardsmen," Ozzie said. "You okay?"
"I guess," he answered as he clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the floor.
"Where's my briefcase?"
"It's out there on the driveway. We'll get it in a min-* ute." Ozzie removed his radio from his belt and barked orders to the dispatcher, something about all men to the courthouse.
When it was apparent the shooting was over, Ozzie joined the mass of soldiers outside.
Nesbit stood next to Jake. "You okay?" he asked.
The colonel rounded the corner, yelling and swearing. "What the hell happened?" he demanded. "I heard some shots."
"Mackenvale got hit."
"Where is he?" the colonel said. -
"Off to the hospital," a sergeant replied, pointing at a jeep flying away in the distance.
"How bad is he?"
"Looked pretty bad. Got him in the throat."
"Throat! Why did they move him?"
No one answered.
"Did anybody see anything?" the colonel demanded.
Sounded like it came from up, Ozzie said the looking up past Cedar Street. "Why don't you send a jeep up there to look around."
"Good idea." The colonel addressed his eager men with a string of terse commands, punctuated liberally with obscenities. The soldiers scattered in all directions, guns drawn and ready for combat, in search of an assassin they could not identify, who was, in fact, in the next county when the foot patrol began exploring the abandoned feed mill.
Ozzie laid the briefcase on the floor next to Jake. "Is Jake okay?" he whispered to Nesbit. Harry
Rex and Ellen stood on the stairs where Cobb and Willard had fallen.
"I don't know. He ain't moved in ten minutes," Nesbit said.
"Jake, are you all right?" the sheriff asked.
"Yes," he said slowly without opening his eyes. The soldier had been on Jake's left shoulder. "This is kinda silly, ain't it?" he had just said to Jake when a bullet ripped through his throat. He fell into
Jake, grabbing at his neck, gurgling blood and screaming. Jake fell, and was tossed to safety.
"He's dead, isn't he?" Jake asked softly.
"We don't know yet," replied Ozzie. "He's at the hospital."
"He's dead. I know he's dead. I heard his neck pop."
Ozzie looked at Nesbit, then at Harry Rex. Four or five coin-sized drops of blood were splattered on Jake's light gray suit. He hadn't noticed them yet, but they were apparent to everyone else.
"Jake, you've got blood on your suit," Ozzie finally said. "Let's go back to your office so you can change clothes."
"Why is that important?" Jake mumbled to the floor. They stared at each other.
Dell and the others from the Coffee Shop stood on the sidewalk and watched as they led
Jake from the courthouse, across the street, and into his office, ignoring the absurdities thrown by the reporters. Harry Rex locked the front door, leaving the bodyguards on the sidewalk. Jake went upstairs and removed his coat.
"Row Ark, why don't you make some margaritas," Harry Rex said. "I'll go upstairs and stay with him."
"Judge, we've had some excitement," Ozzie explained as Noose unpacked his briefcase and removed his coat.
"What is it?" Buckley asked.
"They tried to kill Jake this mornin'."
"What!"
"When?" asked Buckley.
" 'Bout an hour ago, somebody shot at Jake as he was comin' into the courthouse. It was a rifle at long range. We have no idea who did it. They missed Jake and hit a guardsman.
He's in surgery now."
"Where's Jake?" asked His Honor.
"Over in his office. He's pretty shook up."
"I would be too," Noose said sympathetically.
"He wanted you to call him when you got here."
"Sure." Ozzie dialed the number and handed the phone to the judge.
"It's Noose," Harry Rex said, handing the phone to Jake.
"Hello."
"Are you okay, Jake?"
"Not really. I won't be there today."
Noose struggled for a response. "Do what?"
"I said I won't be in court today. I'm not up to it."
"Well, uh, Jake, where does that leave the rest of us?"
"I don't care, really," Jake said, sipping on his second margarita.
"Beg your pardon?"
"I said I don't care, Judge. I don't care what you do, I won't be there."
Noose shook his head and looked at the receiver. "Are you hurt?" he asked with feeling.
"You ever been shot at, Judge?"
"No, Jake."
"You ever seen a man get shot, hear him scream?"
"No, Jake."
"You ever had somebody else's blood splashed on your suit?"
"No, Jake."
"I won't be there."
Noose paused and thought for a moment. Come on over, Jake, and let's talk about it."
"No. I'm not leaving my office. It's dangerous out there."
"Suppose we stand in recess until one. Will you feel better then?"
"I'll be drunk by then."
"What!"
"I said I'll be drunk by then,"
Harry Rex covered his eyes. Ellen left for the kitchen.
"When do you think you might be sober?" Noose asked sternly. Ozzie and Buckley looked at each other.
"Monday."
"What about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow's Saturday."
"Yes, I know, and I'd planned to hold court tomorrow. We've got a jury sequestered, remember?"
"Okay, I'll be ready in the morning."
"That's good to hear. What do I tell the jury right now? They're sitting in the jury room waiting on us. The courtroom is packed. Your client is sitting out there by himself waiting on you. What do I tell these people?"
"You'll think of something, Judge. I've got faith in you." Jake hung up. Noose listened to the unbelievable until it was evident that he had in fact been hung up on. He handed the phone to Ozzie.
His Honor looked out the window and removed his glasses. "He says he ain't comin' today."
Uncharacteristically, Buckley remained silent.
Ozzie was defensive. "It really got to him, Judge."
"Has he been drinking?"
"Naw, not Jake," Ozzie replied. "He's just tore up over that boy gettin' shot like he did.
He was right next to Jake, and caught the bullet that was aimed for him. It would upset anybody, Judge."
"He wants us to remain in recess until tomorrow morning," Noose said to Buckley, who shrugged and again said nothing.
As word spread, a regular carnival developed on the sidewalk outside Jake's office. The press set up camp and pawed at the front window in hopes of seeing someone or something newsworthy inside.
Friends stopped by to check on Jake, but were informed by various of the reporters that he was locked away inside and would not come out. Yes, he was unhurt.
Dr. Bass had been scheduled to testify Friday morning. He and Lucien entered the office through the rear door a few minutes after ten, and Harry Rex left for the liquor store.
With all the crying, the conversation with Carla had been difficult. He called after three drinks, and things did not go well. He talked to her father, told him he was safe, unhurt, and that half of the Mississippi National Guard had been assigned to protect him. Settle her down, he said, and he would call back later.
Lucien was furious. He had fought with Bass to keep him sober Thursday night so he could testify Friday. Now that he would testify Saturday, there was no way to keep him sober two days in a row. He thought of all the drinking they had missed Thursday, and was furious.
Harry Rex returned with a gallon of liquor. He and Ellen mixed drinks and argued over the ingredients. She rinsed the coffeepot, filled it with Bloody Mary mix and a disproportionate helping of Swedish vodka. Harry Rex added a lavish dose of Tabasco.
He made the rounds in the conference room and refilled each cup with the delightful mixture.
Dr. Bass gulped frantically and ordered more. Lucien and Harry Rex debated the likely identity of the gunman. Ellen silently watched Jake, who sat in the corner and stared at the bookshelves.
The phone rang. Harry Rex grabbed it and listened intently. He hung up and said, "That was Ozzie. The soldier's outta surgery. Bullet's lodged in the spine. They think he'll be paralyzed."
They all sipped in unison and said nothing. They made great efforts to ignore Jake as he rubbed his forehead with one hand and sloshed his drink with the other. The faint sound of someone knocking at me rear door interrupted brief memorial.
"Go see who it is," Lucien ordered Ellen, who left to see who was knocking.
"It's Lester Hailey," she reported to the conference room.
"Let him in," Jake mumbled, almost incoherently.
Lester was introduced to the parry and offered a Bloody Mary. He declined and asked for something with whiskey in it.
"Good idea," said Lucien. "I'm tired of light stuff. Let's get some Jack Daniel's."
"Sounds good to me," added Bass as he gulped the remnants in his cup.
Jake managed a weak smile at Lester, then returned to the study of the bookshelves.
Lucien threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and Harry Rex left for the liquor store.
When she awoke hours later, Ellen was on the couch in Jake's office. The room was dark and deserted, with an acrid, intoxicating smell to it. She moved cautiously. She found her boss peacefully snoring away in the war room, on the floor, partially under the war desk.
There were no lights to extinguish, so she carefully walked down the stairs. The conference room was littered with empty liquor bottles, beer cans, plastic cups and chicken dinner boxes. It was 9:30 P.M. She had slept five hours.
She could stay at Lucien's, but needed to change clothes. Her friend Nesbit would drive her to Oxford, but she was sober. Plus, Jake needed all the protection he could get. She locked the front door and walked to her car.
Ellen almost made it to Oxford when she saw the blue lights behind her. As usual, she was driving seventy-five. She parked on the shoulder and walked to her taillights, where she searched her purse and waited on the trooper.
Two plainsclothesmen approached from the blue lights.
"You drunk, ma'am?" one of them asked, spewing tobacco juice.
"No, sir. I'm trying to find my license."
She crouched before the taillights and fished for the license. Suddenly, she was knocked to the ground. A heavy quilt was thrown over her and both men held her down. A rope was wrapped around her chest and waist. She kicked and cursed, but could offer little resistance. The quilt covered her head and trapped her arms underneath. They pulled the rope tightly.
"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 unimpressive, 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 watc h. "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. H e 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 B uckley 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.
"You've never been convicted of a felony?"
"Of course not."
"Are you as certain of that as you are the rest of your testimony before this jury?"
That was the trap, the killer, the deadliest question of all; one Jake had used many times, and when he heard it, he knew Bass was finished. And so was Carl Lee.
"Of course," Bass answered with feigned arrogance.
Buckley moved in for the kill. "You're telling this jury that on October 17, 1956, in
Dallas, Texas, you were not convicted of a felony under the name of Tyler Bass?"
Buckley asked the question while looking at the jury and reading from the important-looking documents.
"That's a lie," Bass said quietly, and unconvincingly.
"Are you sure it's a lie?" Buckley asked.
"A bald-faced lie."
"Do you know a lie from the truth, Dr. Bass?"
"Damn right I do."
Noose placed his glasses on his nose and leaned forward. The jurors quit rocking. The reporters quit scribbling. The deputies along the back wall stood still and listened.
Buckley picked out one of the important-looking documents and studied it. "You're telling this jury that on October 17, 1956, you were not convicted of statutory rape?"
Jake knew it was important, in the midst of any great courtroom crisis, even this one, to maintain a straight, poker face. It was important for the jurors, who missed nothing, to see the defendant's lawyer with a positive look about him. Jake had practiced this positive, everything's-wonderful, I'm-in-control look through many trials and many surprises, but with the "statutory rape" the positive and confident and certain look was immediately replaced by a sickly, pale, pained expression that was being scrutinized by at least half of those in the jury box.
The other half scowled at the witness on the stand.
"Were you convicted of statutory rape, Doctor?" Buck-ley asked again after a lengthy silence.
No answer.
Noose uncoiled and leaned downward in the direction of the witness. "Please answer the question, Dr. Bass."
Bass ignored His Honor and stared at the D.A., then said, "You've got the wrong man."
Buckley snorted and walked to Musgrove, who was holding some more important-looking papers.
He opened a large white envelope and removed something that resembled an 8 x 10 photograph.
"Well, Dr. Bass, I've got some photographs of you taken by the Dallas Police Department on September 11, 1956. Would you like to see them?"
No answer.
Buckley held them out to the witness. "Would you like to see these, Dr. Bass? Perhaps they could refresh your memory."
Bass slowly shook his head, then lowered it and stared blankly at his boots.
"Your Honor, the State would introduce into evidence these copies, certified under the
Acts of Congress, of the Final Judgment and Sentencing Order in the case styled State of
Texas versus Tyler Bass, said records being obtained by the State from the proper officials in Dallas, Texas, and showing that on October 17, 1956, a one Tyler Bass pled guilty to the charge of statutory rape, a felony under the laws of the State of Texas. We can prove that Tyler Bass and this witness, Dr. W.T. Bass, are one and the same."
Musgrove politely handed Jake a copy of everything Buckley was waving.
"Any objections to this introduction into evidence?" Noose asked in Jake's direction.
A speech was needed. A brilliant, emotional explanation that would touch the hearts of the jurors and make them weep with pity for Bass and his patient. But the rules of procedure did not permit one at this point. Of course the evidence was admissible. Unable to stand, Jake waved in the negative. No objections.
"We have no further questions," Buckley announced.
"Any redirect, Mr. Brigance?" Noose asked.
In the split second available, Jake could not think of a single thing he could ask Bass to improve the situation. The jury had heard enough from the defense expert.
"No," Jake said quietly.
"Very well, Dr. Bass, you are excused."
Bass made a quick exit through the small gate in the railing, down the center aisle, and out of the courtroom. Jake watched his departure intently, conveying as much hatred as possible. It was important for the jury to see how shocked the defendant and his lawyer were. The jury had to believe a convicted felon was not knowingly put on the stand.
When the door closed and Bass was gone, Jake scanned the courtroom in hopes of finding an encouraging face. There were none. Lucien stroked his beard and stared at the floor. Lester sat with his arms folded and a disgusted look on his face. Gwen was crying.
"Call your next witness," Noose said. Jake continued searching. In the third row, between
Reverend Ollie Agee and Reverend Luther Roosevelt, sat Norman Reinfeld. When his eyes met Jake's, he frowned and shook his head as if to say "I told you so." On the other, side of the courtroom, most of the whites looked relaxed and a few even grinned at Jake.
"Mr. Brigance, you may call your next witness."
Against his better judgment, Jake attempted to stand. His knees buckled and he leaned forward with his palms flat against the table. "Your Honor," he said in a high-pitched, shrill, defeated voice,
"Could we recess till one?"
"But Mr. Brigance, it's only eleven-thirty."
A lie seemed appropriate. "Yes, Your Honor, but our next witness is not here, and will not arrive until one."
"Very well. We'll stand in recess until one. I need to see the attorneys in chambers."
Next to chambers was a coffee room where the lawyers loitered and gossiped by the hour, and next to it was a small rest room. Jake closed and locked the rest room door and removed his coat, throwing it to the floor. He knelt beside the toilet, waited momentarily, then vomited.
Ozzie stood before the judge and attempted small talk while Musgrove and the D.A. smiled at each other. They waited on Jake. Finally, he entered chambers and apologized.
"Jake, I have some bad news," Ozzie said.
"Let me sit down."
"I got a call an hour ago from the sheriff of Lafayette , County. Your law clerk, Ellen
Roark, is in the hospital."
"What happened!"
"The Klan got her last night. Somewhere between here and Oxford. They tied her to a tree and beat her."
"How is she?" Jake asked.
"Stable but serious."
"What happened?" Buckley asked.
"We ain't sure. They stopped her car somehow and took her out in the woods. Cut her clothes off her and cut her hair. She's got a concussion and cuts on the head, so they figure she was beat."
Jake needed to vomit again. He couldn't speak. He massaged his temples and thought how nice it would be to tie Bass to a tree and beat him.
Noose studied the defense attorney with compassion. "Mr. Brigance, are you okay?"
No response.
"Let's recess until two. I think we could all use the break," Noose said.
Jake walked slowly up the front steps with an empty Coors bottle and for a moment gave serious thought to smashing it against Lucien's head. He realized the injury would not be felt.
Lucien rattled his ice cubes and stared off in the distance, in the direction of the square, which had long been deserted except for the soldiers and the regular crowd of teenagers flocking to the theater, for the Saturday night double feature.
They said nothing. Lucien stared away. Jake glared at him with the empty bottle. Bass was hundreds of miles away.
After a minute or so, Jake asked, "Where's Bass?"
"Gone."
"Gone where?"
"Gone home."
"Where's his home?"
"Why do you wanna know?"
"I'd like to see his home. I'd like to see him in his home. I'd like to beat him to death with a baseball bat in his home."
Lucien rattled some more. "I don't blame you."
"Did you know?"
"Know what?"
"About the conviction?"
"Hell no. No one knew. The record was expunged."
"I don't understand."
"Bass told me the record of the conviction in Texas was expunged three years after it was entered."
Jake placed the beer bottle on the porch beside his chair. He grabbed a dirty glass, blew into it, then filled it with ice cubes and Jack Daniel's.
"Do you mind explaining, Lucien?"
"According to Bass, the girl was seventeen, and the daughter of a prominent judge in
Dallas. They fell in heat, and the judge caught them screwing on the couch. He pressed charges, and Bass didn't have a chance. He pled guilty to the statutory rape. But the girl was in love. They kept seeing each other and she comes up pregnant. Bass married her, and gives the judge a perfect baby boy for his first grandchild. The old man has a change of heart, and the record is expunged."
Lucien drank and watched the lights from the square.
"What happened to the girl?"
"According to Bass, a week before he finished medical school, his wife, who's pregnant again, and the little boy were killed in a train wreck in Fort Worth. That's when he started drinking, and quit living."
"And he's never told you this before?"
"Don't interrogate me. I told you I knew nothing about it. I put him on the witness stand twice myself, remember. If I had known it, he would never have testified."
"Why didn't he ever tell you?"
"I guess because he thought the record was erased. I don't know. Technically, he's right.
There is no record after the expungement. But he was convicted."
Jake took a long, bitter drink of whiskey. It was nasty.
They sat in silence for ten minutes. It was dark and the crickets were in full chorus. Sallie walked to the screen door and asked Jake if he wanted supper. He said no thanks.
"What happened this afternoon?" Lucien asked.
"Carl Lee testified, and we adjourned at four. Buckley didn't have his psychiatrist ready.
He'll testify Monday."
"How'd he do?"
"Fair. He followed Bass, and you could feel the hatred from the jurors. He was stiff and sounded rehearsed. I don't think he scored too many points."
"What'd Buckley do?"
"Went wild. Screamed at Carl Lee for an hour. Carl Lee kept getting smart with him, and they sniped back and forth. I think they both got hurt. On redirect, I propped him up some and he came across pitiful and sympathetic. Almost cried at the end."
"That's nice."
"Yeah, real nice. But they'll convict him, won't they?"
"I would imagine."
"After we adjourned, he tried to fire me. Said I'd lost his case and he wanted a new lawyer."
Lucien walked to the edge of the porch and unzipped his pants. He leaned on a column and sprayed the shrubs. He was barefoot and looked like a flood victim. Sallie brought him a fresh drink.
"How's Row Ark?" he asked.
"Stable, they say. I called her room and a nurse said she couldn't talk. I'll go over tomorrow."
"I hope she's okay. She's a fine girl."
"She's a radical bitch, but a very smart one. I feel like it's my fault, Lucien."
"It's not your fault. It's a crazy world, Jake. Full of crazy people. Right now I think half of them are in Ford County."
"Two weeks ago, they planted dynamite outside my bedroom window. They beat to death my secretary's husband. Yesterday they shot at me and hit a guardsman. Now they grab my law clerk, tie her to a pole, rip her clothes off, cut her hair, and she's in the hospital with a concussion. I wonder what's next."
"I think you should surrender."
"I would. I would march down to the courthouse right now and surrender my briefcase, lay down my arms, give up. But to whom? The enemy is invisible."
"You can't quit, Jake. Your client needs you."
"To hell with my client. He tried to fire me today."
"He needs you. This thing ain't over till it's over."
Nesbit's head hung halfway out the window and the saliva dripped down the left side of his chin, down the door, forming a small puddle over the "O" in the Ford of the Sheriffs
Department insignia on the side of the car. An empty beer can moistened his crotch. After two weeks of bodyguard duty he had grown accustomed to sleeping with the mosquitoes in his patrol car while protecting the nigger's lawyer.
Moments after Saturday turned into Sunday, the radio violated his rest. He grabbed the mike while wiping his chin on his left sleeve.
"S.O. 8," he responded.
"What's your 10-20?"
"Same place it was two hours ago."
"The Wilbanks house?"
"10-4."
"Is Brigance still there?"
"10-4."
"Get him and take him to his house on Adams. It's an emergency."
Nesbit walked past the empty bottles on the porch, through the unlocked door, where he found Jake sprawled on the couch in the front room.
"Get up, Jake! You gotta go home! It's an emergency!"
Jake jumped to his feet and followed Nesbit. They stopped on the front steps and looked past the dome of the courthouse. In the distance a boiling funnel of black smoke rose above an orange glow and drifted peacefully toward the half moon.
Adams Street was blocked with an assortment of volunteer vehicles, mostly pickups.
Each had a variety of red and yellow emergency lights, at least a thousand in all. They spun and flashed and streaked through the darkness in a silent chorus, illuminating the street.
The fire engines were parked haphazardly in front of the house. The firemen and volunteers worked frantically laying lines and getting organized, responding occasionally to the commands of the chief. Ozzie, Prather, and Hastings stood near an engine. Some guardsmen lingered benignly near a jeep.
The fire was brilliant. Flames roared from every window across the front of the. house, upstairs and down. The carport was completely engulfed. Carla's Cutlass burned inside and out-the four tires emitting a darker glow of their own. Curiously, another, smaller car, not the Saab, burned next to the Cutlass.
The thundering, crackling noise of the fire, plus the rumbling of the fire engines, plus the loud voices, attracted neighbors from several blocks. They crowded together in the lawns across the street and watched.
Jake and Nesbit ran down the street. The chief spotted them and came running.
"Jake! Is anybody in the house?"
"No!"
"Good. I didn't think so."
"Just a dog."
"A dog!"
Jake nodded and watched the house.
"I'm sorry," said the chief.
They gathered at Ozzie's car in front of Mrs. Pickle's house. Jake answered questions,
"That's not your Volkswagen under there, is it, Jake?"
Jake stared in stunned silence at Carla's landmark. He shook his head.
"I didn't think so. Looks like that's where it started."
"I don't understand," said Jake.
"If it ain't your car, then somebody parked it there, right? Notice how the floor of the carport is burnin'? Concrete don't normally burn. It's gasoline. Somebody loaded the VW with gasoline, parked it and ran away. Probably had some kinda device which set the thing off."
Prather and two volunteers agreed.
"How long's it been burning?" Jake asked.
"We got here ten minutes ago," the chief said, "and it was well involved. I'd say thirty minutes. It's a good fire. Somebody knew what they's doin'."
"I don't suppose we could get anything out of there, could we?" Jake asked in general, knowing the answer.
"No way, Jake. It's too involved. My men couldn't go in there if people were trapped. It's a good fire."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, look at it. It's burnin' evenly through the house. You can see flames in every window.
Downstairs and up. •That's very unusual. In just a minute, it'll burn through the roof."
Two squads inched forward with the lines, shooting water in the direction of the windows by the front porch. A smaller line was aimed at a window upstairs. After watching for a minute or two as the water disappeared into the flames with no noticeable effect, the chief spat and said, "It'll burn to the ground." With that he disappeared around an engine and began shouting.
Jake looked at Nesbit. "Will you do me a favor?"
"Sure, Jake."
"Drive over to Harry Rex's and bring him back. I'd hate for him to miss this."
"Sure."
For two hours Jake, Ozzie, Harry Rex, and Nesbit sat on the patrol car and watched the fire fulfill the chiefs prediction. From time to time a neighbor would stop by and extend sympathies and ask about the family. Mrs. Pickle, the sweet old woman next door, cried loudly when informed by Jake that Max had been consumed.
By three, the deputies and other curious had disappeared, and by four the quaint little
Victorian had been reduced to smoldering rubble. The last of the firemen smothered any sign of smoke from the ruins. Only the chimney and burnt frames of two cars stood above the remains as the heavy rubber boots kicked and plowed through the waste looking for sparks or hidden flames that might somehow leap from the dead and burn the rest of the wreckage.
They rolled up the last of the lines as the sun began to appear. Jake thanked them when they left.
He and Harry Rex walked through the backyard and surveyed the damage.
"Oh well," Harry Rex said. "It's just a house."
"Would you call Carla and tell her that?"
"No. I think you should."
"I think I'll wait."
Harry Rex looked at his watch. "It's about breakfast time, isn't it?"
"It's Sunday morning, Harry Rex. Nothing's open."
"Ah, Jake, you're an amateur, and I'm a professional. I can find hot food at any time of any day."
"The truck stop?"
"The truck stop!"
"Okay. And when we finish we'll go to Oxford to check on Row Ark."
"Great. I can't wait to see her with a butch haircut."
Sallie grabbed the phone and threw it at Lucien, who rumbled with it until it was arranged properly next to his head.
"Yeah, who is it?" he asked, squinting through the window into the darkness.
"Is this Lucien Wilbanks?"
"Yeah, who's this?"
"Do you know Clyde Sisco?"
"Yeah."
"It's fifty thousand."
"Call me back in the morning."
Sheldon Roark sat in the window with his feet on the back of a chair, reading the Memphis Sunday paper's version of the Hailey trial. On the bottom of the front page was a picture of his daughter and the story about her encounter with the Klan. She rested comfortably in the bed a few feet away. The left side of her head was shaved and covered with a thick bandage. The left ear was sewn with twenty-eight stitches. The severe concussion had been downgraded to a mild concussion, and the doctors had promised she could leave by Wednesday.
She had not been raped or whipped. When the doctors called him in Boston they were short on details. He had flown for seven hours not knowing what they had done to her, but expecting the worst. Late Saturday night, the doctors ran more X rays and told him to relax. The scars would fade and the hair would grow back. She had been frightened and roughed up, but it could have been much worse.
He heard a commotion in the hall. Someone was arguing with a nurse. He laid the paper on her bed and opened the door.
A nurse had caught Jake and Harry Rex sneaking down the hall. She explained that visiting hours started at 2:00 P.M., and that happened to be six hours away; that only family members were allowed; and that she would call security if they didn't leave. Harry
Rex explained that he didn't give a damn about visiting hours or any other silly rules of the hospital; that it was his fiancee and that he would see her one last time before she died; and that if the nurse didn't shut up he would sue her for harassment because he was a lawyer and hadn't sued anybody in a week and was getting anxious.
"What's going on here?" Sheldon said.
Jake looked at the small man with the red hair and green eyes, and said, "You must be Sheldon Roark."
"I am."
"I'm Jake Brigance. The one-"
"Yes, I've been reading about you. It's okay, nurse, they're with me."
"Yeah," Harry Rex said. "It's okay. We're with him. Now would you please leave us alone before I garnishee your check."
She vowed to call security, and stormed down the hall.
"I'm Harry Rex Vonner," he said, shaking hands with Sheldon Roark.
"Step inside," he said. They followed him into the small room and stared at Ellen. She was still asleep.
"How bad is she?" Jake asked.
"Mild concussion. Twenty-eight stitches in her ear, and eleven in her head. She'll be fine.
Doctor said she might leave by Wednesday. She was awake last night and we talked for a long time."
"Her hair looks awful," Harry Rex observed..
"They yanked it and cut it with a dull knife, she said. They also cut her clothes off, and at one time threatened to bullwhip her. The head injuries are self-inflicted. She thought they would either kill her or rape her, or both. So she banged her brains out against the pole she was tied to. Must have scared them."
"You mean they didn't beat her?"
"No. They didn't hurt her. Just scared the hell out of her."
"What did she see?"
"Not much. Burning cross, white robes, about a dozen men. Sheriff said it was a pasture eleven miles east of here. Owned by some paper company."
"Who found her?" Harry Rex asked.
"The sheriff received an anonymous phone call from a fella by the name of Mickey Mouse."
"Ah yes. My old friend."
Ellen moaned softly and stretched.
"Let's step outside," Sheldon said.
"Does this place have a cafeteria?" Harry Rex asked. "I get hungry when I get near a hospital."
"Sure. Let's have coffee."
The cafeteria on the first floor was empty. Jake and Mr. Roark drank black coffee. Harry
Rex started with three sweet rolls and a pint of milk.
"According to the paper, things aren't going too well," Sheldon said.
"The paper is very kind," Harry Rex said with a mouthful. "Jake here is gettin' his ass kicked all over the courtroom. And life ain't so great outside the courtroom, either. When they're not shooting at him, or kidnapping his law clerk, they're burning his house."
"They burned your house!"
Jake nodded. "Last night. It's still smoldering."
"I thought I detected the smell of smoke."
"We watched it burn to the ground. It took four hours."
"I'm sorry to hear that. They've threatened me with that before, but the worst I've had was slashed tires. I've never been shot at either."
"I've been shot at a couple of times."
"Do y'all have the Klan in Boston?" asked Harry Rex.
"Not'that I know of."
"It's a shame. Those folks add a real dimension to your law practice."
"Sounds like it. We saw the television reports of the riot around the courthouse last week.
I've watched it pretty close since Ellen became involved. It's a famous case. Even up there. I wish I had it."
"It's all yours," said Jake. "I think my client is looking for a new lawyer."
"How many shrinks will the State call?"
"Just one. He'll testify in the morning, and we'll have closing arguments. The jury should get it by late tomorrow afternoon."
"I hate that Ellen will miss it. She called me every day and talked about the case."
"Where did Jake go wrong?" Harry Rex asked.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Jake said.
"I think Jake has done a good job. It's a lousy set of facts to begin with. Hailey committed the murders, planned them carefully, and is relying on a rather weak plea of insanity.
Juries in Boston would not be too sympathetic."
"Nor in Ford County," added Harry Rex.
"I hope you have a soul-stirring final summation up your sleeve," Sheldon said.
"He doesn't have any sleeves," said Harry Rex.
"They've all been burned. Along with his pants and underwear."
"Why don't you come over tomorrow and watch?" Jake asked. "I'll introduce you to the judge and ask that you have privileges of chambers."
"He wouldn't do that for me," Harry Rex said.
"I can understand why," Sheldon said with a smile. "I might just do that. I had planned to stay until Tuesday anyway. Is it safe over there?"
"Not really."
Woody Mackenvale's wife sat on a plastic bench in the hall next to his room and cried quietly while trying to be brave for her two small sons seated next to her. Each boy squeezed a well-used wad of Kleenexes, occasionally wiping their cheeks and blowing their noses. Jake knelt before her and listened intently as she described what the doctors had said. The bullet had lodged in the spine-the paralysis was severe and permanent. He was a foreman at a plant in Booneville. Good job. Good life. She didn't work, at least until now. They would make it somehow, but she wasn't sure how. He coached his sons'
Little League team. He was very active.
She cried louder and the boys wiped their cheeks.
"He saved my life," Jake said to her, and looked at the boys.
She closed her eyes and nodded. "He was doing his jotx. We'll make it."
Jake took a Kleenex from the box on the bench and wiped his eyes. A group of relatives stood nearby and watched. Harry Rex paced nervously at the end of the hall.
Jake hugged her and patted the boys on the head. He gave her his phone number-office-and told her to call if he could do anything. He promised to visit Woody when the trial was over.
The beer stores opened at noon on Sunday, as if the church folks needed it then and would stop on the way home from the Lord's house to pick up a couple of six-packs, then on to Grandmother's for Sunday dinner and an afternoon of hell- raising. Oddly, they would close again at six in the afternoon, as if the same folks should then be denied beer as they returned to church for the Sunday night services. On the other six days beer was sold from six in the morning until midnight. But on Sunday, the selling was curtailed in honor of the Almighty.
Jake bought a six-pack at Bates Grocery and directed his chauffeur toward the lake.
Harry Rex's antique Bronco carried three inches of dried mud across the doors and fenders. The tires were imperceptible. The windshield was cracked and dangerous, with thousands of splattered insects caked around the edges. The inspection sticker was four years old and unseen from the outside.
Dozens of empty beer cans and broken bottles littered the floorboard. The air conditioner had not worked in six years. Jake had suggested use of the Saab. Harry Rex had cursed him for his stupidity. The red Saab was an easy target for snipers. No one would suspect the Bronco.
They drove slowly in the general direction of the lake, to no place in particular. Willie
Nelson wailed from the cassette. Harry Rex tapped the steering wheel and sang alon g.
His normal speaking voice was coarse and unrefined. With song, it was heinous. Jake sipped his beer and searched for daylight through the windshield.
The heat wave was about to be broken. Dark clouds loomed to the southwest, and when they passed Huey's Lounge the rains fell and showered the parched earth. It cleansed and removed the dust from the kudzu that lined the roadbeds and hung like Spanish moss from the trees. It cooled the scorched pavement and created a sticky fog that rose three feet above the highway. The red baked gullies absorbed the water, and when full began to carry tiny streams downward to the larger field drains and road ditches. The rains drenched the cotton and soybeans, and pounded the crop rows until small puddles formed between the stalks.
Remarkably, the windshield wipers worked. They slapped back and forth furiously and removed the mud and insect collection. The storm grew. Harry Rex increased the volume of the stereo. The blacks with their cane poles and straw hats camped under the bridges and waited for the storm to blow over. Below them, the still creeks came to life. Muddy water from the fields and gullies rushed downward and stirred the small streams and brooks. The water rose and moved forward. The blacks ate bologna and crackers and told fishing stories.
Harry Rex was hungry. He stopped at Treadway's Grocery near the lake, and bought more beer, two catfish dinners, and a large bag of Cajiin-spiced red-hot barbecue pork skins. He threw them at Jake.
They crossed the dam in a blinding downpour. Harry Rex parked next to a small pavilion over a picnic area. They sat on the concrete table and watched the rain batter Lake
Chatulla. Jake drank beer while Harry Rex ate the catfish dinners.
"When you gonna tell Carla?" he asked, slurping beer.
The tin roof roared above. "About what?"
"The house."
"I'm not gonna tell her. I think I can have it rebuilt before she gets back."
"You mean by the end of the week?"
"Yeah."
"You're cracking up, Jake. You're drinking too much, and you're losing your mind."
"I deserve it. I've earned it. I'm two weeks away from bankruptcy. I'm about to lose the biggest case of my career, for which I have been paid nine hundred dollars. My beautiful home that everyone took pictures of and the old ladies from the Garden Club tried to get written up in Southern Living has been reduced to rubble. My wife has left me, and when she hears about the house, she'll divorce me. No question about that. So I'll lose my wife.
And once my daughter learns that her damned dog died in the fire, she'll hate me forever.
There's a contract on my head. I've got Klan goons looking for me. Snipers shooting at me. There's a soldier lying up in the hospital with my bullet in his spine. He'll be a vegetable, and I'll think about him every hour of every day for the rest of my life. My secretary's husband was killed because of me. My last employee is in the hospital with a punk haircut and a concussion because she worked for me. The jury thinks I'm a lying crook because of my expert witness. My client wants to fire me. When he's convicted, every- body will blame me. He'll hire another lawyer for the appeal, one of those ACLU types, and they'll sue me claiming ineffective trial counsel. And they'll be right. So I'll get my ass sued for malpractice. I'll have no wife, no daughter, no house, no practice, no clients, no money, nothing."
"You need psychiatric help, Jake. I think you should make an appointment with Dr. Bass.
Here, have a beer."
"I guess I'll move in with Lucien and sit on the porch all day."
"Can I have your office?"
"Do you think she'll divorce me?"
"Probably so. I've had four divorces, and they'll file for damned near anything."
"Not Carla. I worship the ground she walks on, and she knows it."
"She'll be sleeping on the ground when she gets back to Clanton."
"Naw, we'll get a nice, cozy little double-wide trailer. It'll do us fine until the bankruptcy is over. Then we'll find another old house and start over."
"You'll probably find you another wife and start over. Why would she leave a swanky cottage on the beach and return to a house trailer in Clanton?"
"Because I'll be in the house trailer."
"That's not good enough, Jake. You'll be a drunk, bankrupt, disbarred lawyer, living in a house trailer. You will be publicly disgraced. All of your friends, except me and Lucien, will forget about you. She'll never come back. It's over, Jake. As your friend and divorce lawyer, I advise you to file first. Do it now, tomorrow, so she'll never know what hit her."
"Why would I sue her for divorce?"
"Because she's gonna sue you. We'll file first and allege that she deserted you in your hour of need."
"Is that grounds for divorce?"
"No. But we'll also claim that you're crazy, temporary insanity. Just let me handle it. The
M'Naghten Rule. I'm the sleazy divorce lawyer, remember."
"How could I forget?"
Jake poured hot beer from his neglected bottle, and opened another. The rain slackened and the clouds lightened. A cool wind blew up from the lake.
"They'll convict him, won't they, Harry Rex?" he asked, staring at the lake in the distance.
He quit chomping and wiped his mouth. He laid the paper plate on the table, and took a long drink of beer. The wind blew light drops of water onto his face. He wiped it with a sleeve.
"Yeah, Jake. Your man is about to be sent away. I can see it in their eyes. The insanity crap just didn't work. They didn't want to believe Bass to begin with, and after Buckley yanked his pants down, it was all over. Carl Lee didn't help himself any. He seemed rehearsed and too sincere. Like he was begging for sympathy. He
was a lousy witness. I watched the jury while he testified. I saw no support for him. They'll convict, Jake. And quickly."
"Thanks for being so blunt."
"I'm your friend, and I think you should start preparing for a conviction and a long appeal."
"You know, Harry Rex, I wish I'd never heard of Carl Lee Hailey."
"I think it's too late, Jake."
Sallie answered the door and told Jake she was sorry about the house. Lucien was upstairs in his study, working and sober. He pointed to a chair and instructed Jake to sit down. Legal pads littered his desk.
"I've spent all afternoon working on a closing argument," he said, waving at the mess before him.
"Your only hope of saving Hailey is with a spellbinding performance on final summation.
I mean, we're talking about the greatest closing argument in the history of jurisprudence.
That's what it'll take."
"And I assume you've created such a masterpiece."' "As a matter of fact, I have. It's much better than anything you could come up with. And I assumed-correctly- that you would spend your Sunday afternoon mourning the loss of your home and
drowning your sorrows with Coors. I knew you would have nothing prepared. So I've done it for you."
"I wish I could stay as sober as you, Lucien."
"I was a better lawyer drunk than you are sober."
"At least I'm a lawyer."
Lucien tossed a legal pad at Jake. "There it is. A compilation of my greatest closing arguments. Lucien Wilbanks at his best, all rolled into one for you and your client. I suggest you memorize it and use it word for word. It's that good. Don't try to modify it, or improvise. You'll just screw it up."
"I'll think about it. I've done this before, remember?"
"You'd never know it."
"Dammit, Lucien! Get off my back!"
"Take it easy, Jake. Let's have a drink. Sallie! Sallie!"
Jake threw the masterpiece on the couch and walked to the window overlooking the backyard.
Sallie ran up the stairs. Lucien ordered whiskey and beer.
"Were you up all night?" Lucien asked.
"No. I slept from eleven to twelve."
"You look terrible. You need a good night's rest."
"I feel terrible, and sleep will not help. Nothing will help, except the end of this trial. I don't understand, Lucien. I don't understand how everything has gone so wrong. Surely to
God we're entitled to a little good luck. The case should not even be tried in Clanton. We were dealt the worst possible jury-a jury that's been tampered with. But I can't prove it.
Our star witness was completely destroyed. The defendant made a lousy witness. And the jury does not trust me. I don't know what else could go wrong."
"You can still win the case, Jake. It'll take a miracle, but those things happen sometimes.
I've snatched victory from the jaws of defeat many times with an effective closing argument. Zero in on one or two jurors. Play to them. Talk to them. Remember, it just takes one to hang the jury."
"Should I make them cry?"
"If you can. It's not that easy. But I believe in tears in the jury box. It's very effective."
Sallie brought the drinks, and they followed her downstairs to the porch. After dark, she fed them sandwiches and fried potatoes. At ten, Jake excused himself and went to his room. He called Carla and talked for an hour. There was no mention of the house. His stomach cramped when he heard her voice and realized that one day very soon he would be forced to tell her that the house, her house, no longer existed. He hung up and prayed she didn't read about it in the newspaper.
Clanton returned to normal Monday morning as the barricades were put in place around the square and the ranks of the soldiers swelled to preserve the public peace. They loitered about in loose formation, watching as the Kluxers returned to their appointed ground on one side, and the black protestors on the other. The day of rest brought renewed energy to both groups, and by eight-thirty they were in full chorus. The collapse of Dr. Bass had been big news, and the Kluxers smelled victory. Plus th ey had scored a direct hit on Adams Street. They appeared to be louder than normal. At nine, Noose summoned the attorneys to chambers. "Just wanted to make sure you were all alive and well." He grinned at Jake.
"Why don't you kiss my ass, Judge?" Jake said under his breath, but loud enough to be heard. The prosecutors froze. Mr. Pate cleared his throat.
Noose cocked his head sideways as if hard of hearing. "What did you say, Mr. Brigance?"
"I said, 'Why don't we get started, Judge?'"
"Yes, that's what I thought you said. How's your clerk, Ms. Roark?"
"She'll be fine."
"Was it the Klan?"
"Yes, Judge. The same Klan that tried to kill me. Same Klan that lit up the county with crosses and who knows what else for our jury panel. Same Klan that's probably intimidated most of those jurors sitting out there. Yes, sir, it's the same Klan."
Noose ripped off his glasses. "Can you substantiate that?"
"You mean, do I have written, signed, notarized confessions from the Klansmen? No, sir.
They're most uncooperative."
"If you can't prove it, Mr. Brigance, then leave it alone."
"Yes, Your Honor."
Jake left chambers and slammed the door. Seconds later Mr. Pate called the place to order and everyone rose. Noose welcomed his jury back and promised the ordeal was almost over. No one smiled at him. It had been a lonely weekend at the Temple Inn.
"Does the State have any rebuttal?" he asked Buckley.
"One witness, Your Honor."
Dr. Rodeheaver was fetched from the witness room. He carefully situated himself in the witness chair and nodded warmly at the jury. He looked like a psychiatrist. Dark suit, no boots.
Buckley assumed the podium and smiled at the jury. "You are Dr. Wilbert Rodeheaver?" he thundered, looking at the jury as if to say, "Now you'll meet a real psychiatrist."
"Yes, sir."
Buckley asked questions, a million questions, about his educational and professional background. Rodeheaver was confident, relaxed, prepared, and accustomed to the witness chair. He talked at great length about his broad educational training, his vast experience as a practicing physician, and more recently, the enormous magnitude of his job as head of staff at the state mental hospital.
Buckley asked him if he had written any articles in his field. He said yes, and for thirty minutes they discussed the writings of this very learned man. He had received research grants from the federal government and from various states. He was a member of all the organizations Bass belonged to, and a few more. He had been certified by every association remotely touching the study of the human mind. He was polished, and sober.
Buckley tendered him as an expert, and Jake had no questions.
Buckley continued. "Dr. Rodeheaver, when did you first examine Carl Lee Hailey?"
The expert checked his notes. "June 19."
"Where did the examination take place?"
"In my office at Whitfield."
"How long did you examine him?"
"Couple of hours."
"What was the' purpose of this examination?"
"To try and determine his mental condition at that time and also at the time he killed Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard."
"Did you obtain his medical history?"
"Most of the information was taken by an associate at the hospital. I reviewed it with Mr. Hailey."
"What did the history reveal?"
"Nothing remarkable. He talked a lot about Vietnam, but nothing remarkable."
"Did he talk freely about Vietnam?"
"Oh yes. He wanted to talk about it. It was almost like he had been told to discuss it as much as possible."
"What else did you discuss at the first examination?"
"We covered a wide variety of topics. His childhood, family, education, various jobs, just about everything."
"Did he discuss the rape of his daughter?"
"Yes, in great detail. It was painful for him to talk about it, the sam& as it would have been for me had it been my daughter."
"Did he discuss with you the events leading up to the shootings of Cobb and Willard?"
"Yes, we talked about that for quite a while. I tried to ascertain the degree of knowledge and understanding he had about those events."
"What did he tell you?"
"Initially, not much. But with time, he opened up and explained how he inspected "the courthouse three days before the shooting and picked a good place to attack."
"What about the shootings?"
"He never told me much about the actual killings. Said he didn't remember much, but I suspect otherwise."
Jake sprang to his feet. "Objection! The witness can only testify as to what he actually knows. He cannot speculate."
"Sustained. Please continue, Mr. Buckley."
"What else did you observe concerning his mood, attitude, and manner of speech?"
Rodeheaver crossed his legs and rocked gently. He lowered his eyebrows in deep thought.
"Initially, he was distrustful of me and had difficulty looking me in the eye. He gave short answers to my questions. He was very resentful of the fact that he was guarded and sometimes handcuffed while at our facility. He questioned the padded walls. But after a while, he opened up and talked freely about most everything. He flatly refused to answer a few questions, but other than that I would say he was fairly cooperative."
"When and where did you examine him again?"
"The next day, same place."
"What was his mood and attitude?"
"About the same as the day before. Cool at first, but he opened up eventually. He discussed basically the same topics as the day before."
"How long did this examination last?"
"Approximately four hours."
Buckley reviewed something on a legal pad, then whispered to Musgrove. "Now, Dr.
Rodeheaver, as a result of your examinations of Mr. Hailey on June 19 and 20, were you able to arrive at a medical diagnosis of the defendant's psychiatric condition on those dates?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what is that diagnosis?"
"On June 19 and 20, Mr. Hailey appeared to be of sound mind. Perfectly normal, I would say."
"Thank you. Based on your examinations, were you able to arrive at a diagnosis of Mr.
Hailey's mental condition on the day he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?"
"Yes."
"And what is that diagnosis?"
"At that time his mental condition was sound, no defects of any nature."
"Upon what factors do you base this?"
Rodeheaver turned to the jury and became a professor. "You must look at the level of premeditation involved in this crime. Motive is an element of premeditation. He certainly had a motive for doing what he did, and his mental condition at that time did not prevent him from entertaining the requisite premeditation. Frankly, Mr. Hailey carefully planned what he did."
"Doctor, you are familiar with the M'Naghten Rule as a test for criminal responsibility?"
"Certainly."
"And you are aware that another psychiatrist, a Dr. W.T. Bass, has told this jury that Mr.
Hailey was incapable of knowing the difference between right and wrong, and, further, that he was unable to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions."
"Yes, I am aware of that."
"Do you agree with that testimony?"
"No. I find it preposterous, and I am personally offended by it. Mr. Hailey himself has testified he planned the murders. He's admitted, in effect, that his mental condition at the time did not prevent him from possessing the ability to plan. That's called premeditation in every legal and medical book. I've never heard of someone planning a murder, admitting he planned it, then claiming he did not know what he was doing. It's absurd."
At that moment, Jake felt it was absurd too, and as it echoed around the courtroom it sounded mighty absurd. Rodeheaver sounded good and infinitely credible. Jake thought of Bass and cursed to himself.
Lucien sat with the blacks and agreed with every word of Rodeheaver's testimony. When compared to Bass, the State's doctor was terribly believable. Lucien ignored the jury box.
From time to time he would cut his eyes without moving his head and catch Clyde Sisco blatantly and openly staring directly at him. But Lucien would not allow their eyes to meet. The messenger had not called Monday morning as instructed. An affirmative nod or wink from Lucien would consummate the deal, with payment to be arranged later, after the verdict. Sisco knew the rules, and he watched for an answer. There was none.
Lucien wanted to discuss it with Jake.
"Now, Doctor, based upon these factors and your diagnosis of his mental condition as of May 20, do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, as to whether Mr. Hailey was capable of knowing the difference between right and wrong when he shot Billy Ray Cobb, Pete Willard, and Deputy DeWayne Looney?"
"I have."
"And what is that opinion?"
"His mental condition was sound, and he was very capable of distinguishing right from wrong."
"And do you have an opinion, based upon the same factors, as to whether Mr. Hailey was able to understand and appreciate the nature and quality of his actions?"
"I have."
"And what is that opinion?"
"That he fully appreciated what he was doing."
Buckley snatched his legal pad and bowed politely. "Thank you, Doctor. I have no further questions."
"Any cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?" Noose asked.
"Just a few questions."
"I thought so. Let's take a fifteen-minute recess."
Jake ignored Carl Lee, and moved quickly out of the courtroom, up the stairs, and into the law library on the third floor. Harry Rex was waiting, and smiling.
"Relax, Jake. I've called every newspaper in North Carolina, and there's no story about the house. There's nothing about Row Ark. The Raleigh morning paper ran a story about the trial, but it was in real general terms. Nothing else. Carla doesn't know about it, Jake.
As far as she knows, her pretty little landmark is still standing. Isn't that great?"
"Wonderful. Just wonderful. Thanks, Harry Rex."
"Don't mention it. Look, Jake, I sorta hate to bring this up."
"I can't wait."
"You know I hate Buckley. Hate him worse than you do. But me and Musgrove get along okay. I can talk to Musgrove. I was thinking last night that it might be a good idea to approach them-me through Musgrove-and explore the possibilities of a plea bargain."
"No!"
"Listen, Jake. What harm will it do? None! If you can plead him guilty to murder with no gas chamber, then you know you have saved his life."
"No!"
"Look, Jake. Your man is about forty-eight hours away from a death penalty conviction.
If you don't believe that, then you're blind, Jake. My blind friend."
"Why should Buckley cut a deal? He's got us on the ropes."
"Maybe he won't. But let me at least find out."
"No, Harry Rex. Forget it."
Rodeheaver returned to his seat after the recess, and Jake looked at him from behind the podium. In his brief legal career, he had never won an argument, in court or out, with an expert witness. And the way his luck was running, he decided not to argue with this one.
"Dr. Rodeheaver, psychiatry is the study of the human mind, is it not?"
"It is."
"And it is an inexact science at best, is it not?"
"That is correct."
"You might examine a person and reach a diagnosis, and the next psychiatrist might reach a completely different diagnosis?"
"That's possible, yes."
"In fact, you could have ten psychiatrists examine a mental patient, and arrive at ten different opinions about what's wrong with the patient."
"That's unlikely."
"But it could happen, couldn't it, Doctor?"
"Yes, it could. Just like legal opinions, I guess."
"But we're not dealing with legal opinions in this case, are we, Doctor?"
"No."
"The truth is, Doctor, in many cases psychiatry cannot tell us what is wrong with a person's mind?"
"That is true."
"And psychiatrists disagree all the time, don't they, Doctor?"
"Of course."
"Now, who do you work for, Doctor?"
"The State of Mississippi."
"And for how long?"
"Eleven years."
"And who is prosecuting Mr. Hailey?"
"The State of Mississippi."
"During your eleven-year career with the State, how many times have you testified in trials where the insanity defense was used?"
Rodeheaver thought for a moment. "I think this is my forty-third trial."
Jake checked something in a file and eyed the doctor with a nasty little smile. "Are you sure it's not your forty-sixth?"
"It could be, yes. I'm not certain."
The courtroom became still. Buckley and Musgrove hovered over their legal pads, but watched their witness carefully.
"Forty-six times you've testified for the State in insanity trials?"
"If you say so."
"And forty-six times you've testified that the defendant was not legally insane. Correct, Doctor?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, let me make it simple. You've testified forty-six times, and forty-six times it has been your opinion the defendant was not legally insane. Correct?"
Rodeheaver squirmed just a little, and a hint of discomfort broke around his eyes. "I'm not sure."
"You've never seen a legally insane criminal defendant, have you, Doctor?"
"Of course I have."
"Good. Would you then, please, sir, tell us the name of the defendant and where he was tried?"
Buckley rose and buttoned his coat. "Your Honor, the State objects to these questions.
Dr. Rodeheaver cannot be required to remember the names and places of the trials he has testified in."
"Overruled, Sit down. Answer the question, Doctor."
Rodeheaver breathed deeply and studied the ceiling. Jake glanced at the jurors. They were awake and waiting on an answer.
"I can't remember," he finally said.
Jake lifted a thick stack of papers and waved it at the witness. "Could it be, Doctor, that the reason you can't remember is that in eleven years, forty-six trials, you have never testified in favor of the defendant?"
"I honestly can't remember."
"Can you honestly name us one trial in which you found the defendant to be legally insane?"
"I'm sure there are some."
"Yes or no, Doctor. One trial?"
The expert looked briefly at the D.A. "No. My memory fails me. I cannot at this time."
Jake walked slowly to the defense table and picked up a thick file.
"Dr. Rodeheaver, do you recall testifying in the trial of a man by the name of Danny
Booker in McMurphy County in December of 1975? A rather gruesome double homicide?"
"Yes, I recall that trial."
"And you testified to the effect that he was not legally insane, did you not?"
"That is correct."
"Do you recall how many psychiatrists testified in his behalf?"
"Not exactly. There were several."
"Do the names Noel McClacky, M.D.; O.G. McGuire, M.D.; and Lou Watson, M.D., ring a bell?"
"Yes."
"They're all psychiatrists, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"They're all qualified, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"And they all examined Mr. Booker and testified at trial that in their opinions the poor man was legally insane?"
"That's correct."
"And you testified he was not legally insane?"
"That's correct."
"How many other doctors supported your position?"
"None, that I recall."
"So it was three against one?"
"Yes, but I'm still convinced I was right."
"I see. What did the jury do, Doctor?"
"He, uh, was found not guilty by reason of insanity."
"Thank you. Now, Dr. Rodeheaver, you're the head doctor at Whitfield, aren't you?"
"Yes, so to speak."
"Are you directly or indirectly responsible for the treatment of every patient at Whitfield?"
"I'm directly responsible, Mr. Brigance. I may not personally see every patient, but their doctors are under my supervision."
"Thank you. Doctor, where is Danny Booker today?"
Rodeheaver shot a desperate look at Buckley, and immediately covered it with a warm, relaxed grin for the jury. He hesitated for a few seconds, then hesitated one second too long.
"He's at Whitfield, isn't he?" Jake asked in a tone of voice that informed everyone that the answer was yes.
"I believe so," Rodeheaver said.
"So, he's directly under your care, then, Doctor?"
"I suppose."
"And what is his diagnosis, Doctor?"
"I really don't know. I have a lot of patients and-"
"Paranoid schizophrenic?"
"It's possible, yes."
Jake walked backward and sat on the railing. He turned up the volume. "Now, Doctor, I want to make this clear for the jury. In 1975 you testified that Danny Booker was legally sane and understood exactly what he was doing when he committed his crime, and the jury disagreed with you and found him not guilty, and since that time he has been a patient in your hospital, under your supervision, and treated by you as a paranoid schizophrenic. Is that correct?"
The smirk on Rodeheaver's face informed the jury that it was indeed correct.
Jake picked up another piece of paper and seemed to review it. "Do you recall testifying in the trial of a man by the name of Adam Couch in Dupree County in May of 1977?"
"I remember that case."
"It was a rape case, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"And you testified on behalf of the State against Mr. Couch?"
"That's correct."
"And you told the jury that he was not legally insane?"
"That was my testimony."
"Do you recall how many doctors testified on his behalf and told the jury he was a very sick man, that he was legally insane?"
"There were several."
"Have you ever heard of the following doctors: Felix Perry, Gene Shumate, and Hobny
Wicker?"
"Yes."
"Are they all qualified psychiatrists?"
"They are."
"And they all testified on behalf of Mr. Couch, didn't they?"
"Yes."
"And they all said he was legally insane, didn't they?"
"They did."
"And you were the only doctor in the trial who said he was not legally insane?"
"As I recall, yes."
"And what did the jury do, Doctor?"
"He was found not guilty."
"By reason of insanity?"
"Yes."
"And where is Mr. Couch today, Doctor?"
"I think he's at Whitfield."
"And how long has he been there?"
"Since the trial, I believe."
"I see. Do you normally admit patients and keep them for several years if they are of perfectly sound mind?"
Rodeheaver shifted his weight and began a slow burn. He looked at his lawyer, the people's lawyer, as if to say he was tired of this, do something to stop it.
Jake picked up more papers. "Doctor, do you recall the trial of a man by the name of
Buddy Wooddall in Cleburne County, May of 1979?"
"Yes, I certainly do."
"Murder, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"And you testified as an expert in the field of psychiatry and told the jury that Mr.
Wooddall was not insane?"
"I did."
"Do you recall how many psychiatrists testified on his behalf and told the jury the poor man was legally insane?"
"I believe there were five, Mr. Brigance."
"That's correct, Doctor. Five against one. Do you recall what the jury did?"
The anger and frustration was building in the witness stand. The wise old grandfather/professor with all the right answers was becoming rattled. "Yes, I recall. He was found not guilty by reason of insanity."
"How do you explain that, Dr. Rodeheaver? Five against one, and the jury finds against you?"
"You just can't trust juries," he blurted, then caught himself. He fidgeted and grinned awkwardly at the jurors.
Jake stared at him with a wicked smile, then looked at the jury in disbelief. He folded his arms and allowed the last words to sink in. He waited, staring and grinning at the witness.
"You may proceed, Mr. Brigance," Noose finally said.
Moving sl owly and with great animation, Jake gathered his files and notes while staring at Rodeheaver. "I think we've heard enough from this witness, Your Honor."
"Any redirect, Mr. Buckley?"
"No, sir. The State rests."
Noose addressed the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, this trial is almost over. There will be no more witnesses. I will now meet with the attorneys to cover some technical areas, then they will be allowed to make their final arguments to you. That will begin at two o'clock and take a couple of hours. You will finally get the case around four, and I will allow you to deliberate until six. If you do not reach a verdict today, you will be taken back to your rooms until tomorrow. It is now almost eleven, and we'll recess until two. I need to see the attorneys in chambers."
Carl Lee leaned over and spoke to his lawyer for the first time since Saturday's adjournment. "You tore him up pretty good, Jake."
"Wait till you hear the closing argument."
Jake avoided Harry Rex, and drove to Karaway. His childhood home was an old country house in downtown, surrounded by ancient oaks and maples and elms that kept it cool in spite of the summer heat. In the back, past the trees, was a long open field which ran for an eighth of a mile and disappeared over a small hill. A chickenwire backstop stood over the weeds in one corner. Here, Jake had taken his first steps, rode his first bike, thrown his first football and base- ball. Under an oak beside the field, he had buried three dogs, a raccoon, a rabbit, and some ducks. A tire from a '54 Buick swung not far from the small cemetery.
The house had been locked and deserted for two months. A neighborhood kid cut the grass and tended the lawn. Jake checked the house once a week. His parents were somewhere in Canada in a camper-the summer ritual. He wished he were with them.
He unlocked the door and walked upstairs to his room. It would never change. The walls were covered with team pictures, trophies, baseball caps, posters of Pete Rose, Archie
Manning, and Hank Aaron. A row of baseball gloves hung above the closet door. A cap and gown picture sat on the dresser. His mother still cleaned it weekly. She once told him she often went to his room and expected to find him doing homework or sorting baseball cards. She would flip through his scrapbooks, and get all teary eyed.
He thought of Hanna's room, with the stuffed animals and Mother Goose wallpaper. A thick knot formed in his throat.
He looked out the window, past the trees, and saw himself swinging in the tire near the three white crosses where he buried his dogs. He remembered each funeral, and his father's promises to get another dog. He thought of Hanna and her dog, and his eyes watered.
The bed was much smaller now. He removed his shoes and lay down. A football helmet hung from the ceiling. Eighth grade, Karaway Mustangs. He scored seven
touchdowns in five games. It was all on film downstairs under the bookshelves. The butterflies floated wildly through his stomach. He carefully placed his notes-his notes, not Lucien's- on the dresser. He studied himself in the mirror.
He addressed the jury. He began by facing his biggest problem, Dr. W.T. Bass. He apologized. A lawyer walks into a courtroom, faces a strange jury, and has nothing to offer but his credibility. And if he does anything to hurt his credibility, he has hurt his cause, his client. He asked them tb believe that he would never put a convicted felon on the stand as an expert witness in any trial. He did not know of the conviction, he raised his hand and swore to this. The world is full of psychiatrists, and he could easily have found another if he had known Bass had a problem, but he simply did not know. And he was sorry.
But what about Bass's testimony. Thirty years ago he had sex with a girl under eighteen in Texas. Does that mean he is lying now in this trial? Does that mean you cannot trust his professional opinion? Please be fair to Bass the psychiatrist, forget Bass the person.
Please be fair to his patient, Carl Lee Hailey. He knew nothing of the doctor's past.
There was something about Bass they might like to know. Something that was not mentioned by Mr. Buckley when he was ripping the doctor to pieces. The girl he had sex with was seventeen. She later became his wife, bore him a son, and was pregnant when she and the boy were killed in a train-
"Objection!" Buckley shouted. "Objection, Your Honor. That evidence is not in the record!"
"Sustained. Mr. Brigance, you are not to refer to facts not in evidence. The jury will disregard the last statements by Mr. Brigance."
Jake ignored Noose and Buckley and stared painfully at the jury.
When the shouting died, he continued. What about Rodeheaver? He wondered if the
State's doctor had ever engaged in sex with a girl under eighteen. Seemed silly to think about such things, didn't it? Bass and Rodeheaver in their younger days-it seemed so unimportant now in this courtroom almost thirty years later.
The State's doctor is a man with an obvious bias. A highly trained specialist who treats thousands for all sorts of mental illnesses, yet when crimes are involved he cannot recognize insanity. His testimony should be carefully weighed.
They watched him, listened to every word. He was not a courtroom preacher, like his opponent. He was quiet, sincere. He looked tired, almost hurt.
Lucien was sober, and he sat with folded arms and watched the jurors, all except Sisco. It was not his closing, but it was good. It was coming from the heart.
Jake apologized for his inexperience. He had not been in many trials, not nearly as many as Mr. Buckley. And if he seemed a little green, or if he made mistakes, please don't hold it against Carl Lee. It wasn't his fault. He was just a rookie trying his best against a seasoned adversary who tried murder cases every month. He made a mistake with Bass, and he made other mistakes, and he asked the jury to forgive him.
He had a daughter, the only one he would ever have. She was four, almost five, and his world revolved around her. She was special; she was a little girl, and it was up to him to protect her.
There was a bond there, something he could not explain. He talked about little girls.
Carl Lee had a daughter. Her name was Tonya. He pointed to her on the front row next to her mother and brothers. She's a beautiful little girl, ten years old. And she can never have children.
She can never have a daughter because-"
"Objection," Buckley said without shouting.
"Sustained," Noose said.
Jake ignored the commotion. He talked about rape for a while, and explained how rape is much worse than murder. With murder, the victim is gone, and not forced to deal with what happened to her. The family must deal with it, but not the victim. But rape is much worse. The victim has a lifetime of coping, of trying to understand, of asking questions, and, the worst part, of knowing the rapist is still alive and may someday escape or be released. Every hour of every day, the victim thinks of the rape and asks herself a thousand questions. She relives it, step by step, minute by minute, and it hurts just as bad.
Perhaps the most horrible crime of all is the violent rape of a child. A woman who is raped has a pretty good idea why it happened. Some animal was filled with hatred, anger and violence. But a child? A ten-year-old child? Suppose you're a parent. Imagine yourself trying to explain to your child why she was raped. Imagine yourself trying to explain why she cannot bear children.
"Objection."
"Sustained. Please disregard that last statement, ladies and gentlemen."
Jake never missed a beat. Suppose, he said, your ten-year-old daughter is raped, and you're a Vietnam vet, very familiar with an M-16, and you get your hands on one while your daughter is lying in the hospital fighting for her life. Suppose the rapist is caught, and six days later you manage to maneuver to within five feet of him as he leaves court.
And you've got the M-16.
What do you do?
Mr. Buckley has told you what he would do. He would mourn for his daughter, turn the other cheek, and hope the judicial system worked. He would hope the rapist would receive justice, be sent to Parchman, and hopefully never paroled. That's what he would do, and they should admire him for being such a kind, compassionate, and forgiving soul.
But what would a reasonable father do?
What would Jake do? If he had the M-16? Blow the bastard's head off!
It was simple. It was justice.
Jake paused for a drink of water, then shifted gears. The pained and humble look was replaced with an air of indignation. Let's talk about Cobb and Willard. They started this mess. It was their lives the State was attempting to justify. Who would miss them except their mothers? Child rapists. Drug pushers. Would society miss such productive citizens?
Wasn't Ford County safer without them?
Were not the other children in the county better off now that two rapists and pushers had been removed? All parents should feel safer. Carl Lee deserves a medal, or at least a round of applause. He was a hero. That's what Looney said. Give the man a trophy. Send him home to his family.
He talked about Looney. He had a daughter. He also had one leg, thanks to Carl Lee
Hailey. If anyone had a right to be bitter, to want blood, it was DeWayne Looney. And he said Carl Lee should be sent home to his family.
He urged them to forgive as Looney had forgiven. He asked them to follow Looney's wishes.
He became much quieter, and said he was almost through. He wanted to leave them with one thought. Picture this if they could. When she was lying there, beaten, bloodied, legs spread and tied to trees, she look ed into the woods around her. Semiconscious and hallucinating, she saw some- one running toward her. It was her daddy, running desperately to save her. In her dreams she saw him when she needed him the most. She cried out for him, and he disappeared. He was taken away. She needs him now, as much as she needed him then. Please don't take him away. She waits on the front row for her daddy.
Let him go home to his family.
The courtroom was silent as Jake sat next to his client. He glanced at the jury, and saw
Wanda Womack brush away a tear with her finger. For the first time in two days he felt a flicker of hope. At four, Noose bid farewell to his jury. He told them to elect a foreman, get organized, and get busy. He told them they could deliberate until six, maybe seven, and if no verdict was reached he would recess until nine Tuesday morning. They stood and filed slowly from the courtroom. Once out of sight, Noose recessed until six and instructed the attorneys to remain close to the courtroom or leave a number with the clerk.
The spectators held their seats and chatted quietly. Carl Lee was allowed to sit on the front row with his family. Buckley and Musgrove waited in chambers with Noose. Harry
Rex, Lucien, and Jake left for the office and a liquid supper. No one expected a quick verdict.
The bailiff locked them in the jury room and instructed the two alternates to take a seat in the narrow hallway. Inside, Barry Acker was elected foreman by acclamation. He laid the jury instructions and exhibits on a small table in a corner. They sat anxiously around two folding tables placed end to end.
"I suggest we take an informal vote," he said. "Just to see where we are. Any objections to that?"
There were none. He had a list of twelve names.
"Vote guilty, not guilty, or undecided. Or you can pass for now."
"Reba Betts."
"Undecided."
"Bernice Toole."
"Guilty."
"Carol Corman."
"Guilty."
"Donna Lou Peck."
"Undecided."
"Sue Williams."
"Pass."
"Jo Ann Gates."
"Guilty."
"Rita Mae Plunk."
"Guilty."
"Frances McGowan."
"Guilty."
"Wanda Womack."
"Undecided."
"Eula Dell Yates."
"Undecided, for now. I wanna talk about it."
"We will. Clyde Sisco."
"Undecided."
"That's eleven. I'm Barry Acker, and I vote not guilty."
He tallied for a few seconds and said, "That's five guilties, five undecideds, one pass, and one not guilty. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."
They worked through the exhibits, photographs, fingerprints, and ballistics reports. At six, they informed the judge they had not reached a verdict. They were hungry and wanted to go. He recessed until Tuesday morning.
They sat for hours on the porch, saying little, watching as darkness surrounded the town below and ushered in the mosquitoes. The heat wave had returned. The soggy air clung to their skin and moistened their shirts. The sounds of a hot summer night echoed softly across the front lawn. Sallie had offered to cook. Lucien declined and ordered whiskey.
Jake had no appetite for food, but the Coors filled his system and satisfied any hunger pangs stirring within. When things were good and dark, Nesbit emerged from his car, walked across the porch, through the front screen door, and into the house. A moment later he slammed the door, walked past them with a cold beer, and disappeared down the driveway in the direction of his car. He never said a word.
Sallie stuck her head through the door and made one last offer of food. Both declined.
"Jake, I got a call this afternoon. Clyde Sisco wants twenty-five thousand to hang the jury, fifty thousand for an acquittal."
Jake began shaking his head.
"Before you say no, listen to me. He knows he can't guarantee an acquittal, but he can guarantee a hung jury. It just takes one. That's twenty-five thousand. I know it's a lot of money, but you know I've got it. I'll pay it and you can repay me over the years.
Whenever, I don't care. If you never repay it, I don't care. I've got a bankful of C.D.'s.
You know money means nothing to me. If I were you I'd do it in a minute."
"You're crazy, Lucien."
"Sure I'm crazy. You haven't been acting so good yourself. Trial work'll drive you crazy.
Just take a look at what this trial has done to you. No sleep, no food, no routine, no house. Plenty of booze, though."
"But I've still got ethics."
"And I have none. No ethics, no morals, no conscience. But I won, bubba. I won more than anybody has ever won around here, and you know it."
"It's corrupt, Lucien."
"And I guess you think Buckley's not corrupt. He would lie, cheat, bribe, and steal to win this case. He's not worried about fancy ethics, rules, and opinions. He's not concerned about morality. He's concerned with one thing and only one thing-winning! And you've got a golden chance to beat him at his own game. I'd do it, Jake."
"Forget it, Lucien. Please, just forget it."
An hour passed with no words. The lights of the town below slowly disappeared. Nesbit's snoring was audible in the darkness. Sallie brought one last drink and said good night.
"This is the hardest part," Lucien said. "Waiting on twelve average, everyday people to make sense of all this."
"It's a crazy system, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. But it usually works. Juries are right ninety percent of the time."
"I just don't feel lucky. I'm waiting on the miracle."
"Jake, my boy, the miracle happens tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes. Early tomorrow morning."
"Would you care to elaborate?"
"By noon tomorrow, Jake, there will be ten thousand angry blacks swarming like ants around the Ford County Courthouse. Maybe more."
"Ten thousand! Why?"
"To scream and shout and chant 'Free Carl Lee, Free Carl Lee.' To raise hell, to scare everybody, to intimidate the jury. To just disrupt the hell out of everything. There'll be so many blacks, white folks will run for cover. The governor will send in more troops."
"And how do you know all this?"
"Because I planned it, Jake."
"You?"
"Listen, Jake, when I was in my prime I knew every black preacher in fifteen counties.
I've been in their churches. Prayed with them, marched with them, sang with them. They sent me clients, and I sent them money. I was the only white radical NAACP lawyer in north Mississippi. I' filed more race discrimination lawsuits than any ten firms in
Washington. These were my people. I've just made a few phone calls. They'll start arriving in the morning, and by noon you won't be able to stir niggers with a stick in downtown Clanton."
"Where will they come from?"
"Everywhere. You know how tracks love to march and protest. This will be great for them. They're looking forward to it."
"You're crazy, Lucien. My crazy friend."
"I win, bubba."
In Room 163, Barry Acker and Clyde Sisco finished their last game of gin rummy and made preparations for bed. Acker gathered some coins and announced he wanted a soft drink. Sisco said he was not thirsty.
Acker tiptoed past a guardsman asleep in the hall. The machine informed him it was out of order, so he quietly opened the exit door and walked up the stairs to the second floor, where he found another machine next to an ice maker. He inserted his coins. The machine responded with a diet Coke. He bent over to pick it up.
Out of the darkness two figures charged. They knocked him to the floor, kicked him and pinned him in a dark corner beside the ice maker, next to a door with a chain and padlock. The large one grabbed Acker's collar and threw him against the cinder block wall. The smaller one stood by the Coke machine and watched the dark hall.
"You're Barry Acker!" said the large one through clenched teeth.
"Yeah! Let go of me!" Acker attempted to shake free, but his assailant lifted him by the throat and held him to the wall with one hand. He used the other hand to unsheathe a shiny hunting knife, which he placed next to Acker's nose. The wiggling stopped.
"Listen to me," he demanded in a loud whisper, "and listen good. We know you're married and you live at 1161 Forrest Drive. We know you got three kids, and we know where they play and go to school. Your wife works at the bank."
Acker went limp.
"If that nigger walks free, you'll be sorry. Your family will be sorry. It may take years, but you'll be awfully sorry." He dropped him to the floor and grabbed his hair. "You breathe one word of this to anyone, and you'll lose a kid. Understand?"
They vanished. Acker breathed deeply, almost gasping for breath. He rubbed his throat and the back of his head.
He sat in the darkness, too scared to move.
At hundreds of small black churches across north Mississippi, the faithful gathered before dawn and loaded picnic baskets, coolers, lawn chairs, and water jugs into converted school buses and church vans. They greeted friends and chatted nervously about the trial.
For weeks they had read and talked about Carl Lee Hailey; now, they were about to go help. Many were old and retired, but there were entire families with children and playpens. When the buses were full, they piled into cars and followed their preachers.
They sang and prayed. The preachers met other preachers in small towns and county seats, and they set out in force down the dark highways. When daylight
materialized, the highways and roads leading to Ford County were filled with caravans of pilgrims. They jammed the side streets for blocks around the square. They parked where they stopped and unloaded.
The fat colonel had just finished breakfast and stood in the gazebo watching intently.
Buses and cars, many with horns honking, were coming from all directions to the square.
The barricades held firm. He barked command s and the soldiers jumped into high gear.
More excitement. At seven- thirty, he called Ozzie and told him of the invasion. Ozzie arrived immediately and found Agee, who assured him it was a peaceful march. Sort of like a sit-in. How many were coming? Ozzie asked. Thousands, said Agee. Thousands.
'They set up camp under the stately oaks, and milled around the lawn inspecting things.
They arranged tables and chairs and playpens. They were indeed peaceful, until a group began the familiar cry of "Free Carl Lee!" They cleared their throats and joined in. It was not yet eight o'clock.
A black radio station in Memphis flooded the airwaves early Tuesday with a call for help.
Black bodies were needed to march and demonstrate in Clanton, Mississippi, an hour away. Hundreds of cars met at a mall and headed south.
Every civil rights activist and black politician in the city made the trip. Agee was a man possessed. He used a bullhorn to shout orders here and there. He herded new arrivals into their places. He organized the black preachers. He assured Ozzie and the colonel everything was okay.
Everything was okay until a handful of Klansmen made their routine appearance. The sight of the white robes was new to many of the blacks, and they reacted loudly. They inched forward, screaming and jeering. The troops surrounded the robes and protected them. The Kluxers were stunned and scared, and did not yell back. By eight-thirty, the streets of Clanton were gridlocked. Deserted cars, vans, and buses were scattered haphazardly through parking lots and along the quiet residential streets. A steady stream of blacks walked toward the square from all directions. Traffic did not move. Driveways were blocked. Merchants parked blocks away from their shops. The mayor stood in the center of the gazebo, wringing his hands and begging Ozzie to do something. Around him thousands of blacks swarmed and yelled in perfect unison. Ozzie asked the mayor if he wanted him to start arresting everybody on the courthouse lawn.
Noose parked at a service station a half mile south of the jail, and walked with a group of blacks to the courthouse. They watched him curiously, but said nothing. No one would suspect he was a person of authority. Buckley and Musgrove parked in a driveway on
Adams Street. They cursed and walked toward the square. They noticed the pile of rubble that had been Jake's house but said nothing. They were too busy cursing. With state troopers leading the way, the Greyhound from Temple reached the square at twenty minutes after nine. Through the dark windows, the fourteen passengers stared in disbelief at the carnival around the courthouse.
Mr. Pate called the packed courtroom to order, and Noose welcomed his jury. He apologized for the trouble outside, but there was nothing he could do. If there were no problems to report, they could continue deliberations.
"Very well, you may retire to the jury room and get to work. We will meet again just before lunch."
The jurors filed out and went to the jury room. The Hailey children sat with their father at the defense table. The spectators, now predominantly black, remained seated and struck up conversations. Jake returned to his office.
Foreman Acker sat at the end of the long, dusty table and thought of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Ford Countians who had served in this room and sat around this table and argued about justice over the past century. Any pride he may have felt for serving on the jury of the most famous case was greatly overshadowed by what happened last night. He wondered how many of his predecessors had been threatened with death.
Probably a few, he decided.
The others fixed their coffee and slowly found seats around the tables. The room brought back fond memories for Clyde Sisco. Prior jury duty had proved lucrative for him, and he relished the thought of another handsome payoff for another just and true verdict. His messenger had not contacted him.
"How would y'all like to proceed?" the foreman asked.
Rita Mae Plunk had an especially hard and unforgiving look about her. She was a rough woman with a house trailer, no husband, and two outlaws for sons, both of whom had expressed hatred for Carl Lee Hailey. She had a few things she wanted to get off her large chest.
"I got a few things I wanna say," she informed Acker.
"Fine. Why don't we start with you, Miss Plunk, and go around the table."
"I voted guilty yesterday in the first vote, and I'll vote guilty next time. I don't see how anybody could vote not guilty, and I want just one of you to explain to me how you could vote in favor of this nigger!"
"Don't say that word again!" yelled Wanda Womack.
"I'll say 'nigger' if I wanna say 'nigger,' and there ain't a damned thing you can do," replied Rita Mae.
"Please don't use that word," said Frances McGowan.
"I find it personally offensive," said Wanda Womack.
"Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger," Rita Mae yelled across the table.
"Come on," said Clyde Sisco.
"Oh boy," said the foreman. "Look, Miss Plunk, let's be honest, okay. Most of us use that word, from time to time. I'm sure some of us use it more than others. But it's offensive to many people, and I think it'd be a good idea not to use it during our deliberations. We've got enough to worry about as it is. Can we all agree not to use that word?"
Everyone nodded but Rita Mae.
Sue Williams decided to answer. She was well dressed, attractive, about forty. She worked for the county welfare department. "I didn't vote yesterday. I passed. But I tend to sympathize with Mr. Hailey. I have a daughter, and if she was raped, it would greatly affect my mental stability. I can understand how a parent might crack in that situation, and I think it's unfair for us to judge Mr. Hailey as if he was supposed to act completely rational."
"You think he was legally insane?" asked Reba Betts, an undecided.
"I'm not sure. But I know he wasn't stable. He couldn't have been."
"So you believe that nut of a doctor who testified for him?" asked Rita Mae.
"Yes. He was as believable as the State's doctor."
"I liked his boots," said Clyde Sisco. No one laughed.
"But he's a convict," said Rita Mae. "He lied and tried to cover it up. You can't believe a word he said."
"He had sex with a girl under eighteen," Clyde said. "If that's a crime, then a bunch of us should've been indicted."
Again, no one appreciated the attempt at humor. Clyde decided to stay quiet for a while.
"He later married the girl," said Donna Lou Peck, an undecided.
They went around the table, one at a time, expressing opinions and answering questions.
The N word was carefully avoided by those wanting a conviction. The battle lines became clearer. Most of the undecideds leaned toward guilty, it seemed. The careful planning by Carl Lee, knowing the exact movements of the boys, the M-16-it all seemed so premeditated. If he had caught them in the act and killed them on the spot, he would not be held accountable. But to plan it so carefully for six days did not indicate an insane mind.
Wanda Womack, Sue Williams, and Clyde Sisco leaned toward acquittal-the rest toward conviction. Barry Acker was noticeably noncommittal.
Agee unfurled a long blue and white FREE CARL LEE banner. The ministers gathered fifteen abreast behind it, and waited for the parade to form behind them. They stood in the center of Jackson Street, in front of the courthouse, while Agee screamed instructions to the masses.
Thousands of blacks packed tightly behind them, and off they went. They inched down Jackson, and turned left on Caffey, up the west side of the square. Agee led the marchers in their now familiar battle cry of "Free Carl Lee! Free Carl Lee!" They screamed it in an endless, repetitive, numbing chorus. As the crowd moved around the square, it grew in number and volume.
Smelling trouble, the merchants locked up and headed for home and safety. They checked their policies to see if they were insured for riot damage. The green soldiers were lost in a sea of black. The colonel, sweating and nervous, ordered his troops to circle the courthouse and stand firm. While Agee and the marchers were turning onto Washington
Street, Ozzie met with the handful of Kluxers. In a sincere and diplomatic way, he convinced them things could get out of hand, and he could no longer guarantee their safety. He acknowledged their right to assemble, said they had made their point, and asked them to get away from the square before there was trouble. They huddled quickly, and disappeared.
When the banner passed under the jury room, all twelve gaped from the window. The incessant chanting rattled the glass panes. The bullhorn sounded like a loudspeaker hanging from the ceiling. The jurors stared in disbelief at the mob, the black mob which filled the street and trailed around the corner onto Caffey. A varied assortment of homemade signs bobbed above the masses and demanded that the man be freed.
"I didn't know there were this many niggers in Ford County," Rita Mae Plunk said. At that moment, the other eleven held the same thought.
Buckley was furious. He and Musgrove watched from a third-floor window in the library.
The roar below had disrupted their quiet conversation.
"I didn't know there were this many niggers in Ford County," Musgrove said.
"There ain't. Somebody shipped these niggers in here. I wonder who put them up to it."
"Probably Brigance."
"Yeah, probably so. It's mighty convenient that they start all this hell-raising when the jury is deliberating. There must be five thousand niggers down there."
"At least."
Noose and Mr. Pate watched and listened from a second-floor window in cha mbers. His
Honor was not happy. He worried about his jury. "I don't see how they can concentrate on much with all this going on."
"Pretty good timing, ain't it, Judge?" Mr. Pate said.
"It certainly is."
"I didn't know we had that many blacks in the whole county."
It took twenty minutes for Mr. Pate and Jean Gillespie to find the attorneys and bring the courtroom to order. When it was quiet, the jurors filed into their seats. There were no smiles.
Noose cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for lunch. I don't suppose you have anything to report."
Barry Acker shook his head.
"That's what I figured. Let's break for lunch, until one-thirty. I realize you cannot leave the courthouse, but I want you to eat for a while without working on the case. I apologize for the disturbance outside, but, frankly, I can't do anything about it. We'll be in recess until one-thirty."
In chambers, Buckley went wild. "This is crazy, Judge! There's no way the jury can concentrate on this case with all that noise out there. This is a deliberate effort to intimidate the jury."
"I don't like it," Noose said.
"It was planned, Judge! It's intentional!" Buckley yelled.
"It looks bad," Noose added.
"I'm almost ready for a mistrial!"
"I won't grant one. What do you say, Jake?"
Jake grinned for a moment, and said, "Free Carl Lee."
"Very funny," Buckley growled. "You probably planned all this."
"No. If you will recall, Mr. Buckley, I tried to prevent it. I have repeatedly asked for a change of venue. I have repeatedly said the trial should not be held in this courthouse.
You wanted it here, Mr. Buckley, and you kept it here, Judge Noose. You both now look foolish complaining."
Jake was impressed with his arrogance. Buckley growled and stared out the window.
"Look at them. Wild niggers. Must be ten thousand out there."
During lunch the ten thousand grew to fifteen thousand. Cars from a hundred miles away-some with Tennessee plates-parked on the shoulders of the highways outside the city limits. The people hiked for two and three miles under a blistering sun to join the festivities around the courthouse. Agee broke for lunch, and the square quieted.
The blacks were peaceful. They opened their coolers and picnic baskets, and shared with each other. They congregated in the shade, but there were not enough trees to go around.
They filled the courthouse in search of cold water and rest rooms. They walked the sidewalks and gazed in the windows of the closed shops and stores. Fearing trouble from the horde, the Coffee Shop and the Tea Shoppe closed during lunch. Outside of Claude's, they lined the sidewalk for a block and a half. Jake, Harry Rex, and
Lucien relaxed on the balcony and enjoyed the circus below. A pitcher of fresh, slushy mar-garitas sat on the table and slowly disappeared. At times they participated in the rally, yelling "Free Carl Lee" or humming along with "We Shall Overcome." No one knew the words but Lucien.
He had learned them during the glorious civil rights days of the sixties, and still claimed to be the only white in Ford County who knew all the words to every stanza. He had even joined a black church back then, he explained between drinks, after his church voted to exclude black members. He dropped out after a three-hour sermon ruptured a disc. He had decided white people were not cut out for that kind of worship. He still contributed, however.
Occasionally, a crew of TV people would stray near Jake's office and serve up a question.
Jake would pretend not to hear, then finally yell "Free Carl Lee."
Precisely at one-thirty, Agee found his bullhorn, unfurled his banner, lined up the ministers and gathered his marchers. He started with the hymn, sung directly into the bullhorn, and the parade crawled down Jackson, then onto Caffey, and around and around the square. Each lap attracted more people and made more noise.
The jury room was silent for fifteen minutes after Reba Betts was converted from an undecided to a not guilty. If a man raped her, she just might blow his head off if she got the chance. It was"now five to five with two undecideds, and a compromise looked hopeless. The foreman continued to straddle the fence. Poor old Eula Dell Yates had cried one way, then cried the other, and everyone knew she would eventually go with the majority. She had burst into tears at the window, and was led to her seat by Clyde Sisco.
She wanted to go home. Said she felt like a prisoner.
The shouting and marching had taken its toll. When the bullhorn passed nearby, the anxiety level in the small room reached a frenzied peak. Acker would ask for quiet, and they would wait impatiently until the racket faded to the front of the courthouse. It never disappeared completely.
Carol Corman was the first to inquire about their safety. For the first time in a week, the quiet motel was awfully attractive.
Three hours of nonstop chanting had unraveled whatever nerves were left. The foreman suggested they talk about their families and wait until Noose sent for them at five.
Bernice Toole, a soft guilty, suggested something they had all thought about but no one had mentioned. "Why don't we just tell the judge we are hopelessly deadlocked?"
"He'd declare a mistrial, wouldn't he?" asked Jo Ann Gates.
"Yes," answered the foreman. "And he would be re- tried in a few months. Why don't we call it a day, and try again tomorrow?"
They agreed. They were not ready to quit. Eula Dell cried softly.
At four, Carl Lee and the kids walked to one of the tall windows lining each side of the courtroom. He noticed a small knob. He turned it, and the windows swung open to a tiny platform hanging over the west lawn. He nodded at a deputy, and stepped outside. He held Tonya and watched the crowd.
They saw him. They yelled his name and rushed to the building under him. Agee led the marchers off the street and across the lawn. A wave of black humanity gathered under the small porch and pressed forward for a closer look at their champion.
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
"Free Carl Lee!"
He waved at his fans below him. He kissed his daughter and hugged his sons. He waved and told the kids to wave.
Jake and his small band of hombres used the diversion to stagger across the street to the courthouse.
Jean Gillespie had called. Noose wanted to see the lawyers in chambers. He was disturbed. Buckley was raging.
"I demand a mistrial! I demand a mistrial!" he yelled at Noose the second Jake walked in.
"You move for a mistrial, Governor. You don't demand," Jake sard through glassy eyes.
"You go to hell, Brigance! You planned all this. You plotted this insurrection. Those are your niggers out there."
"Where's the court reporter?" Jake asked. "I want this on the record."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Noose said. "Let's be professionals."
"Judge, the State moves for a mistrial," Buckley said, somewhat professionally.
"Overruled."
"All right, then. The State moves to allow the jury to deliberate at someplace other than the courthouse."
"Now that's an interesting idea," Noose said. "I see no reason why they can't deliberate at the motel. It's quiet and few people know where it is,"
Buckley said confidently.
"Jake?" Noose said.
"Nope, it won't work. There is no statutory provision giving you the authority to allow deliberations outside the courthouse." Jake reached in his pocket and found several folded papers. He threw them on the desk. "State versus Dubose, 1963 case from Linwood
County. The air conditioning in the Linwood County Courthouse quit during a heat wave.
The circuit judge allowed the jury to deliberate in a local library. The defense objected.
Jury convicted. On appeal, the Supreme Court ruled the judge's decision was improper and an abuse of discretion. The court went on to hold that the jury deliberations must take place in the jury room in the courthouse where the defendant is being tried. You can't move them."
Noose studied the case and handed it to Musgrove.
"Get the courtroom ready," he said to Mr. Pate.
With the exception of the reporters, the courtroom was solid black. The jurors looked haggard and strained.
"I take it you do not have a verdict," Noose said.
"No, sir," replied the foreman.
"Let me ask you this. Without indicating any numerical division, have you reached a point where you can go no further?"
"We've talked about that, Your Honor. And we'd like to leave, get a good night's rest, and try again tomorrow. We're not ready to quit."
"That's good to hear. I apologize for the distractions, but, again, there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry. You'll just have to do your best. Anything further?"
"No, sir."
"Very well. We'll stand adjourned until nine A.M. tomorrow."
Carl Lee pulled Jake's shoulder. "What does all this mean?"
"It means they're deadlocked. It could be six to six, or eleven to one against you, or eleven to one for acquittal. So , don't get excited."
Barry Acker cornered the bailiff and handed him a folded sheet of paper. It read:
Luann:
Pack the kids and go to your mother's. Don't tell anyone. Stay there until this thing is over. Just do as I say. Things are dangerous.
Barry
"Can you get this to my wife today? Our number is 881-0774."
"Sure," said the bailiff.
Tim Nunley, mechanic down at the Chevrolet place, former client of Jake Brigance, and
Coffee Shop regular, sat on a couch in the cabin deep in the woods and drank a beer. He listened to his Klan brothers as they got drunk and cursed niggers. Occasionally, he cursed them too. He had noticed whispering for the past two nights now, and felt something was up. He listened carefully.
He stood to g et another beer. Suddenly, they jumped him. Three of his comrades pinned him against the wall and pounded him with fists and feet. He was beaten
badly, then gagged, bound, and dragged outside, across the gravel road, and into the field where he had been inducted as a member. A cross was lit as he was tied to a pole and stripped. A bullwhip lashed him until his shoulders, back, and legs were solid crimson.
Two dozen of his ex-brethren watched in mute horror as the pole and limp body were soaked with kerosene. The leader, the one with the bullwhip, stood next to him for an eternity. He pronounced the death sentence, then threw a match.
Mickey Mouse had been silenced.
They packed their robes and belongings, and left for home. Most would never return to Ford County.
Wednesday. For the first time in weeks Jake slept more than eight hours. He had fallen asleep on the couch in his office, and he awoke at five to the sounds of the military preparing for the worst. He was rested, but the nervous throbbing returned with the thought that this day would probably be the big day. He showered and shaved downstairs, and ripped open a new pack of Fruit of the Loom he had purchased at the drug store. He dressed himself in Stan Atcavage's finest navy all-season suit, which was an inch too short and a bit loose, but not a bad fit under the circumstances. He thought of the rubble on Adams Street, then Carla, and the knot in his stomach began to churn. He ran for the newspapers.
On the front pages of the Memphis, Jackson, and Tupelo papers were identical photos of
Carl Lee standing on the small porch over the mob, holding his daughter and waving to his people. There was nothing about Jake's house. He was relieved, and suddenly hungry.
Dell hugged him like a lost child. She removed her apron and sat next to him in a corner booth. As the regulars arrived and saw him, they stopped by and patted him on the back.
It was good to see him again. They had missed him, and they were for him. He looked gaunt, she said, so he ordered most of the menu.
"Say, Jake, are all those blacks gonna be back today?" asked Bert West.
"Probably," he said as he stabbed a chunk of pancakes.
"I heard they's plannin' to bring more folks this mornin'," said Andy Rennick. "Ever nigger radio station in north Mississippi is tellin' folks to come to Clanton."
Great, thought Jake. He added Tabasco to his scrambled eggs.
"Can the jury hear all that yellin'?" asked Bert.
"Sure they can," Jake answered. "That's why they're doing it. They're not deaf."
"That's gotta scare them."
Jake certainly hoped so.
"How's the family?" Dell asked quietly.
"Fine, I guess. I talked to Carla every night."
"She scared?"
"Terrified."
"What have they done to you lately?"
"Nothing since Sunday morning."
"Does Carla know?"
Jake chewed and shook his head.
"I didn't think so. You poor thing."
"I'll be okay. What's the talk in here?"
"We closed at lunch yesterday. There were so many blacks outside, and we were afraid of a riot. We'll watch it close this morning, and we may close again. Jake, what if there's a conviction?"
"It could get hairy."
He stayed for an hour and answered their questions. Strangers arrived, and Jake excused himself. There was nothing to do but wait. He sat on the balcony, drank coffee, smoked a cigar, and watched the guardsmen. He thought of the clients he once had; of a quiet little
Southern law office with a secretary and clients waiting to see him. Of docket calls and interviews at the jail. Of normal things, like a family, a home, and church on Sunday mornings. He was not meant for the big time.
The first church bus arrived at seven-thirty and was halted by the soldiers. The doors flew open and an endless stream of blacks with lawn chairs and food baskets headed for the front lawn. For an hour Jake blew smoke into the heavy air and watched with great satisfaction as the square filled beyond capacity with noisy yet peaceful protestors. The reverends were out in full force, directing their people and assuring Ozzie and the colonel they were nonviolent folk. Ozzie was convinced.
The colonel was nervous. By nine, the streets were crammed with demonstrators.
Someone spotted the Greyhound. "Here they come!" Agee screamed into the loudspeaker. The mob pushed to the corner of Jackson and Quincy, where the soldiers, troopers, and deputies formed a mobile barricade around the bus and walked it through the crowd to the rear of the courthouse.
Eula Dell Yates cried openly. Clyde Sisco sat next to the window and held her hand. The others stared in fear as the bus inched around the square. A heavily armed passageway was cleared from the bus to the courthouse, and Ozzie came aboard. The situation was under control, he assured them over the roar. Just follow him and walk as fast as possible.
The bailiff locked the door as they gathered around the coffeepot. Eula Dell sat by herself in the corner crying softly and flinching as each "Free Carl Lee!'" boomed from below.
"I don't care what we do," she said. "I really don't care, but I just can't take any more of this. I haven't seen my family in eight days, and now this madness. I didn't sleep any last night." She cried louder. "I think I'm close to a nervous breakdown. Let's just get outta here."
Clyde handed her a Kleenex and rubbed her shoulder.
Jo Ann Gates was a soft guilty who was ready to crack. "I didn't sleep either last night. I can't take another day like yesterday. I wanna go home to my kids."
Barry Acker stood by the window and thought of the riot that would follow a guilty verdict. There wouldn't be a building left downtown, including the courthouse. He doubted if anybody would protect the jurors in the aftermath of a wrong verdict. They probably wouldn't make it back to the bus. Thankfully, his wife and kids had fled to safety in Arkansas.
"I feel like a hostage," said Bernice Toole, a firm guilty. "That mob would storm the courthouse in a split second if we convict him. I feel intimidated."
Clyde handed her a box of Kleenexes.
"I don't care what we do," Eula Dell whined in desperation. "Let's just get outta here. I honestly don't care if we convict him or cut him loose, let's just do something. My nerves can't take it."
Wanda Womack stood at the end of the table and nervously cleared her throat. She asked for attention. "I have a proposal," she said slowly, "that just might settle this thing."
The crying stopped, and Barry Acker returned to his seat. She had their complete attention.
"I thought of something last night when I couldn't sleep, and I want you to consider it. It may be painful. It may cause you to search your heart and take a long look at your soul.
But I'll ask you to do it anyway. And if each of you will be honest with yourself, I think we can wrap this up before noon."
The only sounds came from the street below.
"Right now we are evenly divided, give or take a vote. We could tell Judge Noose that we are hopelessly deadlocked. He would declare a mistrial, and we would go home. Then in a few months this entire spectacle would be repeated. Mr. Hailey would be tried again in this same courtroom, with the same judge, but with a different jury, a jury drawn from this county, a jury of our friends, husbands, wives, and parents. The same kind of people who are now in this room. That jury will be confronted with the same issues before us now, and those people will not be any smarter than we are.
"The time to decide this case is now. It would be morally wrong to shirk our responsibilities and pass the buck to the next jury. Can we all agree on that?"
They silently agreed.
"Good. This is what I want you to do. I want you to pretend with me for a moment. I want you to use your imaginations. I want you to close your eyes and listen to nothing but my voice."
They obediently closed their eyes. Anything was worth a try.
Jake lay on the couch in his office and listened to Lucien tell stories about his prestigious father and grandfather, and their prestigious law firm, and all the people they screwed out of money and land.
"My inheritance was built by my promiscuous ancestors!" he yelled. "They screwed everybody they could!"
Harry Rex laughed uncontrollably. Jake had heard the stories before, but they were always funny, and different.
"What about Ethel's retarded son?" Jake asked.
"Don't talk that way about my brother," Lucien protested. "He's the brightest one in the family. Sure he's my brother. Dad hired her when she was seventeen, and believe it or not, she looked good back then. Ethel Twitry was the hottest thing in Ford County. My dad couldn't keep his hands off her. Sickening to think about now, but it's true."
"It's disgusting," Jake said.
"She had a houseful of kids, and two of them looked just like me, especially the dunce. It was very embarrassing back then."
"What about your mother?" asked Harry Rex.
"She was one of those dignified old Southern ladies whose main concern was who had blue blood and who didn't. There's not much blue blood around here, so she spent most of her time in Memphis trying to impress and be accepted by the cotton families. I spent a good part of my childhood at the Peabody Hotel all starched out with a little red bow tie, trying to act polished around the rich kids from Memphis. I hated it, and I didn't care much for my mother either. She knew about Ethel, but she accepted it. She told the old man to be discreet and not embarrass the family. He was discreet, and I wound up with a retarded half-brother."
"When did she die?"
"Six months before my father was killed in the plane crash."
"How'd she die?" asked Harry Rex.
"Gonor rhea. Caught it from the yard boy."
"Lucien! Seriously?"
"Cancer. Carried it for three years, but she was dignified to the very end."
"Where'd you go wrong?" Jake asked.
"I think it started in the first grade. My uncle owned the big plantation south of town, and he owned several black families. This was in the Depression, right? I spent most of my childhood there because my father was too busy right here in this office and my mother was too busy with her hot- tea-drinkers clubs. All of my playmates were black. I'd been raised by black servants. My best friend was Willie Ray Wilbanks. No kidding. My great-grandfather purchased his great- grandfather. And when the slaves were freed, most of them just kept the family name. What were they supposed to do? That's why you've got so many black Wilbankses around here. We owned all the slaves in Ford County, and most of them became Wilbankses."
"You're probably kin to some," Jake said.
"Given the proclivities of my forefathers, I'm probably kin to all of them."
The phone rang. They froze and stared at it. Jake sat up and held his breath. Harry Rex picked up the receiver, then hung up. "Wrong number," he said.
They studied each other, then smiled.
"Anyway, back to the first grade," Jake said.
"Okay. When it came time to start school, Willie Ray and the rest of my little buddies got on the bus headed for the black school. I jumped on the bus too, and the driver very carefully took my hand and made me get off. I cried and screamed, and my uncle took me home and told my mother, 'Lucien got on the nigger school bus.' She was horrified, and beat my little ass. The old man beat me too, but years later admitted it was funny. So I went to the white school where I was always the little rich kid. Everybody hated the little rich kid, especially in a poor town like Clanton. Not that I was lovable to begin with, but everyone got a kick out of hating me just because we had money.
That's why I've never thought much of money. That's where the nonconformity started. In the first grade. I decided not to be like my mother because she frowned all the time and looked down on the world. And my old man was always too busy to enjoy himself. I said piss on it. I'm gonna have some fun."
Jake stretched and closed his eyes.
"Nervous?" Lucien asked.
"I just want it to be over."
The phone rang again, and Lucien grabbed it. He listened, then hung up.
"What is it?" Harry Rex demanded.
Jake sat up and glared at Lucien. The moment had arrived.
"Jean Gillespie. The jury is ready."
"Oh my God," Jake said as he rubbed his temples.
"Listen to me, Jake," Lucien lectured. "Millions of people will see what is about to happen. Keep your cool. Be careful what you say."
"What about me?" Harry Rex moaned. "I need to go vomit."
"That's strange advice coming from you, Lucien," Jake said as he buttoned Stan's coat.
"I've learned a lot. Show your class. If you win, watch what you say to the press. Be sure and thank the jury. If you lose-"
"If you lose," Harry Rex said, "run like hell, because those niggers will storm the courthouse."
"I feel weak," Jake admitted.
Agee took the platform on the front steps and announced the jury was ready. He asked for quiet, and instantly the mob grew still. They moved toward the front columns. Agee asked them to fall to their knees and pray. They knelt obediently and prayed earnestly.
Every man, woman, and child on the front lawn bowed before God and begged him to let their man go.
The soldiers stood bunched together and also prayed for an acquittal.
Ozzie and Moss Junior seated the courtroom and lined deputies and reserves around the walls and down the aisle. Jake entered from the holding room and stared at Carl Lee at the defense table. He glanced at the spectators. Many were praying. Many were biting their fingers. Gwen was wiping tears. Lester looked fearfully at Jake. The children were confused and scared.
Noose assumed the bench and an electrified silence engulfed the courtroom. There was no sound from the outside. Twenty thousand blacks knelt on the ground like Muslims.
Perfect stillness inside the courtroom and out.
"I have been advised that the jury has reached a verdict, is that correct, Mr. Bailiff? Very well. We will soon seat the jury, but before we do so I have some instructions. I will not tolerate any outbursts or displays of emotion. I will direct the sheriff to remove any person who creates a disturbance. If need be, I will clear the courtroom. Mr. Bailiff, will you seat the jury."
The door opened, and it seemed like an hour before Eula Dell Yates appeared first with tears in her eyes. Jake dropped his head. Carl Lee stared gamely at the portrait of Robert
E. Lee above Noose.
They awkwardly filled the jury box. They seemed jittery, tense, scared. Most had been crying. Jake felt sick. Barry Acker held a piece of paper that attracted the attention of everyone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?"
"Yes, sir, we have," answered the foreman in a high-pitched, nervous voice.
"Hand it to the clerk, please."
Jean Gillespie took it and handed it to His Honor, who studied it forever. "It is technically in order," he finally said.
Eula Dell was flooding, and her sniffles were the only sounds in the courtroom. Jo Ann
Gates and Bernice Toole padded their eyes with handkerchiefs. The crying could mean only one thing. Jake had vowed to ignore the jury before the verdict was read, but it was impossible. In his first criminal trial, the jurors had smiled as they took their seats. At that moment, Jake had become confident of an acquittal. Seconds later he learned that the smiles were because a criminal was about to be removed from the streets. Since that trial, he had vowed never to look at the jurors. But he always did. It would be nice to see a wink or a thumbs up, but that never happened.
Noose looked at Carl Lee. "Will the defendant please rise."
Jake knew there were probably more terrifying requests known to the English tongue, but to a criminal lawyer that request at that particular moment had horrible implications. His client stood awkwardly, pitifully. Jake closed his eyes and held his breath. His hands shook and his stomach ached.
Noose handed the verdict back to Jean Gillespie. "Please read it, Madam Clerk."
She unfolded it and faced the defendant. "As to each count of the indictment, we the jury find the defendant not guilty by reason of insanity."
Carl Lee turned and bolted for the railing. Tonya and the boys sprang from the front pew and grabbed him. The courtroom exploded in pandemonium. Gwen screamed and burst into tears. She buried her head in Lester's arms. The reverends stood, looked upward, and shouted "Hallelujah!" and "Praise Jesus!" and "Lord! Lord! Lord!"
Noose's admonition meant nothing. He rapped the gavel half-heartedly and said, "Order, order, order in the seemed content to allow a little celebration.
Jake was numb, lifeless, paralyzed. His only movement was a weak smile in the direction of the jury box. His eyes watered and his lip quivered, and he decided not to make a spectacle of himself. He nodded at Jean Gillespie, who was crying, and just sat at the defense table nodding and trying to smile, unable to do anything else. From the corner of his eye he could see Musgrove and Buckley removing files, legal pads, and important-looking papers, and throwing it all into their briefcases. Be gracious, he told himself.
A teenager darted between two deputies, through the door, and ran through the rotunda screaming "Not guilty! Not guilty!" He ran to a small balcony over the front _steps and screamed to the masses below "Not guilty! Not guilty!" Bedlam erupted.
"Order, order in the court," Noose was saying when the delayed reaction from the outside came thundering through the windows.
"Order, order in the courtroom." He tolerated the excitement for another minute, then asked the sheriff to restore order. Ozzie raised his hands and spoke. The clapping, hugging and praising died quickly. Carl Lee released his children and returned to the defense table. He sat close to his attorney and put his arm around him, grinning and crying at the same time.
Noose smiled at the defendant. "Mr. Hailey, you have been tried by a jury of your peers and found not guilty. I do not recall any expert testimony that you are now dangerous or in need of further psychiatric treatment. You are a free man."
His Honor looked at the attorneys. "If there is nothing further, this court will stand adjourned until August 15."
Carl Lee was smothered by his family and friends. They hugged him, hugged each other, hugged Jake. They wept unashamedly and praised the Lord. They told Jake they loved him.
The reporters pressed against the railing and began firing questions at Jake. He held up his hands, and said he would have no comment. But there would be a full-blown press conference in his office at 2:00 P.M.
Buckley and Musgrove left through a side door. The jurors were locked in the jury room to await the last bus ride to the motel. Barry Acker asked to speak to the sheriff. Ozzie met him in the hallway, listened intently, and promised to escort him home and provide protection around the clock.
The reporters assaulted Carl Lee. "I just wanna go home," he said over and over. "I just wanna go home."
The celebration kicked into high gear on the front lawn. There was singing, dancing, crying, backslapping, hugging, thanks-giving, congratulating, outright laughing, cheering, chanting, high fives, low fives, and soul brother shakes. The
heavens were praised in one glorious, tumultuous, irreverent jubilee. They packed closer together in front of the courthouse and waited impatiently for their hero to emerge and bask in his much deserved adulation.
Their patience grew thin. After thirty minutes of screaming "We Want Carl Lee! We
Want Carl Lee!" their man appeared at the door. An ear-splitting, earth-shaking roar greeted him. He inched forward through the mass with his lawyer and family, and stopped on the top step under the pillars where the plywood platform held a thousand microphones. The whooping and yelling of twenty thousand voices was deafening. He hugged his lawyer, and they waved to the sea of screaming faces.
The shouting from the army of reporters was completely inaudible. Occasionally, Jake would stop waving and yell something about a press conference in his office at two.
Carl Lee hugged his wife and children, and they waved. The crowd roared its approval.
Jake slid away and into the courthouse, where he found Lucien and Harry Rex waiting in a corner, away from the mad rush of spectators. "Let's get out of here," Jake yelled. They pushed through the mob, down the hall and out the rear door. Jake spotted a swarm of reporters on the sidewalk outside his office.
"Where are you parked?" he asked Lucien. He pointed to a side street, and they disappeared behind the Coffee Shop.
Sallie fried pork chops and green tomatoes, and served them on the porch. Lucien produced a bottle of expensive cham-
Rex ate with his fingers, gnawing on the bones as if he hadn't seen food in a month. Jake played with his food and worked on the ice-cold champagne. After two glasses, he smiled into the distance. He savored the moment.
"You look silly as hell," Harry Rex said with a mouthful of pork.
"Shut up, Harry Rex," Lucien said. "Let him enjoy his finest hour."
"He's enjoying it. Look at that smirk."
"What should I tell the press?" Jake asked.
"Tell them you need some clients," Harry Rex said.
"Clients will be no problem," Lucien said. "They'll line the sidewalks waiting for appointments."
"Why didn't you talk to the reporters in the courthouse? They had their cameras running and everything. I started to say something for them," Harry Rex said.
"I'm sure it would've been a gem," Lucien said.
"I've got them at my fingertips," Jake said. "They're not going anywhere. We could sell tickets to the press conference and make a fortune."
"Can I sit and watch, please, Jake, please," Harry Rex said.
They argued over whether they should take the antique Bronco or the nasty little Porsche.
Jake said he was not driving. Harry Rex cursed the loudest, and they loaded into the
Bronco. Lucien found a spot in the rear seat. Jake rode shotgun and gave instructions.
They hit the back streets, and missed most of the traffic from the square. The highway was crowded, and Jake directed his driver through a myriad of gravel roads. They found blacktop, and Harry Rex raced away in the direction of the lake.
"I have one question, Lucien," Jake said.
"What?"
"And I want a straight answer."
"What?"
"Did you cut a deal with Sisco?"
"No, my boy, you won it on your own."
"Do you swear?"
"I swear to God. On a stack of Bibles."
Jake wanted to believe him, so he dropped it. They rode in silence, in the sweltering heat, and listened as Harry Rex sang along with the stereo. Suddenly, Jake pointed and yelled.
Harry Rex slammed on the brakes, made a wild left turn, and sped down another gravel road.
"Where are we going?" Lucien demanded.
"Just hang on," Jake said as he looked at a row of houses approaching on the right. He pointed to the second one, and Harry Rex pulled into the driveway and parked under a shade tree. Jake got out, looked around the front yard, and walked onto the porch. He knocked on the screen door.
A man appeared. A stranger. "Yeah, whatta you want?"
"I'm Jake Brigance, and-"
The door flew open, and the man rushed onto the porch and grabbed Jake's hand. "Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm Mack Loyd Crowell. I was on the grand jury that almost didn't indict.
You done a real good job. I'm proud of you."
Jake shook his hand and repeated his name. Then he remembered, Mack Loyd Crowell, the man who told Buckley to shut up and sit down in the grand jury. "Yeah, Mack Loyd, now I remember. Thanks."
Jake looked awkwardly through the door.
"You lookin' for Wanda?" Crowell asked.
"Well, yes. I was just passing by, and remembered her address from the jury research."
"You've come to the right place. She lives here, and I do too most of the time. We ain't married or nothing, but we go together. She's layin' down takin' a nap. She's pretty wore out."
"Don't wake her," Jake said.
"She told me what happened. She won it for you."
"How? What happened?"
"She made them all close their eyes and listen to her. She told them to pretend that the little girl had blond hair and blue eyes, that the two rapists were black, that they tied her right foot to a tree and her left foot to a fence post, that they raped her repeatedly and cussed her because she was white.
She told them to picture the little girl layin' there beggin' for her daddy while they kicked her in the mouth and knocked out her teeth, broke both jaws, broke her nose. She said to imagine two drunk blacks pouring beer on her and pissing in her face, and laughing like idiots. And then she told them to imagine that the little girl belonged to them -their daughter. She told them to be honest with themselves and to write on a piece of paper whether or not they would kill those black bastards if they got the chance. And they voted, by secret ballot. All twelve said they would do the killing. The foreman counted the votes. Twelve to zero. Wanda said she'd sit in that jury room until Christmas before she'd vote to convict, and if they were honest with themselves, then they ought to feel the same way. Ten of them agreed with her, and one lady held out. They all started cryin' and cussin' her so bad, she finally caved in. It was rough in there, Jake."
Jake listened to every word without breathing. He heard a noise. Wanda Womack walked to the screen door. She smiled at him and began crying. He stared at her through the screen, but could not talk. He bit his lip and nodded. "Thanks," he managed weakly. She wiped her eyes and nodded.
On Craft Road, a hundred cars lined both shoulders east and west of the Hailey driveway.
The long front yard was packed with vehicles, children playing, and parents sitting under shade trees and on car hoods. Harry Rex parked in a ditch by the mailbox. A crowd rushed to greet Carl Lee's lawyer. Lester grabbed him and said, "You done it again, you done it again."
They shook hands and slapped backs across the yard and up to the porch. Agee hugged him and praised God. Carl Lee left the swing and walked down the steps, followed by his family and admirers. They gathered around Jake as the two great men came face to face.
They clutched hands and smiled at each other, both searching for words. They embraced.
The crowd clapped and shouted.
"Thank you, Jake," Carl Lee said softly.
The lawyer and client sat in the swing and answered questions about the trial. Lucien and
Harry Rex joined Lester and some of his friends under a shade tree for a little drink.
Tonya ran and jumped around the yard with a hundred other kids.
At two-thirty, Jake sat at his desk and talked to Carla. Harry Rex and Lucien drank the last of the margaritas, and quickly got drunk. Jake drank coffee and told his wife he would leave Memphis in three hours and be in North Carolina by ten. Yes, he was fine, he said. Everything was okay, and everything was over. There were dozens of reporters packed into his conference room, so be sure and watch the evening news. He would meet with them briefly, then drive to Memphis. He said he loved her, missed her body, and would be there soon. He hung up.
Tomorrow, he'd call Ellen.
"Why are you leaving today!" Lucien demanded.
"You're stupid, Jake, just stupid. You've got a thousand reporters in the palm of your hand, and you're leaving town. Stupid, just stupid," Harry Rex shouted.
Jake stood. "How do I look, fellas?"
"Like a dumbass if you leave town," Harry Rex said.
"Hang around for a couple of days," Lucien pleaded. "This is an opportunity you'll never have again. Please, Jake."
"Relax, fellas. I'm going to meet with them now, let them take my picture, answer a few of their stupid questions, then I'm leaving town."
"You're crazy, Jake," Harry Rex said.
"I agree," said Lucien.
Jake checked the mirror, adjusted Stan's tie, and smiled at his friends. "I appreciate you guys. I really do. I got paid nine hundred dollars for this trial, and I plan to share it with y'all."
They poured the last of the margaritas, gulped it down, and followed Jake Brigance down the stairs to face the reporters.

A Time To Kill - John Grisham(page 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Love Heda) — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 18:47:00 +0530

A Time To Kill
by
John Grisham
Billy Ray Cobb was the younger and smaller of the two rednecks. At twenty-three he was already a three-year veteran of the state penitentiary at Parchm^an. Possession, with intent to sell. He was a lean, tough little punk who had survived
prison by somehow maintaining a ready supply of drugs th^at he sold and sometimes gave to the blacks and the guards for protection. In the year since his release he had continued to prosper, and his small-time narcotics business had elevated him to the position of one of the more affluent rednecks in Ford County. He was a businessman, with employees, obligations, deals, everything but taxes. Down at the Ford place in Clanton he was known as the last man in recent history to pay cash for a new pickup truck. Sixteen thousand cash, for a custom-built, four-wheel drive, canary yellow, luxury Ford pickup. The fancy chrome wheels and mudgrip racing tires had been received in a business deal. The rebel flag hanging across the rear window had been stolen by Cobb from a drunken fraternity boy at an Ole Miss football game.

The pickup was Billy Ray's most prized possession. He sat on the tailgate drinking a beer, smoking a joint, watching his friend Willard take his turn with the black girl.
Willard was four years older and a dozen years slower. He was generally a harmless sort who had never been in serious trouble and had never been seriously employed. Maybe an occasional fight with a night in jail, but nothing that would distinguish him. He called himself a pulpwood cutter, but a bad back customarily kept him out of the woods. He had hurt his back working on an offshore rig somewhere in the Gulf, and the oil company paid him a nice settlement, which he lost when his ex-wife cleaned him out. His primary vocation was that of a part-time employee of Billy Ray Cobb, who didn't pay much but was liberal with his dope. For the first time in years Willard could always get his hands on something. And he always needed something. He'd been that way since he hurt his back.
She was ten, and small for her age. She lay on her elbows, which were stuck and bound together with yellow nylon rope. Her legs were spread grotesquely with the right foot tied tight to an oak sapling and the left to a rotting, leaning post of a long-neglected fence.
The ski rope had cut into her ankles and the blood ran down her legs. Her face was bloody and swollen, with one eye bulging and closed and the other eye half open so she could see the other white man sitting on the truck. She did not look at the man on top of her. He was breathing hard and sweating and cursing. He was hurting her. When he finished, he slapped her and laughed, and the other man laughed in return, then they laughed harder and rolled around the grass by the truck
like two crazy men, screaming and laughing. She turned away from them and cried softly, careful to keep herself quiet.
She had been slapped earlier for crying and screaming. They promised to kill her if she didn't keep quiet.
They grew tired of laughing and pulled themselves onto the tailgate, where Willard cleaned himself with the little nigger's shirt, which by now was soaked with blood and sweat. Cobb handed him a cold beer from the cooler and commented on the humidity.
They watched her as she sobbed and made strange, quiet sounds, then became still.
Cobb's beer was half empty, and it was not cold anymore. He threw it at the girl. It hit her in the stomach, splashing white foam, and it rolled off in the dirt near some other cans, all of which had originated from the same cooler. For two six-packs now they had thrown their half-empty cans at her and laughed. Willard had trouble with the target, but Cobb was fairly accurate. They were not ones to waste beer, but the heavier cans could be felt better and it was great fun to watch the foam shoot everywhere.
The warm beer mixed with the dark blood and ran down her face and neck into a puddle behind her head. She did not move.
Willard asked Cobb if he thought she was dead. Cobb opened another beer and explained that she was not dead because niggers generally could not be killed by kicking and beating and raping. It took much more, something like a knife or a gun or a rope to dispose of a nigger. Although he had never taken part in such a killing, he had lived with a bunch of niggers in prison and knew all about them. They were always killing each other, and they always used a weapon of some sort. Those who were just beaten and raped never died. Some of the whites were beaten and raped, and some of them died. But none of the niggers. Their heads were harder. Willard seemed satisfied.
Willard asked what he planned to do now that they were through with her. Cobb sucked on his joint, chased it with beer, and said he wasn't through. He bounced from the tailgate and staggered across the small clearing to where she was tied. He
cursed her and screamed at her to wake up, then he poured cold beer in her face, laughing like a crazy man.
She watched him as he walked around the tree on her right side, and she stared at him as he stared between her legs. When he lowered his pants she turned to the left and closed her eyes. He was hurting her again.
She looked out through the woods and saw something -a man running wildly through the vines and underbrush. It was her daddy, yelling and pointing at her and coming desperately to save her. She cried out for him, and he disappeared. She fell asleep. When she awoke one of the men was lying under the tailgate, the other under a tree. They were asleep. Her arms and legs were numb. The blood and beer and urine had mixed with the dirt underneath her to form a sticky paste that glued her small body to the ground and crackled when she moved and wiggled. Escape, she thought, but her mightiest efforts moved her only a few inches to the right. Her feet were tied so high her buttocks barely touched the ground. Her legs and arms were so deadened they refused to move.
She searched the woods for her daddy and quietly called his name. She waited, then slept again. When she awoke the second time they were up and moving around. The tall one staggered to her with a small knife. He grabbed her left ankle and sawed furiously on the rope until it gave way. Then he freed the right leg, and she curled into a fetal position with her back to them.
Cobb strung a length of quarter-inch ski rope over a limb and tied a loop in one end with a slip knot. He grabbed her and put the noose around her head, then walked across the clearing with the other end of the rope and sat on the tailgate, where Willard was smoking a fresh joint and grinning at Cobb for what he was about to do. Cobb pulled the rope tight, then gave a vicious yank, bouncing the little nude body along the ground and stopping it directly under the limb. She gagged and coughed, so he kindly loosened the rope to spare her a few more minutes. He tied the rope to the bumper and opened another beer.
They sat on the tailgate drinking, smoking, and staring at her. They had been at the lake most of the day, where Cobb had a friend with a boat and some extra girls
who were supposed to be easy but turned out to be untouchable. Cobb had been generous with his drugs and beer, but the girls did not reciprocate. Frustrated, they left the lake and were driving to no place in particular when they happened across the girl. She was walking along a gravel road with a sack of groceries when Willard nailed her in the back of the head with a beer can.
"You gonna do it?" asked Willard, his eyes red and glazed.
Cobb hesitated. "Naw, I'll let you do it. It was your idea."
Willard took a drag on his joint, then spit and said, "Wasn't my idea. You're the expert on killin' niggers. Do it."
Cobb untied the rope from the bumper and pulled it tight. It peeled bark from the limb and sprinkled fine bits of elm around the girl, who was watching them carefully now. She coughed. Suddenly, she heard something-like a car with loud pipes. The two men turned quickly and looked down the dirt road to the highway in the distance. They cursed and scrambled around, one slamming the tailgate and the other running toward her. He tripped and landed near her. They cursed each other while they grabbed her, removed the rope from her neck, dragged her to the pickup and threw her over the tailgate into the bed of the truck. Cobb slapped her and threatened to kill her if she did not lie still and keep quiet. He said he would take her home if she stayed down and did as told; otherwise, they would kill her. They slammed the doors and sped onto the dirt road. She was going home.
She passed out.
Cobb and Willard waved at the Firebird with the loud pipes as it passed them on the narrow dirt road. Willard checked the back to make sure the little nigger was lying down.
Cobb turned onto the highway and raced away.
"What now?" Willard asked nervously.
"Don't know," Cobb answered nervously. "But we gotta do something fast before she gets blood all over my truck. Look at her back there, she's bleedin' all over the place." Willard thought for a minute while he finished a beer. "Let's throw her off a bridge," he said proudly.
"Good idea. Damned good idea." Cobb slammed on the brakes. "Gimme a beer," he ordered Willard, who stumbled out of the truck and fetched two beers from the back.
"She's even got blood on the cooler," he reported as they raced off again.
Gwen Hailey sensed something horrible. Normally she would have sent one of the three boys to the store, but they were being punished by their father and had been sentenced to weed-pulling in the garden. Tonya had been to the stor e before by herself-it was only a mile away-and had proven reliable. But after two hours Gwen sent the boys to look for their little sister. They figured she was down at the Pounders' house playing with the many Pounders kids, or maybe she had ventured past the store to visit her best friend,
Bessie Pierson.
Mr. Bates at the store said she had come and gone an hour earlier. Jarvis, the middle boy, found a sack of groceries beside the road.
Gwen called her husband at the paper mill, then loaded Carl Lee, Jr., into the car and began driving the gravel roads around the store. They drove to a settlement of ancient shotgun houses on Graham Plantation to check with an aunt. They stopped at Broadway's store a mile from Bates Grocery and were told by a group of old black men that she had not been seen. They crisscrossed the gravel roads and dusty field roads for three square miles around their house.

Cobb could not find a bridge unoccupied by niggers with fishing poles. Every bridge they approached had four or five niggers hanging off the sides with large straw hats and cane poles, and under every bridge on the banks there would be another group sitting on buckets with the same straw hats and cane poles, motionless except for an occasional swat at a fly or a slap at a mosquito.
He was scared now. Willard had passed out and was of no help, and he was left alone to dispose of the girl in such a way that she could never tell. Willard snored as he frantically drove the gravel roads and county roads in search of a bridge or ramp on some river where he could stop and toss her without being seen by half a dozen niggers with straw hats. He looked in the mirror and saw her trying to stand. He slammed his brakes, and she crashed into the front of the bed, just under the window. Willard ricocheted off the dash into the floorboard, where he continued to snore. Cobb cursed them both equally.
Lake Chatulla was nothing more than a huge, shallow, man-made mudhole with a grass-covered dam running exactly one mile along one end. It sat in the far southwest corner of
Ford County, with a few acres in Van Buren County. In the spring it would hold the distinction of being the largest body of water in Mississippi. But by late summer the rains were long gone, and the sun would cook the shallow water until the lake would dehydrate. Its once ambitious shorelines would retreat and move much closer together, creating a depthless basin of reddish brown water. It was fed from all directions by innumerable streams, creeks, sloughs, and a couple of currents large enough to be named rivers. The existence of all these tributaries necessarily gave rise to a good number of bridges near the lake.
It was over these bridges the yellow pickup flew in an all-out effort to find a suitable place to unload an unwanted passenger. Cobb was desperate. He knew of one other bridge, a narrow wooden one over Foggy Creek. As he approached, he saw niggers with cane poles, so he turned off a side road and stopped the truck. He lowered the tailgate, dragged her out, and threw her in a small ravine lined with kudzu.
Carl Lee Hailey did not hurry home. Gwen was easily excited, and she had called the mill numerous times when she thought the children had been kidnapped. He
punched out at quitting time, and made the thirty-minute drive home in thirty minutes. Anxiety hit him when he turned onto his gravel drive and saw the patrol car parked next to the front porch. Other cars belonging to Owen's family were scattered along the long drive and in the yard, and there was one car he didn't recognize. It had cane poles sticking out the side windows, and there were at least seven straw hats sitting in it.
Where were Tonya and the boys?
As he opened the front door he heard Gwen crying. To his right in the small living room he found a crowd huddled above a small figure lying on the couch. The child was covered with wet towels and surrounded by crying relatives. As he moved to the couch the crying stopped and the crowd backed away. Only Gwen stayed by the girl. She softly stroked her hair. He knelt beside the couch and touched the girl's shoulder. He spoke to his daughter, and she tried to smile. Her face was bloody pulp covered with knots and lacerations. Both eyes were swollen shut and bleeding. His eyes watered as he looked at her tiny body, completely wrapped in towels and bleeding from ankles to forehead.
Carl Lee asked Gwen what happened. She began shaking and wailing, and was led to the kitchen by her brother. Carl Lee stood and turned to the crowd and demanded to know what happened.
Silence.
He asked for the third time. The deputy, Willie Hastings, one of Gwen's cousins, stepped forward and told Carl Lee that some people were fishing down by Foggy Creek when they saw Tonya lying in the middle of the road. She told them her daddy's name, and they brought her home.
Hastings shut up and stared at his feet.
Carl Lee stared at him and waited. Everyone else stopped breathing and watched the floor. "What happened, Willie?" Carl Lee yelled as he stared at the deputy.
Hastings spoke slowly, and while staring out the window repeated what Tonya had told her mother about the white men and their pickup, and the rope and the trees, and being hurt when they got on her. -Hastings stopped when he heard the siren from the ambulance.
The crowd filed solemnly through the front door and waited on the porch, where they watched the crew unload a stretcher and head for the house.
The paramedics stopped in the yard when the front door opened and Carl Lee walked out with his daughter in his arms. He whispered gently to her as huge tears dripped from his chin. He walked to the rear of the ambulance and stepped inside. The paramedics closed the door and carefully removed her from his embrace.
Ozzie Walls was the only black sheriff in Mississippi. There had been a few others in recent history, but for the moment he was the only one. He took great pride in that fact, since Ford County was seventy-four percent white and the other black sheriffs had been from much blacker counties.
Not since Reconstruction had a black sheriff been elected in a white county in Mississippi.
He was raised in Ford County, and he was kin to most of the blacks and a few of the whites. After desegregation in the late sixties, he was a member of the first mixed graduating class at Clanton High School. He wanted to play football nearby at Ole Miss, but there were already two blacks on the team. He starred instead at Alcorn State, and was a defensive tackle for the Rams when a knee injury sent him back to Clanton. He missed football, but enjoyed being the high sheriff, especially at election time when he received more . white votes than his white opponents. The white kids loved him because he was a hero, a football star who had played on TV and had his picture in magazines.
Their parents respected him and voted for him because he was a tough cop who did not discriminate between black punks and white punks. The white politicians supported him because, since e became the sheriff, the Justice Department stayed out of Ford County.
The blacks adored him because he was Ozzie, one of their own.
He skipped supper and waited in his office at the jail for Hastings to report from the
Hailey house. He had a suspect. Billy Ray Cobb was no stranger to the sheriffs office.
Ozzie knew he sold drugs- he just couldn't catch him. He also knew Cobb had a mean streak.
The dispatcher called in the deputies, and as they reported to the jail Ozzie gave them instructions to locate, but not arrest, Billy Ray Cobb. There were twelve deputies in all -nine white and three black. They fanned out across the county in search of a fancy yellow Ford pickup with a rebel flag in the rear window.
When Hastings arrived he and the sheriff left for the Ford County hospital. As usual,
Hastings drove and Ozzie gave orders on the radio. In the waiting room on the second floor they found the Hailey clan. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, and strangers crowded into the small room and some waited in the narrow hallway. There were whispers and quiet tears. Tonya was in surgery.
Carl Lee sat on a cheap plastic couch in a dark corner with Gwen next to him and the boys next to her. He stared at the floor and did not notice the crowd. Gwen laid her head on his shoulder and cried softly. The boys sat rigidly with their hands on knees, occasionally glancing at their father as if waiting on words of reassurance.
Ozzie worked his way through the crowd, quietly shaking hands and patting backs and whispering that he would catch them. He knelt before Carl Lee and Gwen.
"How is she?" he asked. Carl Lee did not see him. Gwen cried louder and the boys sniffed and wiped tears. He patted Gwen on the knee and stood. One of her brothers led Ozzie and Hastings out of the room into the hall, away from the family. He shook Ozzie's hand and thanked him for coming.
"How is she?" Ozzie asked.
"Not too good. She's in surgery and most likely will be there for a while. She's got broken bones and a bad concussion. She's beat up real bad. There's rope burns on her neck like they tried to hang her."
"Was she raped?" he asked, certain of the answer.
"Yeah. She told her momma they took turns on her and hurt her real bad. Doctors confirmed it."
"How's Carl Lee and Gwen?"
"They're tore up pretty bad. I think they're in shock. Carl Lee ain't said a word since he got here."
, JDzzie assured him they would find the two men, and it wouldn't take long, and when they found them they would be locked up someplace safe. The brother suggested he should hide them in another jail, for their own safety.
Three miles out of Clanto n, Ozzie pointed to a gravel driveway. "Pull in there," he told
Hastings, who turned off the highway and drove into the front yard of a dilapidated house trailer. It was almost dark.
Ozzie took his night stick and banged violently on the front door. "Open up, Bumpous!"
The trailer shook and Bumpous scrambled to the bathroom to flush a fresh joint.
"Open up, Bumpous!" Ozzie banged. "I know you're in there. Open up or I'll kick in the door."
Bumpous yanked the door open and Ozzie walked in. "You know, Bumpous, evertime I visit you I smell somethin' funny and the commode's flushin'. Get some clothes on. I gotta job for you."
"W-what?"
"I'll explain it outside where I can breathe. Just get some clothes on and hurry."
"What if I don't want to?"
"Fine. I'll see your parole officer tomorrow."
"I'll be out in a minute."
Ozzie smiled and walked to his car. Bobby Bumpous was one of his favorites. Since his parole two years earlier, he had led a reasonably clean life, occasionally succumbing to the lure of an easy drug sale for a quick buck. Ozzie watched him like a hawk and knew of such transactions, and Bumpous knew Ozzie knew;
therefore, Bumpous was usually most eager to help his friend, Sheriff Walls. The plan was to eventually use Bumpous to nail Billy Ray Cobb for dealing, but that would be postponed for now.
After a few minutes he marched outside, still tucking his shirttail and zipping his pants.
"Who you lookin' for?" he demanded.
"Billy Ray Cobb."
"That's no problem. You can find him without me."
"Shut up and listen. We think Cobb was involved in a rape this afternoon. A black girl was raped by two white men, and I think Cobb was there."
"Cobb ain't into rape, Sheriff. He's into drugs, remember?"
"Shut up and listen. You find Cobb and spend some time with him. Five minutes ago his truck was spotted at Huey's. Buy him a beer. Shoot some pool, roll dice, what- ever. Find out what he did today. Who was he with? Where'd he go? You know how he likes to talk, right?"
"Right."
"Call the dispatcher when you find him. They'll call me. I'll be somewhere close. You understand?"
"Sure, Sheriff. No problem."
"Any questions?"
"Yeah. I'm broke. Who's gonna pay for this?"
Ozzie handed him a twenty and left. Hastings drove in the direction of Huey's, down by the lake.
"You sure you can trust him?" Hastings asked. . "Who?"
"That Bumpous kid."
"Sure I trust him. He's proved very reliable since he was paroled. He's a good kid tryin' to go straight, for the most part. He supports his local sheriff and would do anything I ask."
"Why?"
"Because I caught him with ten ounces of pot a year ago. He'd been outta jail about a year when I caught his brother with an ounce, and I told him he was lookin' at thirty years. He started cryin' and carryin' on, cried all night in his cell. By mornin' he was ready to talk.
Told me his supplier was his brother, Bobby. So I let him go and went to see Bobby. I knocked on his door and I could hear the commode flushin'. He wouldn't come to the door, so I kicked it in. I found him in his underwear in the bathroom tryin' to unstop the commode. There was dope all over the place. Don't know how much he flushed, but most of it was comin' back out in the overflow. Scared him so bad he wet his drawers."
"You kiddin'?"
"Nope. The kid pissed all over himself. He was a sight standin' there with wet drawers, a plunger in one hand, dope in the other, and the room fillin' up with commode water."
"What'd you do?"
"Threatened to kill him."
"What'd he do?"
"Started cryin'. Cried like a baby. Cried 'bout his momma and prison and all this and that.
Promised he'd never screw up again."
"You arrest him?"
"Naw, I just couldn't. I talked real ugly to him and threatened him some more. I put him on probation right there in his bathroom. He's been fun to work with ever since."
They drove by Huey's and saw Cobb's truck in the gravel parking lot with a dozen other pickups and four-wheel drives. They parked behind a black church on a hill up the highway from Huey's, where they had a good view of the honky tonk, or tonk, as it was affectionately called by the patrons. Another patrol car hid behind
some trees at the other end of the highway. Moments later Bumpous flew by and wheeled into the parking lot.
He locked his brakes, spraying gravel and dust, then backed next to Cobb's truck. He looked around and casually entered Huey's. Thirty minutes later the dispatcher advised
Ozzie that the informant had found the subject, a male white, at Huey's, an establishment on Highway 305 near the lake. Within minutes two more patrol cars were hidden close by. They waited.
"What makes you so sure it's Cobb?" Hastings asked.
"I ain't sure. I just got a hunch. The little girl said it was a truck with shiny wheels and big tires."
"That narrows it down to two thousand."
"She also said it was yellow, looked new, and had a big flag hangin' in the rear window."
"That brings it down to two hundred."
"Maybe less than that. How many of those are as mean as Billy Ray Cobb?"
"What if it ain't him?"
"It is."
"If it ain't?"
"We'll know shortly. He's got a big mouth, 'specially when he's drinkin'."
For two hours they waited and watched pickups come and go. Truck drivers, pulpwood cutters, factory workers, and farmhands parked their pickups and jeeps in the gravel and strutted inside to drink, shoot pool, listen to the band, but mainly to look for stray women.
Some would leave and walk next door to Ann's Lounge, where they would stay for a few minutes and return to Huey's. Ann's Lounge was darker both inside and out, and it lacked the colorful beer signs and live music that made Huey's such a hit with the locals. Ann's was known for its drug traffic, whereas Huey's had it all- music, women, happy hours, poker machines, dice, dancing, and plenty of fights. One brawl spilled through the door into the parking lot, where a group of wild rednecks kicked and clawed each other at random until they grew winded and returned to the dice table.
"Hope that wasn't Bumpous," observed the sheriff.
The restrooms inside were small and nasty, and most of the patrons found it necessary to relieve themselves between the pickups in the parking lot. This was especially true on
Mondays when ten- cent beer night drew rednecks from four counties and every truck in the parking lot received at least three sprayings. About once a week an innocent passing motorist would get shocked by something he or she saw in the parking lot, and Ozzie would be forced to make an arrest. Otherwise, he left the places alone.
Both tonks were in violation of numerous laws. There was gambling, drugs, illegal whiskey, minors, they refused to close on time, etc. Shortly after he was elected the first time Ozzie made the mistake, due in part to a hasty campaign promise, of closing all the honky tonks in the county. It was a horrible mistake. The crime rate soared. The jail was packed. The court dockets multiplied.
The rednecks united and drove in caravans to Clanton, where they parked around the courthouse on the square. Hundreds of them. Every night they invaded the square, drinking, fighting, playing loud music, and shouting obscenities at the horrified town folk. Each morning the square resembled a landfill with cans and bottles thrown everywhere. He closed the black tonks too, and break-ins, burglaries, and stabbings tripled in one month. There were two murders in one week.
Finally, with the city under siege, a group of local ministers met secretly with Ozzie and begged him to ease up on the tonks. He politely reminded them that during the campaign they had insisted on the closings. They admitted they were wrong and pleaded for relief.
Yes, they would support him in the next election. Ozzie relented, and life returned to normal in Ford County.
Ozzie was not pleased that the establishments thrived in his county, but he was convinced beyond any doubt that his law-abiding constituents were much safer when the tonks were open.
At ten-thirty the dispatcher radioed that the informant was on the phone and wanted to see the sheriff. Ozzie gave his location, and a minute later they watched Bumpous emerge and stagger to his truck. He spun tires, slung gravel, and raced toward the church.
"He's drunk," said Hastings.
He wheeled through the church parking lot and came to a screeching stop a few feet from the patrol car. "Howdy, Sheriff!" he yelled.
Ozzie walked to the pickup. "What took so long?"
"You told me to take all night."
"You found him two hours ago."
"That's true, Sheriff, but have you ever tried to spend twenty dollars on beer when it's fifty cents a can?"
"You drunk?"
"Naw, just havin' a good time. Could I have another twenty?"
"What'd you find out?"
" 'Bout what?"
"Cobb!"
"Oh, he's in there all right."
"I know he's in there! What else?"
Bumpous quit smiling and looked at the tonk in the distance. "He's laughin' about it,
Sheriff. It's a big joke. Said he finally found a nigger who was a virgin. Somebody asked how old she was, and Cobb said eight or nine. Everybody laughed."
Hastings closed his eyes and dropped his head. Ozzie gritted his teeth and looked away.
"What else did he say?"
"He's bad drunk. He won't remember any of it in the mornin'. Said she was a cute little nigger."
"Who was with him?"
"Pete Willard."
"Is he in there?"
"Yep, they're both laughin' about it."
"Where are they?"
"Left-hand side, next to the pinball machines."
Ozzie smiled. "Okay, Bumpous. You did good. Get lost."
Hastings called the dispatcher with the two names. The dispatcher relayed the message to
Deput y Looney, who was parked in the street in front of the home of County Judge
Percy Bullard. Looney rang the doorbell and handed the judge two affidavits and two arrest warrants. Bullard scribbled on the warrants and returned them to Looney, who thanked His Honor and left. Twenty minutes later Looney handed the warrants to Ozzie behind the church.
At exactly eleven, the band quit in mid-song, the dice disappeared, the dancers froze, the cue balls stopped rolling, and someone turned on the lights. All eyes followed the big sheriff as he and his men swaggered slowly across the dance floor to a table by the pinball machines. Cobb, Willard, and two others sat in a booth, the table littered with empty beer cans^ Ozzie walked to the table and grinned at Cobb.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't allow niggers in here," Cobb blurted out, and the four burst into laughter. Ozzie kept grinning.
When the laughing stopped, Ozzie said, "You boys havin' a good time, Billy Ray?"
"We was."
"Looks like it. I hate to break things up, but you and Mr. Willard need to come with me."
"Where we goin'?" Willard asked.
"For a ride."
"I ain't movin'," Cobb vowed. With that, the other two scooted from the booth and joined the spectators.
"I'm placin' you both under arrest," Ozzie said.
"You got warrants?" Cobb asked.
Hastings produced the warrants, and Ozzie threw them among the beer cans. "Yeah, we got warrants. Now get up."
Willard stared desperately at Cobb, who sipped a beer and said, "I ain't goin' to jail."
Looney handed Ozzie the longest, blackest nightstick ever used in Ford County. Willard was panic- stricken. Ozzie cocked it and struck the center of the table, sending beer and cans and foam in all directions. Willard bolted upright, slapped his wrists together and thrust them at Looney, who was waiting with the handcuffs. He was dragged outside and thrown into a patrol car. Ozzie tapped his left palm with the stick and grinned at Cobb.
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be used against you in court.
You have the right to a lawyer. If you can't afford one, the state'll furnish one. Any questions?"
"Yeah, what time is it?"
"Time to go to jail, big man."
"Go to hell, nigger."
Ozzie grabbed his hair and lifted him from the booth, then drove his face into the floor.
He jammed a knee into his spine and slid his nightstick under his throat, and pulled upward while driving the knee deeper into his back. Cobb squealed until the stick began crushing his larynx.
The handcuffs were slapped into place, and Ozzie dragged him by his hair across the dance floor, out the door, across the gravel and threw him into the back seat with Wil-lard.
News of the rape spread quickly. More friends and relatives crowded into the waiting room and the halls around it. Tonya was out of surgery and listed as critical. Ozzie talked to Gwen's brother in the hall and told of the arrests. Yes, they were the ones, he was sure.
Jake Brigance rolled across his wife and staggered to the small bathroom a few feet from his bed, where he searched and groped in the dark for the screaming alarm clock. He found it where he had left it, and killed it with a quick and violent slap. It was 5:30 A.M., Wednesday, May 15.
He stood in the dark for a moment, breathless, terrified, his heart pounding rapidly, staring at the fluorescent numbers glowing at him from the face of the clock, a clock he hated. Its piercing scream could be heard down the street. He flirted with cardiac arrest every morning at this time when the thing erupted. On occasion, about twice a year, he was successful in shoving Carla onto the floor, and she would maybe turn it off before returning to bed. Most of the time, however, she was not sympathetic. She thought he was crazy for getting up at such an hour.
The clock sat on the windowsill so that Jake was required to move around a bit before it was silenced. Once up, Jake would not permit himself to crawl back under the covers. It was one of his rules. At one time the alarm was on the nightstand, and the volume was reduced. Carla would reach and turn it off before Jake heard anything. Then he would sleep until seven or eight and ruin his entire day. He would miss being in the office by seven, which was another rule. The alarm stayed in the bathroom and served its purpose.
Jake stepped to the sink and splashed cold water on'his face and hair. He switched on the light and gasped in horror at the sight in the mirror. His straight brown hair shot in all directions, and the hairline had receded at least two inches during the night. Either that or his forehead had grown. His eyes were matted and swollen with the white stuff packed in the corners. A seam in a blanket left a bright red scar along the left side of his face. He touched, then rubbed it and wondered if it would go away. With his right hand he pushed his hair back and inspected the hairline. At thirty-two, he had no gray hair. Gray hair was not the problem. The problem was pattern baldness, which Jake had richly inherited from both sides of his family. He longed for a full, thick hairline beginning an inch above his eyebrows. He still had plenty of hair, Carla told him. But it wouldn't last long at the rate it was disappearing. She also assured him he was as handsome as ever, and he believed her.
She had explained that a receding hairline gave him a look of maturity that was essential for a young attorney. He believed that too.
But what about old, bald attorneys, or even mature, middle-aged bald attorneys? Why couldn't the hair return after he grew wrinkles and gray sideburns and looked very mature?
Jake pondered these things in the shower. He took quick showers, and he shaved and dressed quickly. He had to be at the Coffee Shop at 6:00 A.M.-another rule. He turned on lights and slammed and banged drawers and closet doors in an effort to arouse Carla.
This was the morning ritual during the summer when she was not teaching school. He had explained to her numerous times that she had all day to catch up on any lost sleep, and that these early moments should be spent together. She moaned and tunneled deeper under the covers. Once dressed, Jake jumped on the bed with all fours and kissed her in the ear, down the neck, and all over the face until she finally swung at him. Then he yanked the covers off the bed and laughed as she curled up and shivered and begged for the blankets. He held them and admired her dark, tanned, thin, almost perfect legs. The bulky nightshirt covered nothing below the waist, and a hundred lewd thoughts danced before him.
About once a month this ritual would get out of hand. She would not protest, and the blankets would be jointly removed. On those mornings Jake undressed even quicker and broke at least three of his rules. That's how Hanna was conceived.
But not this morning. He covered his wife, kissed her gently, and turned out the lights.
She breathed easier, and fell asleep.
Down the hall he quietly opened Hanna's door and knelt beside her. She was four, the only child, and there would be no others. She lay in her bed surrounded by dolls and stuffed animals. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. She was as beautiful as her mother, and the two were identical in looks and manners. They had large bluish-gray eyes that could cry instantly, if necessary. They wore their dark hair the same way-had it cut by the same person at the same time. They even dressed alike.
Jake adored the two women in his life. He kissed the second one goodbye and went to the kitchen to make coffee for Carla. On his way out he released Max, the mutt, into the backyard, where she simultaneously relieved herself and barked at Mrs. Pickle's cat next door. Few people attacked the morning like Jake Brigance. He walked briskly to the end of the driveway and got the morning papers for Carla. It was dark, clear, and cool with the promise of summer rapidly approaching.
He studied the darkness up and down Adams Street, then turned and admired his house.
Two homes in Ford County were on the National Register of Historic Places, and Jake
Brigance owned one of them. Although it was heavily mortgaged, he was proud of it nonetheless. It was a nineteenth-century Victorian built by a retired railroad man who died on the first Christmas Eve he spent in his new home. The facade was a huge, centered gable with hipped roof over a wide, inset front porch. Under the gable a small portico covered with bargeboard hung gently over the porch.
The five supporting pillars were round and painted white and slate blue. Each column bore a handmade floral carving, each with a different flower-daffodils, irises, and sunflowers. The railing between the pillars was filled with lavish lacework. Upstairs, three bay windows opened onto a small balcony, and to the left
of the balcony an octagonal tower with stained-glass windows protruded and rose above the gable until it peaked with an iron-crested finial. Below the tower and to the left of the porch, a wide, graceful veranda with ornamental railing extended from the house and served as a carport. The front panels were a collage of gingerbread, cedar shingles, scallops, fish scales, tiny intricate gables, and miniature spindles.
Carla had located a paint consultant in New Orleans, and the fairy chose six original colors-mostly shades of blue, teal, peach, and white. The paint job took two months and cost Jake five thousand dollars, and that did not include the countless hours he and Carla had spent dangling from ladders and scraping cornices. And although he was not wild about some of the colors, he had never dared suggest repainting.
As with every Victorian, the house was gloriously unique. It had a piquant, provocative, engaging quality derived from an ingenuous, joyous, almost childlike bearing. Carla had wanted it since before they married, and when the owner in Memphis finally died and the estate was closed, they bought it for a song because no one else would have it. It had been abandoned for twenty years.
They borrowed heavily from two of the three banks in Clanton, and spent the next three years sweating and doting over their landmark. Now people drove by and took pictures of it.
The third local bank held the mortgage on Jake's car, the only Saab in Ford County. And a red Saab at that. He wiped the dew from the windshield and unlocked the door. Max was still barking and had awakened the army of blue-jays that lived in Mrs. Pickle's maple tree. They sang to him and called farewell as he smiled and whistled in return. He backed into Adams Street. Two blocks east he turned south on Jefferson, which two blocks later ran dead end into Washington Street. Jake had often wondered why every small Southern town had an Adams, a Jefferson, and a Washington, but no Lincoln or
Grant. Washington Street ran east and west on the north side of the Clanton square.
Because Clanton was the county seat it had a square, and the square quite naturally had a courthouse in the center of it. General Clanton had laid out the town with much thought, and the square was long and wide and the courthouse lawn was covered with massive oak trees, all lined neatly and spaced equally apart. The Ford County courthouse was well into its second century, built after the Yankees burned the first one. It defiantly faced south, as if telling those from the North to politely and eternally kiss its ass. It was old and stately, with white columns along the front and black shutters around the dozens of windows. The original red brick had long since been painted white, and every four years the Boy Scouts added a thick layer of shiny enamel for their traditional summer project.
Several bond issues over the years had allowed additions and renovations.
The lawn around it was clean and neatly trimmed. A crew from the jail manicured it twice a week.
Clanton had three coffee shops-two for the whites and one for the blacks, and all three were on the square. It was not illegal or uncommon for whites to eat at Claude's, the black cafe on the west side.
And it was safe for the blacks to eat at the Tea Shoppe, on the south side, or the Coffee
Shop on Washington Street. They didn't, however, since they were told they could back in the seventies.
Jake ate barbecue every Friday at Claude's, as did most of the white liberals in Clanton.
But six mornings a week he was a regular at the Coffee Shop.
He parked the Saab in front of his office on Washington Street and walked three doors to the Coffee Shop. It had opened an hour earlier and by now was bustling with action.
Waitresses scurried about serving coffee and breakfast and chatting incessantly with the farmers and mechanics and deputies who were the regulars. This was no white-collar cafe. The white collars gathered across the square at the Tea Shoppe later in the morning and discussed national politics, tennis, golf, and the stock market. At the Coffee Shop they talked about local politics, football, and bass fishing. Jake was one of the few white collars allowed to frequent the Coffee Shop. He was well liked and accepted by the blue collars, most of whom at one time or another had found their way to his office for a will, a deed, a divorce, a defense, or any one of a thousand other problems.
They picked at him and told crooked lawyer jokes, but he had a thick skin. They asked him to explain Supreme Court rulings and other legal oddities during breakfast, and he gave a lot of free legal advice at the Coffee Shop. Jake had a way of cutting through the excess and discussing the meat of any issue. They appreciated that. They didn't always agree with him, but they always got honest answers. They argued at times, but there were never hard feelings.
He made his entrance at six, and it took five minutes to greet everyone, shake hands, slap backs, and say smart things to the waitresses. By the time he sat at his table his favorite girl, Dell, had his coffee and regular breakfast of toast, jelly, and grits. She patted him on the hand and called him honey and sweetheart and generally made a fuss over him. She griped and snapped at the others, but had a different routine for Jake.
He ate with Tim Nunley, a mechanic down at the Chevrolet place, and two brothers, Bill and Bert West, who worked at the shoe factory north of town. He splashed three drops of
Tabasco on his grits and stirred them artfully with a slice of butter-. He covered the toast with a half inch of homemade strawberry jelly. Once his food was properly prepared, he tasted the coffee and started eating. They ate quietly and discussed how the crappie were biting.
In a booth by the window a few feet from Jake's table, three deputies talked among themselves. The big one, Marshall Prather, turned to Jake and asked loudly, "Say, Jake, didn't you defend Billy Ray Cobb a few years ago?"
The cafe was instantly silent as everyone looked at the lawyer. Startled not by the question but by its response, Jake swallowed his grits and searched for the name.
"Billy Ray Cobb," he repeated aloud. "What kind of case was it?"
"Dope," Prather said. "Caught him sellin' dope about four years ago. Spent time in
Parchman and got out last year."
Jake remembered. "Naw, I didn't represent him. I think he had a Memphis lawyer."
Prather seemed satisfied and returned to his pancakes. Jake waited.
Finally he asked, "Why? What's he done now?"
"We picked him up last night for rape."
"Rape!"
"Yeah, him and Pete Willard."
"Who'd they rape?"
"You remember that Hailey nigger you got off in that murder trial a few years ago?"
"Lester Hailey. Of course I remember."
"You know his brother Carl Lee?"
"Sure. Know him well. I know all the Haileys. Represented most of them."
"Well, it was his little girl."
"You're kidding?"
"Nope."
"How old is she?"
"Ten."
Jake's appetite disappeared as the cafe returned to normal. He played with his coffee and listened to the conversation change from fishing to Japanese cars and back to fishing.
When the West brothers left, he slid into the booth with the deputies.
"How is she?" he asked.
"Who?"
"The Hailey girl."
"Pretty bad," said Prather. "She's in the hospital."
"What happened?"
"We don't know everything. She ain't been able to talk much. Her momma sent her to the store.
They live on Craft Road behind Bates Grocery."
"I know where they live."
"Somehow they got her in Cobb's pickup and took her out in the woods somewhere and raped her."
"Both of them?"
"Yeah, several times. And they kicked her and beat her real bad. Some of her kinfolks didn't know her, she was beat so bad."
Jake shook his head. "That's sick."
"Sure is. Worst I've ever seen. They tried to kill her. Left her for dead."
"Who found her?"
"Buncha niggers fishin' down by Foggy Creek. Saw her floppin' out in the middle of the road. Had her hands tied behind her. She was talkin' a little-told them who her daddy was and they took her home."
"How'd you know it was Billy Ray Cobb?"
"She told her momma it was a yellow pickup truck with a rebel flag hangin' in the rear window. That's about all Ozzie needed. He had it figured out by the time she got to the hospital."
Prather was careful not to say too much. He liked Jake, but he was a lawyer and he handled a lot of criminal cases.
"Who is Pete Willard?"
"Some friend of Cobb's."
"Where'd y'all find them?"
"Huey's."
"That figures." Jake drank his coffee and thought of Hanna.
"Sick, sick, sick," Looney mumbled.
"How's Carl Lee?"
Prather wiped syrup from his mustache. "Personally, I don't know him, but I ain't ever heard anything bad about him. They're still at the hospital. I think Ozzie was with them all night. He knows them real well, of course, he knows all those folks real well. Hastings is kin to the girl somehow."
"When's the preliminary hearing?"
"Bullard set it for one P.M. today. Ain't that right, Looney?" Looney nodded.
"Any bond?"
"Ain't been set yet. Bollard's gonna wait till the hearing. If she dies, they'll be lookin' at capital murder, won't they?"
Jake nodded.
"They can't have a bond for capital murder, can they, Jake?" Looney asked.
"They can but I've never seen one. I know Bullard won't set a bond for capital murder, and if he did, they couldn't make it."
"If she don't die, how much time can they get?" asked Nesbit, the third deputy.
Others listened as Jake explained. "They can get life sentences for the rape. I assume they will also be charged with kidnapping and aggravated assault."
"They already have."
"Then they can get twenty years for the kidnapping and twenty years for the aggravated assault."
"Yeah, but how much time will they serve?" asked Looney.
Jake thought a second. "They could conceivably be paroled in thirteen years. Seven for the rape, three for the kidnapping, and three for the aggravated assault. That's assuming they're convicted on all charges and sentenced to the maximum."
"What about Cobb? He's got a record."
"Yeah, but he's not habitual unless he's got two prior convictions."
"Thirteen years," Looney repeated, shaking his head.
Jake stared through the window. The square was coming to life as pickups full of fruits and vegetables parked next to the sidewalk around the courthouse lawn, and the old farmers in faded overalls neatly arranged the small baskets of tomatoes and cucumbers and squash on the tailgate s and hoods. Watermelons from Florida were placed next to the dusty slick tires, and the farmers left for an early-morning meeting under the Vietnam monument, where they sat on benches and chewed Red Man and whittled while they caught up on the gossip. They're probably talking
about the rape, Jake thought. It was daylight now, and time for the office. The deputies were finished with their food, and
Jake excused himself. He hugged Dell, paid his check, and for a second thought of driving home to check on Hanna.
At three minutes before seven, he unlocked his office and turned on the lights.
Carl Lee had difficulty sleeping on the couch in the waiting room. Tonya was serious but stable. They had seen her at midnight, after the doctor warned that she looked bad. She did. Gwen had kissed the little bandaged face while Carl Lee stood at the foot of the bed, subdued, motionless, unable to do anything but stare blankly at the small figure surrounded by machines, tubes, and nurses. Gwen was later sedated and taken to her mother's house in Clanton. The boys went home with Gwen's brother.
The crowd had dispersed around one, leaving Carl Lee alone on the couch. Ozzie brought coffee and doughnuts at two, and told Carl Lee all he knew about Cobb and Willard.
Jake's office was a two-story building in a row of two-story buildings overlooking the courthouse on the north side of the square, just down from the Coffee Shop. The building was built by the Wilbanks family back in the 1890s, back when they owned Ford County.
And there had been a Wilbanks practicing law in the building from the day it was built until 1979, the year of the disbarment. Next door to the east was an insurance agent Jake had sued for botching a claim for Tim Nunley, the mechanic down at the Chevrolet place.
To the west was the bank with the mortgage on the Saab. All the buildings around the square were two-story brick except the banks. The one next door had also been built by the Wilbankses and had just two floors, but the one on the southeast corner of the square had three floors, and the newest one, on the southwest corner, had four floors.
Jake practiced alone, and had since 1979, the year of the disbarment. He liked it that way, especially since there was no other lawyer in Clanton competent enough to practice with him. There were several good lawyers in town, but most were with the Sullivan firm over in the bank building with four floors. Jake detested the Sullivan firm. Every lawyer detested the Sullivan firm except those in it. There were eight in all, eight of the most pompous and arrogant jerks Jake had ever met. Two had Harvard degrees. They had the big farmers, the banks, the insurance companies, the railroads, everybody with money.
The other fourteen lawyers in the county picked up the scraps and represented people- living, breathing human souls, most of whom had very little money. These were the
"street lawyers"-those in the trenches helping people in trouble. Jake was proud to be a street lawyer.
His offices were huge. He used only five of the ten rooms in the building. Downstairs there was a reception room, a large conference room, a kitchen, and a smaller storage and junk room. Upstairs, Jake had his vast office and another smaller office he referred to as the war room. It had no windows, no telephones, no distractions. Three offices sat empty upstairs and two downstairs. In years past these had been occupied by the prestigious
Wilbanks firm, long before the disbarment. Jake's office upstairs, the office, was immense; thirty by thirty with a ten-foot hardwood ceiling, hardwood floors, huge fireplace, and three desks-his work desk, a small conference desk in one corner, and a rolltop desk in another corner under the portrait of William Faulkner. The antique oak furniture had been there for almost a century, as had the books and shelves that covered one wall. The view of the square and courthouse was impressive, and could be enhanced by opening the French doors and walking onto a small balcony overhanging the sidewalk next to Wash- ington Street. Jake had, without a doubt, the finest office in Clanton. Even his bitter enemies in the Sullivan firm would concede that much.
For all the opulence and square footage, Jake paid the sum of four hundred dollars a month to his landlord and former boss, Lucien Wilbanks, who had been disbarred in 1979.
For decades the Wilbanks family ruled Ford County. They were proud, wealthy people, prominent in farming, banking, politics, and especially law. All the Wilbanks men were lawyers, and were educated at Ivy League schools. They founded banks, churches, schools, and several served in public office. The firm of Wilbanks & Wilbanks had been the most powerful and prestigious in north Mississippi for many years.
Then came Lucien. He was the only male Wilbanks of his generation. There was a sister and some nieces, but they were expected only to marry well. Great things were expected of Lucien as a child, but by the third grade it was evident he would be a different
Wilbanks. He inherited the law firm in 1965 when his father and uncle were killed in a plane crash. Although he was forty, he had just recently, several months prior to their deaths,-completed his study of the law by correspondence courses. Somehow he passed the bar exam. He took control of the firm and clients began disappearing. Big clients, like insurance companies, banks, and farmers, all left and went to the newly established
Sullivan firm. Sullivan had been a junior partner in the Wilbanks firm until Lucien fired him and evicted him, after which he left with the other junior partners and most of the clients. Then Lucien fired everyone else-associates, secretaries, clerks-everyone but Ethel
Twitty, his late father's favorite secretary.
Ethel and John Wilbanks had been very close through the years. In fact she had a younger son who greatly resembled Lucien. The poor fellow spent most of his time in and out of various nut houses. Lucien jokingly referred to him as his retarded brother. After the plane crash, the retarded brother appeared in Clanton and started telling folks he was the illegitimate son of John Wilbanks. Ethel was humiliated, but couldn't control him.
Clanton seethed with scandal. A lawsuit was filed by the Sullivan firm as counsel for the retarded brother seeking a portion of the estate. Lucien was furious. A trial ensued, and
Lucien vigorously defended his honor and pride and family name. He also vigorously defended his father's estate, all of which had been left to Lucien and his sister. At trial the jury noted the striking resemblance between Lucien and Ethel's
son, who was several years younger. The retarded brother was strategically seated as close as possible to
Lucien. The Sullivan lawyers instructed him to walk, talk, sit, and do everything just like
Lucien. They even dressed him like Lucien. Ethel and her husband denied the boy was any kin to the Wilbanks, but the jury felt otherwise. He was found to be an heir of John
Wilbanks, and was awarded one third of the estate. Lucien cursed the jury, slapped the poor boy, and was carried screaming from the courtroom and taken to jail. The jury's decision was reversed and dismissed on appeal, but Lucien feared more litigation if Ethel ever changed her story. Thus, Ethel Twitty remained with the Wilbanks firm.
Lucien was satisfied when the firm disintegrated. He never intended to practice law like his ancestors. He wanted to be a criminal lawyer, and the old firm's clientele had become strictly corporate. He wanted the rapes, the murders, the child abuses, the ugly cases no one else wanted. He wanted to be a civil rights lawyer and litigate civil liberties. But most of all, Lucien wanted to be a radical, a flaming radical of a lawyer with unpopular cases and causes, and lots of attention.
He grew a beard, divorced his wife, renounced his church, sold his share of the country club, joined the NAACP and ACLU, resigned from the bank board, and in general became the scourge of Clanton. He sued the schools because of segregation, the governor because of the prison, the city because it refused to pave streets in the black section, the bank because there were no black tellers, the state because of capital punishment, and the factories because they would not recognize organized labor. He fought and won many criminal cases, and not just in Ford County. His reputation spread, and a large following developed among blacks, poor whites, and the few unions in north Mississippi. He stumbled into some lucrative personal injury and wrong- ful death cases. There were some nice settlements. The firm, he and Ethel, was more profitable than ever. Lucien did not need the money. He had been born with it and never thought about it. Ethel did the counting.
The law became his life. With no family, he became a workaholic. Fifteen hours a day, seven days a week, Lucien practiced law with a passion. He had no other
interests, except alcohol. In the late sixties he noticed an affinity for Jack Daniel's. By the early seventies he was a drunk, and when he hired Jake in 1978 he was a full-fledged alcoholic. But he never let booze interfere with his work; he learned to drink and work at the same time.
Lucien was always half drunk, and he was a dangerous lawyer in that condition. Bold and abrasive by nature, he was downright frightening when he was drinking. At trial he would embarrass the opposing attorneys, insult the judge, abuse the witnesses, then apologize to the jury. He respected no one and could not be intimidated. He was feared because he would say and do anything. People" walked lightly around Lucien. He knew it and loved it. He became more and more eccentric. The more he drank, the crazier he acted, then people talked about him even more, so he drank even more.
Between 1966 and 1978 Lucien hired and disposed of eleven associates. He hired blacks,
Jews, Hispanics, women, and not one kept the pace he demanded. He was a tyrant around the office, constantly cursing and berating the young lawyers. Some quit the first month.
One lasted two years. It was difficult to accept Lucien's craziness. He had the money to be eccentric-his associates did not.
He hired Jake in 1978 fresh from law school. Jake was from Karaway, a small town of twenty-five hundred, eighteen miles west of Clanton. He was clean-cut, conservative, a devout Presbyterian with a pretty wife who wanted babies. Lucien hired him to see if he could corrupt him. Jake took the job with strong reservations because he had no other offers close to home.
A year later Lucien was disbarred. It was a tragedy for those very few who liked him.
The small union at the shoe factory north of town had called a strike. It was a union
Lucien had organized and represented. The factory began hiring new workers to replace the strikers, and violence fol- lowed. Lucien appeared on the picket line to rally his people. He was drunker than normal. A group of scabs attempted to cross the line and a brawl erupted. Lucien led the charge, was arrested and jailed. He was
convicted in city court of assault and battery and disorderly conduct. He appealed and lost, appealed and lost.
The State Bar Association had grown weary of Lucien over the years. No other attorney in the state had received as many complaints as had Lucien Wilbanks. Private reprimands, public reprimands, and suspensions had all been used, all to no avail. The
Complaints Tribunal and Disciplinary Committee moved swiftly. He was disbarred for outrageous conduct unbecoming a member of the bar. He appealed and lost, appealed and lost.
He was devastated. Jake was in Lucien's office, the big office upstairs, when word came from Jackson that the Supreme Court had upheld the disbarment. Lucien hung up the phone and walked to the doors overlooking the square. Jake watched him closely, waiting for the tirade. But Lucien said nothing. He walked slowly down the stairs, stopped and stared at Ethel, who was crying, and then looked at Jake. He opened the door and said,
"Take care of this place. I'll see you later."
They ran to the front window and watched him speed away from the square in his ragged old Porsche. For several months there was no word from him. Jake labored diligently on
Lucien's cases while Ethel kept the office from chaos. Some of the cases were settled, some left for other lawyers, some went to trial.
Six months later Jake returned to his office after a long day in court and found Lucien asleep on the Persian rug in the big office. "Lucien! Are you all right?" he asked.
Lucien jumped up and sat in the big leather chair behind the desk. He was sober, tanned, relaxed. "Jake, my boy, how are you?" he asked warmly.
"Fine, just fine. Where have you been?"
"Cayman Islands."
"Doing what?"
"Drinking rum, lying on the beach, chasing little native girls."
"Sounds like fun. Why did you leave?"
"It got boring."
Jake sat across the desk. "It's good to see you, Lucien."
"Good to see you, Jake. How are things around here?"
"Hectic. But okay, I guess."
"Did you settle Medley?"
"Yeah. They paid eighty thousand."
"That's very good. Was he happy?"
"Yes, seemed to be."
"Did Cruger go to trial?"
Jake looked at the floor. "No, he hired Fredrix. I think it's set for trial next month."
"I should've talked to him before I left."
"He's guilty, isn't he?"
"Yes, very. It doesn't matter who represents him. Most defendants are guilty. Remember that." Lucien walked to the French doors and gazed at the courthouse. "What are your plans, Jake?"
"I'd like to stay here. What are your plans?"
"You're a good man, Jake, and I want you to stay. Me, I don't know. I thought about moving to the Caribbean, but I won't. It's a nice place to visit, but it gets old. I have no plans really. I may travel. Spend some money. I'm worth a ton, you know."
Jake agreed. Lucien turned and waved his arms around the room. "I want you to have all this, Jake. I want you to stay here and keep some semblance of a firm going. Move into this office; use this desk that my grandfather brought from Virginia after the Civil War.
Keep the files, cases, clients, books, everything."
"That's very generous, Lucien."
"Most of the clients will disappear. No reflection on you -you'll be a great lawyer someday. But most of my clients have followed me for years."
Jake didn't want most of his clients. "How about rent?"
"Pay me what you can afford. Money will be tight at first, but you'll make it. I don't need money, but you do."
"You're being very kind."
"I'm really a nice guy." They both laughed awkwardly.
Jake quit smiling. "What about Ethel?"
"It's up to you. She's a good secretary who's forgotten more law than you'll ever know. I know you don't like her, but she would be hard to replace. Fire her if you want to. I don't care."
Lucien headed for the door. "Call me if you need me. I'll be around. I want you to move into this office. It was my father's and grandfather's. Put my junk in some boxes, and I'll pick it up later."
Cobb and Willard awoke with throbbing heads and red, swollen eyes. Ozzie was yelling at them.
They were in a small cell by themselves. Through the bars to the right was a cell where the state prisoners were held awaiting the trip to Parchman. A dozen blacks leaned through the bars and glared at the two white boys as they struggled to clear their eyes. To the left was a smaller cell, also full of blacks. Wake up, Ozzie yelled, and stay quiet, or he would integrate his jail.
Jake's quiet time was from seven until Ethel arrived at eight-thirty. He was jealous with this time. He locked the front door, ignored the phone, and refused to make appointments.
He meticulously planned his day. By eight-thirty he would have enough work dictated to keep Ethel busy and quiet until noon. By nine he was either in court or seeing clients. He would not take calls until eleven, when he methodically returned the morning's messages-all of them. He never delayed returning a phone call-another rule. Jake worked systematically and efficiently with little wasted time. These habits he had not learned from Lucien.
At eight-thirty Ethel made her usual noisy entrance downstairs. She made fresh coffee and opened the mail as she had every day for the past forty-one years. She was sixty-four and looked fifty. She was plump, but not fat, well kept, but not attractive. She chomped on a greasy sausage and biscuit brought from home and read Jake's mail.
Jake heard voices. Ethel was talking to another woman. He checked his appointment book-none until ten.
"Good morning, Mr. Brigance," Ethel announced through the intercom.
"Morning, Ethel." She preferred to be called Mrs.
Twitty. Lucien and everyone else called her that. But Jake had called her Ethel since he had fired her shortly after the disbarment.
"There's a lady here to see you."
"She doesn't have an appointment."
"Yes, sir, I know."
"Make one for tomorrow morning after ten-thirty. I'm busy now."
"Yes, sir. But she says it's urgent."
"Who is it?" he snapped. It was always urgent when they dropped in unannounced, like dropping by a funeral home or a Laundromat. Probably some urgent question about
Uncle Luke's will or the case set for trial in three months.
"A Mrs. Willard," Ethel replied.
"First name?"
"Earnestine Willard. You don't know her, but her son's in jail."
Jake saw his appointments on time, but drop-ins were another matter. Ethel either ran them off or made appointments for the next day or so. Mr. Brigance was very busy, she would explain, but he could work you in day after tomorrow. This impressed people.
"Tell her I'm not interested."
"But she says she must find a lawyer. Her son has to be in court at one this afternoon."
"Tell her to see Drew Jack Tyndale, the public defender. He's good and he's free."
Ethel relayed the message. "But, Mr. Brigance, she wants to hire you. Someone told her you're the best criminal lawyer in the county." The amusement was obvious in Ethel's voice.
"Tell her that's true, but I'm not interested."
Ozzie handcuffed Willard and led him down the hall to his office in the front section of the Ford County jail. He removed the handcuffs and seated him in a wooden chair in the center of the cramped room. Ozzie sat in the big chair across the desk and looked down at the defendant.
"Mr. Willard, this here is Lieutenant Griffin with the Mississippi Highway Patrol. Over here is Investigator Rady with my office, and this here is Deputy Looney and Deputy
Prather, whom you met last night but I doubt if you remember it. I'm Sheriff Walls."
Willard jerked his head fearfully to look at each one. He was surrounded. The door was shut. Two tape recorders sat side by side near the edge of the sheriffs desk.
"We'd like to ask you some questions, okay?"
"I don't know." ^
"Before I start, I wanna make sure you understand your rights. First of all, you have the right to remain silent. Understand?"
"Uh huh."
"You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but if you do, anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Understand?"
"Uh huh."
"Can you read and write?"
"Yeah."
"Good, then read this and sign it. It says you've been advised of your rights."
Willard signed. Ozzie pushed the red button on one of the tape recorders.
"You understand this tape recorder is on?"
"Uh hu h."
"And it's Wednesday, May 15, at eight forty-three in the mornin'."
"If you say so."
"What's your full name?"
"James Louis Willard."
"Nickname?"
"Pete. Pete Willard."
"Address?"
"Route 6, Box 14, Lake Village, Mississippi."
"What road?"
"Bethel Road."
"Who do you live with?"
"My momma, Earnestine Willard. I'm divorced."
"You know Billy Ray Cobb?"
Willard hesitated and noticed his feet. His boots were back in the cell. His white socks were dirty and did not hide his two big toes. Safe question, he thought.
"Yeah, I know him."
"Was you with him yesterday?"
"Uh huh."
"Where were y'all?"
"Down at the lake."
"What time did you leave?"
" 'Bout three."
"What were you drivin'?"
"I wasn't."
"What were you ridin' in?"
Hesitation. He studied his toes. "I don't think I wanna talk no more." Ozzie pushed another button and the recorder stopped. He breathed deeply at Willard. "You ever been to Parchman?"
Willard shook his head.
"You know how many niggers at Parchman?"
Willard shook his head.
" 'Bout five thousand. You know how many white boys are there?"
"No."
" 'Bout a thousand."
Willard dropped his chin to his chest. Ozzie let him think for a minute, then winked at
Lieutenant Griffin.
"You got any idea what those niggers will do to a white boy who raped a little black girl?"
No response.
"Lieutenant Griffin, tell Mr. Willard how white boys are treated at Parchman."
Griffin walked to Ozzie's desk and sat on the edge. He looked down at Willard. "About five years ago a young white man in Helena County, over in the delta, raped a black girl.
She was twelve. They were waiting on him when he got to Parchman. Knew he was coming. First night about thirty blacks tied him over a fifty-five-gallon drum and climbed on. The guards watched and laughed. There's no sympathy for rapists. They got him every night for three months, and then killed him. They found him castrated, stuffed in the drum."
Willard cringed, then threw his head back and breathed heavily toward the ceiling.
"Look, Pete," Ozzie said, "we're not after you. We want Cobb. I've been after that boy since he left Parchman. I want him real bad. You help us get Cobb and I'll help you as much as I can. I ain't promisin' nothin', but me and the D.A. work close together. You help me get Cobb, and I'll help you with the D.A. Just tell us what happened."
"I wanna lawyer," Willard said.
Ozzie dropped his head and groaned. "What's a lawyer gonna do, Pete? Get the niggers off of you? I'm tryin' to help you and you're bein' a wiseass."
"You need to listen to the sheriff, son. He's trying to save your life," Griffin said helpfully.
"There's a good chance you could get off with just a few years here in this jail," Rady said.
"It's much safer than Parchman," Prather said.
"Choice is yours, Pete," Ozzie said. "You can die at Parchman or stay here. I'll even consider makin' you a trusty if you behave."
Willard dropped his head and rubbed his temples. "Okay, okay."
Ozzie punched the red button.
"Where'd you find the girl?"
"Some gravel road."
"Which road?"
"I don't know. I's drunk."
"Where'd you take her?"
"I don't know."
"Just you and Cobb?" . "Yeah."
"Who raped her?"
"We both did. Billy Ray went first."
"How many times?"
"I don't remember. I's smokin' weed and drinkin'."
"Both of you raped her?"
"Yeah."
"Where'd you dump her?"
"Don't remember. I swear I don't remember."
Ozzie pushed another button. "We'll type this up and get you to sign it."
Willard shook his head. "Just don't tell Billy Ray." "We won't," promised the sheriff.
Percy Bullard fidgeted nervously in the leather chair behind the huge, battered oak desk in the judge's chambers behind the courtroom, where a crowd had gathered to see about the rape. In the small room next door the lawyers gathered around the coffee machine and gossiped about the rape. Bullard's small black robe hung in a corner by the window that looked north over Washington Street. His size-six feet were wearing jogging shoes that barely touched the floor. He was a small, nervous type who worried about preliminary hearings and every other routine hearing.
After thirteen years on the bench he had never learned to relax. Fortunately, he was not required to hear big cases; those were for the
Circuit Court judge. Bullard was just a County Court judge, and he had reached his pinnacle.
Mr. Pate, the ancient courtroom deputy, knocked on the door.
"Come in!" Bullard demanded.
"Afternoon, Judge."
"How many blacks out there?" Bullard asked abruptly.
"Half the courtroom."
"That's a hundred people! They don't draw that much for a good murder trial. Whatta they want?"
Mr. Pate shook his head.
"They must think we're trying these boys today."
"I guess they're just concerned," Mr. Pate said softly.
"Concerned about what? I'm not turning them loose. It's just a preliminary hearing." He quieted and stared at the window. "Is the family out there?"
"I think so. I recognize a few of them, but I don't know her parents."
"How about security?"
"Sheriffs got ever deputy and ever reserve close to the courtroom. We checked everbody at the door."
"Find anything?"
"No, sir."
"Where are the boys?"
"Sheriffs got them. They'll be here in a minute."
The judge seemed satisfied. Mr. Pate laid a handwritten note on the desk.
"What is it?"
Mr. Pate inhaled deeply. "It's a request from a TV crew from Memphis to film the hearing."
"What!" Bullard's face turned red and he rocked furiously in the swivel chair. "Cameras," he yelled, "In my courtroom!" He ripped the note and threw the pieces in the direction of the trash can.
"Where are they?"
"In the rotunda."
"Order them out of the courthouse."
Mr. Pate left quickly.
Carl Lee Hailey sat on the row next to the back. Dozens of relatives and friends surrounded him in the rows of padded benches on the right side of the courtroom. The benches on the left side were empty. Deputies milled about, armed, apprehensive, keeping a nervous watch on the group of blacks, and especially on Carl Lee, who sat bent over, elbows on knees, staring blankly at the floor.
Jake looked out his window across the square to the rear of the courthouse, which faced south. It was 1:00 P.M. He had skipped lunch, as usual, and had no business across the street, but he did need some fresh air. He hadn't left the building all day, and although he had no desire to hear the details of the rape, he hated to miss the hearing. There had to be a crowd in the courtroom because there were no empty parking spaces around the square.
A handful of reporters and photographers waited anxiously near the rear of the courthouse by the wooden doors where Cobb and Willard would enter.
The jail was two blocks off the square on the south side, down the highway. Ozzie drove the car with Cobb and Willard in the back seat. With a squad car in front and one behind, the procession turned off Washington Street into the short driveway leading under the veranda of the courthouse.
Six deputies escorted the defendants past the reporters, through the doors, and up the back stairs to the small room just outside the courtroom. Jake grabbed his coat, ignored
Ethel, and raced across the street. He ran up the back stairs, through a small hall outside the jury room, and entered the courtroom from a side door just as Mr. Pate led His Honor to the bench.
"All rise for the court," Mr. Pate shouted. Everyone stood. Bullard stepped to the bench and sat down.
"Be seated," he yelled. "Where are the defendants? Where? Bring them in then."
Cobb and Willard were led, handcuffed, into the courtroom from the small holding room.
They were unshaven, wrinkled, dirty, and looked confused. Willard stared at the large group of blacks while Cobb turned his back. Looney removed the handcuffs and seated them next to Drew Jack Tyndale, the public defender, at the long table where the defense sat. Next to it was a long table where the county prosecutor, Rocky Childers, sat taking notes and looking important.
Willard glanced over his shoulder and again checked on the blacks. On the front row just behind him sat his mother and Cobb's mother, each with a deputy for protection. Willard felt safe with all the deputies. Cobb refused to turn around.
From the back row, eighty feet away, Carl Lee raised his head and looked at the backs of the two men who raped his daughter. They were mangy, bearded, dirty-looking strangers.
He covered his face and bent over. The deputies stood behind him, backs against the wall, watching every move. "Now listen," Bullard began loudly, "This is just a preliminary hearing, not a trial. The purpose of a preliminary hearing is to determine if there is enough evidence that a crime has been committed to bind these defendants over to the grand jury. The defendants can even waive this hearing if they want to."
Tyndale stood. "No sir, Your Honor, we wish to proceed with the hearing."
"Very well. I have copies of affidavits sworn to by Sheriff Walls charging both defendants with rape of a female under the age of twelve, kidnapping, and aggravated assault. Mr. Childers, you may call your first witness."
"Your Honor, the State calls Sheriff Ozzie Walls."
Jake sat in the jury box, along with several other attorneys, all of whom pretended to be busy reading important materials. Ozzie was sworn and sat in the witness chair to the left of Bullard, a few feet from the jury box.
"Would you state your name?"
"Sheriff Ozzie Walls."
"You're the sheriff of Ford County?"
"Yes."
"I know who he is," Bullard mumbled as he flipped through the file.
"Sheriff, yesterday afternoon, did your office receive a call about a missing child?"
"Yes, around four-thirty."
"What did your office do?"
"Deputy Willie Hastings was dispatched to the residence of Gwen and Carl Lee Hailey, the parents of the girl."
"Where was that?"
"Down on Craft Road, back behind Bates Grocery."
"What did he find?"
"He found the girl's mother, who made the call. Then drove around searchin' for the girl."
"Did he find her?"
"No. When he returned to the house, the girl was there. She'd been found by some folks fishin', and they took her home."
"What shape was the girl in?"
"She'd been raped and beaten."
"Was she conscious?"
"Yeah. She could talk, or mumble, a little."
"What did she say?"
Tyndale jumped to his feet. "Your Honor, please, I know hearsay is admissible in a hearing like this, but this is triple hearsay."
"Overruled. Shut up. Sit down. Continue, Mr. Childers."
"What did she say?"
"Told her momma it was two white men in a yellow pickup truck with a rebel flag in the window.
That's about all. She couldn't say much. Had both jaws broken and her face kicked in."
"What happened then?"
"The deputy called an ambulance and she was taken to the hospital."
"How is she?"
"They say she's critical."
"What happened then?"
"Based on what I knew at the time I had a suspect in mind."
"So what'd you do?"
"I located an informant, a reliable informant, and placed him in a beer joint down by the lake."
Childers was not one to dwell on details, especially in front of Bullard. Jake knew it, as did Tyndale. Bullard sent every case to the grand jury, so every preliminary was a formality.
Regardless of the case, the facts, the proof, regardless of anything, Bullard would bind the defendant over to the grand jury. If there was insufficient proof, let the grand jury turn them loose, not Bullard. He had to be reelected, the grand jury did not. Voters got upset when criminals were cut loose. Most defense lawyers in the county waived the preliminary hearings before Bullard. Not Jake. He viewed such hearings as the best and quickest way to look at the prosecution's case.
Tyndale seldom waived a preliminary hearing.
"Which beer joint?"
"Huey's."
"What'd he find out?"
"Said he heard Cobb and Willard, the two defendants over there, braggin' 'bout rapin' a little black girl." (
Cobb and Willard exchanged stares. Who was the informant? They remembered little from Huey's.
"What'd you find at Huey's?"
"We arrested Cobb and Willard, then we searched a pickup titled in the name of Billy Ray Cobb."
"What'd you find?"
"We towed it in and examined it this mornin'. Lot of blood stains."
"What else?"
"We found a small T-shirt covered with blood."
"Whose T-shirt?"
"It belonged to Tonya Hailey, the little girl who was raped. Her daddy, Carl Lee Hailey, identified it this •nin'."
Carl Lee heard his name and sat upright. Ozzie stared straight at him. Jake turned and saw Carl Lee for the first time.
"Describe the truck."
"New yellow Ford half-ton pickup. Big chrome wheels and mud tires. Rebel flag in the rear window."
"Owned by who?"
Ozzie pointed at the defendants. "Billy Ray Cobb."
"Does it match the description given by the girl?"
"Yes."
Childers paused and reviewed his notes. "Now, Sheriff, what other evidence do you have against these defendants?"
"We talked to Pete Willard this mornin' at the jail. He signed a confession."
"You did what!" Cobb blurted. Willard cowered and looked for help.
"Order! Order!" shouted Bullard as he banged his gavel. Tyndale separated his clients.
"Did you advise Mr. Willard of his rights?"
"Yes."
"Did he understand them?"
"Yes."
"Did he sign a statement to that effect?"
"Yes."
"Who was present when Mr. Willard made his statement?"
"Me, two deputies, my investigator, Rady, and Lieutenant Griffin with the Highway Patrol."
"Do you have the confession?"
"Yes."
"Please read it."
The courtroom was still and silent as Ozzie read the short statement. Carl Lee stared blankly at the two defendants. Cobb glared at Willard, who picked dirt off his boots.
"Thank you, Sheriff," Childers said when Ozzie finished. "Did Mr. Willard sign the confession?"
"Yes, in front of three witnesses."
"The State has nothing further, Your Honor."
Bullard shouted, "You may cross-examine, Mr. Tyndale."
"I have nothing at this time, Your Honor."
Good move, thought Jake. Strategically, for the de- listen, take notes, let the court reporter record the testimony, and stay quiet. The grand jury would see the case anyway, so why bother? And never allow the defendants to testify. Their testimony would serve no purpose and haunt them at trial. Jake knew they would not testify because he knew Tyndale.
"Call your next witness," demanded the Judge.
"We have nothing further, Your Honor."
"Good. Sit down. Mr. Tyndale, do you have any witnesses?"
"No, Your Honor."
"Good. The court finds there is sufficient evidence that numerous crimes have been committed by these defendants, and the court orders Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard to be held to await action by the Ford County grand jury, which is scheduled to meet on Monday, May 27. Any questions?"
Tyndale rose slowly. "Yes, Your Honor, we would request the court to set a reasonable bond for these de-"
"Forget it," snapped Bullard. "Bail will be denied as of now. It's my understanding that the girl is in critical condition. If she dies, there will of course be other charges."
"Well, Your Honor, in that case, I would like to request a bail hearing a few days from now, in the hopes that her condition improves."
Bullard studied Tyndale carefully. Good idea, he thought. "Granted. A bail hearing is set for next Monday, May 20, in this courtroom. Until then the defendants will remain in the custody of the Ford County sheriff. Court's adjourned."
Bullard rapped the gavel and disappeared. The deputies swarmed around the defendants, handcuffed them, and they too disappeared from the courtroom, into the holding room, down the back stairs, past the reporters, and into the squad car.
The hearing was typical for Bullard-less than twenty minutes. Justice could be very swift in his courtroom.
Jake talked to the other lawyers and watched the crowd file silently through the enormous wooden doors at the rear of the courtroom. Carl Lee was in no hurry to leave, and motioned for Jake to follow him. They met in the rotunda.
Carl Lee wanted to talk, and he excused himself from the crowd and promised to meet them at the hospital. He and Jake walked down the winding staircase to the first floor.
"I'm truly sorry, Carl Lee," Jake said.
"Yeah, me too."
"How is she?"
"She'll make it."
"How's Gwen?"
"Okay, I guess."
"How about you?"
They walked slowly down the hall toward the rear of the courthouse. "It ain't sunk in yet.
I mean, twenty-four hours ago everthing was fine. Now look at us. My little girl's layin' up in the hospital with tubes all over her body. My wife's, crazy and my boys are scared to death, and all I think about is gettin' my hands on those bastards."
"I wish I could do something, Carl Lee."
"All you can do is pray for her, pray for us."
"I know it hurts."
"You gotta little girl, don't you, Jake?"
"Yeah."
Carl Lee said nothing as they walked in silence. Jake changed the subject. "Where's Lester?"
"Chicago."
"What's he doing?"
"Workin' for a steel company. Good job. Got married."
"You're kidding? Lester, married?"
"Yeah, married a white girl."
"White girl! What's he want with a white girl?"
"Aw, you know Lester. Always an uppity nigger. He's on his way home now. Be in late tonight."
"What for?"
They stopped at the rear door. Jake asked again: "What's Lester coming in for?"
"Family business."
"Y'all planning something?"
"Nope. He just wants to see his niece."
"Y'all don't get excited."
"That's easy for you to say, Jake."
"I know."
"What would you plan, Jake?"
What do you mean?"
"You gotta little girl. Suppose she's layin up in the hospital, beat and raped. What would you do?"
Jake looked through the window of the door and could not answer. Carl Lee waited.
"Don't do anything stupid, Carl Lee."
"Answer my question. What would you do?"
"I don't know. I don't know what I'd do."
"Lemme ask you this. If it was your little girl, and if it was two niggers, and you could get your hands on them, what would you do?"
"Kill them."
Carl Lee smiled, then laughed. "Sure you would, Jake, sure you would. Then you'd hire some big- shot lawyer to say you's crazy, just like you did in Lester's trial."
"We didn't say Lester was crazy. We just said Bowie needed killing."
"You got him off, didn't you?"
"Sure."
Carl Lee walked to the stairs and looked up. "This how they get to the courtroom?" he asked without looking at Jake.
"Who?"
"Those boys."
"Yeah. Most of the time they take them up those stairs. It's quicker and safer. They can park right outside the door here, and run them up the stairs."
Carl Lee walked to the rear door and looked through the window at the veranda. "How many murder trials you had, Jake?"
"Three. Lester's and two more."
"How many were black?"
"All three."
"How many you win?"
"All three."
"You pretty good on nigger shootin's, ain't you?"
"I guess."
"You ready for another one?"
"Don't do it, Carl Lee. It's not worth it. What if you're convicted and get the gas chamber?
What about the kids? Who'll raise them? Those punks aren't worth it."
"You just told me you'd d o it."
Jake walked to the door next to Carl Lee. "It's different with me. I could probably get off."
"How?"
"I'm white, and this is a white county. With a little luck I could get an all-white jury, which will naturally be sympathetic. This is not New York or California. A man's supposed to protect his family. A jury would eat it up."
"And me?"
' "Like I said, this ain't New York or California. Some whites would admire you, but most would want to see you hang. It would be much harder to win an acquittal."
"But you could do it, couldn't you, Jake?"
"Don't do it, Carl Lee."
"I have no choice, Jake. I'll never sleep till those bastards are dead. I owe it to my little girl, I owe it to myself, and I owe it to my people. It'll be done."
They opened the doors, walked under the veranda and down the driveway to Washington
Street, across from Jake's office. They shook hands. Jake promised to stop by the hospital tomorrow to see Gwen and the family.
"One more thing, Jake. Will you meet me at the jail when they arrest me?"
Jake nodded before he thought. Carl Lee %miled and walked down the sidewalk to his truck.
Lester Hailey married a Swedish girl from Wisconsin, and although she still professed love for him, Lester suspected the novelty of his skin was beginning to fade. She was terrified of Mississippi, and flatly refused to travel south with Lester even though he assured her she would be safe. She had never met his family. Not that his people were anxious to meet her-they were not. It was not uncommon for Southern blacks to move north and marry white girls, but no Hailey had ever mixed.
There were many Haileys in Chicago; most were kin, and all married black. The family was not impressed with Lester's blonde wife. He drove to Clanton in his new Cadillac, by himself.
It was late Wednesday night when he arrived at the hospital and found some cousins reading magazines in the second-floor waiting room. He embraced Carl Lee. They had not seen each other since the Christmas holidays, when half the blacks in Chicago trooped home to Mississippi and Alabama.
They stepped-, into the hall, away from the relatives. "How is she?" Lester asked.
"Better. Much better. Might go home this weekend."
Lester was relieved. When he left Chicago eleven hours earlier she had been near death, according to the cousin who had called and scared him from bed. He lit a Kool under the
NO SMOKING sign and stared at his big brother. "You okay?"
Carl Lee nodded and glanced down the hall.
"How's Gwen?"
"Crazier than normal. She's at her momma's. You come by yourself?"
"Yeah," Lester answered defensively.
"Good."
"Don't get smart. I didn't drive all day to hear crap about my wife."
"Okay, okay. You still got gas?"
Lester smiled and chuckled. He had been plagued by stomach gas since the day he married the Swede. She pre- pared dishes he couldn't pronounce, and his system behaved violently. He longed for collards, peas, okra, fried chicken, barbecue pork, and fatback.
They found a small waiting room on the third floor with folding chairs and a card table.
Lester bought two cups of stale, thick coffee from a machine and stirred the powdered cream with his finger. He listened intently as Carl Lee detailed the rape, the arrests, and the hearing. Lester found some napkins and diagrammed the courthouse and the jail. It had been four years since his murder trial, and he had trouble with the drawings. He had spent only a week in jail, prior to posting bond, and had not visited the place since his acquittal. In fact, he had left for Chicago shortly after his trial. The victim had relatives.
They made plans and discarded them, plotting well past midnight.
At noon Thursday Tonya was removed from intensive care and placed in a private room.
She was listed as stable. The doctors relaxed, and her family brought candy, toys, and flowers. With two broken jaws and a mouthful of wire, she could only stare at the candy.
Her brothers ate most of it.
They clung to her bed and held her hand, as if to protect and reassure. The room stayed full o'f friends and strangers, all patting her gently and saying how sweet she was, all treating her as someone special, someone who had been through this horrible thing. The crowd moved in shifts, from the hall into her room, and back into the hall, where the nurses watched carefully.
The wounds hurt, and at times she cried. Every hour the nurses cleared a path through the visitors and found the patient for a dose of painkiller.
That night in her room, the crowd hushed as the Memphis station talked about the rape.
The television showed pictures of the two white men, but she couldn't see very well.
The Ford County Courthouse opened at 8:00 A.M. and closed at 5:00 P.M. every day except Friday, when it closed at four-thirty. At four-thirty on Friday Carl Lee was hiding in a moi-iiuui icsiroom wnen tney locked the courthouse. He sat on a toilet and listened quietly for an hour. No janitors. No one. Silence. He walked through the wide, semidark hall to the rear doors, and peeked through the window. No one in sight. He listened for a while. The courthouse was deserted. He turned and looked down the long hall, through the rotunda and through the front doors, two hundred feet away.
He studied the building. The two sets of rear doors opened to the inside into a large, rectangular entrance area. To the far right was a set of stairs, and to the left was an identical stairway. The open area narrowed and led into the hall. Carl Lee pretended to be on trial. He grabbed his hands behind him, and touched his back to the rear door. He walked to his right thirty feet to the stairs; up the stairs, ten steps, then a small landing, then a ninety-degree turn to the left, just like Lester said; then, ten more steps to the holding room. It was a small room, fifteen by fifteen, with nothing but a window and two doors. One door he opened, and walked into the huge courtroom in front of the rows of padded pews. He walked to the aisle and sat in the front row. Surveying the room, he noticed in front of him the railing, or bar, as Lester called it, which separated the general public from the area where the judge, jury, witnesses, lawyers, defendants, and clerks sat and worked.
He walked down the aisle to the rear doors and examined the courtroom in detail. It looked much different from Wednesday. Back down the aisle, he returned to the holding room and tried the other door, which led to the area behind the bar where the trial took place. He sat at the long table where Lester and Cobb and Willard had sat. To the right was another long table where the prosecutors sat.
Behind the tables was a row of wooden chairs, then the bar with swinging gates on both ends. The judge sat high and lordly behind the elevated bench, his back to the wall under the faded portrait of Jefferson Davis, frowning down on everyone in the room. The jury box was against the wall to Carl Lee's right, to the judge's left, under the yellow portraits of other forgotten Confederate heroes. The witness stand was next to the bench, but lower, of course, and in front of the jury. To Carl Lee's left, opposite the jury box, was a long, enclosed workbench covered with large red docket books.
Clerks and lawyers usually milled around behind it during a trial. Behind the workbench, through the wall, was the holding room.
Carl Lee stood, still as though handcuffed, and walked slowly through the small swinging gate in the bar, and was led through the first door into the holding room; then down the steps, ten of them, through the narrow, shadowy stairway; then he stopped. From the landing halfway down the steps, he could see the rear doors of the courthouse and most of the entrance area between the doors and the hall. At the foot of the stairs, to the right, was a door that he opened and found a crowded, junky janitor's closet. He closed the door and explored the small room. It turned and ran under the stairway. It was dark, dusty, crowded with brooms and buckets and seldom used. He opened the door slightly and looked up the stairs.
For another hour he roamed the courthouse. The other rear stairway led to another holding room just behind the jury box. One door went to the courtroom, the other to the jury room. The stairs continued to the third floor, where he found the county law library and two witness rooms, just as Lester said.
Up and down, up and down, he traced and retraced the movements to be made by the men who raped his daughter.
He sat in the judge's chair and surveyed his domain. He sat in the jury box and rocked in one of the comfortable chairs. He sat in the witness chair and blew into the microphone.
It was finally dark at seven when Carl Lee raised a window in the restroom next to the janitor's closet, and slid quietly through the bushes and into the darkness.
"Who would you report it to?" Carla asked as she closed the fourteen-inch pizza box and poured some more lemonade.
Jake rocked slightly in the wicker swing on the front porch and watched Hanna skip rope on the sidewalk next to the street.
"Are you there?" she asked.
"No."
"Who would you report it to?"
"I don't plan to report it," he said.
"I think you should."
"I think I shouldn't."
"Why not?"
His rocking gained speed and he sipped the lemonade. He spoke slowly. "First of all, I don't know for sure that a crime is being planned. He said some things any father would say, and I'm sure he's having thoughts any father would have. But as
far as actually planning a crime, I don't think so. Secondly, what he said to me was said in confidence, just as if he was a client. In fact, he probably thinks of me as his lawyer."
"But even if you're his lawyer, and you know he's planning a crime, you have to report it, don't you?"
"Yes. If I'm certain of his plans. But I'm not."
She was not satisfied. "I think you should report it."
Jake did not respond. It wouldn't matter. He ate his last bite of crust and tried to ignore her.
"You want Carl Lee to do it, don't you?"
"Do what?"
"Kill those boys."
"No, I don't." He was not convincing. "But if he did, I wouldn't blame him because I'd do the same thing."
"Don't start that again."
"I'm serious and you know it. I'd do it."
"Jake, you couldn't kill a man."
"Okay. Whatever. I'm not going to argue. We've been through it before."
Carla yelled at Hanna to move away from the street. She sat next to him in the swing and rattled her ice cubes. "Would you represent him?"
"I hope so."
"Would the jury convict him?"
"Would you?"
"I don't know."
"Well, think of Hanna. Just look at that sweet little innocent child out there skipping rope.
You're a mother. Now think of the little Hailey girl, lying there, beaten, bloody, begging
for her momma and daddy-"
"Shut up, Jake!"
He smiled. "Answer the question. You're on the jury. Would you vote to convict the father?"
She placed her glass on the windowsill and suddenly became interested in her cuticles.
Jake smelled victory.
"Come on. You're on the jury. Conviction or acquittal?"
"I'm always on the jury around here. Either that or I'm being cross-examined."
"Convict or acquit?"
She glared at him. "It would be hard to convict."
He grinned and rested his case.
"But I don't see how he could kill them if they're in jail."
"Easy. They're not always in jail. They go to court and they're transported to and from.
Remember Oswald and Jack Ruby. Plus, they get out if they can make bail."
"When can they do that?"
"Bonds will be set Monday. If they bond out, they're loose."
"And if they can't?"
"They remain in jail until trial."
"When is the trial?"
"Probably late summer."
"I think you should report it."
Jake bolted from the swing and went to play with Hanna.
K. T. Bruster, or Cat Bruster, as he was known, was, to his knowledge, the only one-eyed black millionaire in Memphis. He owned a string of black topless joints in town, all of which he operated legally. He owned blocks of rental property, which he operated legally, and he owned two churches in south Memphis, which were also operated legally.
He was a benefactor for numerous black causes, a friend of the politicians, and a hero to his people.
It was important for Cat to be popular in the community because he would be indicted again and tried again, and in all likelihood acquitted again by his peers, half of whom were black. The authorities had found it impossible to convict Cat of killing people and of selling such things as women, cocaine, stolen goods, credit cards, food stamps, un-taxed liquor, guns, and light artillery.
He had one eye with him. The other one was somewhere in a rice paddy in Vietnam. He lost it the same day in 1971 that his buddy Carl Lee Hailey was hit in the leg. Carl Lee carried him for two hours before they found help. After the war
he returned to Memphis and brought with him two pounds of hashish. The proceeds went to buy a small saloon on
South Main, and he almost starved before he won a whore in a poker game with a pimp.
He promised her she could quit whoring if she would take off her clothes and dance on his tables. Overnight he had more business than he could seat, so he bought another bar, and brought in more dancers. He found his niche in the market, and within two years he was a very wealthy man.
His office was above one of his clubs just off South Main between Vance and Beale, in the roughest part of Memphis. The sign above the sidewalk advertised Bud and breasts, but much more was for sale behind the black windows.
Carl Lee and Lester found the lounge-Brown Sugar- around noon, Saturday. They sat at the bar, ordered Bud, and watched the breasts.
"Is Cat in?" Carl Lee asked the bartender when he walked behind them. He grunted and returned to the sink, where he continued his beer mug washing. Carl Lee glanced at him between sips and dance routines.
"Another beer!" Lester said loudly without taking his eyes off the dancers.
"Cat Bruster here?" Carl Lee asked firmly when the bartender brought the beer.
"Who wants to know?"
"I do."
"So."
"So me and Cat are good friends. Fought together in 'Nam." "Name?"
"Hailey. Carl Lee Hailey. From Mississippi."
The bartender disappeared, and a minute later emerged from between two mirrors behind the liquor. He motioned for the Haileys, who followed him through a small door, past the restrooms and through a locked door up the stairs. The office was dark and gaudy. The carpet on the floor was gold, on the walls, red, on the ceiling, green. A green shag ceiling.
Thin steel bars covered the two blackened windows, and for good measure a set of heavy, dusty, burgundy drapes hung from ceiling to floor to catch and smother any sunlight robust enough to penetrate the painted glass. A small, ineffective chrome chandelier with mirror panes rotated slowly in the center of the room, barely above their heads.
Two mammoth bodyguards in matching three-piece black suits dismissed the bartender and seated Lester and Carl Lee, and stood behind them.
The brothers admired the furnishings. "Nice, ain't it?" Lester said. B.B. King mourned softly on a hidden stereo.
Suddenly, Cat entered from a hidden door behind the marble and glass desk. He lunged at
Carl Lee. "My man! My man! Carl Lee Hailey!" He shouted and grabbed Carl Lee. "So good to see you, Carl Lee! So good to see you!"
Carl Lee stood and they bearhugged. "How are you, my man!" Cat demanded.
"Doin' fine, Cat, just fine. And you?"
"Great! Great! Who's this?" He turned to Lester and threw a hand in his chest. Lester shook it violently.
iuia ucie s my orother, Lester," Carl Lee said. "He's from Chicago."
"Glad to know you, Lester. Me and the big man here are mighty tight. Mighty tight."
"He's told me all about you," Lester said. Cat admired Carl Lee. "My, my, Carl Lee. You lookin' good. How's the leg?"
"It's fine, Cat. Tightens up sometimes when it rains, but it's fine."
"We mighty tight, ain't we?"
Carl Lee nodded and smiled. Cat released him. "You fellas want a drink?"
"No thanks," said Carl Lee.
"I'll take a beer," said Lester. Cat snapped his fingers and a bodyguard disappeared. Carl
Lee fell into his chair and Cat sat on the edge of his desk, his feet dangling and swinging like a kid on a pier. He grinned at Carl Lee, who squirmed under all the admiration.
"Why don't you move to Memphis and go to work for me?" Cat said. Carl Lee knew it was coming. Cat had been offering him jobs for ten years.
"No thanks, Cat. I'm happy."
"And I'm happy for you. What's on your mind?"
Carl Lee opened his mouth, hesitated, crossed his legs and frowned. He nodded, and said,
"Need a favor, Cat. Just a small favor."
Cat spread his arms. "Anything, big man, anything you want."
"You remember them M-16's we used in 'Nam? I need one of them. As quick as possible."
Cat recoiled his arms and folded them across his chest. He studied his friend. "That's a bad gun.
What kinda squirrels you huntin' down there?"
"It ain't for squirrels."
Cat analyzed them both. He knew better than to ask why. It was serious, or Carl Lee wouldn't be there. "Semi?"
"Nope. The real thing."
"You talkin' some cash."
"How much?"
"It's illegal as hell, you know?"
"If I could buy it at Sears I wouldn't be here."
Cat grinned again. "When do you need it?"
"Today."
The beer arrived and was served to Lester. Cat moved behind his desk, to his orange
vinyl captain's chair. "Thousand bucks."
"I got it."
Cat was mildly surprised, but didn't show it. Where did this simple small-town
Mississippi nigger find a thousand dollars? Must have borrowed it from his brother.
"Thousand for anyone else, but not for you, big man."
"How much?"
"Nothin', Carl Lee, nothin'. I owe you somethin' worth much more than money."
"I'll be glad to pay for it."
"Nope. I won't hear it. The gun's yours."
"That's mighty kind, Cat."
"I'd give you fifty of them."
"Just need one. When can I get it?"
"Lemme check." Cat phoned someone and mumbled a few sentences into the receiver.
The orders given, he hung up and explained it would take about an hour.
"We can wait," Carl Lee said.
Cat removed the patch from his left eye and wiped the empty socket with a handkerchief.
"I gotta better idea." He snapped at the bodyguards. "Get my car. We'll drive over and pick it up."
They followed Cat through a secret door and down a hall. "I live here, you know." He pointed.
"Through that door is my pad. Usually keep some naked women around."
"I'd like to see it," Lester volunteered.
"That's okay," said Carl Lee.
Farther down the hall Cat pointed to a thick, black, shiny iron door at the end of a short hallway. He stopped as if to admire it. "That's where I keep my cash. Post a guard in there around the clock."
"How much?" Lester asked with a sip of beer.
Cat glared at him and continued down the hall. Carl Lee frowned at his brother and shook his head.
Where the hall ended they climbed a narrow stairway to the fourth floor. It was darker, and somewhere in the darkness Cat found a button on a wall. They waited silently for a few __""" u,.m me wait opened and revealed a bright elevator with red carpet and a NO SMOKING sign. Cat pushed another button.
"You gotta walk up to catch the elevator goin' down," he said with amusement. "Security reasons."
They nodded approval and admiration.
It opened in the basement. One of the bodyguards waited by the open door of a clean white stretch limo, and Cat invited his guests in for a ride. They moved slowly past a row of Fleetwoods, several more limos, a Rolls, and an assortment of European luxury cars.
"They're all mine," he said proudly.
The driver honked and a heavy door rolled up to reveal a one-way side street. "Drive slow," Cat yelled to the chauffeur and the bodyguard way up front. "I wanna show you fellas around some."
Carl Lee had received the tour a few years earlier during his last visit to Cat. There were rows of beaten and paintless shacks that the great man referred to as rental properties.
There were ancient red-bricked warehouses with blackened or boarded windows and no clue as to what was stored inside. There was a church, a prosperous church, and a few blocks away, another one. He owned the preachers too, he said. There were dozens of corner taverns with open doors and groups of young blacks sitting on benches outside drinking quart bottles of Stag beer. He pointed proudly to a burned-out building near
Beale and told with great zeal the story of a competitor who had attempted to gain a foothold in the topless business. He had no competitors, he said. And then there were the clubs, places with names like Angels and Cat's House and Black Paradise, places where a man could go for good drink, good food, good music, naked women, and possibly more, he said.
The clubs had made him a very rich man. Eight of them in all.
They were shown all eight. Plus what seemed like most of the real estate in south Memphis. At the dead end of a nameless street near the river, the driver turned
sharply between two of the red- bricked warehouses and drove through a narrow alley until a gate opened to the right. Past the gate a door opened next to a loading dock and the limo disappeared into the building. It stopped and the bodyguard got out.
"Keep your seats," Cat said.
The trunk opened, then shut. In less than a minute the limo was again cruising the streets of Memphis.
"How 'bout lunch?" Cat asked. Before they answered he yelled at the driver, "Black
Paradise. Call and tell them I'm comin' for lunch.
"Got the best prime rib in Memphis, right here in one of my clubs. Course you won't read about it in the Sunday paper. I've been shunned by the critics. Can you imagine?"
"Sounds like discrimination," Lester said.
"Yeah, I'm sure it is. But I don't use that until I'm indicted."
"We ain't read about you lately, Cat," Carl Lee said.
"It's been three years since my last trial. Tax evasion. Feds spent three weeks puttin' on proof, and the jury stayed out twenty-seven minutes and returned with the two most precious words in the Afro-English language-'Not guilty.' "
"I've heard them myself," Lester said.
A doorman waited under the canopy at the club, and a set of matching bodyguards, different bodyguards, escorted the great one and his guests to a private booth away from the dance floor. Drinks and food were served by a squad of waiters. Lester switched to
Scotch and was drunk when the prime rib arrived. Carl Lee drank iced tea and swapped war stories with Cat.
When the food was gone, a bodyguard approached and whispered to Cat. He grinned and looked at Carl Lee. "Y'all in the red Eldorado with Illinois plates?"
"Yeah. But we left it at the other place."
"It's parked outside ... in the trunk."
"What?" said Lester. "How-"
Cat roared and slapped him on the back. "Don't ask, my man, don't ask. It's all taken care of, my man. Cat can do anything."
As usual, Jake worked Saturday morning, after breakfast at the Coffee Shop. He enjoyed the tranquility of his office on Saturday-no phones, no Ethel. He locked the office, ig- uuicu me pnone, and avoided clients. He organized files, read recent decisions from the
Supreme Court and planned strategy if a trial was approaching. His best thoughts and ideas came during quiet Saturday mornings.
At eleven he phoned the jail. "Sheriff in?" he asked the dispatcher.
"Lemme check," came the reply.
Moments passed before the sheriff answered. "Sheriff Walls," he announced.
"Ozzie, Jake Brigance. How are you?"
"Fine, Jake. You?"
"Fine. Will you be there for a while?"
"Coupla hours. What's up?"
"Not much. Just need to talk for a minute. I'll be there in thirty minutes."
"I'll be waitin'."
Jake and the sheriff had a mutual like and respect for each other. Jake had roughed him up a few times during cross-examinations, but Ozzie considered it business and nothing personal. Jake campaigned for Ozzie, and Lucien financed the campaigns, so Ozzie didn't mind a few sarcastic and pointed questions during trial. He liked to watch Jake at trial.
And he liked to kid him about the game. In 1969, when Jake was a sophomore quarterback at Karaway, Ozzie was a senior all- conference, all-state tackle at Clanton.
The two rivals, both undefeated, met in the final game at Clanton for the conference championship. For four long quarters Ozzie terrorized the Karaway offense, which was much smaller and led by a gutsy but battered sophomore quarterback. Late in the fourth quarter, leading 44-0, Ozzie broke Jake's leg on a blitz.
For years now he had threatened to break the other one. He always accused Jake of limping and asked about the leg.
"What's on your mind, buddy?" Ozzie asked as they sat in his small office.
"Carl Lee. I'm a little worried about him."
"What way?"
"Look, Ozzie, whatever we say here is said in confidence. I don't want anyone to know about this conversation."
"You sound serious, Jake."
"I am serious. I talked to Carl Lee Wednesday after the hearing. He's out of his mind, and
I understand that. I would be too. He was talking about killing the boys, and he sounded serious. I just think you ought to know."
"They're safe, Jake. He couldn't get to them if he wanted to. We've had some phone calls, anonymous of course, with all kinds of threats. Black folks are bad upset. But the boys're safe. They're in a cell by themselves, and we're real careful."
"That's good. I haven't been hired by Carl Lee, but I've represented all the Haileys at one time or another and I'm sure he considers me to be his lawyer, for whatever reason. I feel a responsibility to let you know."
"I'm not worried, Jake."
"Good. Let me ask you something. I've got a daughter, and you've got a daughter, right?"
"Got two of them."
"What's Carl Lee thinking? I mean, as a black father?"
"Same thing you'd be thinkin'."
"And what's that?"
Ozzie reared back in his chair and crossed his arms. He thought for a moment. "He's wonderin' if she's okay, physically, I mean. Is she gonna live, and if she does, how bad is she hurt. Can she ever have kids? Then he's wonderin' if she's okay mentally and emotionally, and how will this affect her for the rest of her life. Thirdly, he wants to kill the bastards."
"Would you?"
"It's easy to say I would, but a man don't know what he'd do. I think my kids need me at home a whole lot more than Parchman needs me. What would you be thinkin', Jake?"
"About the same, I guess. I don't know what I'd do. Probably go crazy." He paused and stared at the desk. "But I might seriously plan to kill whoever did it. It'd be mighty hard to lie down at night knowing he was still alive."
"What would a jury do?"
"Depends on who's on the jury. You pick the right jury and you walk. If the D.A. picks the right jury you get the gas. It depends strictly on the jury, and in this county you can . me ngrit lolks. People are tired of raping and robbing and killing. I know white folks are."
"Everbody is."
"My point is that there'd be a lot of sympathy for a father who took matters into his own hands.
People don't trust our judicial system. I think I could at least hang a jury. Just convince one or two that the bastard needed to die."
"Like Monroe Bowie."
"Exactly. Just like Monroe Bowie. He was a sorry nigger who needed killing and Lester took a walk. By the way, Ozzie, why do you suppose Lester drove from Chicago?"
"He's pretty close to his brother. We're watchin' him too."
The conversation changed and Ozzie finally asked about the leg. They shook hands and
Jake left.
He drove straight home, where Carla was waiting with her list. She didn't mind the
Saturdays at the office as long as he was home by noon and pretty much followed orders thereafter.
On Sunday afternoon a crowd gathered at the hospital and followed the little Hailey girl's wheelchair as it was pushed by her father down the hall, through the doors, and into the parking lot, where he gently raised her and sat her in the front seat. As she sat between her parents, with her three brothers in the back seat, he drove away, followed by a procession of friends and relatives and strangers. The caravan moved slowly, deliberately out of town and into the country.
She sat up in the front seat like a big girl. Her father was silent, her mother tearful, and her brothers mute and rigid.
Another throng waited at the house and rushed to the porch as the cars moved up the driveway and parked on the grass on the long front yard. The crowd hushed as he carried her up the steps, through the door, and laid her on the couch. She was glad to be home, but tired of the spectators.
Her mother held her feet as cousins, uncles, aunts, neighbors, and everybody walked to her and touched her and smiled, some through tears, and said nothing. Her daddy went outside and talked to Uncle Lester and the men. Her brothers were in the kitchen with the crowd devouring the pile of food.
Rocky Childers had been the prosecuto r for Ford County for more years than he cared to remember. The job paid fifteen thousand a year and required most of his time. It also destroyed any practice he hoped to build. At forty-two he was washed up as a lawyer, stuck in a dead-end part- time, full-time job, elected permanently every four years.
Thankfully, he had a wife with a good job so they could drive new Buicks and afford the country club dues and in general put on the necessary airs of educated white people in
Ford County. At a younger age he had political ambitions, but the voters dissuaded him, and he was malcontent to exhaust his career prosecuting drunks, shoplifters, and juvenile delinquents, and being abused by Judge Bullard, whom he despised. Excitement crept up occasionally when people like Cobb and Willard screwed up, and Rocky, by statutory authority, handled the preliminary and other hearings before the cases were sent to the grand jury and then to Circuit Court, and then to the real prosecutor, the big prosecutor, the district attorney, Mr. Rufus Buckley, from Polk County. It was Buckley who had disposed of Rocky's political career.
Normally, a bail hearing was no big affair for Childers, but this was a bit different. Since
Wednesday he had received dozens of phone calls from blacks, all registered voters or claiming to be, who were very concerned about Cobb and Willard being released from jail. They wanted the boys locked up, just like the black ones who got in trouble and could not make bail before trial.
Childers promised his best, but explained the bonds would be set by County Judge Percy
Bullard, whose number was also in the phone book. On Ben-nington Street. They promised to be in court Monday to watch him and Bullard.
At twelve-thirty Monday, Childers was summoned to the judge's chambers, where the sheriff and Bullard were waiting. The judge was so nervous he could not sit.
"How much bond do you want?" he snapped at Childers.
"I dunno, Judge. I haven't thought much about it."
"Don't you think it's about time you thought about it?" He paced rapidly back and forth behind his desk, then to the window, then back to his desk. Ozzie was amused and silent.
"Not really," Childers answered softly. "It's your decision. You're the judge."
"Thanks! Thanks! Thanks! How much will you ask for?"
"I always ask for more than I expect," replied Childers coolly, thoroughly enjoying the judge's neurosis.
"How much is that?"
"I dunno. I hadn't thought much about it."
Dullard's neck turned dark red and he glared at Ozzie. "Whatta you think, Sheriff?"
"Well," Ozzie drawled, "I would suggest pretty stiff bonds. These boys need to be in jail for their own safety. Black folk are restless out there. They might get hurt if they bond out. Better go high."
"How much money they got?"
"Willard's broke. Can't tell about Cobb. Drug money's hard to trace. He might could find twenty, thirty thousand. I hear he's hired some big-shot Memphis lawyer. Supposed to be here today. He must have some money."
"Damn, why don't I know these things. Who'd he hire?"
"Bernard. Peter K. Bernard," answered Childers. "He called me this morning."
"Never heard of him," retorted Bullard with an air of superiority, as though he memorized some kind of judicial rap sheet on all lawyers.
Bullard studied the trees outside the window as the sheriff and prosecutor exchanged winks. The bonds would be exorbitant, as always. The bail bondsmen loved Bullard for his outrageous bonds. They watched with delight as desperate families scraped and mortgaged to collect the ten percent premiums they charged to write the bonds. Bullard would be high, and he didn't care. It was politically safe to set them high and keep the criminals in jail. The blacks would appreciate it and that was important even if the county was seventy-four percent white. He owed the blacks a few favors.
"Let's go a hundred thousand on Willard and two hundred on Cobb. That oughtta satisfy them."
"Satisfy who?" asked Ozzie.
"Er, uh, the people, the people out there. Sound okay to you?"
"Fine with me," said Childers. "But what about the hearing?" he asked with a grin.
"We'll give them a hearing, a fair hearing, then I'll set the bonds at a hundred and two hundred."
"And I suppose you want me to ask for three hundred apiece so you can look fair?" asked Childers.
"I don't care what you ask for!" yelled the judge.
"Sounds fair to me," said Ozzie as he headed for the door. "Will you call me to testify?" he asked Childers.
"Naw, we don't need you. I don't guess the State will call anybody since we're having such a fair hearing."
They left the chambers and Bullard stewed. He locked the door behind them and pulled a half pint of vodka from his briefcase, and gulped it furiously. Mr. Pate waited outside the door. Five minutes later Bullard barged into the packed courtroom.
"All rise for the court!" Mr. Pate shouted.
"Be seated!" screamed the judge before anyone could stand. "Where are the defendants?
Where?"
Cobb and Willard were escorted from the holding room and seated at the defense table.
Cobb's new lawyer smiled at his client as the handcuffs were removed. Willard's lawyer,
Tyndale, the public defender, ignored him.
The same crowd of blacks had returned from last Wednesday, and had brought some friends. They closely followed the movements of the two white boys. Lester saw them for the first time. Carl Lee was not in the courtroom.
From the bench Bullard counted deputies-nine in all. That had to be a record. Then he counted blacks-hundreds of them all bunched together, all glaring at the two rapists, who sat at the same table between their lawyers. The vodka felt good. He took a sip of what appeared to be ice water from a Styrofoam cup and managed a slight grin. It burned slowly downward and his cheeks flushed. What he ought to do was order the deputies out of the courtroom and throw Cobb and Willard to the niggers. That would be fun to watch, and justice would be served. He could just see the fat nigger women stomping up and down while their men carved on the boys with switchblades and machetes. Then, when they were finished, they would collect themselves and all march quietly from the courtroom. He smiled to himself.
He motioned for Mr. Pate, who approached the bench. "I've got a half pint of ice water in my desk drawer," he whispered. "Pour me some in a Styrofoam cup."
Mr. Pate nodded and disappeared.
"This is a bail hearing," he declared loudly, "and I don't intend for it to last long. Are the defendants ready?"
"Yes, sir," said Tyndale.
"Yes, Your Honor," said Mr. Bernard.
"The State ready?"
"Yes, sir," answered Childers without standing.
"Good. Call your first witness."
Childers addressed the judge. "Your Honor, the State will call no witnesses. His Honor is well aware of the charges against these two defendants, since His Honor held the preliminary hearing last Wednesday. It is my understanding the victim is now home, so we do not anticipate further charges. The grand jury will be asked next Monday to indict the two defendants for rape, kidnapping, and aggravated assault. Because of the violent nature of these crimes, because of the age of the victim, and because Mr. Cobb is a convicted felon, the State would ask for the maximum bonds, and not a penny less."
Bullard almost choked on his ice water. What maximum? There's no such thing as a maximum bond.
"What do you suggest, Mr. Childers?"
"Half a million apiece!" Childers announced proudly and sat down.
Half a million! Out of the question, thought Bullard. He sipped furiously and glared at the prosecutor. Half a million! Double-crossed in open court. He sent Mr. Pate after more ice water.
"The defense may proceed."
Cobb's new lawyer stood purposefully. He cleared his throat and removed his horn-rimmed, academic, go-to-hell reading glasses. "May it please the court, Your Honor, my name is Peter K. Bernard. 1 am irom jviempms, aim i uavt been retained by Mr. Cobb to represent him-"
"Do you have a license to practice in Mississippi?" interrupted Bullard.
Bernard was caught off-guard. "Well, uh, not exactly, Your Honor."
"I see. When you say 'not exactly,' do you mean something other than no?"
Several lawyers in the jury box snickered. Bullard was famous for this. He hated
Memphis lawyers, and required them to associate local counsel before appearing in his court. Years before when he was practicing, a Memphis judge had kicked him out of court because he was not licensed in Tennessee. He had enjoyed revenge since the day he was elected.
"Your Honor, I am not licensed in Mississippi, but I am licensed in Tennessee."
"I would hope so," came the retort from the bench. More suppressed laughter from the jury box.
"Are you familiar with our local rules here in Ford County?" His Honor asked.
"Er, uh, yes, sir."
"Do you have a copy of these rules?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you read them carefully before you ventured into my courtroom?"
"Uh, yes, sir, most of them."
"Did you understand Rule 14 when you read it?"
Cobb glanced up suspiciously at his new lawyer.
"Uh, I don't recall that one," Bernard admitted.
"I didn't think so. Rule 14 requires out-of-state unlicensed attorneys to associate local counsel when appearing in my courtroom."
"Yes, sir."
From his looks and mannerisms, Bernard was a polished attorney, at least he was known as such in Memphis. He was, however, in the process of being totally degraded and humbled before a small- town, redneck judge with a quick tongue.
"Yes, sir, what?" snapped Bullard.
"Yes, sir, I think I've heard of that rule."
"There is none, but I planned-"
"Then you drove down here from Memphis, carefully read my rules, and deliberately ignored them. Right?"
Bernard lowered his head and stared at a blank yellow legal pad on the table. Tyndale rose slowly. "Your Honor, for the record, I show myself as associated counsel for Mr.
Bernard for purposes of this hearing and for no other purpose."
Bullard smiled. Slick move, Tyndale, slick move. The ice water warmed him and he relaxed. "Very well. Call your first witness."
Bernard stood straight again. He cocked his head. "Your Honor, on behalf of Mr. Cobb, I would like to call his brother, Mr. Fred Cobb, to the stand."
"Make it brief," Bullard mumbled.
CobB's brother was sworn and seated in the witness chair. Bernard assumed the podium and began a long, detailed direct examination. He was well prepared. He elicited proof that Billy Ray Cobb was gainfully employed, owned real estate in Ford County, grew up there, had most of his family there, and friends, and had no reason to leave. A solid citizen with deep roots with much to lose if he fled. A man who could be trusted to show up for court. A man worthy of a low bond.
Bullard sipped, tapped his pen, and searched the black faces in the audience.
Childers had no questions. Bernard called Cobb's mother, Cora, who repeated what her son Fred said about her son Billy Ray. She managed a couple of tears at an awkward moment, and Bullard shook his head.
Tyndale was next. He went through the same motions with Willard's family. Half a million dollars bond! Anything less would be too little, and the blacks wouldn't like it.
The judge had new reason to hate Childers. But he liked the blacks because they elected him last time.
He received fifty-one percent of the vote countywide, but he got all the nigger vote.
"Anything else?" he asked when Tyndale finished.
The three lawyers looked blankly at each other, then at the judge. Bernard stood. "Your
Honor, I would like to summarize my client's position in regard to a reasonable bond-"
"Forget it, pal. I've heard enough from you and your client. Sit down."
Bullard hesitated, then rapidly announced: "Bond is hereby set at one hundred thousand for Pete Willard, and two hundred thousand for Billy Ray Cobb. Defendants will remain in the custody of the sheriff until they are able to make bail. Court's adjourned." He rapped the gavel and disappeared into his chambers, where he finished the half pint and opened another one.
Lester was pleased with the bonds. His had been fifty thousand for the murder of Monroe
Bowie. Of course, Bowie was black, and bonds were generally lower for those cases.
The crowd inched toward the rear door, but Lester did not move. He watched closely as the two white boys were handcuffed and taken through the door into the holding room.
When they were out of sight, he placed his head in his hands and said a short prayer.
Then he listened.
At least ten times a day Jake walked through the French doors and onto the balcony to inspect downtown Clanton. He sometimes puffed a cheap cigar and blew smoke over Washington Street.
Even in the summer he left the windows open in the big office. The sounds of the busy small town made good company as he worked quietly. At times he was amazed at the volume of noise generated on the streets around the courthouse, and at other times he walked to the balcony to see why things were so quiet.
Just before 2:00 P.M., Monday, May 20, he walked to the balcony and lit a cigar. A heavy silence engulfed downtown Clanton, Mississippi.
Cobb went first down the stairs, cautiously, with his hands cuffed behind him, then
Willard, then Deputy Looney. Ten steps down, then the landing, turn right, then ten steps to the first floor. Three other deputies waited outside by the patrol cars smoking cigarettes and watching reporters.
When Cobb reached the second step from the floor, and Willard was three steps behind, and Looney was one step off the landing, the small, dirty, neglected, unnoticed door to the janitor's closet burst open and Mr. Carl Lee Hailey sprung from the darkness with an M-16. At point-blank range he opened fire. The loud, rapid, clapping, popping gunfire shook the courthouse and exploded the silence. The rapists froze, then screamed as they were hit-Cobb first, in the stomach and chest, then Willard in the face, neck, and throat.
They twisted vainly up the stairs, handcuffed and helpless, stumbling over each other as their skin and blood splashed together.
Looney was hit in the leg but managed to scramble up the stairs into the holding room, where he crouched and listened as Cobb and Willard screamed and moaned and the crazy nigger laughed.
Bullets ricocheted between the walls of the narrow stairway, and Looney could see, looking down toward the landing, blood and flesh splashing on the walls and dripping down.
In short, sudden bursts of seven or eight rounds each, the enormous booming sound of the M-16 echoed through the courthouse for an eternity. Through the gunfire and the sounds of the bullets rattling around the walls of the stairway, the high-pitched, shrill, laughing voice of Carl Lee could be plainly heard.
When he stopped, he threw the rifle at the two corpses and ran. Into the restroom, he jammed the door with a chair, crawled out a window into the bushes, then onto the sidewalk. Nonchalantly, he walked to his pickup and drove home.
Lester froze when the shooting started. The gunfire was heard loudly in the courtroom.
Willard's mother screamed and Cobb's mother screamed, and the deputies raced into the holding room, but did not venture down the stairs. Lester listened intently for the sounds of handguns, and hearing none, he left the courtroom.
With the first shot, Bullard grabbed the half pint and crawled under his desk while Mr.
Pate locked the door.
Cobb, or what was left of him, came to rest on Willard. Their blood mixed and puddled on each step, then it overflowed and dripped to the next step, where it puddled before overflowing and dripping to the next. Soon the foot of the stairway was flooded with the mixture.
Jake sprinted across the street to the rear door of the courthouse. Deputy Prather crouched in front of the door, gun drawn, and cursed the reporters who pressed forward. The other deputies knelt fearfully on the doorsteps next to the patrol cars. Jake ran to the front of the courthouse, where more deputies were guarding the door and evacuating the county employees and courtroom spectators. A mass of bodies poured onto the front steps. Jake fought through the stampede and into the rotunda and found Ozzie directing people and yelling in all directions. He motioned for Jake, and they walked down the hall to the rear doors, where a half dozen deputies stood, guns in hand, gazing silently at the stairway.
Jake felt nauseated. Willard had almost made it to the landing. The front of his head was missing, and his brains rolled out like jelly covering his face. Cobb had been able to twist over and absorb the bullets with his back. His face was buried in Willard's stomach, and his feet touched the fourth step from the floor. The blood continued from the lifeless bodies, and it covered completely the bottom six steps. The crimson pool on the floor inched quickly toward the deputies, who slowly backed away. The weapon was between
Cobb's legs on the fifth step, and it too was covered with blood.
The group stood silently, mesmerized by the two bodies, which, though dead, continued to spew blood. The thick smell of gunfire hung over the stairway and drifted toward the hall into the rotunda, where the deputies continued to move people toward the front door.
"Jake, you'd better leave," Ozzie said without looking from the bodies.
"Why?"
"Just leave."
"Why?"
" 'Cause we gotta take pictures and collect evidence and stuff, and you don't need to be here." cui you aon t interrogate him out ot my presence. Understand?" Ozzie nodded.
The photographs were taken, the mess cleaned, the evidence gathered, the bodies removed, and two hours later Ozzie left town followed by five patrol cars. Hastings drove and led the convoy into the country, toward the lake, past Bates Grocery, onto Craft Road. The Hailey driveway was empty except for Owen's car, Carl Lee's pickup, and the red Cadillac from Illinois.
Ozzie expected no trouble as the patrol cars parked in a row across the front yard, and the deputies crouched behind the open doors, watching as the sheriff walked alone to the house. He stopped.
The front door opened slowly and the Hailey family emerged. Carl Lee walked to the edge of the porch with Tonya in his arms. He looked down at his friend the sheriff, and behind him at the row of cars and deputies. To his right was Gwen, and to his left were his three sons, the smallest one crying softly but the older ones brave and proud. Behind them stood Lester.
The two groups watched each other, each waiting for the other to say or do something, each wanting to avoid what was about to happen. The only sounds were the soft sniffles of the little girl, her mother, and the youngest boy.
The children had tried to understand. Their daddy had explained to them what he had just done, and why. They understood that, but they could not comprehend why he had to be arrested and taken to jail.
Ozzie kicked at a clod of dirt, occasionally glancing at the family, then at his men.
Finally, he said, "You better come with me."
Carl Lee nodded slightly, but did not move. Gwen and the boy cried louder as Lester took the girl from her daddy. Then Carl Lee knelt before the three boys and whispered to them again that he must leave but wouldn't be gone long. He hugged them, and they all cried and clutched him. He turned, an d kissed his wife, then walked down the steps to the sner-iff.
"You wanna handcuff me, Ozzie?"
"Naw, Carl Lee, just get in the car."
Moss Junior Tatum, the chief deputy, and Jake talked quietly in Ozzie's office while deputies, reserves, trusties, and other jailhouse regulars gathered in the large, cluttered workroom next to the office and waited anxiously for the arrival of the new prisoner.
Two of the deputies peered through the blinds at the reporters and cameramen waiting in the parking lot between the jail and the highway. The television vans were from
Memphis, Jackson, and Tupelo, and they were parked in various directions throughout the crowded lot. Moss did not like this, so he walked slowly down the sidewalk and ordered the press to regroup in a certain area, and to move the vans.
"Will you make a statement?" yelled a reporter.
"Yeah, move the vans."
"Can you say anything about the murders?"
"Yeah, two people got killed."
"How about the details?"
"Nope. I wasn't there."
"Do you have a suspect?"
"Yep."
"Who is it?"
"I'll tell you when the vans are moved."
The vans were immediately moved and the cameras and microphones were bunched together near the sidewalk. Moss pointed and directed until he was satisfied, then stepped to the crowd. He calmly chewed on a toothpick and stuck both thumbs in the front belt loops, just under the overlapping belly.
"Who did it?"
"Is he under arrest?"
"Was the girl's family involved?"
"Are both dead?"
Moss smiled and shook his head. "One at a time. Yes we have a suspect. He's under arrest and will be here in a minute. Keep the vans outta the way. That's all I have."
Moss walked back to the jail as they continued to can at mm. He ignored them and entered the crowded workroom.
"How's Looney?" he asked.
"Prather's with him at the hospital. He's fine-slight wound to the leg."
"Yeah, that and a slight heart attack," Moss said with a smile. The others laughed.
"Here they come!" a trusty shouted, and everyone inside moved to the windows as the line of blue lights rolled slowly into the parking lot. Ozzie drove the first car with Carl
Lee seated, unhandcuffed, in the front. Hastings reclined in the back and waved at the cameras as the car passed them and continued through the crowd, past the vans and around to the rear of the jail, where Ozzie parked and the three walked casually inside.
Carl Lee was given to the jailer, and Ozzie walked down the hall to his office where Jake was waiting.
"You can see him in a minute, Jake," he said.
"Thanks. You sure he did it?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"He didn't confess, did he?"
"No, he didn't say much of nothin'. I guess Lester coached him."
Moss walked in. "Ozzie, them reporters wanna talk to you. I said you'd be out in a minute."
"Thanks, Moss," Ozzie sighed.
"Anybody see it?" Jake asked.
Ozzie wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief. "Yeah, Looney can I.D. him. You know Murphy, the little crippled man who sweeps floors in the courthouse?"
"Sure. Stutters real bad."
"He saw the whole thing. He was sittin' on the east stairs, directly across from where it happened. Eatin' his lunch. Scared him so bad he couldn't talk for an hour." Ozzie paused and eyed Jake.
"Why am I tellin' you all this?"
"What difference does it make? I'll find out sooner or later. Where's my man?"
"Down the hall in the jail. They gotta take his picture and all that. Be 'bout thirty minutes."
Ozzie left and Jake used his phone to call Carla and remind her to watch the news and record it. \_/z.zav^ iciwu me iiiiu ujjuuiica aiiu utimuiiuv i am i an- swerin' no questions.
We have a suspect in custody. Name of Carl Lee Hailey from Ford County. Arrested for two counts of murder."
"Is he the girl's father?"
"Yes, he is."
"How do you know he did it?"
"We're very smart."
"Any eyewitnesses?"
"None that we know of."
"Has he confessed?"
"No."
"Where'd you find him?"
"At his house."
"Was a deputy shot?"
"Yes."
"How is he?"
"He's fine. He's in the hospital, but he's okay."
"What's his name?"
"Looney. DeWayne Looney."
"When's the preliminary hearing?"
"I'm not the judge."
"Any idea?"
"Maybe tomorrow, maybe Wednesday. No more questions, please. I have no further information to release at this time."
The jailer took Carl Lee's wallet, money, watch, keys, ring, and pocketknife and listed the items on an inventory form that Carl Lee signed and dated. In a small room next to the jailer's station, he was photographed and fingerprinted, just as Lester said. Ozzie waited outside the door and led him down the hall to a small room where the drunks were taken to blow into the Intoxilyzer. Jake sat at a small table next to the machine. Ozzie excused himself.
The lawyer and client sat across the table and analyzed each other carefully. They grinned admiringly but neither spoke. They had last talked five days before, on Wednesday after the preliminary hearing, the day after the rape.
Carl Lee was not as troubled now. His face was relaxed and his eyes were clear. Finally he said: "You didn't think I'd do it, Jake."
"Not really. You did do it?"
"You know I did."
Jake smiled, nodded, and crossed his arms. "How do you feel?"
Carl Lee relaxed and sat back in the folding chair. "Well, I feel better. I don't feel good 'bout the whole thing. I wish it didn't happen. But I wish my girl was okay too, you know.
I didn't have nothin' against them boys till they messed with her. Now they got what they started. I feel sorry for their mommas and daddies, if they got daddies, which I doubt."
"Are you scared?"
"Of what?"
"How about the gas chamber?"
"Naw, Jake, that's why I got you. I don't plan to go to no gas chamber. I saw you get
Lester off, now just get me off. You can do it, Jake."
"It's not quite that easy, Carl Lee."
"Say what?"
"You just don't shoot a person, or persons, in cold blood, and then tell the jury they needed killing, and expect to walk out of the courtroom."
"You did with Lester."
"But every case is different. And the big difference here is that you killed two white boys and Lester killed a nigger. Big difference."
"You scared, Jake?"
"Why should I be scared? I'm not facing the gas chamber."
"You don't sound too confident."
You big stupid idiot, thought Jake. How could he be confident at a time like this. The bodies were still warm. Sure, he was confident before the killings, but now it was different. His client was facing the gas for a crime which he admits he committed.
"Where'd you get the gun?"
"A friend in Memphis."
"Okay. Did Lester help?"
"Nope. He knew 'bout what Fs gonna do, and he wanted to help, but I wouldn't let him."
"How's Gwen?"
"She's pretty crazy right now, but tester's with her. She didn't know a thing about it."
"The kids?"
"You know how kids are. They don't want their daddy in jail. They upset, but they'll make it. Lester'll take care of them."
"Is he going back to Chicago?"
"Not for a while. Jake, when do we go to court?"
"The preliminary should be tomorrow or Wednesday, depends on Bullard."
"Is he the judge?"
"He will be for the preliminary hearing. But he won't hear the trial. That'll be in Circuit Court."
"Who's the judge there?"
"Omar Noose from Van Buren County; same judge who tried Lester."
"Good. He's okay, ain't he?"
"Yeah, he's a good judge."
"When will the trial be?"
"Late summer or early fall. Buckley will push for a quick trial."
"Who's Buckley?"
"Rufus Buckley. District attorney. Same D.A. who prosecuted Lester. You remember him. Big, loud guy-"
"Yeah, yeah, I remember. Big bad Rufus Buckley. I'd forgot all about him. He's pretty mean, ain't he?"
"He's good, very good. He's corrupt and ambitious, and he'll eat this up because of the publicity."
"You've beat him, ain't you?"
"Yeah, and he's beat me."
Jake opened his briefcase and removed a file. Inside was a contract for legal services, which he studied although he had it memorized. His fees were based on the ability to pay, and the blacks generally could pay little unless there was a close and generous relative in
St. Louis or Chicago with a good-paying job. Those were rare. In Lester's trial there had been a brother in California who worked for the post office but he'd been
unwilling or unable to help. There were some sisters scattered around but they had their own problems and had offered only moral support for Lester.
Gwen had a big family, and they stayed out of trouble, but they were not prosperous. Carl
Lee owned a few acres around his house and had mortgaged it to help Lester pay Jake before.
He had charged Lester five thousand for his murder trial; half was paid before trial and the rest in installments over three years.
Jake hated to discuss fees. It was the most difficult part of practicing law. Clients wanted to know up front, immediately, how much he would cost, and they all reacted differently.
Some were shocked, some just swallowed hard, a few had stormed out of his office.
Some negotiated, but most paid or promised to pay.
He studied the file and the contract and thought desperately of a fair fee. There were other lawyers out there who would take such a case for almost nothing. Nothing but publicity. He thought about the acreage, and the job at the paper mill, and the family, and finally said, "My fee is ten thousand."
Carl Lee was not moved. "You charged Lester five thousand."
Jake anticipated this. "You have three counts; Lester had one."
"How many times can I go to the gas chamber?"
"Good point. How much can you pay?"
"I can pay a thousand now," he said proudl y. "And I'll borrow as much as I can on my land and give it all to you."
Jake thought a minute. "I've got a better idea. Let's agree on a fee. You pay a thousand now and sign a note for the rest. Borrow on your land and pay against the note."
"How much you want?" asked Carl Lee.
"Ten thousand."
"I'll pay five."
"You can pay more than that."
"And you can do it for less than ten."
"Okay, I can do it for nine."
"Then I can pay six."
"Eight?"
"Seven."
"Can we agree on seventy-five hundred?"
"Yeah, I think I can pay that much. Depends on how much they'll loan me on my land.
You want me to pay a thousand now and sign a note for sixty- five hundred?"
"That's right."
"Okay, you got a deal."
Jake filled in the blanks in the contract and promissory note, and Carl Lee signed both.
"Jake, how much would you charge a man with plenty of money?"
"Fifty thousand."
"Fifty thousand! You serious?"
"Yep."
"Man, that's a lotta money. You ever get that much?"
"No, but I haven't seen too many people on trial for murder with that kind of money."
Carl Lee wanted to know about his bond, the grand jury, the trial, the witnesses, who would be on the jury, when could he get out of jail, could Jake speed up the trial, when could he tell his version, and a thousand other questions. Jake said they would have plenty of time to talk. He promised to call Gwen and his boss at the paper mill.
He left and Carl Lee was placed in his cell, the one next to the cell for state prisoners.
The Saab was blocked by a television van. Jake inquired as to who owned it. Most of the reporters had left but a few loitered about, expecting something. It was almost dark.
"Are you with the sheriffs department?" asked a reporter.
"No, I'm a lawyer," Jake answered nonchalantly, attempting to seem disinterested.
"Are you Mr. Hailey's attorney?"
Jake turned and stared at the reporter as the others listened. "Matter of fact, I am."
"Will you answer some questions?"
"You can ask some. I won't promise any answers."
"Will you step over here?"
Jake walked to the microphones and cameras and tried to act annoyed by the inconvenience. Ozzie and the deputies watched from inside. "Jake loves cameras," he said.
"All lawyers do," added Moss.
"What is your name, sir?"
"Jake Brigance,"
"You're Mr. Hailey's attorney."
"Correct," Jake answered coolly.
"Mr. Hailey is the father of the young girl raped by the two men who were killed today?"
"Correct."
"Who killed the two men?"
"I don't know."
"Was it Mr. Hailey?"
"I said I don't know."
"What's your client been charged with?"
"He's been arrested for the murders of Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard. He hasn't formally been charged with anything."
"Do you expect Mr. Hailey to be indicted for the two murders?"
"No comment."
"Why no comment?"
"Have you talked with Mr. Hailey?" asked another reporter.
"Yes, just a moment ago."
"How is he?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, uh, how is he?"
"You mean, how does he like jail?" Jake asked with a slight grin.
"Uh, yeah."
"No comment."
"When will he be in court?"
"Probably tomorrow or Wednesday."
"Will he plead guilty?"
Jake smiled and replied, "Of course not."
After a cold supper, they sat in the swing on the front porch and watched the lawn sprinkler and talked about the case. The killings were big news across the country, and
Carla recorded as many television reports as possible. Two of the networks covered the story live through their Memphis affiliates, and the Memphis, Jackson, and Tupelo stations re- U4UYWU ivyvyvti&w v/A V-AJUru/ O.JL1U YVllldlU l/Vlllg ll/Ll 111LU
LJ.1G ^JUl l~ house surrounded by deputies, and seconds later, being carried from the courthouse under white sheets. One of the stations played the actual audio of the gunfire over film of the deputies scrambling for cover.
Jake's interview was too late for the evening news, so he and Carla waited, with the recorder, for the ten o'clock, and there he was, briefcase in hand, looking trim, fit, handsome, and arrogant, and very disgusted with the reporters for the inconvenience.
Jake thought he looked great on TV, and he was excited to be there. There had been one other brief appearance, after Lester's acquittal, and the regulars at the Coffee Shop had kidded him for months.
He felt good. He relished the publicity and anticipated much more. He could not think of another case, another set of facts, another setting which could generate as much publicity as the trial of Carl Lee Hailey. And the acquittal of Carl Lee Hailey, for the murder of the two white men who raped his daughter, before an all-white jury in rural Mississippi^
"What're you smiling about?" Carla interrupted.
"Nothing."
"Sure. You're thinking about the trial, and the cameras, the reporters, the acquittal, and walking out of the courthouse, arm around Carl Lee, reporters chasing you with the cameras rolling, people slapping you on the back, congratulations everywhere. I know exactly what you're thinking about."
"Then why'd you ask?"
"To see if you'd admit it."
"Okay, I admit it. This case could make me famous and make us a million bucks, in the long run."
"If you win."
"Yes, if I win."
"And if you lose?"
"I'll win."
"But if you don't?"
"Think positive."
The phone rang and Jake spent ten minutes with the editor, owner, and only reporter of
The Clanton Chronicle. It rang again, and Jake talked with a reporter with the Memphis morning paper. He hung up and called Lester ana Gwen, then the foreman at the paper mill.
At eleven-fifteen it rang again, and Jake received his first death threat, anonymous of course. He was called a nigger-loving son of a bitch, one who would not live if the nigger walked.
Dell Perkins served more coffee and grits than usual Tuesday morning after the killings.
All the regulars and some extras had gathered early to read the papers and talk about the killings, which had taken place less than three hundred feet from the front door of the
Coffee Shop. Claude's and the Tea Shoppe were also crowded earlier than usual. Jake's picture made the front page of the Tupelo paper, and the Memphis and Jackson papers had front-page photos of Cobb and Willard, both before the shootings and afterward as the bodies were loaded into the ambulance. There were no pictures of Carl Lee. All three papers ran detailed accounts of the past six days in Clanton.
It was widely accepted around town that Carl Lee had done the killing, but rumors of additional gunmen surfaced and flourished until one table at the Tea Shoppe had a whole band of wild niggers in on the attack. However, the deputies in the Coffee Shop, though not talkative, throttled the gossip and kept it pretty much under control. Deputy Looney was a regular, and there was concern for his wounds, which appeared to be more serious than originally reported. He remained in the hospital, and he had identified the gunman as
Lester Hailey's brother.
Jake entered at six and sat near the front with some farmers. He nodded at Prather and the other deputy, but they pretended not to see him. They'll be okay once Looney is released, he thought.
There were some remarks about the front-page picture, but no one questioned Jake about his new client or the killings. He detected a certain coolness among some of the regulars.
He ate quickly and left.
At nine Ethel called Jake. Bullard was holding.
"Hello, Judge. How are you?"
"Terrible. You represent Carl Lee Hailey?"
"Yes, sir."
"When do you want the preliminary?"
"Why are you asking me, Judge?"
"Good question. Look, the funerals are tomorrow morning sometime, and I think it would be best to wait till they bury those bastards, don't you?"
"Yeah, Judge, good idea."
"How 'bout tomorrow afternoon at two?"
"Fine."
Bullard hesitated. "Jake, would you consider waiving the preliminary and letting me send the case straight to the grand jury?"
"Judge, I never waive a preliminary, you know that."
"Yeah, I know. Just thought I'd ask a favor. I won't hear this trial, and I have no desire to get near it. See you tomorrow."
An hour later Ethel squawked through the intercom again: "Mr. Brigance, there are some reporters here to see you."
Jake was ecstatic. "From where?"
"Memphis and Jackson, I believe."
"Seat them in the conference room. I'll be down in a minute."
He straightened his tie and brushed his hair, and checked the street below for television vans. He decided to make them wait, and after a couple of meaningless phone calls he walked down the stairs, ignored Ethel, and entered the conference room. They asked him to sit at one end of the long table, because of the lighting. He declined, told himself he would control things, and sat at one side with his back to the rows of thick, expensive law books.
The microphones were placed before him and the camera lights adjusted, and finally an attractive lady from Memphis with streaks of bright orange across her forehead and under her eyes cleared her throat and asserted herself. "Mr. Brigance, you represent Carl Lee
Hailey?"
"Yes, I do."
"And he's been charged with the murders of Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?"
"That's correct."
"And Cobb and Willard were charged with raping Mr. Hailey's daughter?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Does Mr. Hailey deny killing Cobb and Willard?"
"He will plead not guilty to the charges."
"Will he be charged for the shooting of the deputy, Mr. Looney?"
"Yes. We anticipate a third charge of aggravated assault against the officer."
"Do you anticipate a defense of insanity?"
"I'm not willing to discuss the defense at this time because he has not been indicted."
"Are you saying there's a chance he may not be indicted?"
A fat pitch, one Jake was hoping for. The grand jury would either indict him or not, and the grand jurors would not be selected until Circuit Court convened on Monday, May 27.
So the future members of the grand jury were walking the streets of Clanton, tending their shops, working in the factories, cleaning house, reading newspapers, watching TV, and discussing whether or not he should be indicted.
"Yes, I think there's a chance he may not be indicted. It's up to the grand jury, or will be after the preliminary hearing."
"When's the preliminary hearing?"
"Tomorrow. Two P.M."
"You're assuming Judge Bullard will bind him over to the grand jury?"
"That's a pretty safe assumption," replied Jake, knowing Bullard would be thrilled with the answer.
"When will the grand jury meet?"
"A new grand jury will be sworn in Monday morning. It could look at the case by
Monday afternoon."
"When do you anticipate a trial?"
"Assuming he's indicted, the case could be tried in late summer or early fall."
"Which court?"
"Circuit Court of Ford County."
"Who would be the judge?"
"Honorable Omar Noose."
"Where's he from?"
"Chester, Mississippi. Van Buren County."
"You mean the case will be tried here in Clanton?"
"Yes, unless venue is changed."
"Will you request a change of venue?"
"Very good question, and one I'm not prepared to answer at this time. It's a bit premature to talk defense strategy."
"Why would you want a change of venue?"
To find a blacker county, Jake thought. He answered thoughtfully, "The usual reasons.
Pretrial publicity, etc."
"Who makes the decision to change venue?"
"Judge Noose. The decision is within his sole discretion."
"Has bond been set?"
"No, and it probably won't be until after the indictments come down. He's entitled to a reasonable bond now, but as a matter of practice in this county bonds are not set in capital murder cases until after the indictment and arraignment in Circuit Court. At that point the bond will be set by Judge Noose."
"What can you tell us about Mr. Hailey?"
Jake relaxed and reflected a minute while the cameras continued. Another fat pitch, with a golden chance to plant some seeds. "He's thirty-seven years old. Married to the same woman for twenty years. Four kids-three boys and a girl. Nice guy with a clean record.
Never been in trouble before. Decorated in Vietnam. Works fifty hours a week at the paper mill in Coleman. Pays his bills and owns a little land, does to church every Sunday with his family. Minds his own business and expects to be left alone."
"Will you allow us to talk to him?"
"Of course not."
"Wasn't his brother tried for murder several years ago?"
"He was, and he was acquitted."
"You were his attorney?"
"Yes, I was."
"You've handled several murder trials in Ford County, haven't you?"
"Three."
"How many acquittals?"
"All of them," he answered slowly.
"Doesn't the jury have several options in Mississippi?" asked the lady from Memphis.
"That's right. With a capital murder indictment, the jury at trial can find the defendant guilty of manslaughter, which carries twenty years, or capital murder, which carries life or death as determined by the jury. And the jury can find the defendant not guilty." Jake smiled at the cameras. "Again, you're assuming he'll be indicted."
"How's the Hailey girl?"
"She's at home. Went home Sunday. She's expected to be fine."
The reporters looked at each other and searched for other questions. Jake knew this was the dangerous part, when they ran out of things to ask and began serving up screwball questions.
He stood and buttoned his coat. "Look, I appreciate you folks stopping by. I'm usually available, just give a little more notice, and I'll be glad to talk to you anytime."
They thanked him and left.
At ten Wednesday morning, in a no-frills double service at the funeral home, the rednecks buried their dead. The minister, a freshly ordained Pentecostal, struggled desperately for comforting and reassuring thoughts to lay upon the small crowd and over the two closed caskets. The service was brief with few tears.
The pickups and dirty Chevrolets moved slowly behind the single hearse as the procession left town and crawled into the country. They parked behind a small red brick church. The bodies were laid to rest one at a time at opposite ends of the tiny, overgrown cemetery. After a few additional words of inspiration, the crowd dispersed.
Cobb's parents had divorced when he was small, and his father drove from Birmingham for the funeral. After the burial he disappeared. Mrs. Cobb lived in a small, clean white frame house near the settlement of Lake Village, ten miles south of Clanton. Her other two sons and their cousins and friends gathered under an oak tree in the backyard while the women made a fuss over Mrs. Cobb.
The men talked about niggers in general, and chewed Red Man and sipped whiskey, and reminisced about the other days when niggers knew their place. Now they were just pampered and protected by the government and courts. And there was nothing white people could do. One cousin knew a friend or someone who used to be active in the Klan, and he might give him a call. Cobb's grandfather had been in the Klan long before his death, the cousin explained, and when he and Billy Ray were kids the old man would tell stories about hanging niggers in Ford and Tyler counties. What they should do was the same thing the nigger had done, but there were no volunteers. Maybe the Klan would be interested. There was a chapter farther down south near Jackson, near Nettles County, and the cousin was authorized to contact them.
The women prepared lunch. The men ate quietly, then returned to the whiskey under the shade tree.
The nigger's hearing at 2:00 P.M. was mentioned, and they loaded up and drove to Clanton.
There was a Clanton before the killings, and there was a Clanton after the killings, and it would be months before the two resembled each other. One tragic, bloody event, the duration of which was less than fifteen seconds, transformed the quiet Southern town of eight thousand into a mecca for journalists, reporters, camera crews, photographers, some from neighboring towns, others from the national news organizations. Cameramen and
TV reporters bumped into one another on the sidewalks around the square as they asked the man in the street for the hundredth time how he or she felt about the Hailey event and how he or she would vote if he or she was on the jury. There was no clear verdict from the man on the street. Television vans followed small, marked, imported television cars around the square and down the streets chasing leads, stories, and interviews. Ozzie was a favorite at first. He was interviewed a half dozen times the day after the shooting, then found other business and delegated the interviewing to Moss Junior, who enjoyed bantering with the press. He could answer twenty questions and not divulge one new detail. He also lied a lot, and the ignorant foreigners could not tell his lies from his truth.
"Sir, is there any evidence of additional gunmen?"
"Yes."
"Really! Who?"
"We have evidence that the shootin's were authorized and financed by an offshoot of the
Black Panthers," Moss Junior replied with a straight face.
Half the reporters would either stutter or stare blankly while the other half repeated what he said and scribbled furiously.
Bullard refused to leave his office or take calls. He called Jake again and begged him to waive the preliminary. Jake refused. Reporters waited in the lobby of Bullard's office on the first floor of the courthouse, but he was safe with his vodka behind the locked door.
There was a request to film the funeral. The Cobb boys said yes, for a fee, but Mrs.
Willard vetoed the proposal. The reporters waited outside the funeral home and filmed what they could. Then they followed the procession to the grave sites, and filmed the burials, and followed the mourners to Mrs. Cobb's, where Freddie, the oldest, cursed them and made them leave.
The Coffee Shop on Wednesday was silent. The regulars, including Jake, eyed the strangers who had invaded their sanctuary. Most of them had beards, spoke with unusual accents, and did not order grits.
"Aren't you Mr. Hailey's attorney?" shouted one from across the room. Jake worked on his toast and said nothing.
"Aren't you? Sir?"
"What if I am?" shot Jake.
"Will he plead guilty?"
"I'm eating breakfast."
"Will he?"
"No comment."
"Why no comment?"
"No comment."
"But why?"
"I don't comment during breakfast. No comment."
"May I talk to you later?"
"Yeah, make an appointment. I talk at sixty bucks an hour."
The regulars hooted, but the strangers were undaunted.
Jake consented to an interview, without charge, with a Memphis paper Wednesday, then barricaded himself in the war room and prepared for the preliminary hearing. At noon he visited his famous client at the jail.
Carl Lee was rested and relaxed. From his cell he could see the coming and going of the reporters in the parking lot.
"How's jail?" Jake asked.
"Not that bad. Food's good. I eat with Ozzie in his office."
"You what!"
"Yep. Play cards too."
"You're kidding, Carl Lee."
"Nope. Watch TV too. Saw you on the news last night. You looked real good. I'm gonna make you famous, Jake, ain't I?"
Jake said nothing.
"When do I get on TV? I mean, I did the killin' and you and Ozzie gettin' famous for it."
The client was grinning- the lawyer was not.
"Today, 4n about an hour."
"Yeah, I heard we's goin' to court. What for?"
"Preliminary hearing. It's no big deal, at least it's not supposed to be. This one will be different because of the cameras."
"What do I say?"
"Nothing! You don't say a word to anyone. Not to the judge, the prosecutor, the reporters, anyone. We just listen. We listen to the prosecutor and see what kind of case he's got.
They're supposed to have an eyewitness, and he might testify. Ozzie will testify and tell the judge about the gun, the fingerprints, and Looney-"
"How's Looney?"
"Don't know. Worse than they thought."
"Man, I feel bad 'bout shootin' Looney. I didn't even see the man."
"Well, they're going to charge you with aggravated assault for shooting Looney. Anyway, the preliminary is just a formality. Its purpose is to allow the judge to determine if there's enough evidence to bind you over to the grand jury. Bullard always does that, so it's just a formality."
"Then why do it?"
"We could waive it," replied Jake, thinking of all the cameras he would miss. "But I don't like to. It's a good chance to see what kind of case the State has."
"Well, Jake, I'd say they gotta pretty good case, wouldn't you?"
"I would think so. But let's just listen. That's the strategy of a preliminary hearing. Okay?"
"Sounds good to me. You talked to Gwen or Lester today?"
"No, I called them Monday night."
"They were here yesterday in Ozzie's office. Said they'd be in court today."
"I think everyone will be in court today."
Jake left. In the parking lot he brushed by some of the reporters who were awaiting Carl
Lee's departure from jail. He had no comments for them and no comments for the reporters waiting outside his office. He was too busy at the moment for questions, but he was very aware of the cameras. At one-thirty he went to the courthouse and hid in the law library on the third floor.
Ozzie and Moss Junior and the deputies watched the parking lot and quietly cursed the mob of reporters and cameramen. It was one forty-five, time to transport the prisoner to court.
"Kinda reminds me of a buncha vultures waitin' for a dead dog beside the highway,"
Moss Junior observed as he gazed through the blinds.
"Rudest buncha folks I ever saw," added Prather. "Won't take no for an answer. They expect the whole town to cater to them."
"And that's only half of them-other half s waitin' at the courthouse."
Ozzie hadn't said much. One newspaper had criticized him for the shooting, implying the security around the courthouse was intentionally relaxed. He was tired of the press.
Twice Wednesday he had ordered reporters out of the jail.
"I got an idea," he said.
"What?" asked Moss Junior.
"Is Curtis Todd still in jail?"
"Yep. Gets out next week."
"He sorta favors Carl Lee, don't he?"
"Whatta you mean?"
"Well, I mean, he's 'bout as black as Carl Lee, roughly the same height and weight, ain't he?"
"Yeah, well, so what?" asked Prather.
Moss Junior grinned and looked at Ozzie, whose eyes never left the window. "Ozzie, you wouldn't."
"What?" asked Prather.
"Let's go. Get Carl Lee and Curtis Todd," Ozzie ordered. "Drive my car around back.
Bring Todd here for some instructions."
Ten minutes later the front door of the jail opened and a squad of deputies escorted the prisoner down the sidewalk. Two deputies walked in front, two behind, and one on each side of the man with the thick sunglasses and handcuffs, which were not fastened. As they approached the reporters, the cameras clicked and rolled. The questions flew:
"Sir, will you plead guilty?"
"Sir, will you plead not guilty?"
"Sir, how will you plead?"
"Mr. Hailey, will you plead insanity?"
The prisoner smiled and continued the slow walk to the waiting patrol cars. The deputies smiled grimly and ignored the mob. The photographers scrambled about trying to get the perfect shot of the most famous vigilante in the country.
Suddenly, with the nation watching, with deputies all around him, with dozens of reporters recording his every move, the prisoner broke and ran. He jolted, jumped, twisted, and squirmed, running wildly across the parking lot, over a ditch, across the highway, into some trees and out of sight. The reporters shouted and broke ranks and several even chased him for a moment. Curiously, the deputies ran back to the jail and slammed the door, leaving the vultures roaming in circles of disarray. In the woods, the prisoner removed the handcuffs and walked home. Curtis Todd had just been paroled one week early.
Ozzie, Moss Junior, and Carl Lee quickly left through the rear of the jail and drove down a back street to the courthouse, where more deputies waited to escort him into the courthouse.
"How many niggers out there?" Bullard screamed at Mr. Pate.
"A ton."
"Wonderful! A ton of niggers. I guess there's a ton of rednecks too?"
"Quite a few."
"Is the courtroom full?"
"Packed."
"My God-it's only a preliminary!" Bullard screamed. He finished a half pint of vodka as
Mr. Pate handed him another one.
"Take it easy, Judge."
"Brigance. It's all his fault. He could waive this if he wanted to. I asked him to. Asked him twice. He knows I'll send it to the grand jury. He knows that. All lawyers know that.
But now I gotta make all the niggers mad because I won't turn him loose, and I'll make all the rednecks mad because I won't execute him today in the courtroom. I'll get Brigance for this. He's playing for the cameras. I have to get reelected, but he doesn't, does he?"
"No, Judge."
"How many officers out there?"
"Plenty. Sheriffs called in the reserves. You're safe."
"How about the press?"
"They're lined up on the front rows."
"No cameras!"
"No cameras."
"Is Hailey here?"
"Yes, sir. He's in the courtroom with Brigance. Ever-body's ready, just waitin' on you."
His Honor filled a Styrofoam cup with straight vodka. "Okay, let's go."
Just like in the old days before the sixties, the courtroom was neatly segregated with the blacks and whites separated by the center aisle. The officers stood solemnly in the aisle and around the walls of the courtroom. Of particular concern was an assemblage of slightly intoxicated whites sitting together in two rows near the front. A couple were recognized as brothers or cousins of the late Billy Ray Cobb.
They were watched closely. The two front rows, the one on the right in front of the blacks and the one on the left in front of the whites, were occupied by two dozen journalists of various sorts. Some took notes while some sketched the defendant, his lawyer, and now finally, the judge.
"They gonna make this nigger a hero," mumbled one of the rednecks, loud enough for the reporters. When Bullard assumed the bench, the deputies locked the rear door.
"Call your first witness," he ordered in the direction of Rocky Childers.
"The State calls Sheriff Ozzie Walls."
The sheriff was sworn and took the stand. He relaxed and began a long narrative describing the scene of the shooting, the bodies, the wounds, the gun, the fingerprints on the gun and the fingerprints of the defendant. Childers produced an affidavit signed by
Officer Looney and witnessed by the sheriff and Moss Junior. It identified the gunman as
Carl Lee. Ozzie verified Looney's signature and read the affidavit into the record.
"Sheriff, do you know of any other eyewitness?" asked Childers with no enthusiasm.
"Yes, Murphy, the janitor."
"What's his first name?"
"Nobody knows. He's just Murphy."
"Okay. Have you talked to him?"
"No, but my investigator did."
"Who is your investigator?"
"Officer Rady."
Rady was sworn and seated in the witness chair. Mr. Pate fetched the judge another cup of ice water from chambers. Jake took pages of notes. He would call no witnesses, and he chose not to cross-examine the sheriff. Occasionally, the State's witnesses would get their lies confused in a preliminary, and Jake would ask a few questions on cross-examination to nail down, for the record, the discrepancies. Later at trial when the lying started again,
Jake would produce the testimony from the preliminary to further confuse the liars. But not today.
"Sir, have you had an occasion to talk with Murphy?" Childers asked.
"Murphy who?"
"I don't know-just Murphy, the janitor."
"Oh him. Yes, sir."
"Good. What did he say?"
"About what?"
Childers hung his head. Rady was new, and had not testified much. Ozzie thought this would be good practice.
"About the shooting! Tell us what he told you about the shooting."
Jake stood. "Your Honor. I object. I know hearsay is admissible in a preliminary, but this
Murphy fella is available. He works here in the courthouse. Why not let him testify?"
"Because he stutters," replied Bullard.
"What!"
"He stutters. And I don't want to hear him stutter for the next thirty minutes. Objection overruled. Continue, Mr. Childers."
Jake sat in disbelief. Bullard snickered at Mr. Pate, who left for more ice water.
"Now, Mr. Rady, what did Murphy tell you about the shooting?"
"Well, he's hard to understand because he was so excited, and when he gets excited he stutters real bad. I mean he stutters anyway, but-"
"Just tell us what he said!" Bullard shouted.
"Okay. He said he saw a male black shoot the two white boys and the deputy."
"Thank you," said Childers. "Now where was he when this took place?"
"Who?"
"Murphy!"
"He was sittin' on the stairs directly opposite the stairs where they got shot."
"And he saw it all?"
"Said he did."
"Has he identified the gunman?"
"Yes, we showed him photos of ten male blacks, and he identified the defendant, sittin' over there."
" Good. Thank you. Your Honor, we have nothing further."
"Any questions, Mr. Brigance?" asked the judge.
"No, sir," Jake said as he stood.
"Any witnesses?"
"No, sir."
"Any requests, motions, anything?"
"No, sir."
Jake knew better than to request bail. First, it would do no good. Bullard would not set bail for capital murder. Second, it would make the judge look bad.
"Thank you, Mr. Brigance. The court finds sufficient evidence exists to hold this defendant for action by the Ford County grand jury. Mr. Hailey shall remain in the custody of the sheriff, without bond. Court's adjourned."
Carl Lee was quickly handcuffed and escorted from the courtroom. The area around the rear door downstairs was sealed and guarded. The cameras outside caught a glimpse of the defendant between the door and the waiting patrol car. He was in jail before the spectators cleared the courtroom.
The deputies directed the whites on one side to leave first, followed by the blacks.
The reporters requested some of Jake's time, and they were instructed to meet him in the rotunda in a few minutes. He made them wait by first going to chambers and giving his regards to the judge.
Then he walked to the third floor to check on a book. When the courtroom was empty and they had waited long enough, he walked through the rear door, into the rotunda and faced the cameras.
A microphone with red letters on it was thrust into his face. "Why didn't you request bond?" a reporter demanded.
"That comes later."
"Will Mr. Hailey plead an insanity defense?"
"As I've stated, it's too early to answer that question. We must now wait for the grand jury-he may not be indicted. If he is, we'll start planning his defense."
"Mr. Buckley, the D.A., has stated he expects easy convictions. Any comment?"
"I'm afraid Mr. Buckley often speaks when he shouldn't. It's asinine for him to make any comment on this case until it is considered by the grand jury."
"He also said he would vigorously oppose any request for a change of venue."
"That request hasn't been made yet. He really doesn't care where the trial is held. He'd try it in the desert as long as the press showed up."
"Can we assume there are hard feelings between you and the D.A.?"
"If you want to. He's a good prosecutor and a worthy adversary. He just talks when he shouldn't."
He answered a few other assorted questions and excused himself.
Late Wednesday night the doctors cut below Looney's knee and removed the lower third of his leg. They called Ozzie at the jail, and he told Carl Lee.
Rufus Buckley scanned the Thursday morning papers and read with great interest the accounts of the preliminary hearing in Ford County. He was delighted to see his name mentioned by the reporters and by Mr. Brigance. The disparaging remarks were greatly outweighed by the fact that his name was in print. He didn't like Brigance, but he was glad Jake mentioned his name before the cameras and reporters. For two days the spotlight had been on Brigance and the defendant; it was about time the D.A. was mentioned. Brigance should not criticize anyone for seeking publicity.
Lucien Wilbanks wrote the book on manipulating the press both before and during a trial, and he had taught Jake well. But Buckley held no grudge. He was pleased. He relished the thought of a long, nasty trial with his first opportunity at real, meaningful exposure.
He looked forward to Monday, the first day of the May term of court in Ford County.
He was forty-one, and when he was first elected nine years earlier he had been the youngest D.A. in Mississippi. Now he was one year into his third term and his ambitions were calling. It was time to move on to another public office, say, attorney general, or possibly governor. And then to Congress. He had it all planned, but he was not well known outside the Twenty-second Judicial District (Ford, Tyler, Polk, Van Buren, and Milburn counties). He needed to be seen, and heard. He needed publicity. What Rufus needed more than anything else was a big, nasty, controversial, well- publicized conviction in a murder trial.
Ford County was directly north of Smithfield, the county seat of Polk County, where Rufus lived.
He had grown up in Tyler County, near the Tennessee line, north of Ford County. He had a good base, politically. He was a good prosecutor. During elections he boasted of a ninety percent conviction rate, and of sending more men to death row than any prosecutor in the state. He was loud, abrasive, sanctimonious. His client was the people of the State of Mississippi, by God, and he took that obligation
seriously. The people hated crime, and he hated crime, and together they could eliminate it.
He could talk to a jury; oh, how he could talk to a jury. He could preach, pray, sway, plead, beg. He could inflame a jury to the point it couldn't wait to get back to that jury room and have a prayer meeting, then vote and return with a rope to hang the defendant.
He could talk like the blacks and he could talk like the rednecks, and that was enough to satisfy most of the jurors in the Twenty- second. And the juries were good to him in Ford
County. He liked Clanton.
When he arrived at his office in the Polk County Courthouse, Rufus was delighted to see a camera crew waiting in his reception room. He was very busy, he explained, looking at his watch, but he might have a minute for a few questions.
He arranged them in his office and sat splendidly in his leather swivel behind the desk.
The reporter was from Jackson.
"Mr. Buckley, do you have any sympathy for Mr. Hai-ley?"
He smiled seriously, obviously in deep thought. "Yes, I do. I have sympathy for any parent whose child is raped. I certainly do. But what I cannot condone, and what our system cannot tolerate, is this type of vigilante justice."
"Are you a parent?"
"I am. I have one small son and two daughters, one the age of the Hailey girl, and I'd be outraged if one of my daughters were raped. But I would hope our judicial system would deal effectively with the rapist. I have that much confidence in the system."
"So you anticipate a conviction?"
"Certainly. I normally get a conviction when I go after one, and I intend to get a conviction in this case."
"Will you ask for the death penalty?"
"Yes, it looks like a clear case of premeditated murder. I think the gas chamber would be appropriate."
"Do you predict a death penalty verdict?"
"Of course. Ford County jurors have always been willing to apply the death penalty when
I ask for it and it's appropriate. I get very good juries up there."
"Mr. Brigance, the defendant's attorney, has stated the grand jury may not indict his client."
Buckley chuckled at this. "Well, Mr. Brigance should not be so foolish. The case will be presented to the grand jury Monday, and we'll have our indictments Monday afternoon. I promise you that.
Really, he knows better." "You think the case will be tried in Ford County?" "I don't care where it's tried. I'll get a conviction." "Do you anticipate the insanity defense?" "I anticipate everything. Mr. Brigance is a most capable criminal defense attorney. I don't know what ploy he will use, but the State of Mississippi will be ready." "What about a plea bargain?'*
"I don't much believe in plea negotiating. Neither does Brigance. I wouldn't expect that."
"He said he's never lost a murder case to you." The smile disappeared instantly. He leaned forward on the desk and looked harshly at the reporter. "True, but I bet he didn't mention a number of armed robberies and grand larcenies, did he? I've won my share.
Ninety percent to be exact."
The camera was turned off and the reporter thanked him for his time. No problem, said
Buckley.
Anytime.
Ethel waddled up the stairs and stood before the big desk. "Mr. Brigance, my husband and I received an obscene phone call last night, and I've just taken the second one here at the office. I don't like this."
He motioned to a chair. "Sit down, Ethel. What did these people say?"
"They weren't really obscene. They were threatening. They threatened me because I work for you. Said I'd be sorry because I worked for a nigger lover. The ones here threaten to harm you and your family. I'm just scared."
Jake was worried too, but shrugged it off for Ethel. He had called Ozzie on Wednesday and reported the calls to his house.
"Change your number, Ethel. I'll pay for it."
"I don't want to change my number. I've had it for seventeen years."
"Good, then don't. I've had my home number changed, and it's no big deal."
"Well, I'll not do it."
"Fine. What else do you want?"
"Well, I don't think you should have taken that case. I-"
"And I don't care what you think! You're not paid to think about my cases. If I want to know what you think, I'll ask. Until I do, keep quiet."
She huffed and left. Jake called Ozzie again.
An hour later Ethel announced through the intercom: "Lucien called this morning. He asked me to copy some recent cases, and he wants you to deliver them this afternoon.
Said it had been five weeks since your last visit."
"Four weeks. Copy the cases, and I'll take them this afternoon."
Lucien stopped by the office or called once a month. He read cases and kept abreast of current developments in the law. He had little else to do except drink Jack Daniel's and play the stock market, both of which he did recklessly. He was a drunk, and he spent most of his time on the front porch of his big white house on the hill, eight blocks off the square, overlooking Clanton, sipping
Jack in the Black and reading cases.
He had deteriorated since the disbarment. A full-time maid doubled as a nurse who served drinks on the porch f rom noon until midnight. He seldom ate or slept, preferring instead to rock away the hours.
Jake was expected to visit at least once a month. The visits were made out of some sense of duty. Lucien was a bitter, sick old man who cursed lawyers, judges, and especially the
State Bar Association. Jake was his only friend, the only audience he could find and keep captive long enough to hear his sermons. Along with the preaching he also freely dispensed unsolicited advice on Jake's cases, a most annoying habit. He knew about the cases, although Jake never knew how Lucien knew so much. He was seldom seen downtown or anywhere in Clanton except at the package store in the black section.
The Saab parked behind the dirty, dented Porsche, and Jake handed the cases to Lucien.
There were no hellos or other greetings, just the handing of the copies to Lucien, who said nothing. They sat in the wicker rockers on the long porch and looked out over
Clanton. The top floor of the courthouse stood above the buildings and houses and trees around the square.
Finally he offered whiskey, then wine, then beer. Jake declined. Carla frowned on drinking, and Lucien knew it.
"Congratulations."
"For what?" Jake asked.
"For the Hailey case."
"Why am I to be congratulated?"
"I never had a case that big, and I had some big ones."
"Big in terms of what?"
"Publicity. Exposure, That's the name of the game for lawyers, Jake. If you're unknown, you starve. When people get in trouble they call a lawyer, and they call someone they've heard of. You must sell yourself to the public, if you're a street lawyer. Of course it's different if you're in a big corporate or insurance firm where you sit on your ass and bill a hundred bucks an hour, ten hours a day, ripping off little people and-"
"Lucien," Jake interrupted quietly, "we've talked about this many times. Let's talk about the Hailey case."
"All right, all right. I'll bet Noose refuses to change venue."
"Who said I would request it?"
"You're stupid if you don't."
"Why?"
"Simple statistics! This county is twenty-six percent black. Every other county in the
Twenty- second is at least thirty percent black. Van Buren County is forty percent. That means more black jurors, potentialjurors.. If you get it moved, you have a better chance for blacks in the jury box. If it's tried here, you run the risk of an all-white jury, and believe me, I've seen enough all-white juries in this county. All you need is one black to hang it and get a mistrial."
"But then it'll be retried." ' '
"Then hang it again. They'll give up after three trials. A hung jury is the same as a loss on
Buckley's scorecard. He'll quit after the third trial."
"So I simply tell Noose I want the trial moved to a blacker county so I can get a blacker jury."
"You can if you want to, but I wouldn't. I'd go through the usual crap about pretrial publicity, a biased community, and on and on."
"And you don't think Noose'11 buy it."
"Naw. This case is too big, and it'll get bigger. The press has intervened and already started the trial. Everyone's heard of it, and not just in Ford County. You couldn't find a person in this state without a preconceived notion of guilt or innocence. So why move it to another county?"
"Then why should I request it?"
"Because when that poor man is convicted, you'll need something to argue on appeal.
You can claim he was denied a fair trial because venue was not changed."
"Thanks for the encouragement. What're the chances of getting it moved to another district, say somewhere in the delta?"
"Forget it. You can request a change of venue, but you cannot request a certain location."
Jake didn't know that. He usually learned something during these visits. He nodded confidently and studied the old man with the long, dirty gray beard. There had never been a time when he stumped Lucien on a point of criminal law.
"Sallie!" Lucien screamed, throwing his ice cubes into the shrubs.
"Who's Sallie?"
"My maid," he replied as a tall, attractive black lady opened the screen door and smiled at Jake.
"Yeah, Lucien?" she answered.
"My glass is empty."
She walked elegantly across the porch and took his glass. She was under thirty, shapely, pretty, and very dark. Jake ordered iced tea.
"Where'd you find her?" he asked.
Lucien stared at the courthouse.
"Where'd you find her?"
"I dunno."
"How old is she?"
Lucien was silent.
"She live here?"
No response.
"How much do you pay her?"
"Why is it any of your business? More than you pay Ethel. She's a nurse too, you know."
Sure, Jake thought with a grin. "I'll bet she does a lot of things."
"Don't worry about it."
"I take it you're not thrilled with my chances for an acquittal."
Lucien reflected a moment. The maid/nurse returned with the whiskey and tea.
"Not really. It will be difficult."
"Why?"
"Looks like it was premeditated. From what I gather it was well planned. Right?"
"Yes."
"I'm sure you'll plead insanity."
"I don't know."
"You must plead insanity," Lucien lectured sternly. "There is no other possible defense.
You can't claim it was an accident. You can't say he shot those two boys, handcuffed and unarmed, with a machine gun in self-defense, can you?"
"No."
"You won't create an alibi and tell the jury he was at home with his family?"
"Of course not."
"Then what other defense do you have? You must say he was crazy!"
"But, Lucien, he was not insane, and there's no way I can find some bogus psychiatrist to say he was. He planned it meticulously, every detail."
Lucien smiled and took a drink. "That's why you're in trouble, my boy."
Jake sat his tea on the table and rocked slowly. Lucien savored the moment. "That's why you're in trouble," he repeated.
"What about the jury? You know they'll be sympathetic."
"That's exactly why you must plead insanity. You must give the jury a way out. You must show them a way to find him not guilty, if they are so inclined. If they're
sympathetic, if they want to acquit, you must provide them with a defense tney can use to do it. It makes no difference if they believe the insanity crap. That's not important in the jury room.
What's important is that the jury have a legal basis for an acquittal, assuming they want to acquit."
"Will they want to acquit?"
"Some will, but Buckley will make an awfully strong case of premeditated murder. He's good. He'll take away their sympathy. Hailey'll be just another black on trial for killing a white man when Buckley gets through with him."
Lucien rattled his ice cubes and stared at the brown liquid. "And what about the deputy?
Assault with intent to kill a peace officer carries life, no parole. Talk your way out of that one."
"There was no intent."
"Great. That'll be real convincing when the poor guy hobbles to the witness stand and shows the jury his nub."
"Nub?"
"Yes. Nub. They cut his leg off last night."
"Looney!"
"Yes, the one Mr. Hailey shot."
"I thought he was okay."
"Oh he's fine. Just minus a leg."
"How'd you find out?"
"I've got sources."
Jake walked to the edge of the porch and leaned on a column. He felt weak. The confidence was gone, taken away again by Lucien. He was an expert at poking holes in every case Jake tried. It was sport to him, and he was usually right.
"Look, Jake, I don't mean to sound so hopeless. The case can be won-it's a long shot, but it can be won. You can walk him out of there, and you need to believe you can. Just don't get too cocky. You've said enough to the press for a while. Back off, and go to work."
Lucien walked to the edge of the porch and spat in the shrubs. "Always keep in mind that
Mr. Hailey is guilty, guilty as hell. Most criminal defendants are, but especially this one.
He took the law into his own hands, and he murdered two people. Planned it all, very carefully. Our legal system does not permit vigilante justice. Now, you can win the case, and if you do, justice will prevail. But if you lose it, justice will also prevail. Kind of a strange case, I guess. I just wish I had it."
"You serious?"
"Sure I'm serious. It's a trial lawyer's dream. Win it and you're famous. The biggest gun in these parts. It could make you rich."
"I'll need your help."
"You've got it. I need something to do."
After dinner, and after Hanna was asleep, Jake told Carla about the calls at the office.
They had received a strange call before during one of the other murder trials, but no threats were made, just some groaning and breathing. But these were different. They mentioned Jake's name and his family, and promised revenge if Carl Lee was acquitted.
"Are you worried?" she asked.
"Not really. It's probably just some kids, or some of Cobb's friends. Does it scare you?"
"I would prefer they didn't call."
"Everybody's getting calls. Ozzie's had hundreds. Bul-lard, Childers, everybody. I'm not worried about it."
"What if it becomes more serious?"
"Carla, I would never endanger my family. It's not worth it. I'll withdraw from the case if
I think the threats are legitimate. I promise."
She was not impressed.
Lester peeled off nine one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them majestically on Jake's desk.
"That's only nine hundred," Jake said. "Our agreement was a thousand."
"Gwen needed groceries."
"You sure Lester didn't need some whiskey?"
"Come on, Jake, you know I wouldn't steal from my own brother."
"Okay, okay. When's Gwen going to the bank to borrow the rest?"
"I'm goin' right now to see the banker. Atcavage?"
"Yeah, Stan Atcavage, next door at Security Bank. Good friend of mine. He loaned it before on your trial. You got the deed?"
"In my pocket. How much you reckon he'll give us?"
"No idea. Why don't you go find out."
Lester left, and ten minutes later Atcavage was on the phone.
"Jake, I can't loan the money to these people. What if he's convicted-no offense, I know you're a good lawyer- my divorce, remember-but how's he gonna pay me sitting on death row?"
"Thanks. Look Stan, if he defaults you own ten acres, right?"
"Right, with a shack on it. Ten acres of trees and kudzu plus an old house. Just what my new wife wants. Come on, Jake." .
"It's a nice house, and it's almost paid for."
"It's a shack, a clean shack. But it's not worth anything, Jake."
"It's gotta be worth something."
"Jake, I don't want it. The bank does not want it."
"You loaned it before."
"And he wasn't in jail before; his brother was, remember. He was working at the paper mill. Good job, too. Now he's headed for Parchman."
"Thanks, Stan, for the vote of confidence."
"Come on, Jake, I've got confidence in your ability, but I can't loan money on it. If anybody can get him off, you can. And I hope you do. But I can't make this loan. The auditors would scream."
Lester tried the Peoples Bank and Ford National, with the same results. They hoped his brother was acquitted, but what if he wasn't.
Wonderful, thought Jake. Nine hundred dollars for a capital murder case.
Claude had never seen the need for printed menus in his cafe. Years before when he first opened he couldn't afford menus, and now that he could he didn't need them because most folks knew what he served. For breakfast he cooked everything but rice and toast, and the prices varied. For Friday lunch he barbecued pork shoulder and spare ribs, and everybody knew it. He had few white customers during the week, but at noon Friday, every Friday, his small cafe was half white. Claude had known for some time that whites enjoyed barbecue as much as blacks; they just didn't know how to prepare it.
Jake and Atcavage found a small table near the kitchen. Claude himself delivered two plates of ribs and slaw. He leaned toward Jake and said softly, "Good luck to you. Hope you get him off."
"Thanks, Claude. I hope you're on the jury."
Claude laughed and said louder, "Can I volunteer?"
Jake attacked the ribs and chewed on Atcavage for not making the loan. The banker was steadfast, but did offer to lend five thousand if Jake would cosign. That would be unethical, Jake explained.
On the sidewalk a line formed and faces squinted through the painted letters on the front windows. Claude was everywhere, taking orders, giving orders, cooking, counting money, shouting, swearing, greeting customers, and asking them to leave. On Friday, the customers were allotted twenty minutes after the food was served, then Claude asked and sometimes demanded that they pay and leave so he could sell more barbecue.
"Quit talkin' and eat!" he would yell.
"I've got ten more minutes, Claude."
"You got seven."
On Wednesday he fried catfish, and allowed thirty minutes because of the bones. The white folks avoided Claude's on Wednesday, and he knew why. It was the grease, a secret recipe grease handed down by his grandmother, he said. It was heavy and sticky and wreaked havoc with the lower intestines of white people. It didn't faze the blacks, who piled in by the carloads every Wednesday.
Two foreigners sat near the cash register and watched Claude fearfully as he directed lunch.
Probably reporters, thought Jake. Each time Claude drew nigh and glared, they obediently picked up and gnawed a rib. They had not experienced ribs before, and
it was obvious to everyone they were from the North. They had wanted chef salads, but Claude cursed them, and told them to eat barbecue or leave. Then he announced to the crowd these silly fools wanted chef salads.
"Here's your food. Hurry up and eat it," he had demanded when he served them.
"No steak knives?" one had asked crisply.
Claude rolled his eyes and staggered away mumbling.
One noticed Jake, and, after staring for a few minutes, finally walked over and knelt by the table.
"Aren't you Jake Brigarice, Mr. Hailey's attorney?"
"Yes, I am. Who are you?"
"I'm Roger McKittrick, with The New York Times."
"Nice to meet you," Jake said with a ^mile and a new attitude.
"I'm covering the Hailey case, and I'd like to talk with you sometime. As soon as possible, really."
"Sure. I'm not too busy this afternoon. It's Friday."
"I could do it late."
"How about four?"
"Fine," said McKittrick, who noticed Claude approaching from the kitchen. "I'll see you then."
"Okay, buddy," Claude yelled at McKittrick. "Time's up. Get your check and leave."
Jake and Atcavage finished in fifteen minutes, and waited for the verbal assault from
Claude. They licked their fingers and mopped their faces and commented on the tenderness of the ribs.
"This case'll make you famous, won't it?" asked Atcavage.
"I hope. Evidently it won't make any money."
"Seriously, Jake, won't it help your practice?"
"If I win, I'll have more clients than I can handle. Sure it'll help. I can pick and choose my cases, pick and choose my clients."
"Financially, what'll it mean?"
"I have no idea. There's no way to predict who or what it might attract. I'll have more cases to choose from, so that means more money. I could quit worrying about the overhead."
"Surely you don't worry about the overhead."
"Look, Stan, we're not all filthy rich. A law degree is not worth what it once was-too many of us. Fourteen in this little town. Competition is tough, even in Clanton-not enough good cases and too many lawyers. It's worse in the big towns, and the law schools graduate more and more, many of whom can't find jobs. I get ten kids a year knocking on my door looking for work. A big firm in Memphis laid off some lawyers a few months ago. Can you imagine? Just like a factory, they laid them off. I suppose they went down to the unemployment office and stood in line with the 'dozer operators. Lawyers now, not secretaries or truck drivers, but lawyers."
"Sorry I asked."
"Sure I worry about the overhead. It runs me four thousand a month, and I practice alone.
That's fifty thousand a year before I clear a dime. Some months are good, others slow.
They're all unpredictable. I wouldn't dare estimate what I'll gross next month. That's why this case is so important. There will never be another one like it. It's the biggest. I'll practice the rest of my life and never have another reporter from The New York Times stop me in a cafe and ask for an interview. If I win, I'll be the top dog in this part of the state. I can forget about the overhead."
"And if you lose?"
Jake paused and glanced around for Claude. "The publicity will be abundant regardless of the outcome. Win or lose, the case will help my practice. But a loss will really hurt.
Every lawyer in the county is secretly hoping I blow it. They want him convicted. They're jealous, afraid I might get too big and take away their clients. Lawyers are extremely jealous."
"You too?"
"Sure. Take the Sullivan firm. I despise every lawyer in that firm, but I'm jealous to an extent. I wish I had some of their clients, some of their retainers, some of their security.
They know that every month they'll get a nice check, it's guaranteed almost, and every
Christmas they'll get a big bonus. They represent old money, steady money. That would be enjoyable for a change. Me, I represent drunks, thugs, wife beaters, husband beaters, injured people, most of whom have little or no money. And I never know from one month to the next how many of these people will show up at my office."
"Look, Jake," Atcavage interrupted. "I would really like to finish this discussion, but
Claude just looked at his watch and then looked at us. I think our twenty minutes are up."
Jake's check was seventy-one cents more than At-cavage's, and since both orders were identical, Claude was interrogated. No problem, he explained, Jake got an extra rib.
McKittrick was personable and precise, thorough and pushy. He had arrived in Clanton on Wednesday to investigate and write about what was billed as the most famous murder in the country, at the moment. He talked to Ozzie and Moss Junior,
and they suggested he talk to Jake. He talked to Bullard, through the door, and the judge suggested he talk to
Jake. He interviewed Gwen and Lester, but was not permitted to meet the girl. He visited with the regulars at the Coffee Shop and the Tea Shoppe, and he visited with the regulars at Huey's and Ann's Lounge. He talked to Willard's ex-wife and mother, but Mrs. Cobb was through with reporters. One of Cobb's brothers offered to talk for a fee. McKittrick declined. He drove to the paper mill and talked to the coworkers, and he drove to
Smithfield to interview the D.A. He would be in town for a few more days, then return for the trial.
He was from Texas, and retained, when convenient, a slight drawl, which impressed the locals and opened them up. He even said "you all" and "y'all" occasionally, and this distinguished him from most of the other reporters who clung to their crisp, precise, modern American pronunciation.
"What's that?" McKittrick pointed to the center of Jake's desk.
"That's a tape recorder," Jake answered.
McKittrick sat his own recorder on the desk and looked at Jake's. "May I ask why?"
"You may. It's my office, my interview, and if I want to record it, I will."
"Are you expecting trouble?"
"I'm trying to prevent it. I hate to be misquoted."
"I'm not known for misquoting."
"Good. Then you won't mind if both of us record ever-thing."
"You don't trust me, do you, Mr. Brigance?"
"Hell no. And my n ame is Jake."
"Why don't you trust me?"
"Because you're a reporter, you're from a New York paper, you're looking for a sensational story, and if you're true to form, you'll write some well-informed, moralistic piece of trash depicting us all as racist, ignorant rednecks."
"You're wrong. First of all, I'm from Texas."
"Your paper is from New York."
"But I consider myself a Southerner."
"How long have you been gone?"
"About twenty years."
Jake smiled and shook his head, as if to say: That's too long.
"And I don't work for a sensational newspaper."
"We'll see. The trial is several months away. We'll have time to read your stories."
"Fair enough."
Jake punched the play button on his tape recorder, and McKittrick did likewise.
"Can Carl Lee Hailey receive a fair trial in Ford County?"
"Why couldn't he?" Jake asked.
"Well, he's black. He killed two white men, and he will be tried by a white jury."
"You mean he will be tried by a bunch of white racists."
"No, that's not what I said, nor what I implied. Why do you automatically assume I think you are all a bunch of racists?"
"Because you do. We're stereotyped, and you know it."
McKittrick shrugged and wrote something on his steno pad. "Will you answer the question?"
"Yes. He^can receive a fair trial in Ford County, if he's tried here."
"Do you want it tried here?"
"I'm sure we'll try to move it."
"To where?"
"We won't suggest a place. That's up to the judge."
"Where did he get the M-16?"
Jake chuckled and stared at the tape recorder. "I do not know."
"Would he be indicted if he were white?"
"He's black, and he has not been indicted."
"But if he were white, would there be an indictment?"
"Yes, in my opinion."
"Would he be convicted?"
"Would you like a cigar?" Jake opened a desk drawer and found a Roi-Tan. He unwrapped it; then lit it with a butane lighter.
"No thanks."
"No, he would not be convicted if he were white. In my opinion. Not in Mississippi, not in Texas, not in Wyoming. I'm not sure about New York."
"Why not?"
"Do you have a daughter?"
"No."
"Then you wouldn't understand."
"I think I do. Will Mr. Hailey be convicted?"
"Probably."
"So the system does not work as fairly for blacks?"
"Have you talked with Raymond Hughes?"
"No. Who is he?"
"He ran for sheriff last time, and had the misfortune of making the runoff against Ozzie
Walls. He's white. Ozzie, of course, is not. If I'm not mistaken, he got thirty-one percent of the vote. In a county that's seventy-four percent white. Why don't you ask Mr. Hughes if the system treats blacks fairly?"
"I was referring to the judicial system."
"It's the same system. Who do you think sits in the jury box? The same registered voters who elected Ozzie Walls."
"Well, if a white man would not be convicted, and Mr. Hailey will probably be convicted, explain to me how the system treats both fairly."
"It doesn't."
"I'm not sure I'm following you."
"The system reflects society. It's not always fair, but it's as fair as the system in New
York, or Massachusetts, or California. It's as fair as biased, emotional humans can make it."
"And you think Mr. Hailey will be treated as fairly here as he would be in New York?"
"I'm saying there's as much racism in New York as in Mississippi. Look at our public schools- they're as desegregated as any."
"By court order."
"Sure, but what about the courts in New York. For years you pious bastards pointed your fingers and noses at us down here and demanded that we desegregate. It happened, and it has not been the end of the world. But you've conveniently ignored your own schools and neighborhoods, your own voting irregularities, your own all-white juries and city councils. We were wrong, and we've paid dearly for it. But we learned, and although the change has been slow and painful, at least we're trying. Y'all are still pointing fingers."
"I didn't intend to refight Gettysburg."
"I'm sorry. What defense will we use? I do not know at this point. Honestly, it's just too early. He hasn't even been indicted."
"Of course he will?"
"Of course we don't know yet. More than likely. When will this be printed?"
"Maybe Sunday."
"Makes no difference. No one here takes your paper. Yes, he will be indicted."
McKittrick glanced at his watch, and Jake turned off his recorder.
"Look, I'm not a bad guy," McKittrick said. "Let's drink a beer sometime and finish this."
"Off the record, I don't drink. But I accept your invitation."
The First Presbyterian Church of Clanton was directly across the street from the First
United Methodist Church of Clanton, and both churches were within sight of the much larger First Baptist Church. The Baptists had more members and money, but the
Presbyterians and Methodists adjourned earlier on Sunday and outraced the Baptists to the restaurants for Sunday dinner. The Baptists would arrive at twelve-thirty and stand in line while the Presbyterians and Methodists ate slowly and waved at them.
Jake was content not to be a Baptist. They were a bit too narrow and strict, and they were forever preaching about Sunday night church, a ritual Jake had always struggled with.
Carla was raised as a Baptist, Jake a Methodist, and during the courtship a compromise was negotiated, and they became Presbyterians. They were happy with their church and its activities, and seldom missed.
On Sunday, they sat in their usual pew, with Hanna asleep between them, and ignored the sermon. Jake ignored it by watching the preacher and picturing his confronting Buckley, in court, before twelve good and lawful citizens, as the nation watched and waited, and
Carla ignored it by watching the preacher and mentally redecorating the dining room. Jake caught a few inquisitive stares during the worship service, and he figured his fellow church members were somewhat awed to have a celebrity among them. There were some strange faces in the congregation, and they were either long-lost repentant members or reporters. Jake was unsure until one persisted in staring at him-then he knew they were all reporters.
"Enjoyed your sermon, Reverend," Jake lied as he shook hands with the minister on the steps outside the sanctuary.
"Good to see you, Jake," replied the reverend. "We've watched you all week on TV. My kids get excited every time they see you."
"Thanks. Just pray for us."
They drove to Karaway for Sunday lunch with Jake's parents. Gene and Eva Brigance lived in the old family house, a sprawling country home on five acres of wooded land in downtown Karaway, three blocks from Main Street and two blocks from the school where Jake and his sister put in twelve years. Both were retired, but young enough to travel the continent in a mobile home each summer. They would leave Monday for
Canada and return after Labor Day. Jake was their only son. An older daughter lived in
New Orleans.
Sunday lunch on Eva's table was a typical Southern feast of fried meats, fresh garden vegetables- boiled, battered, baked, and raw, homemade rolls and biscuits, two gravies, watermelon, cantaloupe, peach cobbler, lemon pie, and strawberry shortcake. Little of it would be eaten, and the leftovers would be neatly packaged by Eva and Carla and sent to
Clanton, where it would last for a week.
"How are your parents, Carla?" Mr. Brigance asked as he passed the rolls.
"They're fine. I talked to Mother yesterday."
"Are they in Knoxville?"
"No, sir. They're already in Wilmington for the summer."
"Will y'all be going to visit them?" asked Eva as she poured the tea from a one-gallon ceramic pitcher.
Carla glanced at Jake, who was dipping butterbeans onto Hanna's plate. He did not want to discuss
Carl Lee Hailey. Every meal since Monday night had centered around the case, and Jake was in no mood to answer the same questions.
"Yes, ma'am. We plan to. It depends on Jake's schedule. It could be a busy summer."
"So we've heard," Eva said flatly, slowly as if to remind her son he had not called since the killings.
"Is something wrong with your phone, son?" asked Mr. Brigance.
"Yes. We've had the number changed."
The four adults ate slowly, apprehensively, while Hanna looked at the shortcake.
"Yes, I know. That's what the operator told us. To an unlisted number."
"Sorry. I've been very busy. It's been hectic."
"So we've read," said his father.
Eva stopped eating and cleared her throat. "Jake, do you really think you can get him off?"
"I'm worried about your family," said his father. "It could be a very dangerous case."
"He shot them in cold blood," Eva said.
"They raped his daughter, Mother. What would you do if someone raped Hanna?"
"What's rape?" asked Hanna.
"Never mind, dear," Carla said. "Could we please change the subject." She looked firmly at the three Bri-gances, and they started eating again. The daughter-in-law had spoken, with wisdom, as usual.
Jake smiled at his mother without looking at Mr. Bri-gance. "I just don't want to talk about the case, Mother. I'm tired of it."
"I guess we'll have to read about it," said Mr. Brigance.
They talked about Canada.
At about the time the Brigances finished lunch, the sanctuary of the Mt. Zion Chapel
CME rocked and swayed as the Right Reverend Ollie Agee whipped the devotees into a glorified frenzy.
Deacons danced. Elders chanted. Women fainted. Grown men screamed and raised their arms toward the heavens as the small children looked upward in holy terror. Choir members lurched and lunged and jerked, then broke down and shrieked different stanzas of the same song. The organist played one song, the pianist another, and the choir sang whatever came over it. Th e reverend hopped around the pulpit in his long white robe with purple trim, yelling, praying, screaming at God, and perspiring.
The bedlam rose and fell, rising it seemed with each new fainting, and falling with fatigue. Through years of experience Agee knew precisely when the fury reached its peak, when the delirium gave way to weariness, and when the flock needed a break. At that precise moment, he jigged to the pulpit and slapped it with the power of God
Almighty. Instantly the music died, the convulsions ceased, the fainters awoke, the children stopped crying, and the multitude settled submissively into the pews. It was time for the sermon.
As the reverend was about to preach, the rear doors opened and the Haileys entered the sanctuary. Little Tonya walked by herself, limping, holding her mother's hand. Her brothers marched behind, and Uncle Lester followed. They moved slowly down the aisle and found a seat near the front. The reverend nodded at the organist, who began to play softly, then the choir began to hum and sway. The deacons stood and swayed with the choir. Not to be outdone, the elders stood and began to chant. Then, of all things, Sister
Crystal fainted violently. Her fainting was contagious, and the other sisters began dropping like flies. The elders chanted louder than the choir, so the choir got
excited. The organist could not be heard, so she increased the volume. The pianist joined in with a clanging rendition of a hymn unlike the hymn being played by the organist. The organist thundered back. Reverend Agee fluttered down from the podium and danced his way toward the Haileys.
Everyone followed-the choir, the deacons, the elders, the women, the crying children-everyone followed the reverend to greet the little Hailey girl.
Jail did not bother Carl Lee. Home was more pleasant, but under the circumstances, he found jail life tolerable. It was a new jail, built with federal money under the mandate of a prisoners' rights lawsuit. The food was cooked by two huge black women who knew how to cook and write bad checks. They were eligible for early release, but Ozzie had not bothered to tell them. The food was served to forty prisoners, give or take a few, by the trusties. Thirteen of the prisoners belonged at Parchman, but it was full. So they waited, never knowing if the next day would be their day for the dreaded trip to the sprawling, enclosed delta farm where the food was not as good, the beds were not as soft, the air conditioning was nonexistent, the mosquitoes immense, plentiful, and vicious, and where toilets were scarce and clogged.
Carl Lee's cell was next to Cell Two, where the state prisoners waited. With two exceptions, they were black, and with no exceptions, they were violent. But they were all afraid of Carl Lee. He shared Cell One with two shoplifters who were not just scared, but downright terrified of their famous cellmate. Each evening he was escorted to Ozzie's office, where he and the sheriff ate dinner and watched the news. He was a celebrity, and he liked that almost as much as did his lawyer and the D.A. He wanted to explain things to the reporters, tell them about his daughter and why he should not be in jail, but his lawyer said no.
After Gwen and Lester left late Sunday afternoon, Oz-zie, Moss Junior, and Carl Lee sneaked out the rear of the jail and went to the hospital. It was Carl Lee's idea, and Ozzie saw no harm. Looney was alone in a private room when the three entered. Carl Lee took one look at the leg, then stared at Looney. They shook hands. With watery eyes and a breaking voice Carl Lee said he was sorry, that he had no intention of hurting anyone but the two boys, that he wished and prayed he could undo what he had done to Looney.
Without hesitation, Looney accepted the apology.
Jake was waiting in Ozzie's office when they sneaked back into the jail. Ozzie and Moss
Junior excused themselves, leaving the defendant with his lawyer.
"Where have y'all been?" Jake asked suspiciously.
"Went to the hospital to see Looney."
"You what!"
"Nothin' wrong, is it?"
"I wish you would check with me before you make any more visits."
"What's wrong with seein' Looney?"
"Looney will be the star witness for the State when they attempt to send you to the gas chamber. That's all. He ain't on our side, Carl Lee, and any talking you do with Looney should be with your attorney present. Understand?"
"Not really."
"I can't believe Ozzie would do that," Jake mumbled.
"It was my idea," Carl Lee admitted.
"Well, if you get any more ideas, please let me know about them. Okay?"
"Okay."
"You talked to Lester lately?"
"Yeah, him and Gwen came by today. Brought me goodies. Told me 'bout the banks."
Jake planned to play hardball about his fee; no way he could represent Carl Lee for nine hundred dollars. The case would consume his practice for the next three monms ai least, and nine hundred would be less than minimum wage. It would not be fair to him or his family to work for nothing. Carl Lee would simply have to raise the money. There were plenty of relatives. Gwen had a big family. They would just have to sacrifice, maybe sell a few automobiles, maybe some land, but Jake would get his fee.
If not, Carl Lee could find another lawyer.
"I'll give you the deed to my place," Carl Lee offered.
Jake melted. "I don't want your place, Carl Lee. I want cash. Sixty-five hundred dollars."
"Show me how, and I'll do it. You the lawyer, you figure out a way. I'm with you."
Jake was beat and he knew it. "I can't do it for nine hundred dollars, Carl Lee. I can't let this case bankrupt me. I'm a lawyer. I'm supposed to make money."
"Jake, I'll pay you the money. I promise. It may take a long time, but I'll pay you. Trust me."
Not if you're on death row, thought Jake. He changed the subject. "You know the grand jury meets tomorrow, and it'll take up your case."
"So I go to court?"
"Naw, it means you'll be indicted tomorrow. The courthouse will be full of people and reporters. Judge Noose will be here to open the May term of court. Buckley'll be running around chasing cameras and blowing smoke. It's a big day. Noose starts an armed robbery trial in the afternoon. If you're indicted tomorrow, we'll be in court Wednesday or Thursday for the arraignment."
"The what?"
"The arraignment. In a capital murder case, the judge is required by law to read the indictment to you in open court in front of God and everybody. They'll make a big deal out of it. We'll enter a plea of not guilty, and Noose sets the trial date. We ask for a reasonable bond, and he says no. When I mention bond Buckley'll scream and turn cartwheels. The more I think of him the more I hate him. He'll be a large pain in the ass."
"Why don't I get a bond?"
"For capital murder, the judge does not have to set a bond. He can if he wants to, but most don't. Even if Noose set a bond, you couldn't pay it, so don't worry about it. You'll be in jail until trial."
"I lost my job, you know."
"When?"
"Gwen drove over Friday and got my paycheck. They told her. Nice, ain't it. Work there eleven years, miss five days, and they fire me. Guess they think I ain't comin' back."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Carl Lee. Real sorry."
The Honorable Omar Noose had not always been so honorable. Before he became the circuit judge for the Twenty-second Judicial District, he was a lawyer with meager talent and few clients, but he was a politician of formidable skills. Five terms in the Mississippi
Legislature had corrupted him and taught him the art of political swindling and manipulation. Senator Noose prospered handsomely as chairman of the Senate Finance
Committee, and few people in Van Buren County questioned how he and his family lived so affluently on his legislative salary of seven thousand dollars a year.
Like most members of the Mississippi Legislature, he ran for reelection one time too many, and in the summer of 1971 he was humiliated by an unknown opponent. A year later, Judge Loopus, his predecessor on the bench, died, and Noose persuaded his friends in the Legislature to persuade the governor to appoint him to serve the unexpired term.
That's how ex-State Senator Noose became Circuit Judge Noose. He was elected in 1975, and reelected in 1979 and 1983.
Repentant, reformed, and very humbled by his rapid descent from power, Judge Noose applied himself to the study of the law, and after a shaky start, grew to the job. It paid sixty thousand a year, so he could afford to be honest. Now, at sixty-three, he was a wise old judge, well respected by most lawyers and by the state Supreme Court, which seldom reversed his rulings. He was quiet but charming, patient but strict, and he had a huge monument of a nose that was very long and very pointed and served as a throne for his black-rimmed, octagon-shaped reading glasses, which he wore constantly but never used.
His nose, plus his tall, gawky frame, plus his wild, untamed, dense gray hair, plus his squeaky voice, had given rise to his secret nickname, whispered among lawyers, of
Ichabod. Ichabod Noose. The Honorable Ichabod Noose.
He assumed the bench, and the crowded courtroom stood as Ozzie mumbled incoherently a statutorily required paragraph to officially open the May term of the Ford County
Circuit Court. A long, flowery prayer was offered by a local minister, and the congregation sat down. Prospective jurors filled one side of the courtroom. Criminals and other litigants, their families and friends, the press, and the curious filled the other side.
Noose required every lawyer in the county to attend the opening of the term, and the members of the bar sat in the jury box, all decked out in full regalia, all loo king important.
Buckley and his assistant, D. R. Mus-grove, sat at the prosecution's table, splendidly representing the State. Jake sat by himself in a wooden chair in front of the railing. The clerks and court reporters stood behind the large red docket books on the workbench, and with everyone else.watched intently as Ichabod situated himself in his chair upon the bench, straightened his robe, adjusted his hideous reading glasses, and peered over them at the assemblage.
"Good morning," he squeaked loudly. He pulled the microphone closer and cleared his throat. "It's always nice to be in Ford County for the May term of court. I see most members of the bar found time to appear for the opening of court, and as
usual, I will request Madam Clerk to note those absent attorneys so that I may personally contact them. I see a large number of potential jurors present, and I thank each of you for being here. I realize you had no choice, but your presence is vital to our judicial process. We will empanel a grand jury momentarily, and then we will select several trial juries to serve this week and next. I trust each member of the bar has a copy of the docket, and you will note it looks somewhat crowded. My calendar reveals at least two cases set for trial each day this week and next, but it's my understanding most of the criminal cases set for trial will go off on negotiated plea bargains. Nonetheless, we have many cases to move, and I request the diligent cooperation of the bar. Once the new grand jury is empaneled and goes to work, and once the indictments start coming down, I will schedule arraignments and first appearances. Let's quickly call the docket, criminal first, then civil; then the attorneys may be excused as we select a grand jury.
"State versus Warren Moke. Armed robbery, set for trial this afternoon."
Buckley rose slowly, purposefully. "The State of Missis- sippi is ready for trial, Your
Honor," he announced gloriously for the spectators.
"So's the defense," said Tyndale, the court-appointed lawyer.
"How long do you anticipate for trial?" asked the judge.
"Day and a half," answered Buckley. Tyndale nodded in agreement.
"Good. We'll select the trial jury this morning and start the trial at one P.M. today. State versus William Daal, forgery, six counts, set for tomorrow."
"Your Honor," answered D.R. Musgrove, "there will be a plea in that case."
"Good. State versus Roger Hornton, grand larceny, two counts, set for tomorrow."
Noose continued through the docket. Each case drew the same response. Buckley would stand and proclaim the State ready for trial, or Musgrove would quietly inform the court that a plea had been negotiated. The defense attorneys would stand and nod. Jake had no cases in the May term, and although he tried his best to look bored, he enjoyed the call of the docket because he could learn who had the cases and what the competition was doing.
It was also a chance to look good before some of the local folks. Half the members of the
Sullivan firm were present, and they too looked bored as they sat arrogantly together in the front row of the jury box. The older partners of the Sullivan firm would not dare make an appearance at docket call, and they would lie and tell Noose they were in trial in
Federal Court over in Oxford or perhaps before the Supreme Court in Jackson.
Dignity prevented their mingling with the ordinary members of the bar, so the firm's younger lieutenants were sent to satisfy Noose and request that all the firm's civil cases be continued, postponed, delayed, stalled, or acted upon in such a way that the firm could drag them on forever and continue to bill by the hour. Their clients were insurance companies who generally preferred not to go to trial and would pay by the hour for legal maneuvering designed solely to keep the cases away from the juries. It would be cheaper and fairer to pay a reasonable settlement and avoid both litigation and the parasitic defense firms like Sullivan & O'Hare, but the insurance companies and their adjusters were too stupid and cheap, so street lawyers like Jake Brigance earned their livelihoods suing insurance companies and forcing them to pay more than what they would have paid had they dealt fairly from the beginning.
Jake hated insurance companies, and he hated insurance defense attorneys, and he especially hated the Sullivan firm's younger members, all of whom were his age, and all of whom would gladly cut his throat, their associates' throats, their partners' throats, anyone's throat to make partner and earn two hundred thousand a year and skip docket calls.
Jake particularly hated Lotterhouse, or L. Winston Lot-terhouse, as the letterhead proclaimed him, a little four-eyed wimp with a Harvard degree and a bad case of haughty self-importance who was next in line to make partner and thus had been especially indiscriminate with his throat cutting during the past year. He sat smugly between two other Sullivan associates and held seven files, each of which was being charged a hundred dollars per hour while he answered the docket call.
Noose began the civil docket. "Collins versus Royal Consolidated General Mutual
Insurance Company."
Lotterhouse stood slowly. Seconds meant minutes. Minutes meant hours. Hours meant fees, retainers, bonuses, partnerships.
"Your Honor, sir, that case is set prime for a week from Wednesday."
"I realize that," Noose said.
"Yes, sir. Well, sir, I'm afraid I must ask for a continuance. A conflict has developed in my trial calendar for that Wednesday, and I have a pretrial conference in Federal Court in
Memphis that the judge has refused to continue. I regret this. I filed a motion this morning asking for a continuance."
Gardner, the plaintiffs attorney, was furious. "Your Honor, that case has been set prime for two months. It was set for trial in February, and Mr. Lotterhouse had a death in his wife's family. It was set for trial last November, and an uncle died. It was set for trial last
August, and there was another funeral. I guess we should be thankful that this time no one has died."
There were pockets of light laughter in the courtroom. Lotterhouse blushed.
"Enough is enough, Your Honor," Gardner continued. "Mr. Lotterhouse would prefer to postpone this trial forever. The case is ripe for trial, and my client is entitled to one. We strenuously oppose any motion for a continuance." . Lotterhouse smiled at the judge and removed his glasses. "Your Honor, if I may respond-"
"No, you may not, Mr. Lotterhouse," interrupted Noose. "No more continuances. The case is set for trial next Wednesday. There will be no more delays."
Hallelujah, thought Jake. Noose was generally soft on the Sullivan firm. Jake smiled at
Lotterhouse.
Two of Jake's civil cases were continued to the August term. When Noose finished the civil docket, he dismissed the attorneys, and turned his attention to the pool of prospective jurors. He explained the role of the grand jury, its importance and procedure.
He distinguished it from the trial juries, equally important but not as time consuming. He began asking questions, dozens of questions, most of them required by law, all dealing with ability to serve as jurors, physical and moral fitness, exemptions, and age. A few were useless, but nonetheless required by some ancient statute. "Are any of you common gamblers or habitual drunkards?"
There were laughs but no volunteers. Those over sixty-five were automatically excused, at their option. Noose granted the usual exemptions for illnesses, emergencies, and hardships, but he excused only a few of the many who requested pardons for economic reasons. It was amusing to watch the jurors stand, one at a time, and meekly explain to the judge how a few days of jury duty would cause irreparable damage to the farm, or the body shop, or the pulpwood cutting. Noose
took a hard line and delivered several lectures on civic responsibility to the flimsier excuses.
From the venire of ninety or so prospects, eighteen would be selected for the grand jury, and the rest would remain available for selection as trial jurors. When Noose completed his questioning, the clerk drew eighteen names from a box and laid them on the bench before His Honor, who began calling names. The jurors, one by one, rose and walked slowly toward the front of the courtroom, through the gate in the railing, and into the cushioned, swivel rocking seats in the jury box. There were fourteen such seats, twelve for the jurors and two for the alternates. When the box was rilled, Noose called four more who joined their colleagues in wooden chairs placed in front of the jury box.
"Stand and take the oath," instructed Noose as the clerk stood before them holding and reading from a little black book that contained all the oaths. "Raise your right hands," she directed. "Do you solemnly swear or affirm that you will faithfully discharge your duties as grand jurors; that you will fairly hear and decide all issues and matters brought before you, so help you God?"
A chorus of assorted "I do's" followed, and the grand jury was seated. Of the five blacks, two were women. Of the thirteen whites, eight were women, and most were rural. Jake recognized seven of the eighteen.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Noose began his usual speech, "you have been selected and duly sworn as grand jurors for Ford County, and you will serve in that capacity until the next grand jury is empaneled in August. I want to stress that your duties will not be time consuming. You will meet every day this week, then several hours each month until
September. You have the responsibility of reviewing criminal cases, listening to law enforcement officials and victims, and determ ining whether or not reasonable grounds exist to believe the accused has committed the crime. If so, you issue an indictment, which is a formal charge placed against the accused. There are eighteen of you, and when at least twelve believe a person should be indicted, the indictment is issued, or returned, as we say. You have considerable power. By law, you can investigate any criminal act, any citizen suspected of wrongdoing, any public official; really anybody or anything that smells bad. You may convene
yourself whenever you choose, but normally you meet whenever the district attorney, Mr. Buckley, wants you. You have the power to subpoena witnesses to testify before you, and you may also subpoena their records. Your deliberations are extremely private, with no one being present but yourselves, the D.A. and his staff, and the witnesses. The accused is not allowed to appear before you. You are expressly forbidden to discuss anything that is said or transpires in the grand jury room.
"Mr. Buckley, would you please stand. Thank you. This is Mr. Rufus Buckley, the district attorney. He's from Smith-field, in Polk County. He will sort of act as your supervisor while you deliberate. Thank you, Mr. Buckley. Mr. Mus-grove, will you stand.
This is D.R. Musgrove, assistant district attorney, also from Smithfield. He will assist Mr.
Buck-ley while you are in session. Thank you, Mr. Musgrove. Now, these gentlemen represent the State of Mississippi, and they will present the cases to the grand jury.
"One final matter: the last grand jury in Ford County was empaneled in February, and the foreman was a white male. Therefore, in keeping with tradition and following the wishes of the Justice Department, I will appoint a black female as foreman of this grand jury.
Let's see. Laverne Gossett. Where are you, Mrs. Gossett? There you are, good. I believe you are a schoolteacher, correct? Good. I'm sure you'll be able to handle your new duties.
Now, it's time for you to get to work. I understand there are over fifty cases waiting on you. I will ask that you follow Mr. Buckley and Mr. Musgrove down the hall to the small courtroom that we use for a grand jury room. Thank you and good luck."
Buckley proudly marched his new grand jury out of the courtroom and down the hall. He waved at reporters and had no comments-for the time being. In the small courtroom they seated themselves around two long, folding tables. A secretary rolled in boxes of files.
An ancient half-crippled, half- deaf, long-retired deputy in a faded uniform took his position by the door. The room was secure.
Buckley had second thoughts, excused himself, and met with the reporters in the hall.
Yes, he said, the Hailey case would be presented that afternoon. In fact, he was calling a press conference for 4:00 P.M. on the front steps of the courthouse, and he would have the indictments at that time.
After lunch, the chief of the Karaway Police Department sat at one end of the long table and shuffled nervously through his files. He avoided looking at the grand jurors, who anxiously awaited their first case.
"State your name!" barked the D.A.
"Chief Nolan Earnhart, Karaway City Police."
"How many cases do you have, Chief?"
"We have five from Karaway."
"Let's hear the first one."
"Okay, let's see, all right," the chief mumbled and stuttered as he flipped through his paperwork.
"Okay, the first case is Fedison Bulow, male black, age twenty-five, got caught red-handed in the rear of Griffin's Feed Store in Karaway at two o'clock in the mornin', April
12. Silent alarm went off and we caught him in the store. Cash register had been broken into, and some fertilizer was gone. We found the cash and the goods in a car registered in his name parked behind the store. He gave a three-page confession at the jail, and I've got copies here." Buckley walked casually around the room smiling at everyone. "And you want this grand jury to indict Fedison Bulow on one count of breaking and entering a commercial building, and one count of grand larceny?" Buckley asked helpfully.
"Yes, sir, that's right."
"Now, members of the grand jury, you have the right to ask any questions. This is your hearing. Any questions?"
"Yes, does he have a record?" asked Mack Loyd Crow-ell, an unemployed truck driver.
"No," replied the chief. "This is his first offense."
"Good question, always ask that question because if they have prior records we may need to indict them as habitual criminals," lectured Buckley. "Any more questions? None?
Good. Now at this point, someone needs to make a motion that the grand jury return a true bill of indictment against Fedison Bulow."
Silence. The eighteen stared at the table and waited for someone else to make a motion.
Buckley waited. Silence. This is great, he thought. A soft grand jury. A bunch of timid souls afraid to speak. Liberals. Why couldn't he have a bloodthirsty grand jury eager to make motions to indict everybody for everything?
"Mrs. Gossett, would you like to make the first motion, since you're the foreman?"
"I so move," she said. "Thank you," said Buckley. "Now let's vote. How many vote to indict Fedison Bulow on one count of breaking and entering a commercial building and one count of grand larceny? Raise your hands."
Eighteen hands went up, and Buckley was relieved.
The chief presented the other four cases from Karaway. Each involved defendants equally guilty as Bulow, and each received unanimous true bills. Buckley slowly taught the grand jury how to operate itself. He made them feel important, powerful, and laden with the heavy burden of justice.
They became inquisitive:
"Does he have a record?"
"How much time does that carry?"
"When will he get out?"
"How many counts can we give him?"
"When will he be tried?"
"Is he out of jail now?"
With five indictments out of the way, with five true bills and no dissension, with the grand jury eager for the next case, whatever it might be, Buckley decided the mood was ripe. He opened the door and motioned for Ozzie, who was standing in the hall talking quietly with a deputy and watching the reporters.
"Present Hailey first," Buckley whispered as the two met in the door.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Sheriff Walls. I'm sure most of you know him. He has several cases to present. What's first, Sheriff?"
Ozzie scrambled through his files, lost whatever he was looking for, and finally blurted,
"Carl Lee Hailey."
The jurors became quiet again. Buckley watched them closely to gauge their reactions.
Most of them stared at the table again. No one spoke while Ozzie reviewed the file, then excused himself to get another briefcase. He had not planned to present the Hailey case first.
Buckley prided himself on reading jurors, of watching their faces and knowing precisely their thoughts. He watched the jury constantly during a trial, always predicting to himself what each was thinking. He would cross-examine a witness and never take his eyes off the jury. He would sometimes stand and face the jury box and interrogate a witness and watch the faces react to the answers. After hundreds of trials he was good at reading jurors, and he knew instantly he was in trouble with Hailey. The five blacks grew tense and arrogant as if they welcomed the case and the inevitable argument. The foreman,
Mrs. Gossett, looked particularly pious as Ozzie mumbled to himself and flipped papers.
Most of the whites looked noncommittal, but Mack Loyd Crowell, a hard-looking middle-aged rural type, appeared as arrogant as the blacks. Crowell pushed back his chair and walked to the window, which looked over the north side of the courtyard. Buckley could not read him precisely, but he knew Crowell was trouble.
"Sheriff, how many witnesses do you have for the Hailey case?" Buckley asked, somewhat nervously.
Ozzie stopped shuffling paper and said, "Well, uh, just me. We can get another if we need one."
"All right, all right," replied Buckley. "Just tell us about the case."
Ozzie reared back, crossed his legs, and said, "Shoot, Rufus, everbody knows about this case. Been on TV for a week."
"Just give us the evidence."
"The evidence. Okay, one week ago today, Carl Lee Hailey, male black, age thirty-seven,
shot and killed one Billy Ray Cobb and one Pete Willard, and he shot a peace officer, one
DeWayne Looney, who's still in the hospital with his leg cut off. The weapon was an M-
16 machine gun, illegal, which we recovered and matched the fingerprints with those of
Mr. Hailey. I have an affidavit signed by Deputy Looney, and he states, under oath, that the man who did the shootin' was Carl Lee Hailey. There was an eyewitness, Murphy, the little crippled man that sweeps the courthouse and stutters real bad. I can get him here if you want."
"Any questions?" interrupted Buckley.
The D.A. nervously watched the jurors, who nervously watched the sheriff. Crowell stood with his back to the others, looking through the window.
"Any questions?" Buckley repeated.
"Yeah," answered Crowell as he turned and glared at the D.A., then at Ozzie. "Those two boys he shot, they raped his little girl, didn't they, Sheriff?"
"We're pretty sure they did," answered Ozzie.
"Well, one confessed, didn't he?"
"Yep."
Crowell walked slowly, boldly, arrogantly across the room, and stood at the other end of the tables.
He looked down at Ozzie. "You got kids, Sheriff?"
"Yep."
"You got a little girl?"
"Yep."
"Suppose she got raped and you got your hands on the man who did it. What would you do?"
Ozzie paused and looked anxiously at Buckley, whose neck had turned a deep red.
"I don't have to answer that," Ozzie replied.
"Is that so. You c ame before this grand jury to testify, didn't you? You're a witness, ain't you? Answer the question."
"I don't know what I'd do."
"Come on, Sheriff. Give us a straight answer. Tell the truth. What would you do?"
Ozzie felt embarrassed, confused, and angry at this stranger. He would like to tell the truth, and explain in detail how he would gladly castrate and mutilate and kill any pervert who touched his little girl. But he couldn't. The grand jury might agree and refuse to indict Carl Lee. Not that he wanted him indicted, but he knew the indictment was necessary. He looked sheepishly at Buckley, who was perspiring and seated now.
Crowell zeroed in on the sheriff with the zeal and fervor of a lawyer who had just caught a witness in an obvious lie.
"Come on, Sheriff," he taunted. "We're all listenin'. Tell the truth. What would you do to the rapist? Tell us. Come on."
Buckley was near panic. The biggest case of his wonderful career was about to be lost, not at trial, but in the grand jury room, in the first round, at the hands of an unemployed truck driver. He stood and struggled for words. "The witness does not have to answer."
Crowell turned and shouted at Buckley, "You sit down and shut up! We don't take orders from you. We can indict you if we want to, can't we?"
Buckley sat and looked blankly at Ozzie. Crowell was a ringer. He was too smart to be on a grand jury. Someone must have paid him. He knew too much. Yes, the grand jury could indict anyone.
Crowell retreated and returned to the window. They watched him until it appeared he was finished.
"Are you absolutely sure he done it, Ozzie?" asked Le-moyne Frady, an illegitimate distant cousin to Gwen Hailey.
"Yes, we're sure," Ozzie answered slowly, with both eyes on Crowell. ,
"And you want us to indict him for what?" asked Mr. Frady, the admiration for the sheriff obvious.
"Two counts of capital murder, and one count of assault on a peace officer."
"How much time you talkin' about?" asked Barney Flaggs, another black.
"Capital murder carries the gas chamber. Assault on a deputy carries life with no parole."
"And that's what you want, Ozzie?" asked Flaggs.
"Yeah, Barney, I say this grand jury should indict Mr. Hailey. I sure do."
"Any more questions?" interrupted Buckley.
"Not so fast," replied Crowell as he turned from the window. "I think you're tryin' to ram this case down our throats, Mr. Buckley, and I resent it. I wanna talk about it some. You sit down and if we need you, we'll ask you."
Buckley glared fiercely and pointed his finger. "I don't have to sit, and I don't have to stay quiet!" he yelled.
"Yes. Yes, you do," Crowell answered coolly with a caustic grin. "Because if you don't, we can make you leave, can't we, Mr. Buckley? We can ask you to leave this room, and if you refuse, we'll go ask the judge. He'll make you leave, won't he, Mr. Buckley?"
Rufus stood motionless, speechless, and stunned. His stomach turned flips and his knees were spongy, but he was frozen in place.
"So, if you would like to hear the rest of our deliberations, sit down and shut up."
Buckley sat next to the bailiff, who was now awake.
"Thank you," said Crowell. "I wanna ask you folks a question. How many of you would do or wanna do what Mr. Hailey did if someone raped your daughter, or maybe your wife, or what about your motner/ now many: i\.cu"t ^UUi hands."
Seven or eight hands shot up, and Buckley dropped his head. Crowell smiled and continued, "I admire him for what he did. It took guts. I'd hope I'd have the courage to do what he did, 'cause Lord knows I'd want to. Sometimes a man's just gotta do what he's gotta do. This man deserves a trophy, not an indictment."
Crowell walked slowly around the tables, enjoying the attention. "Before you vote, I want you to do one thing. I want you to think about that poor little girl. I think she's ten. Try to picture her layin' there, hands tied behind her, cryin', beggin' for her daddy. And think of those two outlaws, drunk, doped up, takin' turns rapin' and beatin' and kickin' her. Hell, they even tried to kill her. Think of your own daughter. Put her in the place of the little
Hailey girl.
"Now, wouldn't you say they got pretty much what they deserved? We should be thankful they're dead. I feel safer just knowin' those two bastards are no longer here to rape and kill other children. Mr. Hailey has done us a great service. Let's don't indict him. Let's send him home to his family, where he belongs. He's a good man who's done a good thing."
Crowell finished and returned to the window. Buckley watched him fearfully, and when he was certain he was finished, he stood. "Sir, are you finished?" There was no response.
"Good. Ladies and gentlemen of the grand jury. I would like to explain a few things. A grand jury is not supposed to try the case. That's what a trial jury is for. Mr. Hailey will get a fair trial before twelve fair and impartial jurors, and if he's
innocent, he'll be acquitted. But his guilt or innocence is not supposed to be determined by the grand jury.
You're supposed to decide, after listening to the State's version of the evidence, if there is a strong possibility a crime has been committed. Now, I submit to you that a crime has been committed by Carl Lee Hailey. Three crimes actually. He killed two men, and he wounded another. We have eyewitnesses."
Buckley was warming as he circled the tables. The confidence was back. "The duty of this grand jury is to indict him, and if he has a valid defense, he'll have a chance to present it at trial. If he has a legal reason for doing what he did, let him prove it at trial.
That's what trials are for. The State charges him with a crime, and the State must prove at trial he committed the crime. If he has a defense, and if he can convince the trial jury, he will be acquitted, I assure you. Good for him. But it's not the duty of this grand jury to decide today that Mr. Hailey should go free. There'll be another day for that, right,
Sheriff?"
Ozzie nodded and said, "That's right. The grand jury is to indict if the evidence is presented. The trial jury will not convict him if the State can't prove its case, or if he puts a good defense. But the grand jury don't worry 'bout things like that."
"Anything further from the grand jury?" Buckley asked anxiously. "Okay, we need a motion."
"I make a motion we don't indict him for anything," yelled Crowell.
"Second," mumbled Barney Flaggs.
Buckley's knees quivered. He tried to speak, but nothing came forth. Ozzie suppressed his joy.
"We have a motion and a second," announced Mrs. Gossett. "All in favor raise your hands."
Five black hands went up, along with Crowell's. Sk votes. The motion failed.
"Whatta we do now?" asked Mrs. Gossett.
Buckley spoke rapidly: "Someone make a motion to indict Mr. Hailey for two counts of capital murder and one count of assault on a peace officer."
"So move," said one of the whites.
"Second," said another.
"All in favor, raise your hands," said Mrs. Gossett. "I count twelve hands. All opposed-I count five plus mine makes six. Twelve to six. What does that mean?"
"That means he's been indicted," Buckley replied proudly. He breathed normally again, and the color returned to his face. He whispered to a secretary, then addressed the grand jury. "Let's take a ten-minute recess. We have about forty more cases to work on, so please don't be gone long. I would like to remind you of something Judge Noose said this morning. These deliberations are extremely confidential.
You are not to discuss any 01 your worK ouisiue room-"
"What he's tryin' to say," interrupted Crowell, "is that we can't tell anybody that he came within one vote of not gettin' the indictments. Ain't that right, Buckley?"
The D.A. quickly left the room and slammed the door.
Surrounded by dozens of cameras and reporters, Buckley stood on the front steps of the courthouse and waved copies of the indictments. He preached, lectured, moralized, praised the grand jury, sermonized against crime and vigilantes, and condemned Carl Lee_Hailey. Bring on the trial. Put the jury in the box. He guaranteed a conviction. He guaranteed a death penalty. He was obnoxious, offensive, arrogant, self-righteous. He was himself. Vintage Buckley. A few of the reporters left, but he labored on. He extolled himself and his trial skills and his ninety, no, ninety-five percent conviction rate. More reporters left. More cameras were turned off. He praised Judge Noose for his wisdom and fairness. He acclaimed the intelligence and good judgment of Ford County jurors.
He outlasted them. They grew weary of him and they all left.
Stump Sisson was the Klan's Imperial Wizard for Mississippi, and he had called the meeting at the small cabin deep in the pine forests of Nettles County, two hundred and thirty miles south of Ford County. There were no robes, rituals, or speeches. The small group of Klansmen discussed the events in Ford County with a Mr. Freddie Cobb, brother of Billy Ray Cobb, deceased. Freddie had called a friend who called Stump to arrange the meeting.
Had they indicted the nigger? Cobb was not sure, but he had heard the trial would be in late summer, or early fall. What concerned him most was all the talk about the nigger pleading insanity and getting off. It wasn't right. The nigger killed his brother in cold blood, planned the shooting. He hid in a closet and waited for his brother. It was coldblooded murder, and now there was talk of the nigger walking free. What could the
Klan do about it? The niggers have plenty of protection nowadays-the NAACP, ACLU, a thousand other civil rights groups, plus the courts and the government. Hell, whit e folks ain't got a chance, except for the Klan. Who else would march and stand up for white people. All the laws favor the niggers, and the liberal
nigger-loving politicians keep making more laws against white people. Somebody's got to stand up for them. That's why he called the Klan.
Is the nigger in jail? Yes, and he's treated like a king. Got a nigger sheriff up there, Walls, and he likes this nigger. Gives him special privileges and extra protection. The sheriffs another story. Someone said Hailey might get out of jail this week on bond. Just a rumor.
They hoped he got out.
What about your brother? Did he rape her? We're not sure, probably not. Willard, the other guy, confessed to rape, but Billy Ray never confessed. He had plenty of women.
Why would he rape a little nigger girl? And if he did, what was the big deal?
Who's the nigger's lawyer? Brigance, a local boy in Clanton. Young, but pretty good.
Does a lot of criminal work and has a good reputation, won several minuet told some reporters the nigger would plead insanity and get off.
Who's the judge? Don't know yet. Bullard was the county judge, but someone said he would not hear the case. There's talk of moving the case to another county, so who knows who will be the judge.
Sisson and the Kluxers listened intently to this ignorant redneck. They liked the part about the NAACP and the government and the politicians, but they had also read the papers and watched TV and they knew his brother had received justice. But at the hands of a nigger. It was unthinkable. The case had real potential. With the trial several months away, there was time to plan a rebellion. They could march during the day around the courthouse in their white robes and pointed, hooded masks. They could make speeches to a captive audience and parade in front of the cameras. The press would love it-hate them, but love the altercations, the disruptions. And at night they could intimidate with burning crosses and threatening phone calls. The targets would be easy and unsuspecting.
Violence would be unavoidable. They knew how to provoke it. They fully appreciated what the sight of marching white robes did to crowds of angry niggers.
Ford County could be their playground for hide and seek, search and destroy, and hit and run. They had time to organize and call in comrades from other states. What Kluxer would miss this golden moment? And new recruits? Why, this case could fuel the fires of racism and bring nigger haters out of the woods and onto the streets. Membership was down. Hailey would be their new battle cry, the rallying point.
"Mr. Cobb, can you get us the names and addresses of the nigger, his family, his lawyer, the judge, and the jurors?" asked Sisson.
Cobb pondered this task. "Everbody but the jurors. They ain't been picked yet."
"When will you know them?"
"Damned if I know. I guess at trial. What're y'all thinkin'?"
"We're not sure, but the Klan most likely will get involved. We need to flex our muscle a bit, and this could be a good opportunity."
"Can I help?" Cobb asked eagerly.
"Sure, but you need to be a member."
"We ain't got no Klan up there. It folded a long time ago. My granddaddy used to be a member."
"You mean the grandfather of the victim was a Klansman?"
"Yep," Cobb answered proudly.
"Well, then, we must get involved." The Klansmen shook their heads in disbelief and vowed revenge. They explained to Cobb that if he could get five or six friends of similar thinking and motivation to agree to join, they would have a big, secret ceremony deep in the woods of Ford County with a huge burning cross and all sorts of rituals.-They would be inducted as members, full- fledged members, of the Ku Klux Klan. Ford County
Klavern. And they would all join in and make a spectacle of the trial of Carl Lee Hailey.
They would raise so much hell in Ford County this summer that no juror with any common sense would consider voting to acquit the nigger. Just recruit half a dozen more, and they would make him the leader of the Ford County Klavern. Cobb said he had enough cousins to start a klavern. He left the meeting drunk with excitement of being a
Klansman, just like his grandfather.
Buckley's timing was a little off. His 4:00 P.M. press show was ignored by the evening news. Jake flipped the channels on a small black and white in his office, and laughed out loud when the networks and then Memphis, then Jackson, then Tupelo signed off with no news of the indictments.
He could see the Buckley family in their den glued to the set, turning knobs and searching desperately for their hero while he yelled at them all to be quiet. And then at seven, after the Tupelo weather, the last weather, they backed away and left him alone in his recliner. Maybe at ten, he probably said.
At ten, Jake and Carla laid cross-legged and tangled in the dark on the sofa, waiting on the news.
Finally, there he was, on trie iront steps, waving papcis anu awuuiig i^*, u street preacher while the Channel 4 man on the scene explained that this was Rufus Buckley, the D.A. who would prosecute Carl Lee Hailey now that he had been indicted. After an awful glimpse of Buckley, the report panned around the square for a wonderful view of downtown Clanton, and then finally back to the reporter for two sentences about a trial in late summer.
"He's offensive," Carla said. "Why would he call a press conference to announce the indictments?"
"He's a prosecutor. We defense lawyers hate the press."
"I've noticed. My scrapbook is rapidly filling up."
"Be sure and make copies for Mom."
"Will you autograph it for her?"
"Only for a fee. Yours, I will autograph for free."
"Fine. And if you lose, I'll send you a bill for clipping and pasting."
"I remind you, dear, that I have never lost a murder case. Three and oh, as a matter of fact."
Carla punched the remote control and the weatherman remained but his volume disappeared. "You know what I dislike most about your murder trials?" She kicked the cushions from her thin, bronze, almost perfect legs.
"The blood, the carnage, the gruesomeness?"
"No." She unfolded her shoulder-length hair and let it fall around her on the arm of the sofa.
"The loss of life, regardless of how insignificant?"
"No." She was wearing one of his old, starched-out, sixteen-by-thirty-four, pinpoint
Oxford button- downs, and she began to play with the buttons.
"The horrible specter of an innocent man facing the gas chamber?"
"No." She was unbuttoning it. The bluish gray rays from the television flashed like a strobe in the dark room as the artchorperson smiled and mouthed good night.
"The fear of a young family as the father walks into the courtroom and faces a jury of his peers?"
"No." It was unbuttoned, and under it a thin, fluorescent band of white silk glittered against the brown skin.
"The latent unfairness of our judicial system?"
"No." She slid an almost perfect bronze leg up, up, up to the back of the sofa where it gently came to rest.
"The unethical and unscrupulous tactics employed by cops and prosecutors to nail innocent defendants?"
"No." She unsnapped the band of silk between the two almost perfect breasts.
"The fervor, the fury, the intensity, the uncontrolled emotions, the struggle of the human spirit, the unbridled passion?"
"Close enough," she said. Shirts and shorts ricocheted off the lamps and coffee tables as the bodies meshed deep under the cushions. The old sofa, a gift from her parents, rocked and squeaked on the ancient hardwood floor. It was sturdy, and accustomed to the rocking and squeaking. Max the mix- breed instinctively ran down the hall to stand guard by Hanna's door.
Harry Rex Vonner was a huge slob of a lawyer who specialized in nasty divorce cases and perpetually kept some jerk in jail for back child support. He was vile and vicious, and his services were in great demand by divorcing parties in Ford County. He could get the children, the house, the farm, the VCR, and microwave, everything. One wealthy farmer kept him on retainer just so the current wife couldn't hire him for the next divorce. Harry
Rex sent his criminal cases to Jake, and Jake sent his nasty divorces to Harry Rex. They were friends and disliked the other lawyers, especially the Sullivan firm.
Tuesday morning he barged in and growled at Ethel: "Jake in?" He lumbered toward the stairs, glaring at her and daring her to speak. She nodded, knowing better than to ask if he was expected. He had cursed her before. He had cursed everybody before.
The stairway shook as he thundered upward. He was gasping for air as he entered the big office.
"Morning, Harry Rex. You gonna make it?"
"Why don't you get an office downstairs?" he demanded between breaths.
"You need the exercise. If it weren't for those stairs your weight would be over three hundred."
"Thanks. Say, I just came from the courtroom. Noose wants you in chambers at ten-thirty if possible. Wants to talk about Hailey with you and Buckley. Set up arraignment, trial date, all that crap. He asked me to tell you."
"Good. I'll be there."
"I guess you heard about the grand jury?"
"Sure. I've got a copy of the indictment right here."
Harry Rex smiled. "No. No, I mean the vote on the indictment."
Jake froze and looked at him curiously. Harry Rex moved in silent and dark circles like a cloud over the county. He was an endless source of gossip and rumor, and took great pride in spreading only the truth-most of the time. He was the first to
know almost everything. The legend of Harry Rex began twenty years earlier with his first jury trial.
The railroad he had sued for millions refused to offer a dime, and after three days of trial the jur y retired to deliberate. The railroad lawyers became concerned when the jury failed to return with a quick verdict in their favor. They offered Harry Rex twenty-five thousand to settle when the deliberations went into the second day. With nerves of steel, he told them to go to hell. His client wanted the money. He told his client to go to hell.
Hours later a weary and fatigued jury returned with a verdict for one hundred fifty thousand. Harry Rex shot the bird at the railroad lawyers, snubbed his clients and went to the bar at the Best Western. He bought drinks for everyone, and during the course of the long evening explained in detail exactly how he had wired the jury room and knew exactly what the jury was up to. Word spread, and Murphy found a series of wires running through the heating ducts to the jury room. The State Bar Association snooped around, but found nothing. For twenty years the judges had ordered the bailiffs to inspect the jury room when Harry Rex was in any way connected with a case.
"How do you know the vote?" Jake asked, suspicion hanging on every syllable.
"I got sources."
"Okay, what was the vote?"
"Twelve to six. One fewer vote and you wouldn't be holding that indictment."
"Twelve to six," Jake repeated.
"Buckley near 'bout died. A guy named Crowell, white guy, took charge and almost convinced enough of them not to indict your man."
"Do you know Crowell?"
"I handled his divorce two years ago. He lived in Jackson until his first wife was raped by a nigger. She went crazy and they got a divorce. She took a steak knife and sliced her wrists. Then he moved to Clanton and married some sleazebag out in the county. Lasted about a year. He ate Buckley's lunch. Told him to shut up and sit down. I wish I could've seen it."
"Sounds like you did."
"Naw. Just got a good source."
"Who?"
"Jake, come on."
"You been wiring rooms again?"
"Nope. I just listen. That's a good sign, ain't it?"
"What?"
"The close vote. Six outta eighteen voted to let him walk. Five niggers and Crowell.
That's a good sign. Just get a couple of niggers on the jury and hang it. Right?"
"It's not that easy. If it's tried in this county there's a good chance we'll have an all-white jury. They're common here, and as you know, they're still very constitutional. Plus this guy Crowell sounds like he came outta nowhere."
"That's what Buckley thought. -You should see that ass. He's in the courtroom strutting around ready to sign autographs over his big TV splash last night. No one wants to talk about it, so he manages to work it into every conversation. He's like a kid begging for attention."
"Be sweet. He may be your next governor."
"Not if he loses Hailey. And he's gonna lose Hailey, Jake. We'll pick us a good jury, twelve good and faithful citizens, then we'll buy them."
"I didn't hear that."
"Works every time."
A few minutes after ten-thirty, Jake entered the judge's chamber behind the courtroom and coolly shook hands with Buckley, Musgrove, and Ichabod. They had been waiting on him. Noose waved him toward a seat and sat behind the desk.
"Jake, this will take just a few minutes." He peered down that nose. "I would like to arraign Carl Lee Hailey in the morning at nine. Any problems with that?"
"No. That'll be fine," replied Jake.
"We'll have some other arraignments in the morning, then we start a burglary case at ten. Right, Rufus?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay. Now let's discuss a trial date for Mr. Hailey. As you know, the next term of court here is in late August- third Monday-and I'm sure the docket will be just as crowded then.
Because of the nature of this case and, frankly, because of the publicity, I think it would be best if we had a trial as soon as practical."
"The sooner the better," inserted Buckley.
"Jake, how long will you need to prepare for trial?"
"Sixty days."
"Sixty days!" Buckley repeated in disbelief. "Why so long?"
Jake ignored him and watched Ichabod adjust his reading glasses and study his calendar.
"Would it be safe to anticipate a request for a change of venue?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Won't make any difference," Buckley said. "We'll get a conviction anywhere."
"Save it for the cameras, Rufus," Jake said quietly.
"You shouldn't talk about cameras," Buckley shot back. "You seem to enjoy them yourself."
"Gentlemen, please," Noose said. "What other pretrial motions can we expect from the defense?"
Jake thought for a moment. "There will be others."
"May I inquire about the others?" asked Noose with a hint of irritation.
"Judge, I really don't care to discuss my defense at this time. We just received the indictment and I haven't discussed it with my client. We obviously have some work to do."
"How much time do you need?"
"Sixty days."
"Are you kidding!" Buckley shouted. "Is this a joke? The State could try it tomorrow,
Judge. Sixty days is ridiculous."
Jake began to burn but said nothing. Buckley walked to the window and mumbled to himself in disbelief.
Noose studied his calendar. "Why sixty days?"
"It could be a complicated case."
Buckley laughed and continued shaking his head.
"Then we can expect a defense of insanity?" asked the judge.
"Yes, sir. And it will take time to have Mr. Hailey examined by a psychiatrist. Then the
State will of course want him examined by its doctors."
"I see."
"And we may have other pretnal matters. 11 s a oig case, and I want to make sure we have time to adequately prepare."
"Mr. Buckley?" said the judge.
"Whatever. It makes no difference to the State. We'll be ready. We could try it tomorrow."
Noose scribbled on his calendar and adjusted his reading glasses, which were perched on the tip of that nose and held in place by a tiny wart located perfectly at the foot of the beak. Due to the size of the nose and the odd shape of the head, specially built reading glasses with extra long stems were required for His Honor, who never used them for reading or any other purpose except in a vain effort to distract from the size and shape of the nose. Jake had always suspected this, but lacked the courage to inform His Honor that the ridiculous, orange-tinted hexagonal glasses diverted attention from everything else directly to the nose.
"How long do you anticipate for trial, Jake?" Noose asked.
"Three or four days. But it could take three days to pick the jury."
"Mr. Buckley?"
"Sounds about right. But I don't understand why it takes sixty days to prepare for a three-day trial. I think it should be tried sooner."
"Relax, Rufus," Jake said calmly. "The cameras will be here in sixty days, even ninety days. They won't forget about you. You can give interviews, hold press conferences, preach sermons, everything. The works. But don't worry so much. You'll get your chance."
Buckley's eyes narrowed and his face reddened. He took three steps in Jake's direction.
"If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Brigance, you've given more interviews and seen more cameras than I have during the past week."
"I know, and you're jealous, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not jealous! I don't care about the cameras-"
"Since when?"
"Gentlemen, please," Noose interrupted. "This promises to be a long, emotional case. I expect my attorneys to act like professionals. Now, my calendar is congested. The only opening I have is the week of July 22. Does that present a problem?"
"We can try it that week," said Musgrove.
Jake smiled at Buckley and flipped through his pocket calendar. "Looks good to me."
"Fine. All motions must be filed and pretrial matters disposed of by Monday, July 8.
Arraignment is set for tomorrow at nine. Any questions?"
Jake stood and shook hands with Noose and Musgrove, and left.
After lunch he visited his famous client in Ozzie's office at the jail. A copy of the indictment had been served on Carl Lee in his cell. He had some questions for his lawyer.
"What's capital murder?"
"The worst kind."
"How many kinds are there?"
"Basically three. Manslaughter, regular murder, and capital murder."
"What's manslaughter?"
"Twenty years."
"What's regular murder?"
"Twenty to life."
"What's capital murder?"
"Gas chamber."
"What's aggravated assault on an officer?"
"Life. No parole."
Carl Lee studied the indictment carefully. "You mean I got two gas chambers and a life sentence."
"Not yet. You're entitled to a trial first. Which, by the way, has been set for July 22."
"That's two months away! Why so long?"
"We need the time. It'll take that long to find a psychiatrist who'll say you were crazy.
Then Buckley gets to send you to Whitfield to be examined by the State's doctors, and they'll all say you were not crazy at the time. We file motions, Buckley files motions, we have a bunch of hearings. It takes time."
"No way to have it sooner?"
"We don't want it sooner."
"What if I do?" Carl Lee snapped.
Jake studied him carefully. "What's the matter, Dig man?"
"I gotta get outta here, and fast."
"I thought you said jail wasn't so bad."
"It ain't, but I need to get home. Gwen's outta money, can't find a job. Lester's in trouble with his wife. She's callin' all the time, so he won't last much longer. I hate to ask my folk for help."
"But they will, won't they?"
"Some. They got their own problems. You gotta get me outta here, Jake."
"Look, you'll be arraigned in the morning at nine. The trial is July 22, and the date won't be changed, so forget about that. Have I explained the arraignment to you?" Carl Lee shook his head.
"It won't last twenty minutes. We appear before Judge Noose in the big courtroom. He'll ask you some questions, then ask me some questions. He'll read the indictment to yo u in open court, and ask if you've received a copy. Then he'll ask you to plead guilty or not guilty. When you answer not guilty, he'll set the trial date. You'll sit down, and me and
Buckley will get into a big fight over your bond. Noose will refuse to set a bond, then they'll bring you back to the jail, where you'll stay until the trial."
"What about after the trial?"
Jake smiled. "Naw, you won't be in jail after the trial."
"You promise?"
"Nope. No promises. Any questions about tomorrow?"
"No. Say, Jake, uh, how much money did I pay you?"
Jake hesitated and smelled trouble. "Why do you ask?"
"Just thinkin'."
"Nine hundred, plus a note."
Gwen had less than a hundred dollars. Bills were due and food was low. She had visited on Sunday and cried for an hour. Panic was a part of her life, her makeup, her composition. But he knew they were broke and she was scared. Her family would be of little help, maybe some vegetables from the garden and a few bucks for milk and eggs.
When it came to funerals and hospital stays they were very dependable. They were generous and gave of their time freely to wail and moan and put on a show. But when real money was needed they scattered like chickens. He had little use for her family, and his wasn't much better.
He wanted to ask Jake for a hundred dollars, but decided to wait until Gwen was completely broke. It would be easier then.
Jake flipped through his legal pad and waited for Carl Lee to ask for money. Criminal clients, especially the blacks, always asked for some of the fee back after it was paid. He doubted he would ever see more than nine hundred dollars, and he was not about to return any. Besides, the blacks always took care of their own. The families would be there and the churches would get involved. No one would starve.
He waited and placed the legal pad and file in his briefcase. "Any questions, Carl Lee?"
"Yeah. What can I say tomorrow?"
"What do you want to say?"
"I wanna tell that judge why I shot them boys. They raped my daughter. They needed shootin'."
"And you want to explain that to the judge tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"And you think he'll turn you loose once you explain it all?"
Carl Lee said nothing.
"Look, Carl Lee, you hired me to be your lawyer. And you hired me because you have confidence in me, right? And if I want you to say something tomorrow, I'll tell you. If I don't, you stay quiet. When you go to trial in July you'll have the chance to tell your side.
But in the meantime, I'll do the talking."
"You got that right."
Lester and Gwen piled the boys and Tonya in the red Cadillac and drove to the doctor's building next to the hospital. The rape was two weeks in the past. Tbnya walked with a slight limp and wanted to run and climb steps with her brothers. But her mother held her hand. The soreness in her legs and buttocks was almost gone, the bandages on her wrists and ankles had been removed by the doctor last week, and the cuts were healing nicely.
The gauze and cotton between her legs remained.
In a small room she unaressea anu sat HCAI iu n^,, mother on a padded table. Her mother hugged her and helped her stay warm. The doctor poked in her mouth and rubbed her jaw. He held her wrists and ankles and inspected them. He laid her on the table and touched between her legs. She cried and clutched her mother, who leaned over her.
She was hurting again.
At five Wednesday morning, Jake sipped coffee in his office and stared through the
French doors across the dark courtyard square. He had slept fitfully, and several hours earlier had given up and left his warm bed in a desperate effort to find a nameless
Georgia case that, as he thought he remembered from law school, required the judge to allow bail in a capital murder case if the defendant had no prior criminal record, owned property in the county, had a stable job, and had plenty of relatives nearby. It had not been found. He did find a battery of recent, well-reasoned, clear, and unambiguous
Mississippi cases allowing the judge complete discretion in denying bail to such defendants. That was the law and Jake now knew it well, but he needed something to argue to Ichabod. He dreaded asking bail for Carl Lee. Buckley would scream and preach and cite those wonderful cases, and Noose would smile and listen, then deny bail. Jake would get his tail kicked in the first skirmish.
"You're here early this morning, sweetheart," Dell said to her favorite customer as she poured his coffee.
"At least I'm here." He had missed a few mornings since the amputation. Looney was popular, and there was resentment at the Coffee Shop and around town for Hailey's lawyer. He was aware of it and tried to ignore it.
There was resentment among many for any lawyer who would defend a nigger for killing two white men.
"You got a minute?" Jake asked.
"Sure," Dell said, looking around. At five-fifteen, the cafe was not yet full. She sat across from Jake in a small booth and poured coffee.
"What's the talk in here?" he asked.
"The usual. Politics, fishing, farming. It never changes. I've been here for twenty-one years, serving the same food to the same people, and they're still talking about the same things."
"Nothing new?"
"Hailey. We get a lotta talk about tnat. except wiicn me strangers are here, then it goes back to the usual."
"Why?"
"Because if you act like you know anything about the case, some reporter will follow you outside with a bunch of questions."
"That bad, huh?"
"No. It's great. Business has never been better."
Jake smiled and buttered his grits, then added Tabasco.
"How do you feel about the case?"
Dell scratched her nose with long, red, fake fingernails and blew into her coffee. She was famous for her bluntness, and he was hoping for a straight answer.
"He's guilty. He killed them. It's cut and dried. But he had the best damned excuse I've ever seen. There's some sympathy for him."
"Let's say you're on the jury. Guilty or innocent?"
She watched the front door and waved at a regular. "Well, my instinct is to forgive anyone who kills a rapist. Especially a father. But, on the other hand, we can't allow people to grab guns and hand out their own justice. Can you prove he was crazy when he did it?"
"Let's assume I can."
"Then I would vote not guilty, even though I don't think he was crazy."
He smeared strawberry preserves on dry toast and nodded his approval.
"But what about Looney?" she asked. "He's a friend of mine."
"It was an accident."
"Is that good enough?"
"No. No, it's not. The gun did not go off by accident. Looney was accidentally shot, but I doubt if that's a valid defense. Would you convict him for shooting Looney?",
"Maybe," she answered slowly. "He lost a leg."
How could he be insane when he shot Cobb and Wil-lard, and not when he shot Looney,
Jake thought, but didn't ask. He changed the subject.
"What's the gossip on me?"
"About the same. Someone was asking where you were the other day, and said you don't have time for us now that you're a celebrity. I've heard some mumbling, about you and the nigger, but it's pretty quiet. They don't criticize you loudly. I won't let them."
"You're a sweetheart."
"I'm a mean bitch and you know it."
"No. You just try to be."
"Yeah, watch this." She jumped from the booth and shouted abuse at a table of farmers who had motioned for more coffee. Jake finished alone, and returned to the office.
When Ethel arrived at eight-thirty, two reporters were loitering on the sidewalk outside the locked door. They followed Ethel inside and demanded to see Mr. Brigance. She refused, and asked them to leave. They refused, and repeated their demand. Jake heard the commotion downstairs and locked his door. Let Ethel fight with them.
From his office he watched a camera crew set up by the rear door of the courthouse. He smiled and felt a wonderful surge of adrenaline. He could see himself on the evening news walking briskly, stern, businesslike, across the street followed by reporters begging for dialogue but getting no comments. And this was just the arraignment. Imagine the trial! Cameras everywhere, reporters yelling questions, front page stories, perhaps magazine covers. An Atlanta paper had called it the most sensational murder in the South in twenty years. He would have taken the case for free, almost.
Moments later he interrupted the argument downstairs, and warmly greeted the reporters.
Ethel disappeared into the conference room.
"Could you answer some questions?" one of them asked.
"No," Jake answered politely. "I have to meet with Judge Noose."
"Just a couple of questions?"
"No. But there will be a press conference at three P.M." Jake opened the door, and the reporters followed him onto the sidewalk.
"Where's the press conference?"
"In my office."
"What's the purpose?"
"To discuss the case."
Jake walked slowly across the street and up the short driveway to the courthouse answering questions along me way.
"Will Mr. Hailey be at the press conference?"
"Yes, along with his family."
"The girl, too?"
"Yes, she will be there."
"Will Mr. Hailey -answer questions?"
"Maybe. I haven't decided."
Jake said good day, and disappeared into the courthouse, leaving the reporters to chat and gossip about the press conference.
Buckley entered the courthouse through the huge wooden front doors, amid no fanfare.
He had hoped for a camera or two, but was dismayed to learn they were gathering at the rear door to catch a glimpse of the defendant. He would use the rear door in the future.
Judge Noose parked by a fire hydrant in front of the post office and loped along th e east sidewalk across the courtyard square and into the courthouse. He, too, attracted no attention, except for a few curious stares.
Ozzie peered through the front windows of the jail and watched the mob waiting for Carl
Lee in the parking lot. The ploy of another end run crossed his mind, but he dismissed it.
His office had received two dozen death threats on Carl Lee, and Ozzie took a few seriously. They were specific, with dates and places. But most were just general, everyday death threats. And this was just the arraignment. He thought of the trial, and mumbled something to Moss Junior. They surrounded Carl Lee with uniformed bodies and marched him down the sidewalk, past the press and into a rented step van. Six deputies and a driver piled in. Escorted by Ozzie's three newest patrol cars, the van drove quickly to the courthouse.
Noose had scheduled a dozen arraignments for 9:00 A.M., and when he settled into the chair on the bench he shifted through the files until he found Hailey's. He looked to the front row in the courtroom and saw a somber group of suspicious-looking men, all newly indicted. At the far end of the front row, two deputies sat next to a handcuffed defendant, and Brigance was whispering to him. Must be Hailey.
Noose picked up a red court file and adjusted his read- ing glasses so they would not hinder his reading. "State versus Carl Lee Hailey, case number 3889. Will Mr. Hailey come forward?" The handcuffs were removed, and Carl Lee followed his attorney to the bench, where they stood looking up to His Honor, who quietly and nervously scanned the indictment in the file. The courtroom grew silent. Buckley rose and strutted slowly to within a few feet of the defendant. The artists near the railing busily sketched the scene.
Jake glared at Buckley, who had no reason to stand before the bench during the arraignment. The D.A. was dressed in his finest black three-piece polyester suit. Every hair on his huge head had been meticulously combed and plastered in place. He had the appearance of a television evangelist.
Jake walked to Buckley and whispered, "That's a nice suit, Rufus."
"Thanks," he replied, somewhat off-guard.
"Does it glow in the dark?" Jake asked, then returned to the side of his client.
"Are you Carl Lee Hailey?" asked the judge.
"Yes."
"Mr. Brigance your attorney?"
"Yes."
"I'm holding here a copy of an indictment returned against you by the grand jury. Have you been served a copy of this?"
"Yes."
"Have you read it?"
"Yes."
"Have you discussed it with your attorney?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand it?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'm required by law to read it to you in open court." Noose cleared his throat. "
'The grand jurors of the State of Mississippi, taken from the body of good and lawful citizens of Ford County thereof, duly elected, empaneled, sworn, and charged to inquire in and for said county and state aforesaid, in the name and under the authority of the State of Mississippi, upon their oaths present that Carl Lee
Hailey, late of the county and state aloresaia, wimm me jurisdiction of this court, did unlawfully, willfully, and feloniously and intentionally and with malice aforethought, kill and murder Billy Ray Cobb, a human being, and Pete Wil-lard, a
human being, and did shoot and attempt to kill DeWayne Looney, a peace officer, in direct violation of the
Mississippi Code, and against the peace and dignity of the State of Mississippi. A true bill. Signed, Laverne Gossett, foreman of the grand jury."
Noose caught his breath. "Do you understand the charges against you?"
"Yes."
"Do you understand that if convicted you could be put to death in the gas chamber at the state penitentiary at Parchman?"
"Yes."
"Do you wish to plead guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty."
Noose reviewed his calendar as the audience watched intently. The reporters took notes.
The artists focused-on the principals, including Buckley, who had managed to enter the picture and stand sideways, allowing for a profile shot. He was anxious to say something.
He scowled contemptuously at the rear of Carl Lee's head, as if he could not wait to fry this murderer. He swaggered to the table where Musgrove was sitting and the two whispered importantly. He marched across the courtroom and engaged in hushed conversation with one of the clerks. Then he returned to the bench where the defendant stood motionless next to his attorney, who was aware of Buckley's show and was trying desperately to ignore it.
"Mr. Hailey," Noose squeaked, "your trial is set for Monday, July 22. All pretrial motions and matters must be filed by June 24, and disposed of by July 8."
Carl Lee and Jake nodded.
"Anything further?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Buckley boomed loud enough for the reporters in the rotunda. "The
State opposes any request for bail by this defendant."
Jake gripped his fists and wanted to scream. "Your Honor, the defendant has not yet asked for bail. Mr. Buckley, as usual, is confused about the procedure. He cannot oppose a request until it is made. He should've learned that in law school."
Buckley was stung, but continued. "Your Honor, Mr. Brigance always requests bail, and
I'm sure he'll request it today. The State will oppose any such request."
"Well, why don't you wait until he makes his request?" Noose asked the D.A. with a touch of irritation.
"Very well," Buckley said. His face had reddened and he glared at Jake.
"Do you plan to request bail?" Noose asked.
"I had planned to at the proper time, but before I got a chance Mr. Buckley intervened with his theatrics-"
"Never mind Mr. Buckley," Noose interrupted.
"I know, Judge, he's just confused."
"Bail, Mr. Brigance?"
"Yes, I had planned to request it."
"I thought so, and I've already considered whether bail should be allowed in this case. As you know, it is completely within my discretion, and I never allow bail in a capital murder case. I don't feel as though an exception is in order in this case."
"You mean you've decided to deny bail?"
"Yes." '
Jake shrugged his shoulders and laid a file on the table. "Good enough."
"Anything further?" Noose asked.
"No, Your Honor," Jake said.
Buckley shook his head in silence.
"Good. Mr. Hailey, you are hereby ordered to remain in the custody of the Ford County sheriff until trial. You are dismissed."
Carl Lee returned to the front row, where a deputy waited with the handcuffs. Jake opened his briefcase, and was stuffing it with files and papers when Buckley grabbed his arm.
"That was a cheap shot, Brigance," he said through clenched teeth.
"You asked for it," Jake replied. "Let go of my arm."
Buckley released his arm. "I don't appreciate it."
"Too bad, big man. You shouldn't talk so mucn. Big mouths get burned." Buckley had three inches and fifty pounds on Jake, and his irritation was growing. The exchange had drawn attention, and a deputy moved between them. Jake winked at Buckley and left the courtroom.
At two the Hailey clan, led by Uncle Lester, entered Jake's office through the rear door.
Jake met them in a small office next to the conference room downstairs. They talked about the press conference. Twenty minutes later, Ozzie and Carl Lee strolled nonchalantly through the rear door, and Jake led them to the office, where Carl Lee was reunited with his family. Ozzie and Jake left the room.
The press conference was carefully orchestrated by Jake, who marveled at his ability to manipulate the press and its willingness to be manipulated. On one side of the long conference table he sat with the three Hailey boys standing behind him. Gwen was seated to his left, Carl Lee to his right holding Tonya.
Legal etiquette forbade revealing the identity of a child rape victim, but Tonya was different. Her name, face, and age were well known because of her daddy. She had already been exposed to the world, and Jake wanted her to be seen and photographed in her best white Sunday dress sitting on her daddy's knee. The jurors, whoever they were and wherever they lived, would be watching. Reporters crammed into the room, which overflowed and trailed down the hall to the reception area, where Ethel rudely ordered them to sit and leave her alone. A deputy guarded the front door, and two others sat on the rear steps. Sheriff Walls and Lester stood awkwardly behind the Haileys and their lawyer. Microphones were clustered on the table in front of Jake, and the cameras clicked and flashed under the warm television lights.
"I have a few prefatory remarks," Jake began. "First, all questions will be answered by me. No questions are to be directed to Mr. Hailey or any member of his family. If he is asked a question, I will instruct him not to answer. Second, I would like to introduce his family. To my left is his wife, Gwen Hailey. Standing behind us are his sons, Carl Lee,
Jr., Jarvis, and Robert. Behind the boys is Mr. Hailey's brother, Lester Hailey."
Jake paused and smiled at Tonya. "Sitting in her daddy's lap is Tonya Hailey. Now I'll answer questions."
"What happened in court this morning?"
"Mr. Hailey was arraigned, he pled not guilty, and his trial was set for July 22."
"Was there an altercation between you and the district attorney?"
"Yes. After the arraignment, Mr. Buckley approached me, grabbed my arm, and looked as if he planned to assault me when a deputy intervened."
"What caused it?"
"Mr. Buckley has a tendency to crack under pressure."
"Are you and Mr. Buckley friends?"
"No."
"Will the trial be in Clanton?"
"A motion to change venue will be filed by the defense. The location of the trial will be determined by Judge Noose. No predictions."
" Could you describe what this has done to the Hailey family?"
Jake thought a minute while the cameras rolled. He glanced at Carl Lee and Tonya.
"You're looking at a very nice family. Two weeks ago life was good and simple. There was a job at the paper mill, a little money in the bank, security, stability, church every
Sunday together, a loving family. Then, for reasons known only to God, two drunk, drugged punks committed a horrible, violent act against this little ten-year-old girl. They shocked us, and made us all feel sick. They ruined her life, and the lives of her parents and family. It was too much for her father. He snapped. He
broke. Now he's in jail facing trial and the prospect of the gas chamber. The job is gone. The money is gone. The innocence is gone. The children face the possibility of growing up without their father.
Their mother must now find a job to support them, and she'll have to beg and borrow from friends and relatives in order to survive.
"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.
\-*aii j-jcc a acwvjiiu VIMIXU ui me illuming wao ilia aliuilicy, 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?"
"No."
"It's true. We laid next to each other in a hospital in Saigon for two months, then got our black asses outta Vietnam. Don't plan to go back."
Ozzie was listening intently.
"And now that my man is in trouble, I'd like to help."
"Did he get the M-16 from you?"
Tiny grunted and Cat smiled. "Of course not."
"Would you like to see him?"
"Why sure. It's that easy?"
"Yep. If you can move Tiny away from that door, I'll get him."
Tiny stepped aside, and two minutes later Ozzie was back with the prisoner. Cat yelled at him, hugged him, and they patted each other like boxers. Carl Lee looked awkwardly at
Ozzie, who took the hint and left. Tiny again closed the door and stood guard. Carl Lee moved two chairs together so they could face each other closely and talk.
Cat spoke first. "I'm proud of you, big man, for what you did. Real proud. Why didn't you tell me that's why you wanted the gun?"
"Just didn't."
"How was it?"
"Just like 'Nam, except they couldn't shoot back."
"That's the best way."
"Yeah, I guess. I just wish none of this had to happen."
"You ain't sorry, are you?"
Carl Lee rocked in his chair and studied the ceiling. "I'd do it over, so I got no regrets about that. I just wish they hadn't messed with my little girl. I wish she was the same. I wish none of it ever happened."
"Right, right. It's gotta be tough on you here."
"I ain't worried 'bout me. I'm real concerned with my family."
"Right, right. How's the wife?"
"She's okay. She'll make it."
"I saw in the paper where the trial's in July. You been in the paper more than me here lately."
"Yeah, Cat. But you always get off. I ain't so sure 'bout me."
"You gotta good lawyer, don't you?"
"Yeah. He's good."
Cat stood and walked around the office, admiring Oz-zie's trophies and certificates.
"That's the main reason I came to see you, my man."
"What's that?" Carl Lee asked, unsure of what his friend had in mind, but certain his visit had a purpose.
"Carl Lee, you know how many times I been on trial?"
"Seems like all the time."
"Five! Five times they put me on trial. The federal boys. The state boys. The city boys.
Dope, gamblin', bribery, guns, racketeerin', whores. You name it, and they've tried me for it. And you know somethin', Carl Lee, I've been guilty of it all. Evertime I've gone to trial, I've been guilty as hell. You know how many times I been convicted?"
"No."
"None! Not once have they got me. Five trials, five not guilties."
Carl Lee smiled with admiration.
"You know why they can't convict me?"
Carl Lee had an idea, but he shook his head anyway.
"Because, Carl Lee, I got the smartest, meanest, v"» -n_» n.^utai illinium lawyer in inese pans, .tie cneats, ne plays dirty, and the cops hate him. But I'm sittin' here instead of some prison. He'll do whatever it takes to win a case."
"Who is he?" Carl Lee asked eagerly.
"You've seen him on television walkin' in and outta court. He's in the papers all the time.
Evertime some big-shot crook gets in trouble, he's there. He gets the drug dealers, the politicians, me, all the big-time thugs."
"What's his name?"
"He handles nothin' but criminal cases, mainly dope, bribery, extortion, stuff like that.
But you know what his favorite is?"
"What?"
"Murder. He loves murder cases. Ain't never lost one. Gets all the big ones in Memphis.
Remember when they caught those two niggers throwin' a dude off the bridge into the
Mississippi. Caught them redhanded. 'Bout five years ago?"
"Yeah, I remember."
"Had a big trial for two weeks, and they got off. He was the man. Walked them outta there. Not guilty."
"I think I remember seein' him on TV."
"Sure you did. He's a bad dude, Carl Lee. I'm tellin' you the man never loses."
"What's his name?"
Cat landed in his chair and stared solemnly into Carl Lee's face. "Bo Marsharfsky," he said.
Carl Lee gazed upward as if he remembered the name. "So what?"
Cat laid five fingers with eight carats on Carl Lee's knee. "So he wants to help you, my man."
"I already got one lawyer I can't pay. How I'm gonna pay another?"
"You ain't gotta pay, Carl Lee. That's where I come in. He's on my retainer all the time. I own him. Paid the guy 'bout a hundred thousand last year just to keep me outta trouble.
You don't pay."
Suddenly, Carl Lee had a keen interest in Bo Marsharfsky. "How does he know 'bout me?"
"Because he reads the paper and watches the tube. You know how lawyers are. I was in his office yesterday and he was studyin' the paper with your picture on the
front. I told him 'bout me and you. He went crazy. Said he had to have your case. I said I would help."
"And that's why you're here?"
"Right, right. He said he knew just the folks to get you off."
"Like who?"
"Doctors, psychiatrists, folks like that. He knows them all."
"They cost money."
"I'll pay for it, Carl Lee! Listen to me! I'll pay for it all. You'll have the best lawyer and doctors money can buy, and your old pal Cat will pay the tab. Don't worry 'bout money!"
"But I gotta good lawyer."
"How old is he?"
"I guess 'bout thirty."
Cat rolled his eyes in amazement. "He's a child, Carl Lee. He ain't been outta school long enough. Marsharfsky's fifty, and he's handled more murder cases than your boy'll ever see. This is your life, Carl Lee. Don't trust it to no rookie."
Suddenly, Jake was awful young. But then there was Lester's trial when Jake had been even younger.
"Look, Carl Lee, I been in many trials, and that crap is complicated and technical. One mistake and your ass is gone. If this kid misses one trick, it might be the difference between life and death. You can't afford to have no young kid in there hopin' he don't mess up. One mistake," Cat snapped his fingers for special effect, "and you're in the gas chamber. Marsharfsky don't make mistakes."
Carl Lee was on the ropes. "Would he work with my lawyer?" he asked, seeking compromise.
"No! No way. He don't work with nobody. He don't need no help. Your boy'd be in the way."
Carl Lee placed his elbows on his knees and stared at his feet. A thousand bucks for a doctor would be impossible. He did not understand the need for one since he had not felt insane at the time, but evidently one would be necessary. Everyone seemed to think so. A thousand bucks for a cheap doctor. Cat was offering the best money could buy. i naic 10 uo mis 10 my lawyer, ne muttered quietly.
"Don't be stupid, man," Cat scolded. "You better be lookin' out for Carl Lee and to hell with this child. This ain't no time to worry 'bout hurtin' feelin's. He's a lawyer, forget him.
He'll get over it."
"But I already paid him-"
"How much?" Cat demanded, snapping his fingers at Tiny.
"Nine hundred bucks."
Tiny produced a wad of cash, and Cat peeled off nine one-hundred-dollar bills and stuffed them in Carl Lee's shirt pocket. "Here's somethin' for the kids," he said as he unraveled a one-thousand dollar bill and stuffed it with the rest.
Carl Lee's pulse jumped as he thought of the cash covering his heart. He felt it move in the pocket and press gently against his chest. He wanted to look at the big bill and hold it firmly in his hand.
Food, he thought, food for his kids.
"We gotta deal?" Cat asked with a smile.
"You want me to fire my lawyer and hire yours?" he asked carefully.
"Right, right."
"And you gonna pay for everthing?"
"Right, right."
"What about this money?"
"It's yours. Lemme know if you need more."
"Mighty nice of you, Cat."
"I'm a very nice man. I'm helpin' two friends. One saved my life many years ago, and the other saves my ass ever two years."
"Why does he want my case so bad?"
"Publicity. You know how lawyers are. Look at how much press this kid's already made off you. It's a lawyer's dream. We gotta deal?"
"Yeah. It's a deal."
Cat struck him on the shoulder with an affectionate blow, and walked to the phone on
Ozzie's desk. He punched the numbers. "Collect to 901-566-9800. From Cat Bruster.
Person to person to Bo Marsharfsky."
On the twentieth floor in a downtown office building, Bo Marsharfsky hung up the phone and asked his secretary if the press release was prepared. She handed it to him, and he read it carefully.
"This looks fine," he said. "Get it to both newspapers immediately. Tell them to use the file photograph, the new one. See Frank Fields at the Post. Tell him I want it on the front page in the morning. He owes me a favor."
"Yes, sir. What about the TV stations?" she asked.
"Deliver them a copy. I can't talk now, but I'll hold a news conference in Clanton next week."
Lucien called at six-thirty Saturday morning. Carla was buried deep under the blankets and did not respond to the phone. Jake rolled toward the wall and grappled with the lamp until he found the receiver. "Hello," he managed weakly.
"What're you doing?" Lucien asked.
"I was sleeping until the phone rang."
"You seen the paper?"
"What time is it?"
"Go get the paper and call me after you read it."
The phone was dead. Jake stared at the receiver, then placed it on the table. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed the fog from his eyes, and tried to remember the last time Lucien called his house.
It must be important.
He made the coffee, turned out the dog, and walked quickly in his gym shorts and sweatshirt to the edge of the street where the three morning papers had fallen within ten inches of each other. He rolled the rubber bands off onto the kitchen table and spread the papers next to his coffee. Nothing in the Jackson paper. Nothing from Tupelo. The
Memphis Post carried a headline of death in the Middle East, and, then, he saw it. On the bottom half of the front page he saw himself, and under his picture was the caption: "Jake
Brigance-Out." Next was a picture of Carl Lee, and then a splendid picture of a face he had seen before. Under it, the words: "Bo Marsharfsky-In." The headline announced that the noted Memphis criminal attorney had been hired to represent the "vigilante killer."
aureiy n was a mistake. He had seen Carl Lee only yesterday. He read the story slowly.
There were few details, just a history of Mar-sharfsky's greatest verdicts. He promised a news conference in Clanton. He said the case would present new challenges, etc. He had faith in the jurors of Ford County.
Jake slipped silently into starched khakis and a button-down. His wife was still lost somewhere deep in the bed. He would tell her later. He took the paper and drove to the office. The Coffee Shop would not be safe. At Ethel's desk he read the story again and stared at his picture on the front page.
Lucien had a few words of comfort. He knew Marsharf-sky, or "The Shark," as he was known. He was a sleazy crook with polish and finesse. Lucien admired him.
Moss Junior led Carl Lee into Ozzie's office, where Jake waited with a newspaper. The deputy quickly left and closed the door. Carl Lee sat on the small black vinyl couch.
Jake threw the newspaper at him. "Have you seen this?" he demanded.
Carl Lee glared at him and ignored the paper.
"Why, Carl Lee?"
"I don't have to explain, Jake."
"Yes, you do. You didn't have the guts to call me like a man and tell me. You let me read it in the paper. I demand an explanation."
"You wanted too much money, Jake. You're always gripin' over the money. Here I am sittin' in jail and you're bitchin' 'bout somethin' I can't help."
"Money. You can't afford to pay me. How can you afford Marsharfsky?"
"I ain't gotta pay him."
"What!"
"You heard me. I ain't payin' him."
"I guess he works for free."
"Nope. Somebody else is payin'."
"Who!" Jake shouted.
"I ain't tellin'. It ain't none of your business, Jake."
"You've hired the biggest criminal lawyer in Memphis, and someone else is payin' his bill?"
"Yep."
The NAACP, thought Jake. No, they wouldn't hire Marsharfsky. They've got their own lawyers. Besides,xhe was too expensive for them. Who else?
Carl Lee took the newspaper and folded it neatly. He was ashamed, and felt bad, but the decision had been made. He had asked Ozzie to call Jake and convey the news, but the sheriff wanted no part of it. He should have called, but he was not going to apologize. He studied his picture on the front page. He liked the part about the vigilante business.
"And you're not going to tell me who?" Jake said, s omewhat quieter.
"Naw, Jake. I ain't tellin'."
"Did you discuss it with Lester?"
The glare returned to his eyes. "Nope. He ain't on trial, and it ain't none of his business."
"Where is he?"
"Chicago. Left yesterday. And don't you go call him. I've made up my mind, Jake."
We'll see, Jake said to himself. Lester would find out shortly.
Jake opened the door. "That's it. I'm fired. Just like that."
Carl Lee stared at his picture and said nothing.
Carla was eating breakfast and waiting. A reporter from Jackson had called looking for
Jake, and had told her about Marsharfsky.
There were no words, just motions. He filled a cup with coffee and went to the back porch. He sipped from the steaming cup and surveyed the unkempt hedges that lined the boundary of his long and narrow backyard. A brilliant sun baked the rich green Bermuda and dried the dew, creating a sticky haze that drifted upward and hung to his shirt. The hedges and grass were waiting on their weekly grooming. He kicked off his loafers-no socks-and walked through the soggy turf to inspect a broken birdbath near a scrawny crepe myrtle, the only tree of any significance. UC11111U Him.
He took her hand and smiled. "You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Did you talk to him?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
He shook his head and said nothing.
"I'm sorry, Jake."
He nodded and stared at the birdbath.
"There will be other cases," she said without confidence.
"I know." He thought of Buckley, and could hear the laughter. He thought of the guys at the Coffee Shop, and vowed not to return. He thought of the cameras and reporters, and a dull pain moved through his stomach. He thought of Lester, his only hope of retrieving the case.
"Would you like some breakfast?" she asked.
"No. I'm not hungry. Thanks."
"Look on the bright side," she said. "We won't be afraid to answer the phone."
"I think I'll cut the grass," he said.
The Council of Ministers was a group of black preachers that had been formed to coordinate political activities in the black communities of Ford County. It met infrequently during the off years, but during election years it met weekly, on Sunday afternoons, to interview candidates and discuss issues, and, more importantly, to determine the benevolence of each office seeker. Deals were cut, strategies developed, money exchanged. The council had proven it could deliver the black vote. Gifts and offerings to black churches rose dramatically during elections.
The Reverend Ollie Agee called a special meeting of the council for Sunday afternoon at his church. He wrapped up his sermon early, and by 4:00 P.M. his flock had scattered when the Cadillacs and Lincolns began filling his parking lot. The meetings were secret, with only ministers who were council members invited. There were twenty-three black churches in Ford County, and twenty-two members were present when Reverend Agee called the meeting to order. The meeting would be brief, since some of the ministers, especially from the Church of Christ, would begin their evening services shortly.
The purpose of the meeting, he explained, was to organize moral, political, and financial support of Carl Lee Hai-ley, a member in good standing of his church. A legal defense fund must be established to assure the best legal representation. Another fund must be established to provide support for his family. He, Reverend Agee, would chair the fund-raising efforts, with each minister responsible for his own congregation, as usual. A special offering would be taken during the morning and evening services, starting next
Sunday. Agee would use his discretion in disbursing the money to the family. Half of the proceeds would go to the defense fund. Time was important. The trial was next month.
The money had to be raised quickly while the issue was hot, and the people were in a giving mood.
cuuncn unanimously agreed witn Keverend Agee. He continued.
The NAACP must become active in the Hailey case. He would not be on trial if he was white. Not in Ford County. He was on trial only because he was black, and this must be addressed by the NAACP. The national director had been called. The Memphis and
Jackson chapters had promised help. Press conferences would be held. Demonstrations and marches would be important. Maybe boycotts of white-owned businesses-that was a popular tactic at the moment, and it worked with amazing results.
This must be done immediately, while the people were willing and in a giving mood. The ministers unanimously agreed and left for their evening services.
In part due to fatigue, and in part due to embarrassment, Jake slept through church. Carla fixed pancakes, and they enjoyed a long breakfast with Hanna on the patio. He ignored the Sunday papers after he found, on the front page of the second section of The
Memphis Post, a full-page spread on Marsharfsky and his famous new client. The story was complete with pictures and quotes from the great lawyer. The Hailey case presented his biggest challenge, he said. Serious legal and social issues would be addressed. A novel defense would be employed, he promised. He had not lost a murder case in twelve years, he boasted. It would be difficult, but he had confidence in the wisdom and fairness of Mississippi jurors.
Jake read the article without comment and laid the paper in the trash can.
Carla suggested a picnic, and although he needed to work he knew better than to mention it. They loaded the Saab with food and toys and drove to the lake. The brown, muddy waters of Lake Chatulla had crested for the year, and within days would begin their slow withdrawal to the center. The high water attracted a flotilla of skiboats, bass rigs, catamarans, and dinghies.
Carla threw two heavy quilts under an oak on the side of a hill while Jake unloaded the food and doll house. Hanna arranged her large family with pets and automobiles on one quilt and began giving orders and setting up house. Her parents
listened and smiled. Her birth had been a harrowing, gut-wrenching nightmare, two and a half months premature and shrouded with conflicting symptoms and prognoses. For eleven days Jake sat by the incubator in ICU and watched the tiny, purple, scrawny, beautiful three-pound body cling to life while an army of doctors and nurses studied the monitors and adjusted tubes and needles, and shook their heads. When he was alone he touched the incubator and wiped tears from his cheeks. He prayed as he had never prayed. He slept in a rocking chair near his daughter and dreamed of a beautiful blue-eyed, dark-haired little girl playing with dolls and sleeping on his shoulder. He could hear her voice. After a month the nurses smiled and the doctors relented. The tubes were removed one at a time each day for a week. Her weight ballooned to a hearty four and a half pounds, and the proud parents took her home. The doctors suggested no more children, unless adopted.
She was perfect now, and the sound of her voice could still bring tears to his eyes. They ate and chuckled as Hanna lectured her dolls on proper hygiene.
"This is the first time you've relaxed in two weeks," Carla said as they lay on their quilt.
Wildly colored catamarans crisscrossed the lake below dodging a hundred roaring boats pulling half- drunken skiers.
"We went to church last Sunday," he replied.
"And all you thought about was the trial."
"Still thinking about it."
"It's over, isn't it?"
"I don't know."
"Will he change his mind?"
' "He might, if Lester talks to him. It's hard to say. Blacks are so unpredictable, especially when they're in trouble. He's got a good deal, really. He's got the best criminal lawyer in
Memphis, and he's free."
"Who's paying the bill?"
"An old friend of Carl Lee's from Memphis, a guy by the name of Cat Bruster."
"Who's he?"
f\. very ncn pimp, dope pusher, thug, thief. Marsharf-sky's his lawyer. A couple of crooks."
"Did Carl Lee tell you this?"
"No. He wouldn't tell me, so I asked Ozzie."
"Does Lester know?"
"Not yet."
"What do you mean by that? You're not going to call him, are you?"
"Well, yes, I had planned to."
"That's going a bit far, isn't it?"
"I don't think so. Lester has a right to know, and-"
"Then Carl Lee should tell him."
"He should, but he won't. He's made a mistake, and he does not realize it."
"But it's his problem, not yours. At least not anymore."
"Carl Lee's too embarrassed to tell Lester. He knows Lester will cuss him and tell him he's made another mistake."
"So it's up to you to intervene in their family affairs."
"No. But I think Lester should know."
"I'm sure he'll see it in the papers."
"Maybe not," Jake said without any conviction. "I think Hanna needs some more orange juice."
"I think you want to change the subject."
"The subject doesn't bother me. I want the case, and I intend to get it back. Lester's the only person who can retrieve it."
Her eyes narrowed and he could feel them. He watched a bass rig drift into a mud bar on the near shore.
"Jake, that's unethical, and you know it." Her voice was calm, yet controlled and firm.
The words were slow and scornful.
"That's not true, Carla. I'm a very ethical attorney."
"You've always preached ethics. But at this moment you're scheming to solicit the case.
That's wrong, Jake."
"Retrieve, not solicit."
"What's the difference?"
"Soliciting is unethical. I've never seen a prohibition against retrieving."
"It's not right, Jake. Carl Lee's hired another lawyer and it's time for you to forget it."
"And I suppose you think Marsharfsky reads ethics opinions. How do you think he got the case? He's been hired by a man who's never h eard of him. He chased the case, and he's got it."
"So that makes it okay if you chase it now?"
"Retrieve, not chase."
Hanna demanded cookies, and Carla searched through the picnic basket. Jake reclined on an elbow and ignored them both. He thought of Lucien. What would he do in this situation? Probably rent a plane, fly to Chicago, get Lester, slip him some money, bring him home, and convince him to browbeat Carl Lee. He would assure Lester that
Marsharfsky could not practice in Mississippi, and since he was a foreigner, the rednecks on the jury wouldn't believe him anyway. He would call Marsharfsky and curse him for chasing cases and threaten him with an ethics complaint the minute he stepped into
Mississippi. He would get his black cronies to call Gwen and Ozzie and persuade them that the only lawyer with a dog's chance in hell of winning the case was Lucien Wilbanks.
Finally, Carl Lee would knuckle under and send for Lucien.
That's exactly what Lucien would do. Talk about ethics.
"Why are you smiling?" Carla interrupted.
"Just thinking about how nice it is out here with you and Hanna. We don't do this enough."
"You're disappointed, aren't you?"
"Sure. There will never be another case like this one. Win it, and I'm the greatest lawyer in these parts. We would never have to worry about money again."
"And if you lost it?"
"It would still be a drawing card. But I can't lose what I don't have."
"Embarrassed?"
"A little. It's hard to accept. Every lawyer in the county is laughing about it, except maybe Harry Rex. But I'll get over it."
"What should I do with the scrapbook?"
"Save it. You might fill it up yet."
unc, nine reel long and tour feet wide, made to fit inconspicuously in the long bed of a pickup. Much larger crosses were used for the rituals, but the small ones worked better in the nocturnal raids into residential areas. They were not used often, or often enough according to their builders. In fact, it had been many years since one had been used in
Ford County. The last one was planted in the yard of a nigger accused of raping a white woman.
Several hours before dawn on Monday morning, the cross was lifted quietly and quickly from the pickup and thrust into a ten-inch, freshly dug slot in the front yard of the quaint Victorian house on Adams Street. A small torch was thrown at the foot of the cross, and in seconds it was in flames.
The pickup disappeared into the night and stopped at a pay phone at the edge of town, where a call was placed to the dispatcher.
Moments later, Deputy Marshall Prather turned down Adams and instantly saw the blazing cross in Jake's front yard. He turned into the driveway and parked behind the
Saab. He punched the doorbell and stood on the porch watching the flames. It was almost three-thirty. He punched it again. Adams was dark and silent except for the glow of the cross and the snapping and crackling of the wood burning fifty feet away. Finally, Jake stumbled through the front door and froze, wild-eyed and stunned, next to the deputy.
The two stood side by side on the porch, mesmerized not only by the burning cross, but by its purpose.
"Mornin", Jake," Prather finally said without looking from the fire.
"Who did it?" Jake asked with a scratchy, dry throat.
"Don't know. They didn't leave a name. Just called and told us about it."
"When did they call?"
"Fifteen minutes ago."
Jake ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep it from blowing wild in the soft breeze.
"How long will it burn?" he asked, knowing Prather knew as little or even less than he about burning crosses.
"No tellin'. Probably soaked in kerosene. Smells like it anyway. Might burn for a couple of hours. You want me to call a fire truck?"
Jake looked up and down the street. Every house was silent and dark.
"Naw. No need to wake everybody. Let it burn. It won't hurt anything, will it?"
"It's your yard."
Prather never moved; just stood there, hands in his pockets, his belly hanging over his belt. "Ain't had one of these in a long time around here. Last one I remember was in
Karaway, nineteen-sixry-"
"Nineteen sixty-seven."
"You remember?"
"Yeah. I was in high school. We drove out and watched it burn."
"What was that nigger's name?"
"Robinson, something Robinson. Said he raped Velma Thayer."
"Did he?" asked Prather.
"The jury thought so. He's in Parchman chopping cotton for the rest of his life."
Prather seemed satisfied.
"Let me get Carla," Jake mumbled as he disappeared. He returned with his wife behind him.
"My God, Jake! Who did it?"
"Who knows."
"Is it the KKK?" she asked.
"Must be," answered the deputy. "I don't know anybody else who burns crosses, do you,
Jake?"
Jake shook his head.
"I thought they left Ford County years ago," said Prather.
"Looks like they're back," said Jake.
Carla stood frozen, her hand over her mouth, terrified. The glow of the fire reddened her face. "Do something, Jake. Put it out."
Jake watched the fire and again glanced up and down the street. The snapping and popping grew louder and the orange flames reached higher into the night. For a moment he hoped it would die quickly without being seen by anyone other than the three of them, and that it would simply go away and be forgotten and no one in Clanton would ever know. Then he smiled at his foolishness. iiamci giumcu, anu it was oovious he was tired of standing on the porch. "Say, Jake, uh, I don't mean to bring this up, but accordin' to the papers they got the wrong lawyer. That true?"
"I guess they can't read," Jake muttered.
"Probably not."
"Tell me, Prather, do you know of any active Klan members in this county?"
"Not a one. Got some in the southern part of the state, but none around here. Not that I know of. FBI told us the Klan was a thing of the past."
"That's not very comforting."
"Why not?"
"Because these guys, if they're Klan members, are not from around here. Visitors from parts unknown. It means they're serious, don't you think, Prather?"
"I don't know. I'd worry more if it was local people workin' with the Klan. Could mean the Klan's comin' back."
"What does it mean, the cross?" Carla asked the deputy.
"It's a warnin'. Means stop what you're doin', or the next time we'll do more than burn a little wood. They used these things for years to intimidate whites who were sympathetic to niggers and all that civil rights crap. If the whites didn't stop their nigger lovin', then violence followed. Bombs, dynamite, beatings, even murder. But that was a • long time ago, I thought. In your case, it's their way of tellin' Jake to stay away from Hailey. But since he ain't Hailey's lawyer no more, I don't know what it means."
"Go check on Hanna," Jake said to Carla, who went inside.
"If you got a water hose, I'll be glad to put it out," offered Prather.
"That's a good idea," Jake said. "I'd hate for the neighbors to see it."
Jake and Carla stood on the porch in their bathrobes and watched the deputy spray the burning cross. The wood fizzed and smoked as the water covered the cross and snuffed out the flames.
Prather soaked it for fifteen minutes, then neatly rolled the hose and placed it behind the shrubs in the flower bed next to the front steps.
"Thanks, Marshall. Let's keep this quiet, okay?"
Prather wiped his hands on his pants and straightened his hat. "Sure. Y'all lock up good.
If you hear anything, call the dispatcher. We'll keep a close watch on it for the next few days."
He backed from the driveway and drove slowly down Adams Street toward the square.
They sat in the swing and watched the smoking cross.
"I feel like I'm looking at an old issue of Life magazine," Jake said.
"Or a chapter from a Mississippi history textbook. Maybe we should tell them you got fired."
"Thanks."
"Thanks?".
"For being so blunt."
"I'm sorry. Should I say discharged, or terminated, or-"
"Just say he found another lawyer. You're really scared aren't you?"
"You know I'm scared. I'm terrified. If they can burn a cross in our front yard, what's to stop them from burning the house? It's not worth it, Jake. I want you to be happy and successful and all that wonderful stuff, but not at the expense of our safety. No case is worth this."
"You're glad I got fired?"
"I'm glad he found another lawyer. Maybe they'll leave us alone now."
Jake put his arm around her, and pulled her into his lap. The swing rocked gently. She was beautiful, at three-thirty in the morning in her bathrobe.
"They won't be back, will they?" she asked.
"Naw. They're through with us. They'll find out I'm off the case, then they'll call and apologize."
"It's not funny, Jake."
"I know."
"Do you think people will know?"
"Not for another hour. When the Coffee Shop opens at five, Dell Perkins will know every detail before she pours the first cup of coffee."
"What're you going to do with it?" she asked, nodding at the cross, now barely visible under the half moon.
i vc goi an idea. Let s load it up, take it to Memphis, and burn it in Marsharfsky's yard."
"I'm going to bed."
By 9:00 A.M. Jake had finished dictating his motion to withdraw as counsel of record.
Ethel was typing it with zest when she interrupted him: "Mr. Brigance, there's a Mr.
Marsharf-sky on the phone. I told him you were in conference, and he said he would hold."
"I'll talk to him." Jake gripped the receiver. "Hello."
"Mr. Brigance, Bo Marsharfsky in Memphis. How are you?"
"Terrific."
"Good. I'm sure you saw the morning paper Saturday and Sunday. You do get the paper in Clantpn?"
"Yes, and we have telephones and mail."
"So you saw the stories on Mr. Hailey?"
"Y es. You write' some very nice articles."
"I'll ignore that. I wanted to discuss the Hailey case if you have a minute."
"I would love to."
"As I understand Mississippi procedure, out-of-state counsel must associate local counsel for trial purposes."
"You mean you don't have a Mississippi license?" Jake asked incredulously.
"Well, no, I don't."
"That wasn't mentioned in your articles."
"I'll ignore that too. Do the judges require local counsel in all cases?"
"Some do, some don't."
"I see. What about Noose?"
"Sometimes."
"Thanks. Well, I usually associate local counsel when I try cases out in the country. The locals feel better with one of their own sitting there at counsel table with me."
"That's real nice."
"I don't suppose you'd be interested in-"
"You must be kidding!" Jake yelled. "I've just been fired and now you want me to carry your briefcase. You're crazy. I wouldn't have my name associated with yours."
"Wait a minute, hayseed-"
"No, you wait a minute, counselor. This may come as a surprise to you, but in this state we have ethics and laws against soliciting litigation and clients. Champerty-ever hear of it? Of course not.
It's a felony in Mississippi, as in most states. We have canons of ethics that prohibit ambulance chasing and solicitation. Ethics, Mr. Shark, ever hear of them?"
"I don't chase cases, sonny. They come to me."
"Like Carl Lee Hailey. I'm supposed to believe he picked your name out of the yellow pages. I'm sure you have a full-page ad, next to the abortionists."
"He was referred to me."
"Yeah, by your pimp. I know exactly how you got him. Outright solicitation. I may file a complaint with the bar. Better yet, I might have your methods reviewed by the grand jury."
"Yeah, I understand you and the D.A. are real close. Good day, counselor."
Marsharfsky got the last word before he hung up. Jake fumed for an hour before he could concentrate on the brief he was writing. Lucien would have been proud of him.
Just before lunch Jake received a call from Walter Sullivan, of the Sullivan firm.
"Jake, my boy, how are you?"
"Wonderful."
"Good. Listen, Jake, Bo Marsharfsky is an old friend of mine. We defended a couple of bank officials years ago on fraud charges. Got them off, too. He's quite a lawyer. He's associated me as local counsel for Carl Lee Hailey. I was just wanting to know-"
Jake dropped the receiver and walked out of his office. He spent the afternoon on
Lucien's front porch.
Gwen did not have Lester's number. Neither did Ozzie, nor did anyone else. The operator said there were two pages of Haileys in the Chicago phone book, at least a dozen Lester
Haileys, and several L. S.'s. Jake asked for the first five Lester Haileys and called each one. They were all white. He called Tank Scales, the owner of one of the safer and finer black honky tonks in the county. Tank's Tonk, as it was known. Lester was especially fond of the place. Tank was a client and often provided Jake with valuable and confidential information on various blacks, their dealings and whereabouts.
Tank stopped by the office Tuesday morning on the way to the bank.
"Have you seen Lester Hailey in the past two weeks?" Jake asked.
"Sure. Spent several days at the place shootin' pool, drinkin' beer. Went back to Chicago last weekend, I heard. Must've, I didn't see him all weekend."
"Who was he with?"
"Hisself mostly."
"What about Iris?"
"Yeah, he brung her a couple of times when Henry was outta town. Makes me nervous when he brings her. Henry's a bad dude. He'd cut them both if he knew they's datin'."
"They've been doing it for ten years, Tank."
"Yeah, sh,e got two kids by Lester. Everbody knows it but Henry. Poor old Henry. He'll find out one day, and you'll have another murder case."
"Listen, Tank, can you talk to Iris?"
"She don't come in too often."
"That's not what I asked. I need Lester's phone number in Chicago. I figure Iris knows it."
"I'm sure she does. I think he sends her money."
"Can you get it for me? I need to talk to Lester."
"Sure, Jake. If she's got it, I'll get it."
By Wednesday Jake's office had returned to normal. Clients began to reappear. Ethel was especially sweet, or as sweet as possible for a cranky old nag. He went through the motions of practicing law, but the pain showed. He skipped the Coffee Shop each morning and avoided the courthouse by making Ethel do the filing or checking or whatever business required his presence across the street. He was embarrassed, humiliated, and troubled. It was difficult to concentrate on other
cases. He contemplated a long vacation, but couldn't afford it. Money was tight, and he was not motivated to work.
He spent most of his time in his office doing little but watching the courthouse and the town square below.
He dwelt on Carl Lee, sitting in his cell a few blocks away, and asked himself a thousand times why he had been betrayed. He had pushed too hard for money, and forgot there were other lawyers willing to take the case for free. He hated Marsharfsky. He recalled the many times he had seen Marsharfsky parade in and out of Memphis courtrooms proclaiming the innocence and mistreatment of his pitiful, oppressed clients. Dope dealers, pimps, crooked politicians, and slimy corporate thugs. All guilty, all deserving of long prison terms, or perhaps even death. He was a yankee, with an obnoxious twang from somewhere in the upper Midwest. It would irritate anybody south of Memphis. An accomplished actor, he would look directly into the cameras and whine: "My client has been horribly abused by the Memphis police." Jake had seen it a dozen times. "My client is completely, totally, absolutely innocent. He should not be on trial. My client is a model citizen, a taxpayer." What about his four prior convictions for extortion? "He was framed by the FBI. Set up by the government. Besides, he's paid his debt. He's innocent this time." Jake hated him, and to his recollection, he had lost as many as he had won.
By Wednesday afternoon, Marsharfsky had not been seen in Clanton. Ozzie promised to notify Jake if he showed up at the jail.
Circuit Court would be in session until Friday, and it would be respectful to meet briefly with Judge Noose and explain the circumstances of his departure from the case. His
Honor was presiding over a civil case, and there was a good chance Buckley would be absent. He had .to be absent. He could not be seen or heard.
Noose usually recessed for ten minutes around three-thirty, and precisely at that time Jake entered chambers through the side door. He had not been seen. He sat patiently by the window waiting for Ichabod to descend from the bench and
stagger into the room. Five minutes later the door flung open, and His Honor walked in.
"Jake, how are you?" he asked.
"Fine, Judge. Can I have a minute?" Jake asked as he closed the door.
"Sure, sit down. What's on your mind?" Noose removed his robe, threw it over a chair, and lay on top of the desk, knocking off books, files, and the telephone in the process.
Once his gawky frame had ceased moving, he slowly folded his hands over his stomach, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. "It's my back, Jake. My doctor-tells me to rest on a hard surface when possible."
"Uh, sure, Judge. Should I leave?"
"No, no. What's on your mind?"
"The Hailey case."
"I thought so. I saw your motion. Found a new lawyer, huh?"
"Yes, sir. I had no idea it was coming. I expected to try the case in July."
"You owe no apologies, Jake. The motion to withdraw will be granted. It's not your fault.
Happens all the time. Who's the new guy Marsharfsky?"
"Yes, sir. From Memphis."
"With a name like that he should be a hit in Ford County."
"Yes, sir." Almost as bad as Noose, thought Jake.
"He has no Mississippi license," Jake explained, helpfully.
"That's interesting. Is he familiar with our procedure?"
"I'm not sure he's ever tried a case in Mississippi. He told me he normally associates a local boy when he's out in the country."
"In the country?"
"That's what he said."
"Well, he'd better associate if he comes into my court. I've had some bad experiences with out-of-state attorneys, especially from Memphis."
"Yes, sir."
Noose was breathing harder, and Jake decided to leave. "Judge, I need to go. If I don't see you in July, I'll see you during the August term of court. Take care of your back."
"Thanks, Jake. Take care."
Jake almost made it to the rear door of the small office when the main door from the courtroom opened and the Honorable L. Winston Lotterhouse and another hatchet man from the Sullivan firm strutted into chambers.
"Well, hello, Jake," Lotterhouse announced. "You know K. Peter Otter, our newest associate."
"Nice to meet you K. Peter," replied Jake.
"Are we interrupting anything?"
"No, I was just leaving. Judge Noose is resting his back, and I was on my way out."
"Sit down, gentlemen," Noose said.
Lotterhouse smelled blood. "Say, Jake, I'm sure Walter Sullivan has informed you that our firm will serve as local counsel for Carl Lee Hailey."
"I have heard."
"I'm sorry it happened to you."
"Your grief is overwhelming."
"It does present an interesting case for our firm. We don't get too many criminal cases, you know."
"I know," Jake said, looking for a hole to crawl in. "I need to run. Nice chatting with you,
L. Winston. Nice meeting you, K. Peter. Tell J. Walter and F. Robert and all the boys I said hello."
Jake slid out of the rear door of the courthouse and cursed himself for showing his face where he could get it slapped. He ran to his office.
"Has Tank Scales called?" he asked Ethel as he starte d up the stairs.
"No. But Mr. Buckley is waiting."
Jake stopped on the first step. "Waiting where?" he asked without moving his jaws.
"Upstairs. In your office."
He walked slowly to her desk and leaned across to within inches of her face. She had sinned, and she knew it.
He glared at her fiercely. "I didn't know he had an appointment." Again, the jaws did not move.
"He didn't," she replied, her eyes glued to the desk.
"I didn't know he owned this building."
She didn't move, didn't answer.
"I didn't know he had a key to my office."
Again, no movement, no answer.
He leaned closer. "I should fire you for this."
Her lip quivered and she looked helpless.
"I'm sick of you, Ethel. Sick of your attitude, your voice, your insubordination. Sick of the way you treat people, sick of everything about you."
Her eyes watered. "I'm sorry."
"No you're not. You know, and have known for years, that no one, no one in the world, not even my wife, goes up those stairs into my office if I'm not here."
"He insisted."
"He's an ass. He gets paid for pushing people around. But not in this office."
"Shhh. He can hear you."
"I don't care. He knows he's an ass."
He leaned even closer until their noses were six inches apart. "Would you like to keep your job, Ethel?"
She nodded, unable to speak.
"Then do exactly as I say. Go upstairs to my office, fetch Mr. Buckley, and lead him into the conference room, where I'll meet him. And don't ever do it again."
Ethel wiped her face and ran up the stairs. Moments later the D.A. was seated in the conference room with the door closed. He waited.
Jake was next door in the small kitchen drinking orange juice and assessing Buckley. He drank slowly. After fifteen minutes he opened the door and entered the room. Buckley was seated at one end of the long conference table. Jake sat at the other end, far away.
"Hello, Rufus. What do you want?"
"Nice place you have here. Lucien's old offices, I believe."
"That's right. What brings you here?"
"Just wanted to visit."
"I'm very busy."
"And I wanted to discuss the Hailey case."
"Call Marsharfsky."
"I was looking forward to the battle, especially with you on the other side. You're a worthy adversary, Jake."
"I'm honored."
"Don't get me wrong. I don't like you, and I haven't for a long time."
"Since Lester Hailey."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. You won, but you cheated."
"I won, that's all that counts. And I didn't cheat. You got caught with your pants down."
"You cheated and Noose let you by with it."
"Whatever. I don't like you either."
"Good. That makes me feel better. What do you know about Marsharfsky?"
"Is that the reason you're here?"
"Could be."
"I've never met the man, but if he was my father I wouldn't tell you anything. What else do you want?"
"Surely you've talked to him."
"We had some words on the phone. Don't tell me you're worried about him."
"No. Just curious. He's got a good reputation."
"Yes, he does. You didn't come here to discuss his reputation."
"No, not really. I wanted to talk about the case."
"What about it?"
"Chances for an acquittal, possible defenses, was he really insane. Things like that."
"I thought you guaranteed a conviction. In front of the cameras, remember? Just after the indictment. One of your press conferences."
"Do you miss the cameras already, Jake?"
"Relax, Rufus. I'm out of the game. The cameras are all yours, at least yours and
Marsharfsky's, and Walter Sullivan's. Go get them, tiger. If I've stolen some of your spotlight, then I'm deeply sorry. I know how it hurts you."
"Apology accepted. Has Marsharfsky been to town?"
"I don't know."
"He promised a press conference this week."
"And you came here to talk about his press conference, right?"
"No, I wanted to discuss Hailey, but obviously you're too busy."
"That's right. Plus I have nothing to discuss with you, Mr. Governor."
"I resent that."
"Why? You know it's true.- You'd prosecute your mother for a couple of headlines."
Buckley stood and began pacing back and forth behind his chair. "I wish you were still on this case, Brigance," he said, the volume increasing.
"So do I."
"I'd teach you a few things about prosecuting murderers. I really wanted to clean your plow."
"You haven't been too successful in the past."
"That's why I wanted you on this one, Brigance. I wanted you so bad." His face had returned to the deep red that was so familiar.
"There'll be others, Governor."
"Don't call me that," he shouted.
"It's true, isn't it, Governor. That's why you chase the cameras so hard. Everybody knows it. There goes old Rufus, chasing cameras, running for governor. Sure it's true."
"I'm doing my job. Prosecuting thugs."
"Carl Lee Hailey's no thug."
"Watch me burn him."
"It won't be'that easy."
"Watch me."
"It takes twelve out of twelve."
"No problem."
"Just like your grand jury?"
Buckley froze in his tracks. He squinted his eyes and frowned at Jake. Three huge wrinkles creased neatly across his mammoth forehead. "What do you know about the grand jury?"
"As much as you do. One vote less and you'd have sucked eggs."
"That's not true!"
"Come on, Governor. You're not talking to a reporter. I know exactly what happened.
Knew it within hours."
"I'll tell Noose."
"And I'll tell the newspapers. That'll look good before the trial."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Not now. I have no reason to. I've been fired, remember? That's the reason you're here, right, Rufus? To remind me that I'm no longer on the case, t» ut you are. To rub a little salt in the wounds. Okay, you've done it. Now I wish you'd leave. Go check on the grand jury. Or maybe there's a reporter hanging around the courthouse. Just leave."
"Gladly. I'm sorry I bothered."
"Me too."
Buckley opened the door leading into the hall, then stopped. "I lied, Jake. I'm tickled to death you're not on this case."
"I know you lied. But don't count me out."
"What does that mean?"
"Good day, Rufus."
The Ford County grand jury had been busy, and by Thursday of the second week of the term Jake had been retained by two freshly indicted defendants. One was a black who cut another black at Massey's Tonk back in April. Jake enjoyed the stabbings because acquittals were possible; just get an all-white jury full of rednecks who could care less if all niggers stabbed each other. They were just having a little fun down at the tonk, things got out of hand, one got stabbed, but didn't die. No harm, no conviction. It was similar to the strategy Jake had learned with Lester Hailey. The new client promised fifteen hundred dollars, but first had to post bond.
The other new indictee was a white kid caught driving a stolen pickup. It was the third time he'd been caught in a stolen pickup, and there was no way to keep him out of
Parchman for seven years.
Both were in jail, and their presence there afforded Jake the opportunity, and duty, to visit them and check with Ozzie. Late Thursday afternoon he found the sheriff in his office.
"Are you busy?" Jake asked. A hundred pounds of paper was strewn over the desk and onto the floor.
"No, just paperwork. Any more burnin' crosses?"
"No, thank God. One's enough."
"I haven't seen your friend from Memphis."
"That's strange," said Jake. "I thought he would be here by now. Have you talked to Carl Lee?"
"Every day. He's gettin' nervous. The lawyer ain't even called, Jake."
"Good. Let him sweat. I don't feel sorry for him."
"You think he made a mistake?"
"I know he did. I know these rednecks around here, Ozzie, and I know how they act when you put them on a jury. They won't be impressed by some slick-talking foreigner. You agree?"
"I don't know. You're the lawyer. I don't doubt what you say, Jake. I've seen you work."
"He's not even licensed to practice in Mississippi. Judge Noose is laying for him. He hates out-of state lawyers."
"You're kiddin'?"
"Nope. I talked to him yesterday."
Ozzie looked disturbed and eyed Jake carefully. "You wanna see him?"
"Who?"
"Carl Lee."
"No! I have no reason to see him." Jake glanced in his briefcase. "I need to see Leroy
Glass, aggravated assault."
"You got Leroy?"
"Yeah. His folks came in this morning."
"Follow me."
Jake waited in the Intoxilyzer room while a trusty went for the new client. Leroy wore the standard Ford County jail issue of glow-in-the-dark orange coveralls. Pink sponge rollers shot in all directions from his scalp, and two long greasy cornrows clung to the back of his neck. His black leathery feet were protected from the dirty linoleum by a pair of lime green terrycloth slides. No socks. A wicked, aged scar started next to his right ear lobe, made the ridge over his cheekbone, and connected neatly with his right nostril. It proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Leroy was no stranger to stabbings and carvings. He wore it like a medal. He smoked Kools.
"Leroy, I'm Jake Brigance," the lawyer introduced himself and pointed to a folding chair next to the Pepsi machine. "Your momma and brother hired me this morning."
"Good to know you, Mr. Jake."
A trusty waited in the hall by the door as Jake asked questions. He filled three pages of notes on Leroy Glass. Of primary interest, at least at this point, was money. How much did he have, and where could he find more. They would talk about the stabbing later.
Aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, friends, anyone with a job who might be able to make a loan. Jake took phone numbers.
"Who referred you to me?" Jake asked.
"Saw you on TV, Mr. Jake. You and Carl Lee Hailey."
Jake was proud, but did not smile. Television was just part of his job. "You know Carl Lee?"
"Yeah, know Lester too. You's Lester's lawyer, wasn't you?"
"Yes."
"Me and Carl Lee in the same cell. Moved me last night."
"You don't say."
"Yeah. He don't talk much. He said you's a real good lawyer and all, but he found somebody else from Memphis."
"That's right. What does he think of his new lawyer?"
"I don't know, Mr. Jake. He was fussin' this mornin' cause the new lawyer ain't been to see him yet. He say you come to see him all the time and talk 'bout the case, but the new lawyer, some funny name, ain't even been down to meet him yet."
Jake concealed his delight with a grim face, but it was difficult. "I'll tell you something if you promise you won't tell Carl Lee."
"Okay."
"His new lawyer can't come to see him."
"No! Why not?"
"Because he doesn't have a license to practice law in Mississippi. He's a Tennessee lawyer. He'll get thrown out of court if he comes down here by himself. I'm afraid Carl
Lee's made a big mistake."
"Why don't you tell him?"
"Because he's already fired me. I can't give him advice anymore."
"Somebody ought to."
"You just promised you won't, okay?"
"Okay. I won't."
"Promise?"
"I swear."
"Good. I gotta go. I'll meet with the bondsman in the morning, and maybe we'll have you out in a day or so. Not a word to Carl Lee, right?"
"Right."
Tank Scales was leaning on the Saab in the parking lot when Jake left the jail. He stepped on a cigarette butt and pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "Two numbers. Top one's for home, bottom for work. But don't call at work unless you have to."
"Good work, Tank. Did you get them from Iris?"
"Yeah. She didn't want to. She stopped by the tonk last night and I got her drunk."
"I owe you one."
"I'll get it, sooner or later."
It was dark, almost eight o'clock. Dinner was cold, but that was not unusual. That's why he had bought her a microwave. She was accustomed to the hours and the warmed-over dinners,- and she did not complain. They would eat when he came home, whether it was six or ten.
Jake drove from the jail to his office. He wouldn't dare call Lester from home, not with
Carla listening. He settled behind his desk and stared at the numbers Tank had located.
Carl Lee had told him not to make this call. Why should he do it? Would it be solicitation? Unethical? Would it be unethical to call Lester and tell him that Carl Lee had fired him and hired another lawyer? No. And to answer Lester's questions about the new lawyer? No. And to express concern? No. And to criticize the new lawyer? Probably not. Would it be unethical to encourage Lester to talk to his brother? No. And convince him to fire Marsharfsky? Probably so. And to rehire Jake? Yes, no doubt about it. That would be very unethical. What if he just called Lester and talked about Carl Lee and allowed the conversation to follow its own course.
"Hello."
"Is there a Lester Hailey there?"
"Yes. Who's calling?" came the accented reply from the Swede.
"Jake Brigance, from Mississippi."
"One moment."
Jake checked his watch. Eight-thirty. It was the same time in Chicago, wasn't it?
"Jake!"
"Lester, how are you?"
"Fine, Jake. Tired, but fine. How 'bout you?"
"Great. Listen, have you talked to Carl Lee this week?"
"No. I left Friday, and I've been workin' two shifts since Sunday. I ain't had time for nothin'."
"You seen the newspapers?"
"No. What's happened?"
"You won't believe it, Lester."
"What is it, Jake?"
"Carl Lee fired me and hired a big-shot lawyer from Memphis."
"What! You're kiddin'? When?"
"Last Friday. I guess after you left. He didn't bother to tell me. I read it in the Memphis paper Saturday morning."
"He's crazy. Why'd he do it, Jake? Who'd he hire?"
"You know a guy named Cat Bruster from Memphis?"
"Of course."
"It's his lawyer. Cat's paying for it. He drove down from Memphis last Friday and saw
Carl Lee at the jail. Next morning I saw my picture in the paper and read where I've been fired."
"Who's the lawyer?"
"Bo Marsharfsky."
"He any good?"
"He's a crook. He defends all the pimps and drug dealers in Memphis."
"Sounds like a Polack."
"He is. I think he's from Chicago."
"Yeah, bunch of Polacks up here. Does he talk like these?"
"Like he's got a mouthful of hot grease. He'll go over big in Ford County."
"Stupid, stupid, stupid. Carl Lee never was too bright. I always had to think for him.
Stupid, stupid."
"Yeah, he's made a mistake, Lester. You know what a murder trial is like because you've been there. You realize how important that jury is when they leave the courtroom and go to the jury room. Your life is in their hands. Twelve local people back there fighting and arguing over your case, your life. The jury's the most important part. That's why you gotta be able to talk to the jury."
"That's right, Jake. You can do it too."
"I'm sure Marsharfsky can do it in Memphis, but not Ford County. Not jn rural
Mississippi. These people won't trust him."
"You're right, Jake. I can't believe he did it. He's screwed up again."
"He did it, Lester, and I'm worried about him."
"Have you talked to him?"
"Last Saturday, after I saw the newspaper, I went straight to the jail. I asked him why, and he could not answer. He felt bad about it. I haven't talked to him since then. But neither has Marsharfsky. He hasn't found Clanton yet, and I understand Carl Lee's upset.
As far as I can tell, nothing has been done on the case this week."
"Has Ozzie talked to him?"
"Yeah, but you know Ozzie. He's not go nna say too much. He knows Bruster's a crook and Marsharfsky's a crook, but he won't lean on Carl Lee."
"Man oh man. I can't believe it. He's stupid if he thinks those rednecks'll listen to some shyster from Memphis. Hell, Jake, they don't trust the lawyers from Tyler County and it's next door. Man oh man."
Jake smiled at the receiver. So far, nothing unethical.
"What should I do, Jake?"
"I don't know, Lester. He needs some help, and you're the only one he'll listen to. You know how headstrong he is."
"I guess I'd better call him."
No, thought Jake, it would be easier for Carl Lee to say no over the phone. Confrontation was needed between the brothers. A drive from Chicago would make an impact.
"I don't think you'll get very far over the phone. His mind's made up. Only you can change it, and you can't do it over the phone."
Lester paused a few seconds while Jake waited anxiously. "What's today?",
"Thursday, June 6."
"Let's see," Lester mumbled. "I'm ten hours away. I work the four-to-midnight shift tomorrow and again Sunday. I could leave here midnight tomorrow, and be in Clanton by ten Saturday mornin'.
Then I could leave early Sunday mornin' and be back by four. That's a lot of drivin', but I can handle it."
"It's very important, Lester. I think it's worth the trip."
"Where will you be Saturday, Jake?"
"Here at the office."
"Okay. I'll go to the jail, and if I need you I'll call the office."
"Sounds good. One other thing, Lester. Carl Lee told me not to call you. Don't mention it."
"What'll I tell him?"
"Tell him you called Iris, and she gave you the story."
"Iris who?"
"Come on, Lester. It's been common knowledge around here for years. Everybody knows it but her husband, and he'll find out."
"I hope not. We'll have us another murder. You'll have another client."
"Please. I can't keep the ones I've got. Call me Saturday."
He ate from the microwave at ten-thirty. Hanna was asleep. They talked about Leroy
Glass and the white kid in the stolen pickup. About Carl Lee, but not about Lester. She felt better, safer now that Carl Lee Hailey was behind them. No more calls. No more burning crosses. No more stares at church. There would be other cases, she promised. He said little; just ate and smiled.
Just before the courthouse closed on Friday, Jake called the clerk to see if a trial was in progress. No, she said, Noose was gone. Buckley, Musgrove, everybody was gone. The courtroom was deserted. Secure with that knowledge, Jake eased across the street, through the rear door of the courthouse, and down the hall to the clerk's office. He flirted with the clerks and secretaries while he located Carl Lee's file. He held his breath as he flipped through the pages. Good! Just as he had hoped. Nothing had been added to the file all week, with the exception of his motion to withdraw as counsel. Marsharfsky and his local counsel had not touched the file. Nothing had been done. He flirted some more and eased back to his office.
Leroy Glass was still in jail. His bond was ten thousand dollars, and his family couldn't raise the thousand-dollar premium to pay a bondsman. So he continued to share the cell with Carl Lee. Jake had a friend who was a bondsman and who took care of Jake's clients. If a client needed out of jail, and there was little danger of him disappearing once he was sprung, the bond would be written.
Terms were available for Jake's clients. Say, five percent down and so much a month. If
Jake wanted Leroy Glass out of jail, the bond could be written anytime. But Jake needed him in jail.
"Look, Leroy, I'm sorry. I'm working with the bondsman," Jake explained to his client in the Intoxilyzer room.
"But you said I'd be out by now."
"Your folks don't have the money, Leroy. I can't pay it myself. We'll get you out, but it'll take a few days. I want you out so you can go to work, make some money and pay me."
Leroy seemed satisfied. "Okay, Mr. Jake, just do what you can."
"Food's pretty good here, isn't it?" Jake asked with a smile.
"It ain't bad. Better at home."
"We'll get you out," Jake promised.
"How's the nigger I stabbed?"
"Not sure. Ozzie said he's still in the hospital. Moss
Thrum says he's been released. Who knows. I don't think he's hurt too bad."
"Who was the woman?" Jake asked, unable to remember the details.
"Willie's woman."
"Willie who?"
"Willie Hoyt."
Jake thought for a second and tried to recall the indictment. "That's not the man you stabbed."
"Naw, he's Curtis Sprawling."
"You mean, y'all were fighting over another man's woman?"
"That's right."
"Where was Willie?"
"He was fightin' too."
"Who was he fighting?"
"Some other dude."
"You mean the four of you were fighting over Willie's woman?"
"Yeah, you got it."
"What caused the fight?"
"Her husband was outta town."
"She's married?"
"That's right."
"What's her husband's name?"
"Johnny Sands. When he's outta town, there's normally a fight."
"Why is that?"
'"Cause she ain't got no kids, can't have any, and she likes to have company. Know what I mean?
When he leaves, everybody knows it. If she shows up at a tonk, look out for a fight."
What a trial, thought Jake. "But I thought you said she showed up with Willie Hoyt?"
"That's right. But that don't mean nothin' because everybody at the tonk starts easin' up on her, buyin' drinks, wantin' to dance. You can't help it."
"Some woman, huh?"
"Oh, Mr. Jake, she looks so good. You oughtta see her."
"I will. On the witness stand."
Leroy gazed at the wall, smiling, dreaming, lusting after the wife of Johnny Sands. Never mind that he stabbed a man and could get twenty years. He had proven, in hand-to-hand combat, that he was worthy.
"Listen, Leroy, you haven't talked to Carl Lee, have you?"
"Sure. I'm still in his cell. We talk all the time. Ain't much else to do."
"You haven't told him what we discussed yesterday?"
"Oh no. I told you I wouldn't."
"Good."
"But I'll tell you this, Mr. Jake, he's some kinda worried. He ain't heard from his new lawyer. He's bad upset. I had to bite my tongue to keep from tellin' him, but I didn't. I did tell him you were my lawyer."
"That's okay."
"He said you was good 'bout comin' by the jail and talkin' 'bout the case and all. He said I hired a good lawyer."
"Not good enough for him, though."
"I think Carl Lee's confused. He ain't sure who to trust or anything. He's a good dude."
"Well, don't be telling him what we discussed, right? It's confidential."
"Right. But somebody needs to."
"He didn't consult with me or anyone else before he fired me and hired his new lawyer.
He's a grown man. He made the decision. It's his baby." Jake paused and moved closer to
Leroy. He lowered his voice. "And I'll tell you something else, but you can't tell it. I checked his court file thirty minutes ago. His new lawyer hasn't touched the case all week. Not one thing has been filed. Nothing."
Leroy frowned and shook his head. "Man oh man."
His lawyer continued. "These big shots operate like that. Talk a lot, blow a lot of smoke, fly by the seat of their pants. Take more cases than they can handle, and end up losing more than they win. I know them. I watch them all the time. Most are overrated."
"Is that why he ain't been to see Carl Lee?"
"Sure. He's too busy. Plus he's got plenty of other big cases. He don't care about Carl Lee."
"That's bad. Carl Lee deserves better."
"It was his choice. He'll have to live with it."
"You think he'll be convicted, Mr. Jake?"
"No doubt about it. He's looking at the gas chamber. He's hired a bogus big-shot lawyer who doesn't have time to work on his case, doesn't even have the time to talk to him in jail."
"Are you sayin' you could get him off?"
Jake relaxed and crossed his legs. "No, I never make that promise, and I won't make it for your trial. A lawyer is stupid if he promises an acquittal. Too many things can go wrong at trial."
"Carl Lee said his lawyer promised a not guilty in the newspaper."
"He's a fool."
"Where you been?" Carl Lee asked his cellmate as the jailer locked the door.
"Talkin' to my lawyer."
"Jake?"
"Yeah."
Leroy sat on his bunk directly across the cell from Carl Lee, who was rereading a newspaper. He folded the paper and laid it under his bunk.
"You look worried," Carl Lee said. "Bad news about your case?"
"Naw. Just can't make my bail. Jake says it'll be a few days."
"Jake talk about me?"
"Naw. Not much."
"Not much? What'd he say?"
"Just ask how you was."
"That all?"
"Yeah."
"He's not mad at me?"
"Naw. He might be worried about you, but I don't think he's mad."
"Why's he worried about me?"
"I don't know," Leroy answered as he stretched out on his bunk, folding his hands behind his head.
"Come on, Leroy. You know somethin' you ain't tellin'. What'd Jake say about me?"
"Jake said I can't tell you what we talk about. He says it's confidential. You wouldn't want your lawyer repeatin' what y'all talk about, would you?"
"I ain't seen my lawyer."
"You had a good lawyer till you fired him."
"I gotta good one now."
.
. "How do you know? You ain't ever met him. He's too busy to come talk to you, and if he's that busy, he ain't got time to work on your case."
.
"How do you know about him?" "I asked Jake."
"Yeah. What'd he say?"
Leroy was silent.
"I wanna know what he said," demanded Carl Lee as he sat on the edge of Leroy's bunk.
He glared at his smaller, weaker cellmate. Leroy decided he was frightened and now had a good excuse to tell Carl Lee. Either talk or get slapped.
"He's a crook," Leroy said. "He's a big-sho t crook who'll sell you out. He don't care about you or your case. He just wants the publicity. He hasn't touched your case all week.
Jake knows, he checked in the courthouse this afternoon. Not a sign of Mr. Big Shot. He's too busy to leave Memphis and check on you. He's got too many other crooked clients in
Memphis, includin' your friend Mr. Bruster."
"You're crazy, Leroy."
"Okay, I'm crazy. Wait and see who pleads insaneness. Wait and see how hard he works on your case."
"What makes you such an expert?"
"You asked me and I'm tellin' you."
Carl Lee walked to the door and grabbed the bars, gripping them tightly with his huge hands. The cell had shrunk in three weeks, and the smaller it became the harder it was for him to think, to reason, to plan, to react. He could not concentrate in jail. He knew only what was told to him and had no one to trust. Gwen was irrational. Ozzie was noncommittal. Lester was in Chicago. There was no other person he trusted except Jake, and for some reason he had found a new lawyer. Money, that was the reason. Nineteen hundred dollars cash, paid by the biggest pimp and dope dealer in Memphis, whose lawyer specialized in defending pimps and dope dealers, and all kinds of cutthroats and hoodlums. Did Marsharfsky represent decent people? What would the jury think when they watched Carl Lee sit at the defense table next to Marsharfsky? He was guilty, of course. Why else would he hire a famous, big-city crook like Marsharfsky?
"You know what them rednecks on the jury'H say when they see Marsharfsky?" Leroy asked.
"What?"
"They're gonna think this poor nigger is guilty, and he's sold his soul to hire the biggest crook in Memphis to tell us he ain't guilty."
Carl Lee mumbled something through the bars.
"They're gonna fry you, Carl Lee."
Moss Junior Tatum was on duty at six-thirty Saturday morning when the phone rang in
Ozzie's office. It was the sheriff.
"What're you doing awake?" asked Moss.
"I'm not sure I'm awake," answered the sheriff. "Listen, Moss, do you remember an old black preacher named Street, Reverend Isaiah Street?"
"Not really."
"Yeah you do. He preached for fifty years at Springdale Church, north of town. First member of the NAACP in Ford County. He taught all the blacks around here how to march and boycott back in the sixties."
"Yeah, now I remember. Didn't the Klan catch him once?"
"Yeah, they beat him and burned his house, but nothin' serious. Summer of '65."
"I thought he died a few years back."
"Naw, he's been half dead for ten years, but he still moves a little. He called me at five-thirty and talked for an hour. Reminded me of all the political favors I owe him."
"What's he want?"
"He'll be there at seven to see Carl Lee. Why, I don't know. But treat him nice. Put them in my office and let them talk. I'll be in later."
ouic, oneriii.
In his heyday in the sixties, the Reverend Isaiah Street had been the moving force behind civil rights activity in Ford County. He walked with Martin Luther King in Memphis and
Montgomery. He organized marches and protests in Clanton and Karaway and other towns in north Mississippi. In the summer of '64 he greeted students from the North and coordinated their efforts to register black voters. Some had lived in his home that memorable summer, and they still visited him from time to time. He was no radical. He was quiet, compassionate, intelligent, and had earned the respect of all blacks and most whites. His was a calm, cool voice in the midst of hatred and controversy. He unofficially officiated the great public school desegregation in '69, and Ford County saw little trouble.
A stroke in '75 deadened the right side of his body but left his mind untouched. Now, at seventy- eight, he walked by himself, slowly and with a cane. Proud, dignified, erect as possible. He was ushered into the sheriffs office and seated. He,declined coffee, and Moss Junior left to get the defendant.
"You awake, Carl Lee?" he whispered loudly, not wanting to wake the other prisoners, who would begin screaming for breakfast, medicine, lawyers, bondsmen, and girlfriends.
Carl Lee sat up immediately. "Yeah, I didn't sleep much."
"You have a visitor. Come on." Moss quietly unlocked the cell.
Carl Lee had met the reverend years earlier when he addressed the last senior class at
East High, the black school. Desegregation followed, and East became the junior high.
He had not seen the reverend since the stroke.
"Carl Lee, do you know Reverend Isaiah Street?" Moss asked properly.
"Yes, we met years ago."
"Good, I'll close the door and let y'all talk."
"How are you, sir?" Carl Lee asked. They sat next to each other on the couch.
"Finej my son, and you?"
"As good as possible."
"I've been in jail too, you know. Years ago. It's a terri- ble place, but I guess it's necessary. How are they treating you?"
"Fine, just fine. Ozzie lets me do as I please."
"Yes, Ozzie. We're very proud of him, aren't we?"
"Yes, sub. He's a good man." Carl Lee studied the frail, feeble old man with the cane. His body was weak and tired, but his mind was sharp, his voice strong.
"We're proud of you too, Carl Lee. I don't condone violence, but at times it's necessary too, I guess. You did a good deed, my son."
"Yes, suh," answered Carl Lee, uncertain of the appropriate response.
"I guess you wonder why I'm here."
Carl Lee nodded. The reverend tapped his cane on the floor.
"I'm concerned about your acquittal. The black community is concerned. If you were white, you would most likely go to trial, and most likely be acquitted. The rape of a child is a horrible crime, and who's to blame a father for rectifying the wrong? A white father, that is. A black father evokes the same sympathy among blacks, but there's one problem: the jury will be white. So a black father and a white father would not have equal chances with the jury. Do you follow me?"
"I think so."
"The jury is all important. Guilt versus innocence. Freedom versus prison. Life versus death. All to be determined by the jury. It's a fragile system, this trusting of lives to twelve average, ordinary people who do not understand the law and are intimidated by the process."
"Yes, suh."
"Your acquittal by a white jury for the killings of two white men will do more for the black folk of Mississippi than any event since we integrated the schools. And it's not just Mississippi; it's black folk everywhere. Yours is a most famous case, and it's being watched carefully by many people."
"I just did what I had to do."
"Precisely. You did what you thought was right. It was right; although it was brutal and ugly, it was right. And most folks, black and white, believe that. But will you be treated as though you were white? That's the question."
"Ana 11 I'm convicted?"
"Your conviction would be another slap at us; a symbol of deep-seated racism; of old prejudices, old hatreds. It would be a disaster. You must not be convicted."
"I'm doin' all I can do."
"Are you? Let's talk about your attorney, if we may."
Carl Lee nodded.
"Have you met him?"
"No." Carl Lee lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. "Have you?"
"Yes, I have."
"You have? When?"
"In Memphis in 1968.1 was with Dr. King. Marsharfsky was one of the attorneys representing the garbage workers on strike against the city. He asked Dr. King to leave
Memphis, claimed he was agitating the whites and inciting the blacks, and that he was impeding the contract negotiations. He was arrogant and abusive. He cursed Dr. King-in private, of course. We thought he was selling out the workers and getting money under the table from the city. I think we were right." Carl Lee breathed deeply and rubbed his temples.
"I've followed his career," the reverend continued. "He's made a name for himself representing gangsters, thieves, and pimps. He gets some of them off, but they're always guilty. When you see one of his clients, you know he's guilty. That's what worries me most about you. I'm afraid you'll be considered guilty by association."
Carl Lee sunk lower, his elbows resting on his knees. "Who told you to come here?" he asked softly.
"I had a talk with an old friend."
"Who?"
"Just an old friend, my son. He's concerned about you too. We're all concerned about you."
"He's the best lawyer in Memphis."
"This isn't Memphis, is it?"
"He's an expert on criminal law."
"That could be because he's a criminal."
Carl Lee stood abruptly and walked across the room, his back to the reverend.
"He's free. He's not costin' me a dime."
"His fee won't seem important when you're on death row, my son."
Moments passed and neither spoke. Finally, the reverend lowered his cane and struggled to his feet.
"I've said enough. I'm leaving. Good luck, Carl Lee."
Carl Lee shook his hand. "I do appreciate your concern and I thank you for visitin'."
"My point is simply this, my son. Your case will be difficult enough to win. Don't make it more difficult with a crook like Marsharfsky."
Lester left Chicago just before midnight Friday. He headed south alone, as usual. Earlier his wife went north to Green Bay for a weekend with her family. He liked Green Bay much less than she liked Mississippi, and neither cared to visit the other's family. They were nice people, the Swedes, and they would treat him like family if he allowed it. But they were different, and it wasn't just their whiteness. He grew up with whites in the
South and knew them. He didn't like them all and didn't like most of their feelings toward him, but at least he knew them. But the Northern whites, especially the Swedes, were different. Their customs, speech, food, almost everythin g was foreign to him, and he would never feel comfortable with them.
There would be a divorce, probably within a year: He was black, and his wife's older cousin had married a black in the early seventies and received a lot of attention. Lester was a fad, and she was tired of him. Luckily, there were no kids. He suspected someone else. He had someone else too, and Iris had promised to marry him and move to Chicago once she ditched Henry.
Both sides of Interstate 57 looked the same after midnight-scattered lights from the small, neat farms strewn over the countryside, and occasionally a big town like Champaign or
Effingham. The north was where he lived and worked, but it wasn't home. Home was where Momma was, in Mississippi, although he would never live there again. Too much ignorance and poverty. He didn't mind the racism; it wasn't as bad as it once was and he was accustomed to it. It would always be there, but gradually becoming less visible.
i ne wmtes stui owned and controlled everything, and that in itself was not unbearable. It was not about to change. What he found intolerable was the
ignorance and stark poverty of many of the blacks; the dilapidated, shotgun houses, the high infant mortality rate, the hopelessly unemployed, the unwed mothers and their unfed babies. It was depressing to the point of being intolerable, and intolerable to the point he fled Mississippi like thousands of others and migrated north in search of a job, any decent-paying job which could ease the pain of poverty.
It was both pleasant and depressing to return to Mississippi. Pleasant in that he would see his family; depressing because he would see their poverty. There were bright spots. Carl
Lee had a decent job, a clean house, and well-dressed kids. He was an exception, and now it was all in jeopardy because of two drunk, low-bred pieces of white trash. Blacks had an excuse for being worthless, but for whites in a white world, there were no excuses.
They were dead, thank God, and he was proud of his big brother.
Six hours out of Chicago the sun appeared as he crossed the river at Cairo. Two hours later he crossed it again at Memphis. He drove southeast into Mississippi, and an hour later circled the courthouse in Clanton. He'd been awake for twenty hours.
"Carl Lee, you have a visitor," Ozzie said through the iron bars in the door.
"I'm not surprised. Who is it?"
"Just follow me. I think you better use my office. This could take a while."
Jake loitered at his office waiting on the phone to ring. Ten o'clock. Lester should be in town, if he's coming. Eleven. Jake riffled through some stale files and made notes for
Ethel. Noon. He called Carla and lied about meeting a new client at one o'clock, so forget lunch. He would work in the yard later. One o'clock. He found an ancient case from
Wyoming where a husband was acquitted after tracking down the man who raped his wife. In 1893. He copied the case, then threw it in the garbage. Two o'clock. Was Lester in town? He could go visit Leroy and snoop around the jail. No, that didn't feel right. He napped on the couch in the big office.
At two-fifteen the phone rang. Jake bolted upright and scrambled from the couch. His heart was pounding as he grabbed the phone. "Hello!"
"Jake, this is Ozzie."
"Yeah, Ozzie, what's up?"
"Your presence is requested here at the jail."
"What?" Jake asked, feigning innocence.
"You're needed down here."
"By who?"
"Carl Lee wants to talk to you."
"Is Lester there?"
"Yeah. He wants you too."
"Be there in a minute."
"They've been in there for over four hours," Ozzie said, pointing to the office door.
"Doing what?" asked Jake,
"Talkin', cussin', shoutin'. Things got quiet about thirty minutes ago. Carl Lee came out and asked me to call you."
"Thanks. Let's go in."
"No way, man. I ain't goin' in there. They didn't send for me. You're on your own."
Jake knocked on the door.
"Come in!"
He opened it slowly, walked inside and closed it. Carl Lee was sitting behind the desk.
Lester was lying on the couch. He stood and shook Jake's hand. "Good to see you, Jake."
"Good to see you, Lester. What brings you home?"
"Family business."
Jake looked at Carl Lee, then walked to the desk and shook his hand. The defendant was clearly irritated.
"Y'all sent for me?"
"Yeah, Jake, sit down. We need to talk," said Lester. "Carl Lee's got somethin' to tell you."
"You tell him," Carl Lee said.
Lester sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was tired and irusiraiea. "i ami saym' anotner word. This is between .you and Jake." Lester closed his eyes and relaxed on the couch.
Jake sat in a padded, folding chair that he leaned against the wall opposite the couch. He watched Lester carefully, but did not look at Carl Lee, who rocked slowly in Ozzie's swivel chair. Carl Lee said nothing. Lester said nothing. After three minutes of silence,
Jake was annoyed.
"Who sent for me?" he demanded.
"I did," answered Carl Lee.
"Well, what do you want?"
"I wanna give you my case back."
"You assume I want it back."
"What!" Lester sat up and looked at Jake.
"It's not a gift you give or take away. It's an agreement between you and your attorney.
Don't act as though you're doing me a great favor." Jake's voice was rising, his anger apparent.
"Do you want the case?" asked Carl Lee.
"Are you trying to rehire me, Carl Lee?"
"That's right."
"Why do you want to rehire me?"
" 'Cause Lester wants me to."
"Fine, then I don't want your case." Jake stood and started for the door. "If Lester wants me and you want Mar-sharfsky, then stick with Marsharfsky. If you can't think for yourself, you need Marsharfsky."
"Wait, Jake. Be cool, man," Lester said as he met Jake at the door. "Sit down, sit down. I don't blame you for bein' mad at Carl Lee for firm' you. He was wrong. Right, Carl Lee?"
Carl Lee picked at his fingernails.
"Sit down, Jake, sit down and let's talk," Lester pleaded as he led him back to the folding chair.
"Good. Now, let's discuss this situation. Carl Lee, do you want Jake to be your lawyer?"
Carl Lee nodded. "Yeah."
"Good. Now, Jake-"
"Explain why." Jake asked Carl Lee.
"What?"
"Explain why you want me to handle your case. Explain why you're firing Marsharfsky."
"I don't have to explain."
"Yes! Yes, you do. You at least owe me an explanation. You fired me a week ago and didn't have the guts to call me. I read it in the newspaper. Then I read about your new high-priced lawyer who evidently can't find his way to Clanton. Now you call me and expect me to drop everything because you might change your mind again. Explain, please."
"Explain, Carl Lee. Talk to Jake," Lester said.
Carl Lee leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. He buried his face in his hands and spoke between his palms. "I'm just confused. This place is drivin' me crazy.
My nerves are shot. I'm worried about my little girl. I'm worried about my family. I'm worried about my own skin. Everbody's tellin' me to do somethin' different. I ain't ever been in a situation like this and I don't know what to do. All I can do is trust people. I trust Lester, and I trust you, Jake. That's all I can do."
"You trust my advice?" asked Jake.
"I always have."
"And you trust me to handle your case?"
"Yeah, Jake, I want you to handle it."
"Good enough."
Jake relaxed, and Lester eased into the couch. "You'll need to notify Marsharfsky. Until you do, I can't work on your case."
"We'll do that this afternoon," Lester said.
"Good. Once you talk to him, give me a call. There's a lot of work to do, and the time will disappear."
"What about the money?" asked Lester.
"Same fee. Same arrangements. Is that satisfactory?"
"Okay with me," replied Carl Lee. "I'll pay you any way I can."
"We'll discuss that later."
"What about the doctors?" asked Carl Lee.
"We'll make some arrangements. I don't know. It'll work out."
The defendant smiled. Lester snored loudly and Carl Lee laughed at his brother. "I figured you called him, but he swears you didn't."
Jake smiled awkwardly but said nothing. Lester was a nar, a- laieni wmcn naa proved extremely beneficial during his murder trial.
"I'm,sorry, Jake. I was wrong."
"No apologies. There's too much work to spend time apologizing."
Next to the parking lot outside the jail, a reporter stood under a shade tree waiting for something to happen.
"Excuse me, sir, aren't you Mr. Brigance?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I'm Richard Flay, with The Jackson Daily. You're Jake Brigance."
"Yes."
"Mr. Hailey's ex-lawyer."
"No. Mr. Hailey's lawyer."
"I thought he had retained Bo Marsharfsky. In" fact, that's why I'm here. I heard a rumor
Marsharfsky would be here this-afternoon."
"If you see him, tell him he's too late."
Lester slept hard on the couch in Ozzie's office. The dispatcher woke him at 4:00 A.M.
Sunday, and after filling a tall Styrofoam cup with black coffee, he left for Chicaga. Late
Saturday night he and Carl Lee had called Cat in his office above the club and informed him of Carl Lee's conversion. Cat was indifferent and busy. He said he would call
Marsharfsky. There was no mention of the money.
Not long after Lester disappeared, Jake staggered down his driveway in his bathrobe to get the Sunday papers. Clanton was an hour southeast of Memphis, three hours north of
Jackson, and forty- five minutes from Tupelo. All three cities had daily papers with fat
Sunday editions that were available in Clanton. Jake had long subscribed to all three, and was now glad he did so Carla would have plenty of material for her scrapbook. He spread the papers and began the task of plowing through f ive inches of print.
Nothing in the Jackson paper. He hoped Richard Flay had reported something. He should have spent more time with him outside the jail. Nothing from Memphis. Nothing from
Tupelo. Jake was not surprised, just hopeful that somehow the story had been discovered.
But it happened too late yesterday. Maybe Monday. He was tired of hiding; tired of feeling embarrassed. Until it was in the papers and read by the boys at the Coffee Shop, and the people at church, and the other lawyers, including Buckley and Sullivan and Lot-terhouse, until everybody knew it was his case again, he would stay quiet and out of view. How should he tell Sullivan? Carl Lee would call Marsharfsky, or the pimp, probably the pimp, who would then call Marsharfsky with the news. What kind of press release would Marsharfsky write for that? Then the great lawyer would call Walter
Sullivan with the wonderful news. That should happen Monday morning, if not sooner.
Word would spread quickly throughout the Sullivan firm, and the senior partners, junior partners, and little associates would all gather in the long, mahogany-laced conference room and curse Brigance and his low ethics and tactics. The associates would try to impress their bosses by spouting rules and code numbers of ethics Brigance probably violated. Jake hated them, every one of them. He would send Sullivan a short, curt letter with a copy to Lotterhouse. He wouldn't call or write Buckley. He would be in shock after he saw the paper. A letter to Judge Noose with a copy to tsucKiey would worn nne.
He wouia noi nonor mm with a personal letter.
Jake had a thought, then hesitated, then dialed Lucien's number. It was a few minutes after seven.
The nurse/maid/ bartender answered the phone.
"Sallie?"
"Yes."
"This is Jake. Is Lucien awake?"
"Just a moment." She rolled over and handed the phone to Lucien.
"Hello."
"Lucien, it's Jake."
"Yeah, whatta you want?"
"Good news. Carl Lee Hailey rehired me yesterday. The case is mine again."
"Which case?"
'The Hailey case!"
"Oh, the vigilante. He's yours?"
"As of yesterday. We've got work to do."
"When's the trial? July sometime?"
"Twenty-second."
"That's pretty close. What's priority?"
"A psychiatrist. A cheap one who'll say anything."
"I know just the man," said Lucien.
"Good. Get busy. I'll call in a couple of days."
Carla awoke, at a decent hour and found her husband in the kitchen with newspapers strewn over and under the breakfast table. She made fresh coffee and, without a word, sat across the table. He smiled at her and continued reading.
"What time did you get up?" she asked.
"Five-thirty."
"Why so early? It's Sunday."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Too excited?"
Jake lowered the paper. "As a matter of fact, I am excited. Very excited. It's too bad the excitement will not be shared."
"I'm sorry about last night."
"You don't have to apologize. I know how you feel. Your problem is that you only look at the negative, never the positive. You have no idea what this case can do for us."
"Jake, this case scares me. The phone calls, the threats, the burning cross. If the case means a million dollars, is it worth it if something happens?"
"Nothing will happen. We'll get some more threats and they'll stare at us at church and around town, but nothing serious."
"But you can't be sure."
"We went through this last night and I don't care to rehash it this morning. I do have an idea, though."
"I can't wait to hear it."
"You and Hanna fly to North Carolina and stay with your parents until after the trial.
They'd love to have you, and we wouldn't worry about the Klan or whoever likes to burn crosses."7
"But the trial is six weeks away! You want us to stay in Wilmington for six weeks?"
"Yes."
"I love my parents, but that's ridiculous."
"You don't see enough of them, and they don't see enough of Hanna."
"And we don't see enough of you. I'm not leaving for six weeks."
"There's a ton of preparation. I'll eat and sleep this case until the trial is over. I'll work nights, weekends-"
"What else is new?"
"I'll ignore y'all and think of nothing but this case."
"We're used to that."
Jake smiled at her. "You're saying you can handle it?"
"I can handle you. It's those crazies out there that scare me."
"When the crazies get serious, I'll back off. I will run from this case if my family is in danger."
"You promise?"
"Of course I promise. Let's send Hanna."
"If we're not in danger, why do you want to send anybody?"
"Just for safety. She'd have a great time spending the summer with her grandparents.
They'd love it."
"She wouldn't last a week without me."
"And you wouldn't last a week without her."
That s true. It s out of the question. I don t worry about her as long as I can hold her and squeeze her."
The coffee was ready and Carla filled their cups. "Anything in the paper?"
"No. I thought the Jackson paper might run something, but it happened too late, I guess."
"I guess your timing is a little rusty after a week's layoff."
"Just wait till in the morning."
"How do you know?"
"I promise."
She shook her head and searched for the fashion and food sections. "Are you going to church?"
"No."
"Why not? You've got the case. You're a star again."
"Yeah, but no one knows it yet."
"I see. Next Sunday."
"Of course."
At Mount Hebron, Mount Zion, Mount Pleasant, and at Brown's Chapel, Green's Chapel, and Norris Road, Section Line Road, Bethel Road, and at God's Temple, Christ's Temple, and Saints' Temple, the buckets and baskets and plates were passed and re-passed and left at the altars and front doors to collect the money for Carl Lee Hailey and his family. The large, family-size Kentucky Fried Chicken buckets were used in many of the churches. The bigger the bucket, or basket, the smaller the individual offerings appeared as they fell to the bottom, thus allowing the minister just cause to order another passing through the flock. It was a special offering, separate from the regular giving, and was preceded in virtually every church with a heart-wrenching account of what happened to the precious little Hailey girl, and what would happen to her daddy and family if the buckets were not filled. In many instances the sacred name of the NAACP was invoked and the effect was a loosening of the wallets and purses.
It worked. The buckets were emptied, the money counted, and the ritual repeated during the evening services. Late Sunday night the morning offerings and evening offer- ings were combined and counted by each minister, who would then deliver a great percentage of the total to the Reverend Agee sometime Monday. He would keep the money somewhere in his church, and a great percentage of it would be spent for the benefit of the Hailey family.
From two to five each Sunday afternoon, the prisoners in the Ford County jail were turned out into a large fenced yard across the small back street behind the jail. A limit of three friends and/or relatives for each prisoner was allowed inside for no
more than an hour. There were a couple of shade trees, some broken picnic tables, and a well-maintained basketball hoop. Deputies and dogs watched carefully from the other side of the fence.
A routine was established. Gwen and the kids would leave church after the benediction around three, and drive to the jail. Ozzie allowed Carl Lee early entrance to the recreation area so he could assume the best picnic table, the one with four legs and a shade tree. He would sit there by himself, speaking to no one, and watch the basketball skirmish until his family arrived. It wasn't basketball, but a hybrid of rugby, wrestling, judo, and basketball. No one dared officiate. No blood, no foul. And, surprisingly, no fights. A fight meant quick admittance to solitary and no recreation for a month.
There were a few visitors, some girlfriends and wives, and they would sit in the grass by the fence with their men and quietly watch the mayhem under the basketball hoop. One couple asked Carl Lee if they could use his table for lunch. He shook his head, and they ate in the grass.
Gwen and the kids arrived before three. Deputy Hastings, her cousin, unlocked the gate and the children ran to meet their daddy. Gwen spread the food. Carl Lee was aware of the stares from the less fortunate, and he enjoyed the envy. Had he been white, or smaller and weaker, or perhaps charged with a lesser crime, he would have been asked to share his food. But he was Carl Lee Hailey, and no one stared too long. The-game returned to its fury and violence, and the family ate in peace. Tonya always sat next to her daddy.
"They started an offerin' for us this mornin'," Gwen said after lunch.
"Who did?"
"The church. Reverend Agee said all the black churches in the county are gonna take up money ever Sunday for us and for the lawyer fees."
"How much?"
"Don't know. He said they gonna pass the bucket ever Sunday until the trial."
"That's mighty nice. What'd he say 'bout me?"
"Just talked about your case and all. Said how expensive it would be, and how we'd need help from the churches. Talked about Christian givin' and all that. Said you're a real hero to your people."
What a pleasant surprise, thought Carl Lee. He expected some help from his church, but nothing financial. "How many churches?"
"All the black ones in the county."
"When do we get the money?"
"He didn't say."
After he got his cut, thought Carl Lee. "Boys, y'all take your sister and go play over there by the fence. Me and Momma needs to talk. Be careful now."
Carl Lee, Jr., and Robert took their little sister by the hand and did exactly as ordered.
"What does the doctor say?" Carl Lee asked as he watched the children walk away.
"She's doin' good. Her jaw's healin' good. He might take the wire off in a month. She can't run and jump and play yet, but it won't be long. Still some soreness."
"What about the, uh, the other?"
Gwen shook her head and covered her eyes. She began crying and wiping her eyes. She spoke and her voice cracked. "She'll never have kids. He told me . . ." She stopped, wiped her face and tried to continue. She began sobbing loudly, and buried her face in a paper towel. Carl Lee felt sick. He placed his forehead in his palms. He ground his teeth together as his eyes watered. "What'd he say?"
Gwen raised her head and spoke haltingly, righting back tears. "He told me Tuesday there was too much damage . . ." She wiped her wet face with her fingers. "But he wants to send her to a specialist in Memphis."
"He's not sure?"
She shook her head. "Ninety percent sure. But he thinks she should be examined by another doctor in Memphis. We're supposed to take her in a month." Gwen tore off another paper towel and wiped her face. She handed one to her husband, who quickly dabbed his eyes.
Next to the fence, Tonya sat listening to her brothers argue about which one would be a deputy and which one would be in jail. She watched her parents talk and shake their heads and cry. She knew something was wrong with her. She rubbed her eyes and started crying too.
"The nightmares are gettin' worse," Gwen said, interrupting the silence. "I have to sleep with her ever night. She dreams about men comin' to get her, men hidin' in the closets, chasin' her through the woods. She wakes up screamin' and sweatin'.
The doctor says she needs to see a psychiatrist. Says it'll get worse before it gets better."
"How much will it cost?"
"I don't know. I haven't called yet."
"Better call. Where is this psychiatrist?"
"Memphis."
"Figures."
"How are the boys treatin' her?"
"They've been great. They treat her special. But the nightmares keep them scared. When she wakes up screamin' she wakes everybody. The boys run to her bed and try to help, but it scares them. Last night she wouldn't go back to sleep unless the boys slept on the floor next to her. We all laid there wide awake with the lights on."
"The boys'll be all right."
"They miss their daddy."
Carl Lee managed a forced smile. "It won't be much longer."
"You really think so?"
"I don't know what to think anymore. But I don't plan to spend the rest of my life in jail. I hired Jake back."
"When?"
"Yesterday. That Memphis lawyer never showed up, never even called. I fired him and hired Jake again."
"But you said Jake is too young."
"I was wrong. He is young, but he's good. Ask Lester."
"It's your trial."
Carl Lee walked slowly around the yard, never leaving the fence. He thought of the two boys, somewhere out there, dead and buried, their flesh rotting by now, their souls burning in hell. Before they died, they met his little girl, only briefly, and within two hours wrecked her little body and ruined her mind. So brutal was their attack that she could never have children; so violent the encounter that she now saw them hiding for her, waiting in closets. Could she ever forget about it, block it out, erase it from her mind so her life would be normal? Maybe a psychiatrist could do that. Would other children allow her to be normal?
She was just a little nigger, they probably thought. Somebody's little nigger kid.
Illegitimate, of course, like all of them. Rape would be nothing new.
He remembered them in court. One proud, the other scared. He remembered them coming down the stairs as he awaited the execution. Then, the looks of horror as he stepped forward with the M-16. The sound of the gunfire, the cries for help, the screams as they fell backward together, one on top of the other, handcuffed, screaming and twisting, going nowhere. He remembered smiling, even laughing, as he watched them struggle with their heads half blown away, and when their bodies were still, he ran.
He smiled again. He was proud of it. The first gook he killed in Vietnam had bothered him more.
The letter to Walter Sullivan was to the point:
Dear J. Walter:
By now it's safe to assume Mr. Marsharfsky has informed you that his employment by Carl Lee Hailey has been terminated. Your services as local counsel will, of course, no longer be needed.
Have a nice day.
Sincerely, Jake
A copy was sent to L. Winston Lotterhouse. The letter to Noose was just as short:
Dear Judge Noose:
Please be advised that I have been retained by Carl Lee Hailey. We are preparing for trial on July 22. Please show me as counsel of record.
Sincerely, Jake
A copy was sent to Buckley.
Marsharfsky called at nine-thirty Monday. Jake watched the hold button blink for two minutes before he lifted the receiver. "Hello."
"How'd you do it?"
"Who is this?"
"Your secretary didn't tell you? This is Bo Marsharfsky, and I want to know how you did it."
"Did what?"
"Hustled my case."
Stay cool, thought Jake. He's an agitator. "As I recall, it was hustled from me," replied Jake.
"I never met him before he hired me."
"You didn't have to. You sent your pimp, remember?"
"Are you accusing me of chasing cases?"
"Yes."
Marsharfsky paused and Jake braced for the obscenities.
"You know something, Mr. Brigance, you're right. I chase cases everyday. I'm a pro at hustling cases. That's how I make so much money. If there's a big criminal case, I intend to get it. And I'll use whatever method I find necessary."
"Funny, that wasn't mentioned in the paper."
"And if I want the Hailey case, I'll get it."
"Come on down." Jake hung up and laughed for ten minutes. He lit a cheap cigar, and began working on his motion for a change of venue.
Two days later Lucien called and instructed Ethel to instruct Jake to come see him. It was important. He had a visitor Jake needed to meet.
The visitor was Dr. W.T. Bass, a retired psychiatrist from Jackson. He had known Lucien for years, and they had collaborated on a couple of insane criminals during their friendship. Both of the criminals were still in Parchman. His retirement had been one year before the disbarment and had been precipitated by the same thing that contributed heavily to the disbarment, to wit, a strong affection for Jack Daniel's. He visited Lucien occasionally in Clanton, and Lucien visited him more frequently in Jackson, and they enjoyed their visits because they enjoyed staying drunk together.
They sat on the big porch and waited on Jake.
"Just say he was insane," instructed Lucien.
"Was he?" asked the doctor.
"That's not important."
"What is important?"
"It's important to give the jury an excuse to acquit the man. They won't care if he's crazy or not. But they'll need some reason to acquit him."
"It would be nice to examine him."
"You can. You can talk to him all you want. He's at the jail just waiting on someone to talk to."
"I'll need to meet with him several times."
"I know that."
"What if I don't think he was insane at the time of the shooting?"
"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 offer ing 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 m otels 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."
"And you think the people in south Mississippi haven't heard about it?"
"I'm sure they have. But they are much further away."
"But they have televisions and newspapers, don't they, Mr. Brigance?"
"I'm sure they do."
"Do you believe you could go to any county in this state and find twelve people who haven't heard the details of this case?"
Jake looked at his legal pad. He could hear the artists sketching on their pads behind him.
He could see Buckley grinning out ot the corner of his eye. "It would be difficult," he said quietly.
"Call your first witness."
Harry Rex Vonner was sworn in and took his seat on the witness stand. The wooden swivel chair popped and creaked under the heavy load. He blew into the microphone and a loud hiss echoed around the courtroom. He smiled at Jake and nodded.
"Would you state your name?"
"Harry Rex Vonner."
"And your address?"
"Eighty-four ninety-three Cedarbrush, Clanton, Mississippi."
"How long have you lived in Clanton?"
"All my life. Forty-six years."
"Your occupation?"
"I'm a lawyer. I've had my license for twenty-two years."
"Have you ever met Carl Lee Hailey?"
"Once."
"What do you know about him?"
"He supposedly shot two men, Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard, and he wounded a deputy, DeWayne Looney."
"Did you Know either of those boys?"
"Not personally. I knew of Billy Ray Cobb."
"How did you learn of the shootings?"
"Well, it happened on a Monday, I believe. I was in the courthouse, on the first floor, checking title on some land in the clerk's office, when I heard the gunshots. I ran out into the hall and bedlam had broken loose. I asked a deputy and he told me that the boys had been killed near the back door of the courthouse. I hung around here for a while, and pretty soon there was a rumor that the killer was the father of the little girl who got raped."
"What was your initial reaction?"
"I was shocked, like most people. But I was shocked when I first heard of the rape too."
"When did you learn that Mr, Hailey had been arrested?"
"Later that night. It was all over the television."
"What did you see on TV?"
"Well, I watched as much of it as I could. There were news reports from the local stations in Memphis and Tupelo. We've got the cable, you know, so I watched the news out of
New York, Chicago, and Atlanta. Just about every channel had something about the shootings and the arrest. There was footage from the courthouse and jail. It was a big deal. Biggest thing that ever happened in Clanton, Mississippi."
"How did you react when you learned that the girl's father had supposedly done the shooting?"
"It was no big surprise to me. I mean, we all sort of figured it was him. I admired him.
I've got kids, and I sympathize wi th what he did. I still admire him."
"How much do you know about the rape?"
Buckley leapt to his feet. "Objection! The rape is irrelevant!"
Noose ripped off his glasses again and stared angrily at the D.A. Seconds passed and
Buckley glanced at the table. He shifted his weight from one foot to the next, then sat down. Noose leaned forward and glared down from the bench.
"Mr. Buckley, don't yell at me. If you do it again, so help me God, I will hold you in contempt. You may be correct, the rape may be irrelevant. But this is not the trial, is it?
This is simply a hearing, isn't it? We don't have a jury in the box, do we? You're overruled and out of order. Now stay in your seat. I know it's hard with this sort of audience, but I instruct you to stay in your seat unless you have something truly worthy to say. At that point, you may stand and politely and quietly tell me what's on your mind."
"Thank you, Your Honor," Jake said as he smiled at Buckley. "Now, Mr. Vonner, as I was saying, how much do you know about the rape?"
"Just what I've heard."
"And what's that?"
Buckley stood and bowed like a Japanese sumo wrestler. "If Your Honor please," he said softly and sweetly, "I would like to object at this point, if it pleases the court. The witness may testify to only what he knows from first-hand knowledge, not from what he's heard from other people."
Noose answered just as sweetly. "Thank you, Mr. Buck- ley. Your objection is noted, and you are overruled. Please continue, Mr. Brigance."
"Thank you, Your Honor."
"What have you heard about the rape?"
"Cobb and Willard grabbed the little Hailey girl and took her out in the woods somewhere. They were drunk, they tied her to a tree, raped her repeatedly and tried to hang her. They even urinated on her."
"They what!" asked Noose.
"They pissed on her, Judge."
The courtroom buzzed at this revelation. Jake had never heard it, Buckley hadn't heard it, and evidently no one knew it but Harry Rex. Noose shook his head and lightly rapped his gavel.
Jake scribbled something on his legal pad and marveled at his friend's esoteric knowledge. "Where did you learn about the rape?"
"All over town. It's common knowledge. The cops were giving the details the next morning at the Coffee Shop. Everybody knows it."
"Is it common knowledge throughout the county?"
"Yes. I haven't talked to anybody in a month who did not know the details of the rape."
"Tell us what you know about the shootings."
"Well, like I said, it was a Monday, afternoon. The boys were here in this courtroom for a bail hearing, I believe, and when they left the courtroom they were handcuffed and led by the deputies down the back stairs. When they got down the stairs, Mr. Hailey jumped out of a closet with an M 16. They were killed and DeWayne Looney was shot. Part of his leg was amputated."
"Exactly where did this take place?"
"Right below us here, at the rear entrance of the courthouse. Mr. Hailey was hiding in a janitor's closet and just stepped out and opened fire."
"Do you believe this to be true?"
"I know it's true."
"Where did you learn all this?"
"Here and there. Around town. In the newspapers. Everybody knows about it."
"Where have you heard it discussed?"
"Everywhere. In bars, in churches, at the bank, at the cleaners, at the Tea Shoppe, at the cafes around town, at the liquor store. Everywhere."
"Have you talked to anyone who believes Mr. Hailey did not kill Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?"
"No. You won't find a single person in this county who believes he didn't do it."
"Have most folks around here made up their minds about his guilt or innocence?"
"Every single one of them. There are no fence strad-dlers on this one. It's a hot topic, and everyone has an opinion."
"In your opinion, could Mr. Hailey receive a fair trial in Ford County?"
"No, sir. You couldn't find three people in this county of thirty thousand who have not already made up their minds, one way or the other. Mr. Hailey has been judged already.
There's just no way to find an impartial jury."
"Thank you, Mr. Vonner. No further questions, Your Honor." Buckley patted his pompadour and ran his fingers over his ears to make sure every hair was in place. He walked purposefully to the podium.
"Mr. Vonner," he, bellowed magnificently, "have you already prejudged Carl Lee Hailey?"
"Damn right I have."
"Your language, please," said Noose.
"And what would your judgment be?"
"Mr. Buckley, let me explain it this way. And I'll do so very carefully and slowly so that even you will understand it. If I was the sheriff, I would not have arrested him. If I was on the grand jury, I would not have indicted him. If I was the judge, I would not try him.
If I was the D.A., I would not prosecute him. If I was on the trial jury, I would vote to give him a key to the city, a plaque to hang on his wall, and I would send him home to his family. And, Mr. Buckley, if my daughter is ever raped, I hope I have the guts to do what he did."
"I see. You think people should carry guns and settle their disputes in shootouts?"
"I think children have a right not to be raped, and their parents have the right to protect them. I think little girls are special, and if mine was tied to a tree and gang raped by two dopeheads I'm sure it would make me crazy. I think good and decent fathers should have a constitutional right to execute any pervert who touches their children. And I think you're a lying coward when you claim you would not want to kill the man who raped your daughter."
"Mr. Vonner, please!" Noose said. Buckley struggled, but kept his cool. "You obviously feel very strongly about this case, don't you?"
"You're very perceptive."
"And you want to see him acquitted, don't you?"
"I would pay money, if I had any."
"And you think he stands a better chance of acquittal in another county, don't you?"
"I think he's entitled to a jury made up of people who don't know everything about the case before the trial starts."
"You would acquit him, wouldn't you?"
"That's what I said."
"And you've no doubt talked to other people who would acquit him?"
"I have talked to many."
"Are there folks in Ford County who would vote to convict him?"
"Of course. Plenty of them. He's black, isn't he?"
"In all your discussions around the county, have you detected a clear majority one way or the other?"
"Not really."
Buckley looked at his legal pad and made a note. "Mr. Vonner, is Jake Brigance a close friend of yours?"
Harry Rex smiled and rolled his eyes at Noose. "I'm a lawyer, Mr. Buckley, my friends are few and far between. But he is one of them. Yes, sir."
"And he asked you to come testify?"
"No. I just happened to stumble through the courtroom a few moments ago and landed here in this chair. I had no idea you guys were having a hearing this morning."
Buckley threw his legal pad on the table and sat down. Harry Rex was excused.
"Call your next witness," Noose ordered.
"Reverend Ollie Agee," Jake said.
The reverend was led from the witness room and seated in the witness stand. Jake had met him at his church the day before with a list of questions. He wanted to testify. They did not discuss the NAACP lawyers. The reverend was an excellent witness. His deep, graveled voice needed no microphone as it carried around the courtroom. Yes, he knew the details of the rape and the shooting. They were members of his church. He had known them for years, they were family almost, and he had held their hands and suffered with them after the rape. Yes, he had talked to countless people since it happened and everyone had an opinion on guilt or innocence. He and twenty-two other black ministers were members of the council and they had all talked about the Hailey case. And, no, there were no unmade minds in Ford County. A fair trial was not possible in Ford County, in his opinion. Buckley asked one question. "Reverend Agee, have you talked to any black who would vote to convict Carl Lee Hailey?"
"No, suh, I have not."
The reverend was excused. He took a seat in the courtroom between two of his brethren on the council.
"Call your next witness," Noose said.
Jake smiled at the D.A., and announced, "Sheriff Ozzie Walls."
Buckley and Musgrove immediately locked heads and whispered. Ozzie was on their side, the side of law and order, the prosecution's side. It was not his job to help the defense. Proves you can't trust a nigger, thought Buckley. They take up for each other when they know they're guilty.
Jake led Ozzie through a discussion of the rape and the backgrounds of Cobb and
Willard. It was boring and repetitious, and Buckley wanted to object. But he'd been embarrassed enough for one day. Jake sensed that Buckley would remain in his seat so he dwelt on the rape and the gory details.
Finally, Noose had enough.
"Move on please, Mr. Brigance."
"Yes, Your Honor. Sheriff Walls, did you arrest Carl Lee Hailey?"
"I did."
"Do you believe he killed Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?"
"I do."
"Have you met anybody in this county who believes he did not shoot them?"
"No, sir."
"Is it widely believed in this county that Mr. Hailey killed them?"
"Yes. Everbody believes it. At least everbody I've talked to."
"Sheriff, do you circulate in this county?"
"Yes, sir. It's my job to know what's goin' on."
"And you talk to a lot of people?"
"More than I would like."
"Have you run across anyone who hasn't heard of Carl Lee Hailey?"
Ozzie paused and answered slowly. "A person would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know of Carl Lee Hailey."
"Have you met anyone without an opinion on his guilt or in nocence?"
"There's no such person in this county."
"Can he get a fair trial here?"
"I don't know about that. I do know you can't find twelve people who don't know all about the rape and the shootin'."
"No further questions," Jake said to Noose.
"Is he your last witness?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any cross-examination, Mr. Buckley?"
Buckley remained in his seat and shook his head.
"Good," said His Honor. "Let's take a short recess. I would like to see the attorneys in chambers."
The courtroom erupted in conversation as the attorneys followed Noose and Mr. Pate through the door beside the bench. Noose closed the door to his chambers and removed his robe. Mr. Pate brought him a cup of black coffee.
"Gentlemen, I am considering imposing a gag order from now until the trial is over. I am disturbed by the publicity, and I don't want this case tried by the press. Any comments?"
Buckley looked pale and shaken. He opened his mouth, but nothing happened.
"Good idea, Your Honor," Jake said painfully. "1 had considered requesting such an order."
"Yes, I'm sure you have. I've noticed how you run from publicity. What about you, Mr. Buckley?"
"Uh, who would it apply to?"
"You, Mr. Buckley. You, and Mr. Brigance, would be ordered not to discuss any aspect of the case or the trial with the press. It would apply to everyone, at least everyone under the control of this court. The attorneys, the clerks, the court officials, the sheriff."
"But why?" asked Buckley.
"I don't like the idea of the two of you trying this case through the media. I'm not blind.
You've both fought for the spotlight, and I can only imagine what the trial will be like. A circus, that's what it will be. Not a trial, but a three-ring circus." Noose walked to the window and mumbled something to himself. He paused for a moment, then continued mumbling. The attorneys looked at each other, then at the awkward frame standing in the window.
"I'm imposing a gag order, effective immediately, from now until the trial is over.
Violation of the order will result in contempt of court proceedings. You are not to discuss any aspect of this case with any member of the press. Any questions?"
"No, sir," Jake said quickly.
Buckley looked at Musgrove and shook his head.
"Now, back to this hearing. Mr. Buckley, you said you have over twenty witnesses. How many do you really need?"
"Five or six."
"That's much better. Who are they?"
"Floyd Loyd."
"Who's he?"
"Supervisor, First District, Ford County."
"What's his testimony?"
"He's lived here for fifty years, been in office ten years or so. In his opinion a fair trial is possible in this county."
"I suppose he's never heard of this case?" Noose said sarcastically.
"I'm not sure."
"Who else?"
"Nathan Baker. Justice of the Peace, Third District, Ford County."
"Same testimony?"
"Well, basically, yes."
"Who else?"
"Edgar Lee Baldwin, former supervisor, Ford County."
"He was indicted a few years back, wasn't he?" Jake asked.
Buckley's face turned redder than Jake had ever seen it. His huge mouth dropped open and his eyes glazed over.
"He was not convicted," shot Musgrove.
"I didn't say he was. I simply said he was indicted. FBI, wasn't it?"
"Enough, enough," said Noose. "What will Mr. Baldwin tell us?"
"He's lived here all his life. He knows the people of Ford County, and thinks Mr. Hailey can receive a fair trial here," Musgrove answered. Buckley remained speechless as he stared at Jake.
"Who else?"
"Sheriff Harry Bryant, Tyler County."
"Sheriff Bryant? What'll he say?"
Musgrove was talking for the State now. "Your Honor, we have two theories we are submitting in opposition to the motion for a change of venue. First, we contend a fair trial is possible here in Ford County. Second, if the court is of the opinion that a fair trial is not possible here, the State contends that the immense publicity has reached every prospective juror in this state. The same prejudices and opinions, for and against, which exist in this county exist in every county. Therefore, nothing will be gained by moving the trial. We have witnesses to support this second theory."
"That's a novel concept, Mr. Musgrove. I don't think I've heard it before."
"Neither have I," added Jake.
"Who else do you have?"
"Robert Kelly Williams, district attorney for the Ninth District."
"Where'sthat?",
"Southwestern tip of the state."
"He drove all the way up here to testify that everyone in his neck of the woods has already prejudged the case?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who else?"
"Grady Listen, district attorney, Fourteenth District."
"Same testimony?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is that all?"
"Well, Your Honor, we have several more. But their testimony will pretty much follow the other witnesses'."
"Good, then we can limit your proof to these six witnesses?"
"Yes, sir."
"I will hear your proof. I will allow each of you five minutes to conclude your arguments, and I will rule on this motion within two weeks. Any questions?"
It hurt to say no to the reporters. They followed Jake across Washington Street, where he excused himself, offered his no comments, and sought refuge in his office. Undaunted, a photographer from Newsweek pushed his way inside and asked if Jake would pose for a photograph. He wanted one of those important ones
with a stern look and thick leather books in the background. Jake straightened his tie and showed the photographer into the conference room, where he posed in court-ordered silence. The photographer thanked him and left.
"May I have a few minutes of your time?" Ethel asked politely as her boss headed for the stairs.
"Certainly."
"Why don't you sit down. We need to talk."
She's finally quitting, Jake thought as he took a seat by the front window.
"What's on your mind?"
"Money."
"You're the highest-paid legal secretary in town. You got a raise three months ago."
"Not my money. Please listen. You don't have enough in the bank to pay this month's bills. June is almost gone, and we've grossed seventeen hundred dollars."
Jake closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
"Look at these bills," she said, waving a stack of invoices. "Four thousand dollars worth.
How am I supposed to pay these?"
"How much is in the bank?"
"Nineteen hundred dollars, as of Friday. Nothing came in this morning."
"Nothing?"
"Not a dime."
"What about the settlement on the Liford case? That's three thousand in fees."
Ethel shook her head. "Mr. Brigance, that file has not been closed. Mr. Liford has not
signed the release. You were to take it by his house. Three weeks ago, remember?"
"No, I don't remember. What about Buck Britt's retainer? That's a thousand dollars."
"His check bounced. The bank returned it, and it's been on your desk for two weeks."
She paused and took a deep breath. "You've stopped seeing clients. You don't return phone calls, and-"
"Don't lecture me, Ethel!"
"And you're a month behind on everything."
"That's enough."
"Ever since you took the Hailey case. That's all you think about. You're obsessed with it.
It's going to break us."
"Us! How many paychecks have you missed, Ethel? How many of those bills are past due? Huh?"
"Several."
"But no more than usual, right?"
"Yes, but what about next month? The trial is four weeks away."
"Shut up, Ethel. Just shut up. If you can't take the pressure, then quit. If you can't keep your mouth shut, then you're fired."
"You'd like to fire me, wouldn't you?"
"I could care less."
She was a tough, hard woman. Fourteen years with Lu-cien had toughened her skin and hardened her conscience, but she was a woman nonetheless, and at this moment her lip started to quiver, and her eyes watered. She dropped her head.
"I'm sorry," she muttered. "I'm just worried."
"Worried about what?"
"Me and Bud."
"What's wrong with Bud?"
"He's a very sick man."
"I know that."
"His blood pressure keeps acting up. Especially after the phone calls. He's had three strokes in five years, and he's due for another one. He's scared; we're both scared."
"How many phone calls?"
"Several. They threaten to burn our house or blow it up. They always tell us they know where we live, and if Hailey is acquitted, then they'll burn it or stick
dynamite under it while we are asleep. A couple have threatened to kill us. It's just not worth it."
"Maybe you should quit."
"And starve? Bud hasn't worked in ten years, you know that. Where else would I work?"
"Look, Ethel, I've had threats too. I don't take them seriously. I promised Carla I'd give up the case before I endangered my family, and you should be comforted by that. You and
Bud should relax. The threats are not serious. There are a lot of nuts out there."
"That's what worries me. People are crazy enough to do something."
"Naw, you worry too much. I'll tell Ozzie to watch your house a bit closer."
"Will you do that?"
"Sure. They've been watching mine. Take my word, Ethel, there's nothing to worry about.
Probably just some young punks."

The Merchant of Venice by Shakespeare

noreply@blogger.com (Love Heda) — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 22:39:00 +0530

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
by William Shakespeare
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE DUKE OF VENICE
THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia
THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, suitor to Portia
ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice
BASSANIO, his friend
SALANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio
SALARINO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio
GRATIANO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio
LORENZO, in love with Jessica
SHYLOCK, a rich Jew
TUBAL, a Jew, his friend
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LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock
OLD GOBBO, father to Launcelot
LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio
BALTHASAR, servant to Portia
STEPHANO, servant to Portia
PORTIA, a rich heiress

NERISSA, her waiting-maid
JESSICA, daughter to Shylock
Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice,
Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other Attendants
SCENE: Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the
Continent
ACT 1.
SCENE I. Venice. A street
[Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO]
ANTONIO.
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad;
It wearies me; you say it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me
That I have much ado to know myself.
SALARINO.
Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There where your argosies, with portly sail--
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or as it were the pageants of the sea--
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
SALANIO.
Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind,
Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt
Would make me sad.
SALARINO.
My wind, cooling my broth
6
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run
But I should think of shallows and of flats,
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,
Vailing her high top lower than her ribs
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church
And see the holy edifice of stone,
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,
Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all her spices on the stream,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought
To think on this, and shall I lack the thought
That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad?
But tell not me; I know Antonio
Is sad to think upon his merchandise.
ANTONIO.
Believe me, no; I thank my fortune for it,
My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,
Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
Upon the fortune of this present year;
Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.
SALARINO.
Why, then you are in love.
ANTONIO.
Fie, fie!
SALARINO.
Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad
Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy
For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry,
Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,
Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper;
And other of such vinegar aspect
That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.
[Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.]
SALANIO.
Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well;
We leave you now with better company.
SALARINO.
7
I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
ANTONIO.
Your worth is very dear in my regard.
I take it your own business calls on you,
And you embrace th' occasion to depart.
SALARINO.
Good morrow, my good lords.
BASSANIO.
Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say when.
You grow exceeding strange; must it be so?
SALARINO.
We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.
[Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.]
LORENZO.
My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,
We two will leave you; but at dinner-time,
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
BASSANIO.
I will not fail you.
GRATIANO.
You look not well, Signior Antonio;
You have too much respect upon the world;
They lose it that do buy it with much care.
Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.
ANTONIO.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage, where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.
GRATIANO.
Let me play the fool;
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come;
And let my liver rather heat with wine
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man whose blood is warm within
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster,
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio--
I love thee, and 'tis my love that speaks--
There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
8
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark.'
O my Antonio, I do know of these
That therefore only are reputed wise
For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,
If they should speak, would almost damn those ears
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.
I'll tell thee more of this another time.
But fish not with this melancholy bait,
For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile;
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.
LORENZO.
Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time.
I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
For Gratiano never lets me speak.
GRATIANO.
Well, keep me company but two years moe,
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.
ANTONIO.
Fare you well; I'll grow a talker for this gear.
GRATIANO.
Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable
In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.
[Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO.]
ANTONIO.
Is that anything now?
BASSANIO.
Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than
any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in, two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all
day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search.
ANTONIO.
Well; tell me now what lady is the same
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
That you to-day promis'd to tell me of?
BASSANIO.
'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate
By something showing a more swelling port
Than my faint means would grant continuance;
Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd
9
From such a noble rate; but my chief care
Is to come fairly off from the great debts
Wherein my time, something too prodigal,
Hath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio,
I owe the most, in money and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty
To unburden all my plots and purposes
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.
ANTONIO.
I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;
And if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour, be assur'd
My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.
BASSANIO.
In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way, with more advised watch,
To find the other forth; and by adventuring both
I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost; but if you please
To shoot another arrow that self way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
As I will watch the aim, or to find both,
Or bring your latter hazard back again
And thankfully rest debtor for the first.
ANTONIO.
You know me well, and herein spend but time
To wind about my love with circumstance;
And out of doubt you do me now more wrong
In making question of my uttermost
Than if you had made waste of all I have.
Then do but say to me what I should do
That in your knowledge may by me be done,
And I am prest unto it; therefore, speak.
BASSANIO.
In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair and, fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages:
Her name is Portia--nothing undervalu'd
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,
For the four winds blow in from every coast
Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;
10
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond,
And many Jasons come in quest of her.
O my Antonio! had I but the means
To hold a rival place with one of them,
I have a mind presages me such thrift
That I should questionless be fortunate.
ANTONIO.
Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;
Neither have I money nor commodity
To raise a present sum; therefore go forth,
Try what my credit can in Venice do;
That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,
To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia.
Go presently inquire, and so will I,
Where money is; and I no question make
To have it of my trust or for my sake.
[Exeunt]
SCENE 2. Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house
[Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.]
PORTIA.
By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this
great world.
NERISSA.
You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the
same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much
as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity come
sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.
PORTIA.
Good sentences, and well pronounced.
NERISSA.
They would be better, if well followed.
PORTIA.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do,
chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own
instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine
own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree; such a hare
is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the
fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose'! I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I
dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I
cannot choose one, nor refuse none?
NERISSA.
Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death
11
have good inspirations; therefore the lott'ry that he hath
devised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no
doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your
affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?
PORTIA.
I pray thee over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and according to my description,
level at my affection.
NERISSA.
First, there is the Neapolitan prince.
PORTIA.
Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of
his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself; I am
much afeard my lady his mother play'd false with a smith.
NERISSA.
Then is there the County Palatine.
PORTIA.
He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'An you will
not have me, choose.' He hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when
he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's-head with
a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two!
NERISSA.
How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?
PORTIA.
God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In
truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad
habit of
frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man. If a throstle sing he falls straight a-capering; he
will fence with his own shadow; if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise
me, I would forgive him; for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him.
NERISSA.
What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron of
England?
PORTIA.
You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me,
nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a
poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture; but alas, who can converse with a dumb-show?
How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in
Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.
NERISSA.
What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?
PORTIA.
12
That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed
a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able; I think the
Frenchman became his surety, and sealed under for another.
NERISSA.
How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?
PORTIA.
Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most
vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst,
he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.
NERISSA.
If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket,
you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him.
PORTIA.
Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep
glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he
will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge.
NERISSA.
You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords;
they have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you
with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition, depending on the
caskets.
PORTIA.
If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as
Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so
reasonable; for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair
departure.
NERISSA.
Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in
company of the Marquis of Montferrat?
PORTIA.
Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he called.
NERISSA.
True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes
looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.
PORTIA.
I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise.
[Enter a SERVANT.]
How now! what news?
SERVANT.
13
The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their
leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the Prince his
master will be here to-night.
PORTIA.
If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I
can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his
approach; if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me
than wive me.
Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before.
Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.
[Exeunt]
SCENE 3. Venice. A public place
[Enter BASSANIO and SHYLOCK.]
SHYLOCK.
Three thousand ducats; well?
BASSANIO.
Ay, sir, for three months.
SHYLOCK.
For three months; well?
BASSANIO.
For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.
SHYLOCK.
Antonio shall become bound; well?
BASSANIO.
May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer?
SHYLOCK.
Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio bound.
BASSANIO.
Your answer to that.
SHYLOCK.
Antonio is a good man.
BASSANIO.
Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?
SHYLOCK.
Ho, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a good man
is to have you understand me that he is sufficient; yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to
Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for
14
England, and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men; there be
land-rats and water-rats, land-thieves and
water-thieves,--I mean pirates,--and then there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is,
notwithstanding,
sufficient. Three thousand ducats- I think I may take his bond.
BASSANIO.
Be assured you may.
SHYLOCK.
I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured, I
will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?
BASSANIO.
If it please you to dine with us.
SHYLOCK.
Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation which your
prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you,
and so
following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he
comes here?
[Enter ANTONIO]
BASSANIO.
This is Signior Antonio.
SHYLOCK.
[Aside] How like a fawning publican he looks!
I hate him for he is a Christian;
But more for that in low simplicity
He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the hip,
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation; and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe
If I forgive him!
BASSANIO.
Shylock, do you hear?
SHYLOCK.
I am debating of my present store,
And, by the near guess of my memory,
I cannot instantly raise up the gross
Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,
Will furnish me. But soft! how many months
15
Do you desire? [To ANTONIO] Rest you fair, good signior;
Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
ANTONIO.
Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow
By taking nor by giving of excess,
Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,
I'll break a custom. [To BASSANIO] Is he yet possess'd
How much ye would?
SHYLOCK.
Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.
ANTONIO.
And for three months.
SHYLOCK.
I had forgot; three months; you told me so.
Well then, your bond; and, let me see. But hear you,
Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow
Upon advantage.
ANTONIO.
I do never use it.
SHYLOCK.
When Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's sheep,--
This Jacob from our holy Abram was,
As his wise mother wrought in his behalf,
The third possessor; ay, he was the third,--
ANTONIO.
And what of him? Did he take interest?
SHYLOCK.
No, not take interest; not, as you would say,
Directly interest; mark what Jacob did.
When Laban and himself were compromis'd
That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied
Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank,
In end of autumn turned to the rams;
And when the work of generation was
Between these woolly breeders in the act,
The skilful shepherd peel'd me certain wands,
And, in the doing of the deed of kind,
He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,
Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time
Fall parti-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's.
This was a way to thrive, and he was blest;
And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.
ANTONIO.
16
This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd for;
A thing not in his power to bring to pass,
But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven.
Was this inserted to make interest good?
Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?
SHYLOCK.
I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast.
But note me, signior.
ANTONIO.
Mark you this, Bassanio,
The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
An evil soul producing holy witness
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,
A goodly apple rotten at the heart.
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
SHYLOCK.
Three thousand ducats; 'tis a good round sum.
Three months from twelve; then let me see the rate.
ANTONIO.
Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?
SHYLOCK.
Signior Antonio, many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me
About my moneys and my usances;
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,
For suff'rance is the badge of all our tribe;
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears you need my help;
Go to, then; you come to me, and you say
'Shylock, we would have moneys.' You say so:
You that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold; moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say
'Hath a dog money? Is it possible
A cur can lend three thousand ducats?' Or
Shall I bend low and, in a bondman's key,
With bated breath and whisp'ring humbleness,
Say this:--
'Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;
You spurn'd me such a day; another time
You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much moneys?'
ANTONIO.
17
I am as like to call thee so again,
To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too.
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not
As to thy friends,--for when did friendship take
A breed for barren metal of his friend?--
But lend it rather to thine enemy;
Who if he break thou mayst with better face
Exact the penalty.
SHYLOCK.
Why, look you, how you storm!
I would be friends with you, and have your love,
Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with,
Supply your present wants, and take no doit
Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me:
This is kind I offer.
BASSANIO.
This were kindness.
SHYLOCK.
This kindness will I show.
Go with me to a notary, seal me there
Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,
If you repay me not on such a day,
In such a place, such sum or sums as are
Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit
Be nominated for an equal pound
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken
In what part of your body pleaseth me.
ANTONIO.
Content, in faith; I'll seal to such a bond,
And say there is much kindness in the Jew.
BASSANIO.
You shall not seal to such a bond for me;
I'll rather dwell in my necessity.
ANTONIO.
Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it;
Within these two months, that's a month before
This bond expires, I do expect return
Of thrice three times the value of this bond.
SHYLOCK.
O father Abram, what these Christians are,
Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect
The thoughts of others. Pray you, tell me this;
If he should break his day, what should I gain
By the exaction of the forfeiture?
A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man,
18
Is not so estimable, profitable neither,
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say,
To buy his favour, I extend this friendship;
If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.
ANTONIO.
Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.
SHYLOCK.
Then meet me forthwith at the notary's;
Give him direction for this merry bond,
And I will go and purse the ducats straight,
See to my house, left in the fearful guard
Of an unthrifty knave, and presently
I'll be with you.
ANTONIO.
Hie thee, gentle Jew.
[Exit SHYLOCK]
This Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.
BASSANIO.
I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
ANTONIO.
Come on; in this there can be no dismay;
My ships come home a month before the day.
[Exeunt]
ACT 2.
SCENE I. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.
[Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, and his
Followers;
PORTIA, NERISSA, and Others of her train.]
PRINCE OF Morocco.
Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,
To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred.
Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,
And let us make incision for your love
To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
Hath fear'd the valiant; by my love, I swear
The best-regarded virgins of our clime
19
Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue,
Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
PORTIA.
In terms of choice I am not solely led
By nice direction of a maiden's eyes;
Besides, the lottery of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing;
But, if my father had not scanted me
And hedg'd me by his wit, to yield myself
His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair
As any comer I have look'd on yet
For my affection.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Even for that I thank you:
Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets
To try my fortune. By this scimitar,--
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince,
That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,--
I would o'erstare the sternest eyes that look,
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,
Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,
Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,
To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!
If Hercules and Lichas play at dice
Which is the better man, the greater throw
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:
So is Alcides beaten by his page;
And so may I, blind Fortune leading me,
Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
And die with grieving.
PORTIA.
You must take your chance,
And either not attempt to choose at all,
Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong,
Never to speak to lady afterward
In way of marriage; therefore be advis'd.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Nor will not; come, bring me unto my chance.
PORTIA.
First, forward to the temple: after dinner
Your hazard shall be made.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Good fortune then!
To make me blest or cursed'st among men!
20
[Cornets, and exeunt.]
SCENE 2. Venice. A street
[Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO.]
LAUNCELOT.
Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this
Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good
Launcelot' or 'good Gobbo' or 'good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.' My conscience
says 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot, take heed, honest Gobbo' or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo, do
not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. 'Via!' says the fiend;
'away!' says the fiend. 'For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,' says the fiend 'and run.' Well, my conscience,
hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest
man's son'--or rather 'an honest woman's son';--for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to,
he had a kind of taste;--well, my conscience says 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,'
says my conscience.
'Conscience,' say I, (you counsel well.' 'Fiend,' say I, 'you counsel well.' To be ruled by my conscience, I
should stay with the Jew my master, who, God bless the mark! is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the
Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence! is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the
very devil incarnal; and, in my conscience, my
conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the
more friendly
counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run.
[Enter OLD GOBBO, with a basket]
GOBBO.
Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew's?
LAUNCELOT.
[Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being more
than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not: I will try confusions with him.
GOBBO.
Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew's?
LAUNCELOT.
Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at
the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly
to the Jew's house.
GOBBO.
Be God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him,
dwell with him or no?
LAUNCELOT.
Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me
now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master
Launcelot?
GOBBO.
21
No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I
say't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.
LAUNCELOT.
Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young
Master Launcelot.
GOBBO.
Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir.
LAUNCELOT.
But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk
you of young Master Launcelot?
GOBBO.
Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.
LAUNCELOT.
Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot,
father; for the young gentleman,--according to Fates and
Destinies
and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning,--is indeed deceased; or, as you would
say in plain terms, gone to heaven.
GOBBO.
Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.
LAUNCELOT.
Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father?
GOBBO.
Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman; but I pray
you tell me, is my boy--God rest his soul!--alive or dead?
LAUNCELOT.
Do you not know me, father?
GOBBO.
Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.
LAUNCELOT.
Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the
knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give
me your blessing; truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may, but in the end truth
will out.
GOBBO.
Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot, my boy.
LAUNCELOT.
Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give
me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.
22
GOBBO.
I cannot think you are my son.
LAUNCELOT.
I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is
my mother.
GOBBO.
Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou be
Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou
hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my thill-horse has on his tail.
LAUNCELOT.
It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward;
I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him.
GOBBO.
Lord! how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master
agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now?
LAUNCELOT.
Well, well; but, for mine own part, as I have set up my
rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master's a very Jew. Give him a present!
Give him a halter. I am famished in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am
glad you are come; give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. If I
serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune! Here comes the man: to him, father; for
I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.
[Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO, with and other Followers.]
BASSANIO.
You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be
ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire
Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.
[Exit a SERVANT]
LAUNCELOT.
To him, father.
GOBBO.
God bless your worship!
BASSANIO.
Gramercy; wouldst thou aught with me?
GOBBO.
Here's my son, sir, a poor boy--
LAUNCELOT.
Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would,
sir,--as my father shall specify--
23
GOBBO.
He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve--
LAUNCELOT.
Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and
have a desire, as my father shall specify--
GOBBO.
His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are
scarce cater-cousins--
LAUNCELOT.
To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done
me wrong, doth cause me,--as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you--
GOBBO.
I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your
worship; and my suit is--
LAUNCELOT.
In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as
your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my
father.
BASSANIO.
One speak for both. What would you?
LAUNCELOT.
Serve you, sir.
GOBBO.
That is the very defect of the matter, sir.
BASSANIO.
I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit.
Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,
And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment
To leave a rich Jew's service to become
The follower of so poor a gentleman.
LAUNCELOT.
The old proverb is very well parted between my master
Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough.
BASSANIO.
Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son.
Take leave of thy old master, and inquire
My lodging out. [To a SERVANT] Give him a livery
More guarded than his fellows'; see it done.
LAUNCELOT.
Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne'er a
24
tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm] Well; if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to
swear upon a book, I
shall have good fortune. Go to; here's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle of wives; alas, fifteen wives is
nothing; a'leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning
thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple 'scapes. Well, if Fortune be
a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an
eye.
[Exeunt LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO.]
BASSANIO.
I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:
These things being bought and orderly bestow'd,
Return in haste, for I do feast to-night
My best esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, go.
LEONARDO.
My best endeavours shall be done herein.
[Enter GRATIANO.]
GRATIANO.
Where's your master?
LEONARDO.
Yonder, sir, he walks.
[Exit.]
GRATIANO.
Signior Bassanio!--
BASSANIO.
Gratiano!
GRATIANO.
I have suit to you.
BASSANIO.
You have obtain'd it.
GRATIANO.
You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.
BASSANIO.
Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;
Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice;
Parts that become thee happily enough,
And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;
But where thou art not known, why there they show
Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain
To allay with some cold drops of modesty
25
Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour
I be misconstrued in the place I go to,
And lose my hopes.
GRATIANO.
Signior Bassanio, hear me:
If I do not put on a sober habit,
Talk with respect, and swear but now and then,
Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,
Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes
Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say 'amen';
Use all the observance of civility,
Like one well studied in a sad ostent
To please his grandam, never trust me more.
BASSANIO.
Well, we shall see your bearing.
GRATIANO.
Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me
By what we do to-night.
BASSANIO.
No, that were pity;
I would entreat you rather to put on
Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends
That purpose merriment. But fare you well;
I have some business.
GRATIANO.
And I must to Lorenzo and the rest;
But we will visit you at supper-time.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 3. The same. A room in SHYLOCK's house.
[Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT.]
JESSICA.
I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so:
Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,
Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.
But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee;
And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see
Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest:
Give him this letter; do it secretly.
And so farewell. I would not have my father
See me in talk with thee.
LAUNCELOT.
Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan,
26
most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! these
foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit; adieu!
JESSICA.
Farewell, good Launcelot.
[Exit LAUNCELOT]
Alack, what heinous sin is it in me
To be asham'd to be my father's child!
But though I am a daughter to his blood,
I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo!
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,
Become a Christian and thy loving wife.
[Exit]
SCENE 4. The same. A street
[Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALARINO, and SALANIO.]
LORENZO.
Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,
Disguise us at my lodging, and return
All in an hour.
GRATIANO.
We have not made good preparation.
SALARINO.
We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.
SALANIO.
'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd,
And better in my mind not undertook.
LORENZO.
'Tis now but four o'clock; we have two hours
To furnish us.
[Enter LAUNCELOT, With a letter.]
Friend Launcelot, what's the news?
LAUNCELOT.
An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem
to signify.
LORENZO.
I know the hand; in faith, 'tis a fair hand,
And whiter than the paper it writ on
Is the fair hand that writ.
27
GRATIANO.
Love news, in faith.
LAUNCELOT.
By your leave, sir.
LORENZO.
Whither goest thou?
LAUNCELOT.
Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to sup
to-night with my new master, the Christian.
LORENZO.
Hold, here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica
I will not fail her; speak it privately.
Go, gentlemen,
[Exit LAUNCELOT]
Will you prepare you for this masque to-night?
I am provided of a torch-bearer.
SALARINO.
Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.
SALANIO.
And so will I.
LORENZO.
Meet me and Gratiano
At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.
SALARINO.
'Tis good we do so.
[Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.]
GRATIANO.
Was not that letter from fair Jessica?
LORENZO.
I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed
How I shall take her from her father's house;
What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with;
What page's suit she hath in readiness.
If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven,
It will be for his gentle daughter's sake;
And never dare misfortune cross her foot,
Unless she do it under this excuse,
That she is issue to a faithless Jew.
Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest;
28
Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.
[Exeunt]
SCENE 5. The same. Before SHYLOCK'S house
[Enter SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT.]
SHYLOCK.
Well, thou shalt see; thy eyes shall be thy judge,
The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:--
What, Jessica!--Thou shalt not gormandize,
As thou hast done with me;--What, Jessica!--
And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out--
Why, Jessica, I say!
LAUNCELOT.
Why, Jessica!
SHYLOCK.
Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.
LAUNCELOT.
Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing
without bidding.
[Enter JESSICA.]
JESSICA.
Call you? What is your will?
SHYLOCK.
I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:
There are my keys. But wherefore should I go?
I am not bid for love; they flatter me;
But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon
The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,
Look to my house. I am right loath to go;
There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,
For I did dream of money-bags to-night.
LAUNCELOT.
I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect your
reproach.
SHYLOCK.
So do I his.
LAUNCELOT.
And they have conspired together; I will not say you
shall see a masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday
last at six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in the afternoon.
29
SHYLOCK.
What! are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:
Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum,
And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife,
Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the public street
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces;
But stop my house's ears- I mean my casements;
Let not the sound of shallow fopp'ry enter
My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear
I have no mind of feasting forth to-night;
But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah;
Say I will come.
LAUNCELOT.
I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window for all this;
There will come a Christian by
Will be worth a Jewess' eye.
[Exit LAUNCELOT.]
SHYLOCK.
What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?
JESSICA.
His words were 'Farewell, mistress'; nothing else.
SHYLOCK.
The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder;
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
More than the wild-cat; drones hive not with me,
Therefore I part with him; and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrow'd purse. Well, Jessica, go in;
Perhaps I will return immediately:
Do as I bid you, shut doors after you:
'Fast bind, fast find,'
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.
[Exit.]
JESSICA.
Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,
I have a father, you a daughter, lost.
[Exit.]
SCENE 6. The same.
[Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, masqued.]
30
GRATIANO.
This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo
Desir'd us to make stand.
SALARINO.
His hour is almost past.
GRATIANO.
And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.
SALARINO.
O! ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly
To seal love's bonds new made than they are wont
To keep obliged faith unforfeited!
GRATIANO.
That ever holds: who riseth from a feast
With that keen appetite that he sits down?
Where is the horse that doth untread again
His tedious measures with the unbated fire
That he did pace them first? All things that are
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.
How like a younker or a prodigal
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!
How like the prodigal doth she return,
With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails,
Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!
SALARINO.
Here comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter.
[Enter LORENZO.]
LORENZO.
Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;
Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait:
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,
I'll watch as long for you then. Approach;
Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within?
[Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes.]
JESSICA.
Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,
Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.
LORENZO.
Lorenzo, and thy love.
JESSICA.
31
Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed,
For who love I so much? And now who knows
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?
LORENZO.
Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.
JESSICA.
Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.
I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much asham'd of my exchange;
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit,
For, if they could, Cupid himself would blush
To see me thus transformed to a boy.
LORENZO.
Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.
JESSICA.
What! must I hold a candle to my shames?
They in themselves, good sooth, are too-too light.
Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love,
And I should be obscur'd.
LORENZO.
So are you, sweet,
Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
But come at once;
For the close night doth play the runaway,
And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.
JESSICA.
I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
With some moe ducats, and be with you straight.
[Exit above.]
GRATIANO.
Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew.
LORENZO.
Beshrew me, but I love her heartily;
For she is wise, if I can judge of her,
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,
And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself;
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,
Shall she be placed in my constant soul.
[Enter JESSICA.]
What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away!
32
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.
[Exit with JESSICA and SALARINO.]
[Enter ANTONIO]
ANTONIO.
Who's there?
GRATIANO.
Signior Antonio!
ANTONIO.
Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you.
No masque to-night: the wind is come about;
Bassanio presently will go aboard:
I have sent twenty out to seek for you.
GRATIANO.
I am glad on't: I desire no more delight
Than to be under sail and gone to-night.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 7. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.
[Flourish of cornets. Enter PORTIA, with the PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their trains.]
PORTIA.
Go draw aside the curtains and discover
The several caskets to this noble prince.
Now make your choice.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
The first, of gold, who this inscription bears:
'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'
The second, silver, which this promise carries:
'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt:
'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
How shall I know if I do choose the right?
PORTIA.
The one of them contains my picture, prince;
If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
Some god direct my judgment! Let me see;
I will survey the inscriptions back again.
What says this leaden casket?
'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
33
Must give: for what? For lead? Hazard for lead!
This casket threatens; men that hazard all
Do it in hope of fair advantages:
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;
I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.
What says the silver with her virgin hue?
'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'
As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco,
And weigh thy value with an even hand.
If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,
Thou dost deserve enough, and yet enough
May not extend so far as to the lady;
And yet to be afeard of my deserving
Were but a weak disabling of myself.
As much as I deserve! Why, that's the lady:
I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,
In graces, and in qualities of breeding;
But more than these, in love I do deserve.
What if I stray'd no farther, but chose here?
Let's see once more this saying grav'd in gold:
'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'
Why, that's the lady: all the world desires her;
From the four corners of the earth they come,
To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint:
The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds
Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now
For princes to come view fair Portia:
The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar
To stop the foreign spirits, but they come
As o'er a brook to see fair Portia.
One of these three contains her heavenly picture.
Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation
To think so base a thought; it were too gross
To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.
Or shall I think in silver she's immur'd,
Being ten times undervalu'd to tried gold?
O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem
Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
A coin that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped in gold; but that's insculp'd upon;
But here an angel in a golden bed
Lies all within. Deliver me the key;
Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!
PORTIA.
There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there,
Then I am yours.
[He unlocks the golden casket.]
PRINCE OF MOROCCO.
34
O hell! what have we here?
A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing.
'All that glisters is not gold,
Often have you heard that told;
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms infold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
Fare you well, your suit is cold.'
Cold indeed; and labour lost:
Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!
Portia, adieu! I have too griev'd a heart
To take a tedious leave; thus losers part.
[Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets.]
PORTIA.
A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains: go.
Let all of his complexion choose me so.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 8. Venice. A street
[Enter SALARINO and SALANIO.]
SALARINO.
Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail;
With him is Gratiano gone along;
And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.
SALANIO.
The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the Duke,
Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.
SALARINO.
He came too late, the ship was under sail;
But there the duke was given to understand
That in a gondola were seen together
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.
Besides, Antonio certified the duke
They were not with Bassanio in his ship.
SALANIO.
I never heard a passion so confus'd,
So strange, outrageous, and so variable,
As the dog Jew did utter in the streets.
35
'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!
Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!
Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter!
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,
Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my daughter!
And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones,
Stol'n by my daughter! Justice! find the girl!
She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.'
SALARINO.
Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,
Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.
SALANIO.
Let good Antonio look he keep his day,
Or he shall pay for this.
SALARINO.
Marry, well remember'd.
I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday,
Who told me,--in the narrow seas that part
The French and English,--there miscarried
A vessel of our country richly fraught.
I thought upon Antonio when he told me,
And wish'd in silence that it were not his.
SALANIO.
You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;
Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.
SALARINO.
A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.
I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:
Bassanio told him he would make some speed
Of his return. He answer'd 'Do not so;
Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio,
But stay the very riping of the time;
And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me,
Let it not enter in your mind of love:
Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts
To courtship, and such fair ostents of love
As shall conveniently become you there.'
And even there, his eye being big with tears,
Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,
And with affection wondrous sensible
He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted.
SALANIO.
I think he only loves the world for him.
I pray thee, let us go and find him out,
And quicken his embraced heaviness
With some delight or other.
36
SALARINO.
Do we so.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 9. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.
[Enter NERISSA, with a SERVITOR.]
NERISSA.
Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight;
The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath,
And comes to his election presently.
[Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF ARRAGON, PORTIA, and their Trains.]
PORTIA.
Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince:
If you choose that wherein I am contain'd,
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz'd;
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
You must be gone from hence immediately.
ARRAGON.
I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things:
First, never to unfold to any one
Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail
Of the right casket, never in my life
To woo a maid in way of marriage;
Lastly,
If I do fail in fortune of my choice,
Immediately to leave you and be gone.
PORTIA.
To these injunctions every one doth swear
That comes to hazard for my worthless self.
ARRAGON.
And so have I address'd me. Fortune now
To my heart's hope! Gold, silver, and base lead.
'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard.
What says the golden chest? Ha! let me see:
'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'
What many men desire! that 'many' may be meant
By the fool multitude, that choose by show,
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;
Which pries not to th' interior, but, like the martlet,
Builds in the weather on the outward wall,
Even in the force and road of casualty.
I will not choose what many men desire,
Because I will not jump with common spirits
37
And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;
Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:
'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'
And well said too; for who shall go about
To cozen fortune, and be honourable
Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume
To wear an undeserved dignity.
O! that estates, degrees, and offices
Were not deriv'd corruptly, and that clear honour
Were purchas'd by the merit of the wearer!
How many then should cover that stand bare;
How many be commanded that command;
How much low peasantry would then be glean'd
From the true seed of honour; and how much honour
Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times
To be new varnish'd! Well, but to my choice:
'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'
I will assume desert. Give me a key for this,
And instantly unlock my fortunes here.
[He opens the silver casket.]
PORTIA.
Too long a pause for that which you find there.
ARRAGON.
What's here? The portrait of a blinking idiot,
Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.
How much unlike art thou to Portia!
How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!
'Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.'
Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?
Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better?
PORTIA.
To offend, and judge, are distinct offices,
And of opposed natures.
ARRAGON.
What is here?
'The fire seven times tried this;
Seven times tried that judgment is
That did never choose amiss.
Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss;
There be fools alive, I wis,
Silver'd o'er, and so was this.
Take what wife you will to bed,
I will ever be your head:
So be gone; you are sped.'
38
Still more fool I shall appear
By the time I linger here;
With one fool's head I came to woo,
But I go away with two.
Sweet, adieu! I'll keep my oath,
Patiently to bear my wroth.
[Exit ARAGON with his train.]
PORTIA.
Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth.
O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose,
They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.
NERISSA.
The ancient saying is no heresy:
'Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.'
PORTIA.
Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.
[Enter a SERVANT.]
SERVANT.
Where is my lady?
PORTIA.
Here; what would my lord?
SERVANT.
Madam, there is alighted at your gate
A young Venetian, one that comes before
To signify th' approaching of his lord;
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets;
To wit,--besides commends and courteous breath,--
Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen
So likely an ambassador of love.
A day in April never came so sweet,
To show how costly summer was at hand,
As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.
PORTIA.
No more, I pray thee; I am half afeard
Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee,
Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him.
Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see
Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly.
NERISSA.
Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!
[Exeunt.]
39
ACT 3.
SCENE I. Venice. A street
[Enter SALANIO and SALARINO.]
SALANIO.
Now, what news on the Rialto?
SALARINO.
Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath a ship
of rich lading wrack'd on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place, a very dangerous flat and
fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman
of her word.
SALANIO.
I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped
ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true,--without any
slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk,--that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,--O that I
had a title good enough to keep his name
company!--
SALARINO.
Come, the full stop.
SALANIO.
Ha! What sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a
ship.
SALARINO.
I would it might prove the end of his losses.
SALANIO.
Let me say 'amen' betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer,
for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.
[Enter SHYLOCK.]
How now, Shylock! What news among the merchants?
SHYLOCK.
You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my
daughter's flight.
SALARINO.
That's certain; I, for my part, knew the tailor that made
the wings she flew withal.
SALANIO.
And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged;
and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam.
40
SHYLOCK.
She is damned for it.
SALARINO.
That's certain, if the devil may be her judge.
SHYLOCK.
My own flesh and blood to rebel!
SALANIO.
Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years?
SHYLOCK.
I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood.
SALARINO.
There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than
between jet and ivory; more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do
you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no?
SHYLOCK.
There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal,
who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto; a beggar, that used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look
to his bond: he was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a
Christian courtesy; let him look to his bond.
SALARINO.
Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his
flesh: what's that good for?
SHYLOCK.
To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else, it will
feed my revenge. He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a million; laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my
gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his
reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections,
passions, fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the
same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not
bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not
revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his
humility?
Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The
villaiy you teach me I will execute; and it shall go hard but I will better the
instruction.
[Enter a Servant.]
SERVANT.
Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both.
SALARINO.
We have been up and down to seek him.
41
[Enter TUBAL.]
SALANIO.
Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be
match'd, unless the devil himself turn Jew.
[Exeunt SALANIO, SALARINO, and Servant.]
SHYLOCK.
How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my
daughter?
TUBAL.
I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.
SHYLOCK.
Why there, there, there, there! A diamond gone, cost me
two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now. Two
thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and
the jewels in her ear; would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them? Why,
so: and I know not what's spent in the search. Why, thou--loss upon loss! The thief gone with so much, and so
much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge; nor no ill luck stirring but what lights on my shoulders;
no sighs but of my breathing; no tears but of my shedding.
TUBAL.
Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as I heard in
Genoa,--
SHYLOCK.
What, what, what? Ill luck, ill luck?
TUBAL.
--hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.
SHYLOCK.
I thank God! I thank God! Is it true, is it true?
TUBAL.
I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wrack.
SHYLOCK.
I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news! ha, ha!
Where? in Genoa?
TUBAL.
Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night,
fourscore ducats.
SHYLOCK.
Thou stick'st a dagger in me: I shall never see my gold
again: fourscore ducats at a sitting! Fourscore ducats!
42
TUBAL.
There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to
Venice that swear he cannot choose but break.
SHYLOCK.
I am very glad of it; I'll plague him, I'll torture him; I
am glad of it.
TUBAL.
One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter
for a monkey.
SHYLOCK.
Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: It was my
turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor; I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.
TUBAL.
But Antonio is certainly undone.
SHYLOCK.
Nay, that's true; that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an
officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were he out of Venice, I
can make what merchandise I will. Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our
synagogue, Tubal.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 2. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.
[Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and Attendants.]
PORTIA.
I pray you tarry; pause a day or two
Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,
I lose your company; therefore forbear a while.
There's something tells me, but it is not love,
I would not lose you; and you know yourself
Hate counsels not in such a quality.
But lest you should not understand me well,--
And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,--
I would detain you here some month or two
Before you venture for me. I could teach you
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn;
So will I never be; so may you miss me;
But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin,
That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,
They have o'erlook'd me and divided me:
One half of me is yours, the other half yours,
Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,
And so all yours. O! these naughty times
Puts bars between the owners and their rights;
And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so,
43
Let fortune go to hell for it, not I.
I speak too long, but 'tis to peise the time,
To eke it, and to draw it out in length,
To stay you from election.
BASSANIO.
Let me choose;
For as I am, I live upon the rack.
PORTIA.
Upon the rack, Bassanio! Then confess
What treason there is mingled with your love.
BASSANIO.
None but that ugly treason of mistrust,
Which makes me fear th' enjoying of my love:
There may as well be amity and life
'Tween snow and fire as treason and my love.
PORTIA.
Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,
Where men enforced do speak anything.
BASSANIO.
Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.
PORTIA.
Well then, confess and live.
BASSANIO.
'Confess' and 'love'
Had been the very sum of my confession:
O happy torment, when my torturer
Doth teach me answers for deliverance!
But let me to my fortune and the caskets.
PORTIA.
Away, then! I am lock'd in one of them:
If you do love me, you will find me out.
Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof;
Let music sound while he doth make his choice;
Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,
Fading in music: that the comparison
May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream
And watery death-bed for him. He may win;
And what is music then? Then music is
Even as the flourish when true subjects bow
To a new-crowned monarch; such it is
As are those dulcet sounds in break of day
That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear
And summon him to marriage. Now he goes,
With no less presence, but with much more love,
44
Than young Alcides when he did redeem
The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy
To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice;
The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,
With bleared visages come forth to view
The issue of th' exploit. Go, Hercules!
Live thou, I live. With much much more dismay
I view the fight than thou that mak'st the fray.
[A Song, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself.]
Tell me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head,
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engend'red in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring fancy's knell:
I'll begin it.--Ding, dong, bell.
[ALL.] Ding, dong, bell.
BASSANIO.
So may the outward shows be least themselves:
The world is still deceiv'd with ornament.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt
But, being season'd with a gracious voice,
Obscures the show of evil? In religion,
What damned error but some sober brow
Will bless it, and approve it with a text,
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
There is no vice so simple but assumes
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins
The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;
Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk;
And these assume but valour's excrement
To render them redoubted! Look on beauty
And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight:
Which therein works a miracle in nature,
Making them lightest that wear most of it:
So are those crisped snaky golden locks
Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,
Upon supposed fairness, often known
To be the dowry of a second head,
The skull that bred them, in the sepulchre.
Thus ornament is but the guiled shore
45
To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf
Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,
The seeming truth which cunning times put on
To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,
Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee;
Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge
'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,
Which rather threaten'st than dost promise aught,
Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence,
And here choose I: joy be the consequence!
PORTIA.
[Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air,
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair,
And shuddering fear, and green-ey'd jealousy!
O love! be moderate; allay thy ecstasy;
In measure rain thy joy; scant this excess;
I feel too much thy blessing; make it less,
For fear I surfeit!
BASSANIO.
What find I here? [Opening the leaden casket.]
Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god
Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?
Or whether riding on the balls of mine,
Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips,
Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden mesh t' entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs: but her eyes!--
How could he see to do them? Having made one,
Methinks it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfurnish'd: yet look, how far
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow
In underprizing it, so far this shadow
Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll,
The continent and summary of my fortune.
'You that choose not by the view,
Chance as fair and choose as true!
Since this fortune falls to you,
Be content and seek no new.
If you be well pleas'd with this,
And hold your fortune for your bliss,
Turn to where your lady is
And claim her with a loving kiss.'
A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave; {Kissing her.]
I come by note, to give and to receive.
Like one of two contending in a prize,
That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes,
46
Hearing applause and universal shout,
Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt
Whether those peals of praise be his or no;
So, thrice-fair lady, stand I, even so,
As doubtful whether what I see be true,
Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you.
PORTIA.
You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
Such as I am: though for myself alone
I would not be ambitious in my wish
To wish myself much better, yet for you
I would be trebled twenty times myself,
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times
More rich;
That only to stand high in your account,
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
Exceed account. But the full sum of me
Is sum of something which, to term in gross,
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd;
Happy in this, she is not yet so old
But she may learn; happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king.
Myself and what is mine to you and yours
Is now converted. But now I was the lord
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now,
This house, these servants, and this same myself,
Are yours- my lord's. I give them with this ring,
Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
Let it presage the ruin of your love,
And be my vantage to exclaim on you.
BASSANIO.
Madam, you have bereft me of all words,
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins;
And there is such confusion in my powers
As, after some oration fairly spoke
By a beloved prince, there doth appear
Among the buzzing pleased multitude;
Where every something, being blent together,
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,
Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring
Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence:
O! then be bold to say Bassanio's dead.
NERISSA.
My lord and lady, it is now our time,
That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,
47
To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady!
GRATIANO.
My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady,
I wish you all the joy that you can wish;
For I am sure you can wish none from me;
And when your honours mean to solemnize
The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you
Even at that time I may be married too.
BASSANIO.
With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.
GRATIANO.
I thank your lordship, you have got me one.
My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:
You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;
You lov'd, I lov'd; for intermission
No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.
Your fortune stood upon the caskets there,
And so did mine too, as the matter falls;
For wooing here until I sweat again,
And swearing till my very roof was dry
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,
I got a promise of this fair one here
To have her love, provided that your fortune
Achiev'd her mistress.
PORTIA.
Is this true, Nerissa?
NERISSA.
Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal.
BASSANIO.
And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?
GRATIANO.
Yes, faith, my lord.
BASSANIO.
Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage.
GRATIANO.
We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand
ducats.
NERISSA.
What! and stake down?
GRATIANO.
No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down.
48
But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel?
What, and my old Venetian friend, Salanio!
[Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALANIO.]
BASSANIO.
Lorenzo and Salanio, welcome hither,
If that the youth of my new interest here
Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave,
I bid my very friends and countrymen,
Sweet Portia, welcome.
PORTIA.
So do I, my lord;
They are entirely welcome.
LORENZO.
I thank your honour. For my part, my lord,
My purpose was not to have seen you here;
But meeting with Salanio by the way,
He did entreat me, past all saying nay,
To come with him along.
SALANIO.
I did, my lord,
And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio
Commends him to you.
[Gives BASSANIO a letter]
BASSANIO.
Ere I ope his letter,
I pray you tell me how my good friend doth.
SALANIO.
Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;
Nor well, unless in mind; his letter there
Will show you his estate.
GRATIANO.
Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome.
Your hand, Salanio. What's the news from Venice?
How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio?
I know he will be glad of our success:
We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.
SALANIO.
I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.
PORTIA.
There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper.
That steal the colour from Bassanio's cheek:
49
Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world
Could turn so much the constitution
Of any constant man. What, worse and worse!
With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself,
And I must freely have the half of anything
That this same paper brings you.
BASSANIO.
O sweet Portia!
Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words
That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady,
When I did first impart my love to you,
I freely told you all the wealth I had
Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman;
And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady,
Rating myself at nothing, you shall see
How much I was a braggart. When I told you
My state was nothing, I should then have told you
That I was worse than nothing; for indeed
I have engag'd myself to a dear friend,
Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy,
To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady,
The paper as the body of my friend,
And every word in it a gaping wound
Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salanio?
Hath all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit?
From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England,
From Lisbon, Barbary, and India?
And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch
Of merchant-marring rocks?
SALANIO.
Not one, my lord.
Besides, it should appear that, if he had
The present money to discharge the Jew,
He would not take it. Never did I know
A creature that did bear the shape of man,
So keen and greedy to confound a man.
He plies the duke at morning and at night,
And doth impeach the freedom of the state,
If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants,
The duke himself, and the magnificoes
Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him;
But none can drive him from the envious plea
Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond.
JESSICA.
When I was with him, I have heard him swear
To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen,
That he would rather have Antonio's flesh
Than twenty times the value of the sum
That he did owe him; and I know, my lord,
50
If law, authority, and power, deny not,
It will go hard with poor Antonio.
PORTIA.
Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?
BASSANIO.
The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,
The best condition'd and unwearied spirit
In doing courtesies; and one in whom
The ancient Roman honour more appears
Than any that draws breath in Italy.
PORTIA.
What sum owes he the Jew?
BASSANIO.
For me, three thousand ducats.
PORTIA.
What! no more?
Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond;
Double six thousand, and then treble that,
Before a friend of this description
Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault.
First go with me to church and call me wife,
And then away to Venice to your friend;
For never shall you lie by Portia's side
With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold
To pay the petty debt twenty times over:
When it is paid, bring your true friend along.
My maid Nerissa and myself meantime,
Will live as maids and widows. Come, away!
For you shall hence upon your wedding day.
Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer;
Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear.
But let me hear the letter of your friend.
BASSANIO.
'Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried,
my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is
impossible I should live, all debts are clear'd between you and I, if I might but see you at my death.
Notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.'
PORTIA.
O love, dispatch all business and be gone!
BASSANIO.
Since I have your good leave to go away,
I will make haste; but, till I come again,
No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay,
Nor rest be interposer 'twixt us twain.
51
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 3. Venice. A street
[Enter SHYLOCK, SALARINO, ANTONIO, and Gaoler.]
SHYLOCK.
Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy;
This is the fool that lent out money gratis:
Gaoler, look to him.
ANTONIO.
Hear me yet, good Shylock.
SHYLOCK.
I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond.
I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.
Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause,
But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs;
The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder,
Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond
To come abroad with him at his request.
ANTONIO.
I pray thee hear me speak.
SHYLOCK.
I'll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak;
I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more.
I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield
To Christian intercessors. Follow not;
I'll have no speaking; I will have my bond.
[Exit.]
SALARINO.
It is the most impenetrable cur
That ever kept with men.
ANTONIO.
Let him alone;
I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers.
He seeks my life; his reason well I know:
I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures
Many that have at times made moan to me;
Therefore he hates me.
SALARINO.
I am sure the Duke
Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.
52
ANTONIO.
The Duke cannot deny the course of law;
For the commodity that strangers have
With us in Venice, if it be denied,
'Twill much impeach the justice of the state,
Since that the trade and profit of the city
Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go;
These griefs and losses have so bated me
That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh
To-morrow to my bloody creditor.
Well, gaoler, on; pray God Bassanio come
To see me pay his debt, and then I care not.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 4. Belmont. A room in PORTIA's house.
[Enter PORTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA, and BALTHASAR.]
LORENZO.
Madam, although I speak it in your presence,
You have a noble and a true conceit
Of godlike amity, which appears most strongly
In bearing thus the absence of your lord.
But if you knew to whom you show this honour,
How true a gentleman you send relief,
How dear a lover of my lord your husband,
I know you would be prouder of the work
Than customary bounty can enforce you.
PORTIA.
I never did repent for doing good,
Nor shall not now; for in companions
That do converse and waste the time together,
Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,
There must be needs a like proportion
Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit,
Which makes me think that this Antonio,
Being the bosom lover of my lord,
Must needs be like my lord. If it be so,
How little is the cost I have bestowed
In purchasing the semblance of my soul
From out the state of hellish cruelty!
This comes too near the praising of myself;
Therefore, no more of it; hear other things.
Lorenzo, I commit into your hands
The husbandry and manage of my house
Until my lord's return; for mine own part,
I have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow
To live in prayer and contemplation,
Only attended by Nerissa here,
Until her husband and my lord's return.
53
There is a monastery two miles off,
And there we will abide. I do desire you
Not to deny this imposition,
The which my love and some necessity
Now lays upon you.
LORENZO.
Madam, with all my heart
I shall obey you in an fair commands.
PORTIA.
My people do already know my mind,
And will acknowledge you and Jessica
In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.
So fare you well till we shall meet again.
LORENZO.
Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!
JESSICA.
I wish your ladyship all heart's content.
PORTIA.
I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd
To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica.
[Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO.]
Now, Balthasar,
As I have ever found thee honest-true,
So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,
And use thou all th' endeavour of a man
In speed to Padua; see thou render this
Into my cousin's hands, Doctor Bellario;
And look what notes and garments he doth give thee,
Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd speed
Unto the traject, to the common ferry
Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,
But get thee gone; I shall be there before thee.
BALTHASAR.
Madam, I go with all convenient speed.
[Exit.]
PORTIA.
Come on, Nerissa, I have work in hand
That you yet know not of; we'll see our husbands
Before they think of us.
NERISSA.
Shall they see us?
54
PORTIA.
They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit
That they shall think we are accomplished
With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager,
When we are both accoutred like young men,
I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,
And wear my dagger with the braver grace,
And speak between the change of man and boy
With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps
Into a manly stride; and speak of frays
Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies,
How honourable ladies sought my love,
Which I denying, they fell sick and died;
I could not do withal. Then I'll repent,
And wish for all that, that I had not kill'd them.
And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,
That men shall swear I have discontinu'd school
About a twelvemonth. I have within my mind
A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,
Which I will practise.
NERISSA.
Why, shall we turn to men?
PORTIA.
Fie, what a question's that,
If thou wert near a lewd interpreter!
But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device
When I am in my coach, which stays for us
At the park gate; and therefore haste away,
For we must measure twenty miles to-day.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 5. The same. A garden.
[Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA.]
LAUNCELOT.
Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to
be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I
speak my agitation of the matter; therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damn'd. There is but one
hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither.
JESSICA.
And what hope is that, I pray thee?
LAUNCELOT.
Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not,
that you are not the Jew's daughter.
JESSICA.
55
That were a kind of bastard hope indeed; so the sins of my
mother should be visited upon me.
LAUNCELOT.
Truly then I fear you are damn'd both by father and
mother; thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into
Charybdis, your mother; well, you are gone both ways.
JESSICA.
I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a Christian.
LAUNCELOT.
Truly, the more to blame he; we were Christians enow
before, e'en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs;
if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money.
JESSICA.
I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes.
[Enter LORENZO.]
LORENZO.
I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you
thus get my wife into corners.
JESSICA.
Nay, you need nor fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are
out; he tells me flatly there's no mercy for me in heaven,
because I am a Jew's daughter; and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting
Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork.
LORENZO.
I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you
can the getting up of the negro's belly; the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot.
LAUNCELOT.
It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but
if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for.
LORENZO.
How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best
grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in,
sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.
LAUNCELOT.
That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.
LORENZO.
Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them
prepare dinner.
LAUNCELOT.
56
That is done too, sir, only 'cover' is the word.
LORENZO.
Will you cover, then, sir?
LAUNCELOT.
Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty.
LORENZO.
Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the
whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy
fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.
LAUNCELOT.
For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat,
sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern.
[Exit.]
LORENZO.
O dear discretion, how his words are suited!
The fool hath planted in his memory
An army of good words; and I do know
A many fools that stand in better place,
Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word
Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica?
And now, good sweet, say thy opinion,
How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?
JESSICA.
Past all expressing. It is very meet
The Lord Bassanio live an upright life,
For, having such a blessing in his lady,
He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;
And if on earth he do not merit it,
In reason he should never come to heaven.
Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match,
And on the wager lay two earthly women,
And Portia one, there must be something else
Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude world
Hath not her fellow.
LORENZO.
Even such a husband
Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.
JESSICA.
Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.
LORENZO.
I will anon; first let us go to dinner.
57
JESSICA.
Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach.
LORENZO.
No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk;
Then howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things
I shall digest it.
JESSICA.
Well, I'll set you forth.
[Exeunt.]
ACT 4.
SCENE I. Venice. A court of justice
[Enter the DUKE: the Magnificoes; ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SALARINO, SALANIO, and
Others.]
DUKE.
What, is Antonio here?
ANTONIO.
Ready, so please your Grace.
DUKE.
I am sorry for thee; thou art come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy.
ANTONIO.
I have heard
Your Grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify
His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate,
And that no lawful means can carry me
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose
My patience to his fury, and am arm'd
To suffer with a quietness of spirit
The very tyranny and rage of his.
DUKE.
Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
SALARINO.
He is ready at the door; he comes, my lord.
[Enter SHYLOCK.]
DUKE.
Make room, and let him stand before our face.
58
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but leadest this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then, 'tis thought,
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
And where thou now exacts the penalty,--
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,--
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal,
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
That have of late so huddled on his back,
Enow to press a royal merchant down,
And pluck commiseration of his state
From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
To offices of tender courtesy.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
SHYLOCK.
I have possess'd your Grace of what I purpose,
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn
To have the due and forfeit of my bond.
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter and your city's freedom.
You'll ask me why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive
Three thousand ducats. I'll not answer that,
But say it is my humour: is it answer'd?
What if my house be troubled with a rat,
And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats
To have it ban'd? What, are you answer'd yet?
Some men there are love not a gaping pig;
Some that are mad if they behold a cat;
And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose,
Cannot contain their urine; for affection,
Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood
Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer:
As there is no firm reason to be render'd,
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;
Why he, a harmless necessary cat;
Why he, a wauling bagpipe; but of force
Must yield to such inevitable shame
As to offend, himself being offended;
So can I give no reason, nor I will not,
More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus
A losing suit against him. Are you answered?
BASSANIO.
This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
59
SHYLOCK.
I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
BASSANIO.
Do all men kill the things they do not love?
SHYLOCK.
Hates any man the thing he would not kill?
BASSANIO.
Every offence is not a hate at first.
SHYLOCK.
What! wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?
ANTONIO.
I pray you, think you question with the Jew:
You may as well go stand upon the beach,
And bid the main flood bate his usual height;
You may as well use question with the wolf,
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines
To wag their high tops and to make no noise
When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven;
You may as well do anything most hard
As seek to soften that--than which what's harder?--
His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,
Make no moe offers, use no farther means,
But with all brief and plain conveniency.
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.
BASSANIO.
For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
SHYLOCK.
If every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,
I would not draw them; I would have my bond.
DUKE.
How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?
SHYLOCK.
What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?
You have among you many a purchas'd slave,
Which, fike your asses and your dogs and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them; shall I say to you
'Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?
Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be season'd with such viands? You will answer
60
'The slaves are ours.' So do I answer you:
The pound of flesh which I demand of him
Is dearly bought; 'tis mine, and I will have it.
If you deny me, fie upon your law!
There is no force in the decrees of Venice.
I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?
DUKE.
Upon my power I may dismiss this court,
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,
Whom I have sent for to determine this,
Come here to-day.
SALARINO.
My lord, here stays without
A messenger with letters from the doctor,
New come from Padua.
DUKE.
Bring us the letters; call the messenger.
BASSANIO.
Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all,
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
ANTONIO.
I am a tainted wether of the flock,
Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit
Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me.
You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,
Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.
[Enter NERISSA dressed like a lawyer's clerk.]
DUKE.
Came you from Padua, from Bellario?
NERISSA.
From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace.
[Presents a letter.]
BASSANIO.
Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
SHYLOCK.
To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
GRATIANO.
Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can,
61
No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?
SHYLOCK.
No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
GRATIANO.
O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog!
And for thy life let justice be accus'd.
Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,
To hold opinion with Pythagoras
That souls of animals infuse themselves
Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit
Govern'd a wolf who, hang'd for human slaughter,
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,
And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,
Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desires
Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd and ravenous.
SHYLOCK.
Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud;
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall
To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.
DUKE.
This letter from Bellario doth commend
A young and learned doctor to our court.
Where is he?
NERISSA.
He attendeth here hard by,
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.
DUKE OF VENICE.
With all my heart: some three or four of you
Go give him courteous conduct to this place.
Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter.
CLERK.
'Your Grace shall understand that at the receipt
of your letter I am very sick; but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a
young doctor of Rome; his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew
and Antonio the merchant; we turn'd o'er many books together; he is furnished with my opinion which,
bettered with his own learning,--the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend,--comes with him at my
importunity to fill up your Grace's request in my stead. I beseech you let his lack of years be no impediment to
let him lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your
gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation.'
DUKE.
YOU hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes;
And here, I take it, is the doctor come.
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[Enter PORTIA, dressed like a doctor of laws.]
Give me your hand; come you from old Bellario?
PORTIA.
I did, my lord.
DUKE.
You are welcome; take your place.
Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question in the court?
PORTIA.
I am informed throughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
DUKE OF VENICE.
Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
PORTIA.
Is your name Shylock?
SHYLOCK.
Shylock is my name.
PORTIA.
Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.
[To ANTONIO.] You stand within his danger, do you not?
ANTONIO.
Ay, so he says.
PORTIA.
Do you confess the bond?
ANTONIO.
I do.
PORTIA.
Then must the Jew be merciful.
SHYLOCK.
On what compulsion must I? Tell me that.
PORTIA.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
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The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
SHYLOCK.
My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
PORTIA.
Is he not able to discharge the money?
BASSANIO.
Yes; here I tender it for him in the court;
Yea, twice the sum; if that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart;
If this will not suffice, it must appear
That malice bears down truth. And, I beseech you,
Wrest once the law to your authority;
To do a great right do a little wrong,
And curb this cruel devil of his will.
PORTIA.
It must not be; there is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established;
'Twill be recorded for a precedent,
And many an error by the same example
Will rush into the state. It cannot be.
SHYLOCK.
A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!
PORTIA.
I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
SHYLOCK.
Here 'tis, most reverend doctor; here it is.
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PORTIA.
Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
SHYLOCK.
An oath, an oath! I have an oath in heaven.
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
No, not for Venice.
PORTIA.
Why, this bond is forfeit;
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful.
Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.
SHYLOCK.
When it is paid according to the tenour.
It doth appear you are a worthy judge;
You know the law; your exposition
Hath been most sound; I charge you by the law,
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me. I stay here on my bond.
ANTONIO.
Most heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.
PORTIA.
Why then, thus it is:
You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
SHYLOCK.
O noble judge! O excellent young man!
PORTIA.
For the intent and purpose of the law
Hath full relation to the penalty,
Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
SHYLOCK.
'Tis very true. O wise and upright judge,
How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
PORTIA.
Therefore, lay bare your bosom.
SHYLOCK.
Ay, 'his breast':
So says the bond:--doth it not, noble judge?--
'Nearest his heart': those are the very words.
65
PORTIA.
It is so. Are there balance here to weigh
The flesh?
SHYLOCK.
I have them ready.
PORTIA.
Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
SHYLOCK.
Is it so nominated in the bond?
PORTIA.
It is not so express'd; but what of that?
'Twere good you do so much for charity.
SHYLOCK.
I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.
PORTIA.
You, merchant, have you anything to say?
ANTONIO.
But little: I am arm'd and well prepar'd.
Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well.!
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you,
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom: it is still her use
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow
An age of poverty; from which lingering penance
Of such misery doth she cut me off.
Commend me to your honourable wife:
Tell her the process of Antonio's end;
Say how I lov'd you; speak me fair in death;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent but you that you shall lose your friend,
And he repents not that he pays your debt;
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
I'll pay it instantly with all my heart.
BASSANIO.
Antonio, I am married to a wife
Which is as dear to me as life itself;
But life itself, my wife, and all the world,
Are not with me esteem'd above thy life;
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all
Here to this devil, to deliver you.
66
PORTIA.
Your wife would give you little thanks for that,
If she were by to hear you make the offer.
GRATIANO.
I have a wife whom, I protest, I love;
I would she were in heaven, so she could
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
NERISSA.
'Tis well you offer it behind her back;
The wish would make else an unquiet house.
SHYLOCK.
These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter;
Would any of the stock of Barabbas
Had been her husband, rather than a Christian!
We trifle time; I pray thee, pursue sentence.
PORTIA.
A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine.
The court awards it and the law doth give it.
SHYLOCK.
Most rightful judge!
PORTIA.
And you must cut this flesh from off his breast.
The law allows it and the court awards it.
SHYLOCK.
Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare.
PORTIA.
Tarry a little; there is something else.
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
The words expressly are 'a pound of flesh':
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.
GRATIANO.
O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned judge!
SHYLOCK.
Is that the law?
PORTIA.
Thyself shalt see the act;
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd
67
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.
GRATIANO.
O learned judge! Mark, Jew: alearned judge!
SHYLOCK.
I take this offer then: pay the bond thrice,
And let the Christian go.
BASSANIO.
Here is the money.
PORTIA.
Soft!
The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste:--
He shall have nothing but the penalty.
GRATIANO.
O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
PORTIA.
Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor more,
But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak'st more,
Or less, than a just pound, be it but so much
As makes it light or heavy in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple; nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair,
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
GRATIANO.
A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!
Now, infidel, I have you on the hip.
PORTIA.
Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture.
SHYLOCK.
Give me my principal, and let me go.
BASSANIO.
I have it ready for thee; here it is.
PORTIA.
He hath refus'd it in the open court;
He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
GRATIANO.
A Daniel still say I; a second Daniel!
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
68
SHYLOCK.
Shall I not have barely my principal?
PORTIA.
Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
SHYLOCK.
Why, then the devil give him good of it!
I'll stay no longer question.
PORTIA.
Tarry, Jew.
The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,
If it be prov'd against an alien
That by direct or indirect attempts
He seek the life of any citizen,
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive
Shall seize one half his goods; the other half
Comes to the privy coffer of the state;
And the offender's life lies in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st;
For it appears by manifest proceeding
That indirectly, and directly too,
Thou hast contrived against the very life
Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd
The danger formerly by me rehears'd.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
GRATIANO.
Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself;
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,
Thou hast not left the value of a cord;
Therefore thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.
DUKE.
That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits,
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it.
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;
The other half comes to the general state,
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
PORTIA.
Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.
SHYLOCK.
Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that:
You take my house when you do take the prop
That doth sustain my house; you take my life
When you do take the means whereby I live.
69
PORTIA.
What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
GRATIANO.
A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake!
ANTONIO.
So please my lord the Duke and all the court
To quit the fine for one half of his goods;
I am content, so he will let me have
The other half in use, to render it
Upon his death unto the gentleman
That lately stole his daughter:
Two things provided more, that, for this favour,
He presently become a Christian;
The other, that he do record a gift,
Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd
Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.
DUKE.
He shall do this, or else I do recant
The pardon that I late pronounced here.
PORTIA.
Art thou contented, Jew? What dost thou say?
SHYLOCK.
I am content.
PORTIA.
Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
SHYLOCK.
I pray you, give me leave to go from hence;
I am not well; send the deed after me
And I will sign it.
DUKE.
Get thee gone, but do it.
GRATIANO.
In christening shalt thou have two god-fathers;
Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more,
To bring thee to the gallows, not to the font.
[Exit SHYLOCK.]
DUKE.
Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.
PORTIA.
I humbly do desire your Grace of pardon;
70
I must away this night toward Padua,
And it is meet I presently set forth.
DUKE.
I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.
Antonio, gratify this gentleman,
For in my mind you are much bound to him.
[Exeunt DUKE, Magnificoes, and Train.]
BASSANIO.
Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend
Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted
Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof
Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew,
We freely cope your courteous pains withal.
ANTONIO.
And stand indebted, over and above,
In love and service to you evermore.
PORTIA.
He is well paid that is well satisfied;
And I, delivering you, am satisfied,
And therein do account myself well paid:
My mind was never yet more mercenary.
I pray you, know me when we meet again:
I wish you well, and so I take my leave.
BASSANIO.
Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further;
Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,
Not as fee. Grant me two things, I pray you,
Not to deny me, and to pardon me.
PORTIA.
You press me far, and therefore I will yield.
[To ANTONIO]
Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake.
[To BASSANIO]
And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you.
Do not draw back your hand; I'll take no more;
And you in love shall not deny me this.
BASSANIO.
This ring, good sir? alas, it is a trifle;
I will not shame myself to give you this.
PORTIA.
I will have nothing else but only this;
71
And now, methinks, I have a mind to it.
BASSANIO.
There's more depends on this than on the value.
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you,
And find it out by proclamation:
Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.
PORTIA.
I see, sir, you are liberal in offers;
You taught me first to beg, and now methinks
You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd.
BASSANIO.
Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;
And, when she put it on, she made me vow
That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it.
PORTIA.
That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts.
And if your wife be not a mad-woman,
And know how well I have deserv'd this ring,
She would not hold out enemy for ever
For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!
[Exeunt PORTIA and NERISSA.]
ANTONIO.
My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:
Let his deservings, and my love withal,
Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment.
BASSANIO.
Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him;
Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,
Unto Antonio's house. Away! make haste.
[Exit GRATIANO.]
Come, you and I will thither presently;
And in the morning early will we both
Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The same. A street
[Enter PORTIA and NERISSA.]
PORTIA.
Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed,
And let him sign it; we'll away tonight,
72
And be a day before our husbands home.
This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.
[Enter GRATIANO.]
GRATIANO.
Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en.
My Lord Bassanio, upon more advice,
Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat
Your company at dinner.
PORTIA.
That cannot be:
His ring I do accept most thankfully;
And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore,
I pray you show my youth old Shylock's house.
GRATIANO.
That will I do.
NERISSA.
Sir, I would speak with you.
[Aside to PORTIA.]
I'll see if I can get my husband's ring,
Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.
PORTIA.[To NERISSA]
Thou Mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing
That they did give the rings away to men;
But we'll outface them, and outswear them too.
Away! make haste: thou know'st where I will tarry.
NERISSA.
Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?
[Exeunt.]
ACT V.
SCENE I. Belmont. The avenue to PORTIA's house.
[Enter LORENZO and JESSICA.]
LORENZO.
The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise, in such a night,
Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls,
And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.
JESSICA.
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In such a night
Did Thisby fearfully o'ertrip the dew,
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,
And ran dismay'd away.
LORENZO.
In such a night
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love
To come again to Carthage.
JESSICA.
In such a night
Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs
That did renew old AEson.
LORENZO.
In such a night
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice
As far as Belmont.
JESSICA.
In such a night
Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well,
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,--
And ne'er a true one.
LORENZO.
In such a night
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
JESSICA.
I would out-night you, did no body come;
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.
[Enter STEPHANO.]
LORENZO.
Who comes so fast in silence of the night?
STEPHANO.
A friend.
LORENZO.
A friend! What friend? Your name, I pray you, friend?
STEPHANO.
Stephano is my name, and I bring word
My mistress will before the break of day
Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about
74
By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays
For happy wedlock hours.
LORENZO.
Who comes with her?
STEPHANO.
None but a holy hermit and her maid.
I pray you, is my master yet return'd?
LORENZO.
He is not, nor we have not heard from him.
But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,
And ceremoniously let us prepare
Some welcome for the mistress of the house.
[Enter LAUNCELOT.]
LAUNCELOT. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!
LORENZO.
Who calls?
LAUNCELOT.
Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo! Sola, sola!
LORENZO.
Leave holloaing, man. Here!
LAUNCELOT.
Sola! Where? where?
LORENZO.
Here!
LAUNCELOT.
Tell him there's a post come from my master with his
horn full of good news; my master will be here ere morning.
[Exit]
LORENZO.
Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming.
And yet no matter; why should we go in?
My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,
Within the house, your mistress is at hand;
And bring your music forth into the air.
[Exit STEPHANO.]
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
75
Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica: look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
[Enter Musicians.]
Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn;
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear.
And draw her home with music.
[Music.]
JESSICA.
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
LORENZO.
The reason is, your spirits are attentive;
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood;
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze
By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
[Enter PORTIA and NERISSA, at a distance.]
PORTIA.
That light we see is burning in my hall.
How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
NERISSA.
When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.
76
PORTIA.
So doth the greater glory dim the less:
A substitute shines brightly as a king
Until a king be by, and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters. Music! hark!
NERISSA.
It is your music, madam, of the house.
PORTIA.
Nothing is good, I see, without respect:
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.
NERISSA.
Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
PORTIA.
The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season season'd are
To their right praise and true perfection!
Peace, ho! The moon sleeps with Endymion,
And would not be awak'd!
[Music ceases.]
LORENZO.
That is the voice,
Or I am much deceiv'd, of Portia.
PORTIA.
He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo,
By the bad voice.
LORENZO. Dear lady, welcome home.
PORTIA.
We have been praying for our husbands' welfare,
Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.
Are they return'd?
LORENZO.
Madam, they are not yet;
But there is come a messenger before,
To signify their coming.
PORTIA.
Go in, Nerissa:
77
Give order to my servants that they take
No note at all of our being absent hence;
Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.
[A tucket sounds.]
LORENZO.
Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet.
We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not.
PORTIA.
This night methinks is but the daylight sick;
It looks a little paler; 'tis a day
Such as the day is when the sun is hid.
[Enter BASSANIO, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and their Followers.]
BASSANIO.
We should hold day with the Antipodes,
If you would walk in absence of the sun.
PORTIA.
Let me give light, but let me not be light,
For a light wife doth make a heavy husband,
And never be Bassanio so for me:
But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord.
BASSANIO.
I thank you, madam; give welcome to my friend:
This is the man, this is Antonio,
To whom I am so infinitely bound.
PORTIA.
You should in all sense be much bound to him,
For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.
ANTONIO.
No more than I am well acquitted of.
PORTIA.
Sir, you are very welcome to our house.
It must appear in other ways than words,
Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.
GRATIANO. [To NERISSA]
By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong;
In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk.
Would he were gelt that had it, for my part,
Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.
PORTIA.
A quarrel, ho, already! What's the matter?
78
GRATIANO.
About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
That she did give me, whose posy was
For all the world like cutlers' poetry
Upon a knife, 'Love me, and leave me not.'
NERISSA.
What talk you of the posy, or the value?
You swore to me, when I did give it you,
That you would wear it till your hour of death,
And that it should lie with you in your grave;
Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths,
You should have been respective and have kept it.
Gave it a judge's clerk! No, God's my judge,
The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it.
GRATIANO.
He will, an if he live to be a man.
NERISSA.
Ay, if a woman live to be a man.
GRATIANO.
Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,
A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy
No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk;
A prating boy that begg'd it as a fee;
I could not for my heart deny it him.
PORTIA.
You were to blame,--I must be plain with you,--
To part so slightly with your wife's first gift,
A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger,
And so riveted with faith unto your flesh.
I gave my love a ring, and made him swear
Never to part with it, and here he stands,
I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it
Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth
That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano,
You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief;
An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it.
BASSANIO.[Aside]
Why, I were best to cut my left hand off,
And swear I lost the ring defending it.
GRATIANO.
My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away
Unto the judge that begg'd it, and indeed
Deserv'd it too; and then the boy, his clerk,
That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine;
And neither man nor master would take aught
79
But the two rings.
PORTIA.
What ring gave you, my lord?
Not that, I hope, which you receiv'd of me.
BASSANIO.
If I could add a lie unto a fault,
I would deny it; but you see my finger
Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone.
PORTIA.
Even so void is your false heart of truth;
By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed
Until I see the ring.
NERISSA.
Nor I in yours
Till I again see mine.
BASSANIO.
Sweet Portia,
If you did know to whom I gave the ring,
If you did know for whom I gave the ring,
And would conceive for what I gave the ring,
And how unwillingly I left the ring,
When nought would be accepted but the ring,
You would abate the strength of your displeasure.
PORTIA.
If you had known the virtue of the ring,
Or half her worthiness that gave the ring,
Or your own honour to contain the ring,
You would not then have parted with the ring.
What man is there so much unreasonable,
If you had pleas'd to have defended it
With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty
To urge the thing held as a ceremony?
Nerissa teaches me what to believe:
I'll die for't but some woman had the ring.
BASSANIO.
No, by my honour, madam, by my soul,
No woman had it, but a civil doctor,
Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me,
And begg'd the ring; the which I did deny him,
And suffer'd him to go displeas'd away;
Even he that had held up the very life
Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady?
I was enforc'd to send it after him;
I was beset with shame and courtesy;
My honour would not let ingratitude
80
So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady;
For, by these blessed candles of the night,
Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd
The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.
PORTIA.
Let not that doctor e'er come near my house;
Since he hath got the jewel that I loved,
And that which you did swear to keep for me,
I will become as liberal as you;
I'll not deny him anything I have,
No, not my body, nor my husband's bed.
Know him I shall, I am well sure of it.
Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus;
If you do not, if I be left alone,
Now, by mine honour which is yet mine own,
I'll have that doctor for mine bedfellow.
NERISSA.
And I his clerk; therefore be well advis'd
How you do leave me to mine own protection.
GRATIANO.
Well, do you so: let not me take him then;
For, if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen.
ANTONIO.
I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.
PORTIA.
Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.
BASSANIO.
Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;
And in the hearing of these many friends
I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,
Wherein I see myself,--
PORTIA.
Mark you but that!
In both my eyes he doubly sees himself,
In each eye one; swear by your double self,
And there's an oath of credit.
BASSANIO.
Nay, but hear me:
Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear
I never more will break an oath with thee.
ANTONIO.
I once did lend my body for his wealth,
Which, but for him that had your husband's ring,
81
Had quite miscarried; I dare be bound again,
My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord
Will never more break faith advisedly.
PORTIA.
Then you shall be his surety. Give him this,
And bid him keep it better than the other.
ANTONIO.
Here, Lord Bassanio, swear to keep this ring.
BASSANIO.
By heaven! it is the same I gave the doctor!
PORTIA.
I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio,
For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me.
NERISSA.
And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano,
For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk,
In lieu of this, last night did lie with me.
GRATIANO.
Why, this is like the mending of high ways
In summer, where the ways are fair enough.
What! are we cuckolds ere we have deserv'd it?
PORTIA.
Speak not so grossly. You are all amaz'd:
Here is a letter; read it at your leisure;
It comes from Padua, from Bellario:
There you shall find that Portia was the doctor,
Nerissa there, her clerk: Lorenzo here
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you,
And even but now return'd; I have not yet
Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome;
And I have better news in store for you
Than you expect: unseal this letter soon;
There you shall find three of your argosies
Are richly come to harbour suddenly.
You shall not know by what strange accident
I chanced on this letter.
ANTONIO.
I am dumb.
BASSANIO.
Were you the doctor, and I knew you not?
GRATIANO.
Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?
82
NERISSA.
Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it,
Unless he live until he be a man.
BASSANIO.
Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow:
When I am absent, then lie with my wife.
ANTONIO.
Sweet lady, you have given me life and living;
For here I read for certain that my ships
Are safely come to road.
PORTIA.
How now, Lorenzo!
My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.
NERISSA.
Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee.
There do I give to you and Jessica,
From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift,
After his death, of all he dies possess'd of.
LORENZO.
Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way
Of starved people.
PORTIA.
It is almost morning,
And yet I am sure you are not satisfied
Of these events at full. Let us go in;
And charge us there upon inter'gatories,
And we will answer all things faithfully.
GRATIANO.
Let it be so: he first inter'gatory
That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,
Whe'r till the next night she had rather stay,
Or go to bed now, being two hours to day:
But were the day come, I should wish it dark,
Till I were couching with the doctor's clerk.
Well, while I live, I'll fear no other thing
So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
[Exeunt.}

Stieg Larsson - The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest - 2007(page2)

noreply@blogger.com (Love Heda) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 20:12:00 +0530

"I need a guarantee of anonymity for both of us."
"I don't even know which colleague you're talking about."
"I'll tell you later. I want you to promise to give him protection as a source."
"You have my word."
She looked at her watch.
"Are you in a hurry?"
"Yes. I have to meet my husband and kids at the Sturegalleria in ten minutes. He thinks I'm still at work."
"And Bublanski knows nothing about this?"
"No."
"Right. You and your colleague are sources and you have complete source protection. Both of you. As long as you live."
"My colleague is Jerker Holmberg. You met him down in Göteborg. His father is a Centre Party member, and Jerker has known Prime Minister Fälldin since he was a child. He seems to be pleasant enough. So Jerker went to see him and asked about Zalachenko."
Blomkvist's heart began to pound.
"Jerker asked what he knew about the defection, but Fälldin didn't reply. When Holmberg told him that we suspect that Salander was locked up by the people who were protecting Zalachenko, well, that really upset him."
"Did he say how much he knew?"
"Fälldin told him that the chief of Säpo at the time and a colleague came to visit him very soon after he became Prime Minister. They told a fantastic story about a Russian defector who had come to Sweden, told him that it was the most sensitive military secret Sweden possessed... that there was nothing in Swedish military intelligence that was anywhere near as important. Fälldin said that he hadn't known how he should handle it, that there was no-one with much experience in government, the Social Democrats having been in power for more than forty years. He was advised that he alone had to make the decisions, and that if he discussed it with his government colleagues then Säpo would wash their hands of it. He remembered the whole thing as having been very unpleasant."
"What did he do?"
"He realized that he had no choice but to do what the gentlemen from Säpo were proposing. He issued a directive putting Säpo in sole charge of the defector. He undertook never to discuss the matter with anyone. Fälldin was never told Zalachenko's name."
"Extraordinary."
"After that he heard almost nothing more during his two terms in office. But he had done something extremely shrewd. He had insisted that an Undersecretary of State be let in on the secret, in case there was a need for a go-between for the government secretariat and those who were protecting Zalachenko."
"Did he remember who it was?"
"It was Bertil K. Janeryd, now Swedish ambassador in the Hague. When it was explained to Fälldin how serious this preliminary investigation was, he sat down and wrote to Janeryd."
Modig pushed an envelope across the table.
Dear Bertil,
The secret we both protected during my administration is now the subject of some very serious questions. The person referred to in the matter is now deceased and can no longer come to harm. On the other hand, other people can.
It is of the utmost importance that answers are provided to certain questions that must be answered.
The person who bears this letter is working unofficially and has my trust. I urge you to listen to his story and answer his questions.
Use your famous good judgement.
T. F.
"This letter is referring to Holmberg?"
"No. Jerker asked Fälldin not to put a name. He said that he couldn't know who would be going to the Hague."
"You mean..."
"Jerker and I have discussed it. We're already out on ice so thin that we'll need paddles rather than ice picks. We have no authority to travel to Holland to interview the ambassador. But you could do it."
Blomkvist folded the letter and was putting it into his jacket pocket when Modig grabbed his hand. Her grip was hard.
"Information for information," she said. "We want to hear everything Janeryd tells you."
Blomkvist nodded. Modig stood up.
"Hang on. You said that Fälldin was visited by two people from Säpo. One was the chief of Säpo. Who was the other?"
"Fälldin met him only on that one occasion and couldn't remember his name. No notes were taken at the meeting. He remembered him as thin with a narrow moustache. But he did recall that the man was introduced as the boss of the Section for Special Analysis, or something like that. Fälldin later looked at an organizational chart of Säpo and couldn't find that department."
The Zalachenko club, Blomkvist thought.
Modig seemed to be weighing her words.
"At risk of ending up shot," she said at last, "there is one record that neither Fälldin nor his visitors thought of."
"What was that?"
"Fälldin's visitors' logbook at Rosenbad. Jerker requisitioned it. It's a public document."
"And?"
Modig hesitated once again. "The book states only that the Prime Minister met with the chief of Säpo along with a colleague to discuss general questions."
"Was there a name?"
"Yes. E. Gullberg."
Blomkvist could feel the blood rush to his head.
"Evert Gullberg," he said.
Blomkvist called from Café Madeleine on his anonymous mobile to book a flight to Amsterdam. The plane would take off from Arlanda at 2.50. He walked to Dressman on Kungsgatan and bought a shirt and a change of underwear, and then he went to a pharmacy to buy a toothbrush and other toiletries. He checked carefully to see that he was not being followed and hurried to catch the Arlanda Express.
The plane landed at Schiphol airport at 4.50, and by 6.30 he was checking into a small hotel about fifteen minutes' walk from the Hague's Centraal Station.
He spent two hours trying to locate the Swedish ambassador and made contact by telephone at around 9.00. He used all his powers of persuasion and explained that he was there on a matter of great urgency. The ambassador finally relented and agreed to meet him at 10.00 on Sunday morning.
Then Blomkvist went out and had a light dinner at a restaurant near his hotel. He was asleep by 11.00.
Ambassador Janeryd was in no mood for small talk when he offered Blomkvist coffee at his residence on Lange Voorhout.
"Well... what is it that's so urgent?"
"Alexander Zalachenko. The Russian defector who came to Sweden in 1976," Blomkvist said, handing him the letter from Fälldin.
Janeryd looked surprised. He read the letter and laid it on the table beside him.
Blomkvist explained the background and why Fälldin had written to him.
"I... I can't discuss this matter," Janeryd said at last.
"I think you can."
"No, I could only speak of it with the constitutional committee."
"There's a great probability that you will have to do just that. But this letter tells you to use your own good judgement."
"Fälldin is an honest man."
"I don't doubt that. And I'm not looking to damage either you or Fälldin. Nor do I ask you to tell me a single military secret that Zalachenko may have revealed."
"I don't know any secrets. I didn't even know that his name was Zalachenko. I only knew him by his cover name. He was known as Ruben. But it's absurd that you should think I would discuss it with a journalist."
"Let me give you one very good reason why you should," Blomkvist said and sat up straight in his chair. "This whole story is going to be published very soon. And when that happens, the media will either tear you to pieces or describe you as an honest civil servant who made the best of an impossible situation. You were the one Fälldin assigned to be the go-between with those who were protecting Zalachenko. I already know that."
Janeryd was silent for almost a minute.
"Listen, I never had any information, not the remotest idea of the background you've described. I was rather young... I didn't know how I should deal with these people. I met them about twice a year during the time I worked for the government. I was told that Ruben... your Zalachenko, was alive and healthy, that he was co-operating, and that the information he provided was invaluable. I was never privy to the details. I had no 'need to know'."
Blomkvist waited.
"The defector had operated in other countries and knew nothing about Sweden, so he was never a major factor for security policy. I informed the Prime Minister on a couple of occasions, but there was never very much to report."
"I see."
"They always said that he was being handled in the customary way and that the information he provided was being processed through the appropriate channels. What could I say? If I asked what it meant, they smiled and said that it was outside my security clearance level. I felt like an idiot."
"You never considered the fact that there might be something wrong with the arrangement?"
"No. There was nothing wrong with the arrangement. I took it for granted that Säpo knew what they were doing and had the appropriate routines and experience. But I can't talk about this."
Janeryd had by this time been talking about it for several minutes.
"O.K.... but all this is beside the point. Only one thing is important right now."
"What?"
"The names of the individuals you had your meetings with."
Janeryd gave Blomkvist a puzzled look.
"The people who were looking after Zalachenko went far beyond their jurisdiction. They've committed serious criminal acts and they'll be the object of a preliminary investigation. That's why Fälldin sent me to see you. He doesn't know who they are. You were the one who met them."
Janeryd blinked and pressed his lips together.
"One was Evert Gullberg... he was the top man."
Janeryd nodded.
"How many times did you meet him?"
"He was at every meeting except one. There were about ten meetings during the time Fälldin was Prime Minister."
"Where did you meet?"
"In the lobby of some hotel. Usually the Sheraton. Once at the Amaranth on Kungsholmen and sometimes at the Continental pub."
"And who else was at the meetings?"
"It was a long time ago... I don't remember."
"Try."
"There was a... Clinton. Like the American president."
"First name?"
"Fredrik. I saw him four or five times."
"Others?"
"Hans von Rottinger. I knew him through my mother."
"Your mother?"
"Yes, my mother knew the von Rottinger family. Hans von Rottinger was always a pleasant chap. Before he turned up out of the blue at a meeting with Gullberg, I had no idea that he worked for Säpo."
"He didn't," Blomkvist said.
Janeryd turned pale.
"He worked for something called the Section for Special Analysis," Blomkvist said. "What were you told about that group?"
"Nothing. I mean, just that they were the ones who took care of the defector."
"Right. But isn't it strange that they don't appear anywhere in Säpo's organizational chart?"
"That's ridiculous."
"It is, isn't it? So how did they set up the meetings? Did they call you, or did you call them?"
"Neither. The time and place for each meeting was set at the preceding one."
"What happened if you needed to get in contact with them? For instance, to change the time of a meeting or something like that?"
"I had a number to call."
"What was the number?"
"I couldn't possibly remember."
"Who answered if you called the number?"
"I don't know. I never used it."
"Next question. Who did you hand everything over to?"
"How do you mean?"
"When Fälldin's term came to an end. Who took your place?"
"I don't know."
"Did you write a report?"
"No. Everything was classified. I couldn't even take notes."
"And you never briefed your successor?"
"No."
"So what happened?"
"Well... Fälldin left office, and Ola Ullsten came in. I was told that we would have to wait until after the next election. Then Fälldin was re-elected and our meetings were resumed. Then came the election in 1985. The Social Democrats won, and I assume that Palme appointed somebody to take over from me. I transferred to the foreign ministry and became a diplomat. I was posted to Egypt, and then to India."
Blomkvist went on asking questions for another few minutes, but he was sure that he already had everything Janeryd could tell him. Three names.
Fredrik Clinton.
Hans von Rottinger.
And Evert Gullberg - the man who had shot Zalachenko.
The Zalachenko club.
He thanked Janeryd for the meeting and walked the short distance along Lange Voorhout to Hotel des Indes, from where he took a taxi to Centraal. It was not until he was in the taxi that he reached into his jacket pocket and stopped the tape recorder.
Berger looked up and scanned the half-empty newsroom beyond the glass cage. Holm was off that day. She saw no-one who showed any interest in her, either openly or covertly. Nor did she have reason to think that anyone on the editorial staff wished her ill.
The email had arrived a minute before. The sender was editorial-@aftonbladet. com>. Why Aftonbladet? The address was another fake.
Today's message contained no text. There was only a jpeg that she opened in Photoshop.
The image was pornographic: a naked woman with exceptionally large breasts, a dog collar around her neck. She was on all fours and being mounted from the rear.
The woman's face had been replaced with Berger's. It was not a skilled collage, but probably that was not the point. The picture was from her old byline at Millennium and could be downloaded off the Net.
At the bottom of the picture was one word, written with the spray function in Photoshop.
Whore.
This was the ninth anonymous message she had received containing the word "whore," sent apparently by someone at a well-known media outlet in Sweden. She had a cyber-stalker on her hands.
The telephone tapping was a more difficult task than the computer monitoring. Trinity had no trouble locating the cable to Prosecutor Ekström's home telephone. The problem was that Ekström seldom or never used it for work-related calls. Trinity did not even consider trying to bug Ekström's work telephone at police H. Q. on Kungsholmen. That would have required extensive access to the Swedish cable network, which he did not have.
But Trinity and Bob the Dog devoted the best part of a week to identifying and separating out Ekström's mobile from the background noise of about 200,000 other mobile telephones within a kilometre of police headquarters.
They used a technique called Random Frequency Tracking System. The technique was not uncommon. It had been developed by the U. S. National Security Agency, and was built into an unknown number of satellites that performed pinpoint monitoring of capitals around the world as well as flashpoints of special interest.
The N. S. A. had enormous resources and used a vast network in order to capture a large number of mobile conversations in a certain region simultaneously. Each individual call was separated and processed digitally by computers programmed to react to certain words, such as terrorist or Kalashnikov. If such a word occurred, the computer automatically sent an alarm, which meant that some operator would go in manually and listen to the conversation to decide whether it was of interest or not.
It was a more complex problem to identify a specific mobile telephone. Each mobile has its own unique signature - a fingerprint - in the form of the telephone number. With exceptionally sensitive equipment the N.S.A. could focus on a specific area to separate out and monitor mobile calls. The technique was simple but not 100 per cent effective. Outgoing calls were particularly hard to identify. Incoming calls were simpler because they were preceded by the fingerprint that would enable the telephone in question to receive the signal.
The difference between Trinity and the N. S. A. attempting to eavesdrop could be measured in economic terms. The N. S. A. had an annual budget of several billion U. S. dollars, close to twelve thousand fulltime agents, and access to cuttingedge technology in I. T. and telecommunications. Trinity had a van with thirty kilos of electronic equipment, much of which was home-made stuff that Bob the Dog had set up. Through its global satellite monitoring the N. S. A. could home in highly sensitive antennae on a specific building anywhere in the world. Trinity had an antenna constructed by Bob the Dog which had an effective range of about five hundred metres.
The relatively limited technology to which Trinity had access meant that he had to park his van on Bergsgatan or one of the nearby streets and laboriously calibrate the equipment until he had identified the fingerprint that represented Ekström's mobile number. Since he did not know Swedish, he had to relay the conversations via another mobile back home to Plague, who did the actual eavesdropping.
For five days Plague, who was looking more and more hollow-eyed, listened in vain to a vast number of calls to and from police headquarters and the surrounding buildings. He had heard fragments of ongoing investigations, uncovered planned lovers' trysts, and taped hours and hours of conversations of no interest whatsoever. Late on the evening of the fifth day, Trinity sent a signal which a digital display instantly identified as Ekström's mobile number. Plague locked the parabolic antenna on to the exact frequency.
The technology of R. F. T. S. worked primarily on incoming calls to Ekström. Trinity's parabolic antenna captured the search for Ekström's mobile number as it was sent through the ether.
Because Trinity could record the calls from Ekström, he also got voiceprints that Plague could process.
Plague ran Ekström's digitized voice through a program called V. P. R. S., Voiceprint Recognition System. He specified a dozen commonly occurring words, such as "O.K." or "Salander". When he had five separate examples of a word, he charted it with respect to the time it took to speak the word, what tone of voice and frequency range it had, whether the end of the word went up or down, and a dozen other markers. The result was a graph. In this way Plague could also monitor outgoing calls from Ekström. His parabolic antenna would be permanently listening out for a call containing Ekström's characteristic graph curve for one of a dozen commonly occurring words. The technology was not perfect, but roughly half of all the calls that Ekström made on his mobile from anywhere near police headquarters were monitored and recorded.
The system had an obvious weakness. As soon as Ekström left police headquarters, it was no longer possible to monitor his mobile, unless Trinity knew where he was and could park his van in the immediate vicinity.
With the authorization from the highest level, Edklinth had been able to set up a legitimate operations department. He picked four colleagues, purposely selecting younger talent who had experience on the regular police force and were only recently recruited to S. I. S. Two had a background in the Fraud Division, one had been with the financial police, and one was from the Violent Crimes Division. They were summoned to Edklinth's office and told of their assignment as
well as the need for absolute secrecy. He made plain that the investigation was being carried out at the express order of the Prime Minister. Inspector Figuerola was named as their chief, and she directed the investigation with a force that matched her physical appearance.
But the investigation proceeded slowly. This was largely due to the fact that no-one was quite sure who or what should be investigated. On more than one occasion Edklinth and Figuerola considered bringing Mårtensson in for questioning. But they decided to wait. Arresting him would reveal the existence of the investigation.
Finally, on Tuesday, eleven days after the meeting with the Prime Minister, Figuerola came to Edklinth's office.
"I think we've got something."
"Sit down."
"Evert Gullberg. One of our investigators had a talk with Marcus Erlander, who's leading the investigation into Zalachenko's murder. According to Erlander, S. I. S. contacted the Göteborg police just two hours after the murder and gave them information about Gullberg's threatening letters."
"That was fast."
"A little too fast. S. I. S. faxed nine letters that Gullberg had supposedly written. There's just one problem."
"What's that?"
"Two of the letters were sent to the justice department - to the Minister of Justice and to the Deputy Minister."
"I know that."
"Yes, but the letter to the Deputy Minister wasn't logged in at the department until the following day. It arrived with a later delivery."
Edklinth stared at Figuerola. He felt very much afraid that his suspicions were going to turn out to be justified. Figuerola went implacably on.
"So we have S. I. S. sending a fax of a threatening letter that hadn't yet reached its addressee."
"Good Lord," Edklinth said.
"It was someone in Personal Protection who faxed them through."
"Who?"
"I don't think he's involved in the case. The letters landed on his desk in the morning, and shortly after the murder he was told to get in touch with the Göteborg police."
"Who gave him the instruction?"
"The chief of Secretariat's assistant."
"Good God, Monica. Do you know what this means? It means that S. I. S. was involved in Zalachenko's murder."
"Not necessarily. But it definitely does mean that some individuals within S. I. S. had knowledge of the murder before it was committed. The only question is: who?"
"The chief of Secretariat..."
"Yes. But I'm beginning to suspect that this Zalachenko club is out of house."
"How do you mean?"
"Mårtensson. He was moved from Personal Protection and is working on his own. We've had him under surveillance round the clock for the past week. He hasn't had contact with anyone within S. I. S. as far as we can tell. He gets calls on a mobile that we cannot monitor. We don't know what number it is, but it's not his normal mobile number. He did meet with the fair-haired man, but we haven't been able to identify him."
Edklinth frowned. At the same instant Anders Berglund knocked on the door. He was one of the new team, the officer who had worked with the financial police.
"I think I've found Evert Gullberg," Berglund said.
"Come in," Edklinth said.
Berglund put a dog-eared, black-and-white photograph on the desk. Edklinth and Figuerola looked at the picture, which showed a man that both of them immediately recognized. He was being led through a doorway by two broad-shouldered plain-clothes police officers. The legendary double agent Colonel Stig Wennerström.*
"This print comes from Åhlens & Åkerlunds Publishers and was used in Se magazine in the spring of 1964. The photograph was taken in the course of the trial. Behind Wennerström you can see three people. On the right, Detective Superintendent Otto Danielsson, the policeman who arrested him."
"Yes..."
"Look at the man on the left behind Danielsson."
They saw a tall man with a narrow moustache who was wearing a hat. He reminded Edklinth vaguely of the writer Dashiell Hammett.
"Compare his face with this passport photograph of Gullberg, taken when he was sixty-six."
Edklinth frowned. "I wouldn't be able to swear it's the same person-"
"But it is," Berglund said. "Turn the print over."
On the reverse was a stamp saying that the picture belonged to Åhlens & Åkerlunds Publishers and that the photographer's name was Julius Estholm. The text was written in pencil. Stig Wennerström flanked by two police officers on his way into Stockholm district court. In the background O. Danielsson, E. Gullberg and H. W. Francke.
"Evert Gullberg," Figuerola said. "He was S. I. S."
"No," Berglund said. "Technically speaking, he wasn't. At least not when this picture was taken."
"Oh?"
"S. I. S. wasn't established until four months later. In this photograph he was still with the Secret State Police."
"Who's H. W. Francke?" Figuerola said.
"Hans Wilhelm Francke," Edklinth said. "Died in the early '90s, but was assistant chief of the Secret State Police in the late '50s and early '60s. He was a bit of a legend, just like Otto Danielsson. I actually met him a couple of times."
"Is that so?" Figuerola said.
"He left S.I.S. in the late '60s. Francke and P.G. Vinge never saw eye to eye, and he was more or less forced to resign at the age of fifty or fifty-five. Then he opened his own shop."
"His own shop?"
"He became a consultant in security for industry. He had an office on Stureplan, but he also gave lectures from time to time at S. I. S. training sessions. That's where I met him."
"What did Vinge and Francke quarrel about?"
"They were just very different. Francke was a bit of a cowboy who saw K. G. B. agents everywhere, and Vinge was a bureaucrat of the old school. Vinge was fired shortly thereafter. A bit ironic, that, because he thought Palme was working for the K. G. B."
Figuerola looked at the photograph of Gullberg and Francke standing side by side.
"I think it's time we had another talk with Justice," Edklinth told her.
"Millennium came out today," Figuerola said.
Edklinth shot her a glance.
"Not a word about the Zalachenko affair," she said.
"So we've got a month before the next issue. Good to know. But we have to deal with Blomkvist. In the midst of all this mess he's like a hand grenade with the pin pulled."
CHAPTER 17
Wednesday, 1.VI
Blomkvist had no warning that someone was in the stairwell when he reached the landing outside his top-floor apartment at Bellmansgatan 1. It was 7.00 in the evening. He stopped short when he saw a woman with short, blonde curly hair sitting on the top step. He recognized her straightaway as Monica Figuerola of S.I.S. from the passport photograph Karim had located.
"Hello, Blomkvist," she said cheerfully, closing the book she had been reading. Blomkvist looked at the book and saw that it was in English, on the idea of God in the ancient world. He studied his unexpected visitor as she stood up. She was wearing a short-sleeved summer dress and had laid a brick-red leather jacket over the top stair.
"We need to talk to you," she said.
She was tall, taller than he was, and that impression was magnified by the fact that she was standing two steps above him. He looked at her arms and then at her legs and saw that she was much more muscular than he was.
"You spend a couple of hours a week at the gym," he said.
She smiled and took out her I. D.
"My name is-"
"Monica Figuerola, born in 1969, living on Pontonjärgatan on Kungsholmen. You came from Borlänge and you've worked with the Uppsala police. For three years you've been working in S.I.S., Constitutional Protection. You're an exercise fanatic and you were once a top-class athlete, almost made it on to the Swedish Olympic team. What do you want with me?"
She was surprised, but she quickly regained her composure.
"Fair enough," she said in a low voice. "You know who I am - so you don't have to be afraid of me."
"I don't?"
"There are some people who need to have a talk with you in peace and quiet. Since your apartment and mobile seem to be bugged and we have reason to be discreet, I've been sent to invite you."
"And why would I go anywhere with somebody who works for Säpo?"
She thought for a moment. "Well... you could just accept a friendly personal invitation, or if you prefer, I could handcuff you and take you with me. " She smiled sweetly. "Look, Blomkvist. I understand that you don't have many reasons to trust anyone who comes from S. I. S. But it's like this: not everyone who works there is your enemy, and my superiors really want to talk to you. So, which do you prefer? Handcuffed or voluntary?"
"I've been handcuffed by the police once already this year. And that was enough. Where are we going?"
She had parked around the corner down on Pryssgränd. When they were settled in her new Saab 9-5, she flipped open her mobile and pressed a speed-dial number.
"We'll be there in fifteen minutes."
She told Blomkvist to fasten his seat belt and drove over Slussen to Östermalm and parked on a side street off Artillerigatan. She sat still for a moment and looked at him.
"This is a friendly invitation, Blomkvist. You're not risking anything."
Blomkvist said nothing. He was reserving judgement until he knew what this was all about. She punched in the code on the street door. They took the lift to the fifth floor, to an apartment with the name Martinsson on the door.
"We've borrowed the place for tonight's meeting," she said, opening the door. "To your right, into the living room."
The first person Blomkvist saw was Torsten Edklinth, which was no surprise since Säpo was deeply involved in what had happened, and Edklinth was Figuerola's boss. The fact that the Director of Constitutional Protection had gone to the trouble of bringing him in said that somebody was nervous.
Then he saw a figure by the window. The Minister of Justice. That was a surprise.
Then he heard a sound to his right and saw the Prime Minister get up from an armchair. This he had not for a moment expected.
"Good evening, Herr Blomkvist," the P. M. said. "Excuse us for summoning you to this meeting at such short notice, but we've discussed the situation and agreed that we need to talk to you. May I offer you some coffee, or something else to drink?"
Blomkvist looked around. He saw a dining-room table of dark wood that was cluttered with glasses, coffee cups and the remnants of sandwiches. They must have been there for a couple of hours already.
"Ramlösa," he said.
Figuerola poured him a mineral water. They sat down on the sofas as she stayed in the background.
"He recognized me and knew my name, where I live, where I work, and the fact that I'm a workout fanatic," Figuerola said to no-one in particular.
The Prime Minister glanced quickly at Edklinth and then at Blomkvist. Blomkvist realized at once that he was in a position of some strength. The Prime Minister needed something from him and presumably had no idea how much Blomkvist knew or did not know.
"How did you know who Inspector Figuerola was?" Edklinth said.
Blomkvist looked at the Director of Constitutional Protection. He could not be sure why the Prime Minister had set up a meeting with him in a borrowed apartment in Östermalm, but he suddenly felt inspired. There were not many ways it could have come about. It was Armansky who had set this in train by giving information to someone he trusted. Which must have been Edklinth, or someone close to him. Blomkvist took a chance.
"A mutual friend spoke with you," he said to Edklinth. "You sent Figuerola to find out what was going on, and she discovered that some Säpo activists are running illegal telephone taps and breaking into my apartment and stealing things. This means that you have confirmed the existence of what I call the Zalachenko club. It made you so nervous that you knew you had to take the matter further, but you sat in your office for a while and didn't know in which direction to go. So you went to the justice minister, and he in turn went to the Prime Minister. And now here we all are. What is it that you want from me?"
Blomkvist spoke with a confidence that suggested that he had a source right at the heart of the affair and had followed every step Edklinth had taken. He knew that his guesswork was on the mark when Edklinth's eyes widened.
"The Zalachenko club spies on me, I spy on them," Blomkvist went on. "And you spy on the Zalachenko club. This situation makes the Prime Minister both angry and uneasy. He knows that at the end of this conversation a scandal awaits that the government might not survive."
Figuerola understood that Blomkvist was bluffing, and she knew how he had been able to surprise her by knowing her name and shoe size.
He saw me in my car on Bellmansgatan. He took the registration number and looked me up. But the rest is guesswork.
She did not say a word.
The Prime Minister certainly looked uneasy now.
"Is that what awaits us?" he said. "A scandal to bring down the government?"
"The survival of the government isn't my concern," Blomkvist said. "My role is to expose shit like the Zalachenko club."
The Prime Minister said: "And my job is to run the country in accordance with the constitution."
"Which means that my problem is definitely the government's problem. But not vice versa."
"Could we stop going round in circles? Why do you think I arranged this meeting?"
"To find out what I know and what I intend to do with it."
"Partly right. But more precisely, we've landed in a constitutional crisis. Let me first say that the government has absolutely no hand in this matter. We have been caught napping, without a doubt. I've never heard mention of this... what you call the Zalachenko club. The minister here has never heard a word about this matter either. Torsten Edklinth, an official high up in S. I. S. who has worked in Säpo for many years, has never heard of it."
"It's still not my problem."
"I appreciate that. What I'd like to know is when you mean to publish your article, and exactly what it is you intend to publish. And this has nothing to do with damage control."
"Does it not?"
"Herr Blomkvist, the worst possible thing I could do in this situation would be to try to influence the shape or content of your story. Instead, I am going to propose a co-operation."
"Please explain."
"Since we have now had confirmation that a conspiracy exists within an exceptionally sensitive part of the administration, I have ordered an investigation. " The P. M. turned to the Minister of Justice. "Please explain what the government has directed."
"It's very simple," said the Minister of Justice. "Torsten Edklinth has been given the task of finding out whether we can confirm this. He is to gather information that can be turned over to the Prosecutor General, who in turn must decide whether charges should be brought. It is a very clear instruction. And this evening Edklinth has been reporting on how the investigation is proceeding. We've had a long discussion about the constitutional implications - obviously we want it to be handled properly."
"Naturally," Blomkvist said in a tone that indicated he had scant trust in the Prime Minister's assurances.
"The investigation has already reached a sensitive stage. We have not yet identified exactly who is involved. That will take time. And that's why we sent Inspector Figuerola to invite you to this meeting."
"It wasn't exactly an invitation."
The Prime Minister frowned and glanced at Figuerola.
"It's not important," Blomkvist said. "Her behaviour was exemplary. Please come to the point."
"We want to know your publication date. This investigation is being conducted in great secrecy. If you publish before Edklinth has completed it, it could be ruined."
"And when would you like me to publish? After the next election, I suppose?"
"You decide that for yourself. It's not something I can influence. Just tell us, so that we know exactly what our deadline is."
"I see. You spoke about co-operation..."
The P. M. said: "Yes, but first let me say that under normal circumstances I would not have dreamed of asking a journalist to come to such a meeting."
"Presumably in normal circumstances you would be doing everything you could to keep journalists away from a meeting like this."
"Quite so. But I've understood that you're driven by several factors. You have a reputation for not pulling your punches when there's corruption involved. In this case there are no differences of opinion to divide us."
"Aren't there?"
"No, not in the least. Or rather... the differences that exist might be of a legal nature, but we share an objective. If this Zalachenko club exists, it is not merely a criminal conspiracy - it is a threat to national security. These activities must be stopped, and those responsible must be held accountable. On that point we would be in agreement, correct?"
Blomkvist nodded.
"I've understood that you know more about this story than anyone else. We suggest that you share your knowledge. If this were a regular police investigation of an ordinary crime, the leader of the preliminary investigation could decide to summon you for an interview. But, as you can appreciate, this is an extreme state of affairs."
Blomkvist weighed the situation for a moment.
"And what do I get in return - if I do co-operate?"
"Nothing. I'm not going to haggle with you. If you want to publish tomorrow morning, then do so. I won't get involved in any horse-trading that might be constitutionally dubious. I'm asking you to cooperate in the interests of the country."
"In this case 'nothing' could be quite a lot," Blomkvist said. "For one thing... I'm very, very angry. I'm furious at the state and the government and Säpo and all these fucking bastards who for no reason at all locked up a twelve-year-old girl in a mental hospital until she could be declared incompetent."
"Lisbeth Salander has become a government matter," the P. M. said, and smiled. "Mikael, I am personally very upset over what happened to her. Please believe me when I say that those responsible will be called to account. But before we can do that, we have to know who they are."
"My priority is that Salander should be acquitted and declared competent."
"I can't help you with that. I'm not above the law, and I can't direct what prosecutors and the courts decide. She has to be acquitted by a court."
"O.K.," Blomkvist said. "You want my co-operation. Then give me some insight into Edklinth's investigation, and I'll tell you when and what I plan to publish."
"I can't give you that insight. That would be placing myself in the same relation to you as the Minister of Justice's predecessor once stood to the journalist Ebbe Carlsson."*
"I'm not Ebbe Carlsson," Blomkvist said calmly.
"I know that. On the other hand, Edklinth can decide for himself what he can share with you within the framework of his assignment."
"Hmm," Blomkvist said. "I want to know who Evert Gullberg was."
Silence fell over the group.
"Gullberg was presumably for many years the chief of that division within S. I. S. which you call the Zalachenko club," Edklinth said.
The Prime Minister gave him a sharp look.
"I think he knows that already," Edklinth said by way of apology.
"That's correct," Blomkvist said. "He started at Säpo in the '50s. In the '60s he became chief of some outfit called the Section for Special Analysis. He was the one in charge of the Zalachenko affair."
The P. M. shook his head. "You know more than you ought to. I would very much like to discover how you came by all this information. But I'm not going to ask."
"There are holes in my story," Blomkvist said. "I need to fill them. Give me information and I won't try to compromise you."
"As Prime Minister I'm not in a position to deliver any such information. And Edklinth is on a very thin ice if he does so."
"Don't pull the wool over my eyes. I know what you want and you know what I want. If you give me information, then you'll be my sources - with all the enduring anonymity that implies. Don't misunderstand me... I'll tell the truth as I see it in what I publish. If you are involved, I will expose you and do everything I can to ensure that you are never re-elected. But as yet I have no reason to believe that is the case."
The Prime Minister glanced at Edklinth. After a moment he nodded. Blomkvist took it as a sign that the Prime Minister had just broken the law - if only of the more academic specie - by giving his consent to the sharing of classified information with a journalist.
"This can all be solved quite simply," Edklinth said. "I have my own investigative team and I decide for myself which colleagues to recruit for the investigation. You can't be employed by the
investigation because that would mean you would be obliged to sign an oath of confidentiality. But I can hire you as an external consultant."
Berger's life had been filled with meetings and work around the clock the minute she had stepped into Morander's shoes.
It was not until Wednesday night, almost two weeks after Blomkvist had given her Cortez's research papers on Borgsjö, that she had time to address the issue. As she opened the folder she realized that her procrastination had also to do with the fact that she did not really want to face up to the problem. She already knew that however she dealt with it, calamity would be inevitable.
She arrived home in Saltsjöbaden at 7.00, unusually early, and it was only when she had to turn off the alarm in the hall that she remembered her husband was not at home. She had given him an especially long kiss that morning because he was flying to Paris to deliver some lectures and would not be back until the weekend. She had no idea where he was giving the lectures, or what they were about.
She went upstairs, ran the bath, and undressed. She took Cortez's folder with her and spent the next half hour reading through the whole story. She could not help but smile. The boy was going to be a formidable reporter. He was twenty-six years old and had been at Millennium for four years, right out of journalism school. She felt a certain pride. The story had Millennium's stamp on it from beginning to end, every t was crossed, every i dotted.
But she also felt tremendously depressed. Borgsjö was a good man, and she liked him. He was soft-spoken, sharp-witted and charming, and he seemed unconcerned with prestige. Besides, he was her employer. How in God's name could he have been so bloody stupid?
She wondered whether there might be an alternative explanation or some mitigating circumstances, but she already knew it would be impossible to explain this away.
She put the folder on the windowsill and stretched out in the bath to ponder the situation.
Millennium was going to publish the story, no question. If she had still been there, she would not have hesitated. That Millennium had leaked the story to her in advance was nothing but a courtesy - they wanted to reduce the damage to her personally. If the situation had been reversed - if S. M. P. had made some damaging discovery about Millennium's chairman of the board (who happened to be herself) - they would not have hesitated either.
Publication would be a serious blow to Borgsjö. The damaging thing was not that his company, Vitavara Inc., had imported goods from a company on the United Nations blacklist of companies using child labour - and in this case slave labour too, in the form of convicts, and undoubtedly some of these convicts were political prisoners. The really damaging thing was that Borgsjö knew about all this and still went on ordering toilets from Fong Soo Industries. It was a mark of the sort of greed that did not go down well with the Swedish people in the wake of the revelations about other criminal capitalists such as Skandia's former president.
Borgsjö would naturally claim that he did not know about the conditions at Fong Soo, but Cortez had solid evidence. If Borgsjö took that tack he would be exposed as a liar. In June 1997
Borgsjö had gone to Vietnam to sign the first contracts. He had spent ten days there on that occasion and been round the company's factories. If he claimed not to have known that many of the workers there were only twelve or thirteen years old, he would look like an idiot.
Cortez had demonstrated that in 1999, the U.N. commission on child labour had added Fong Soo Industries to its list of companies that exploit child labour, and that this had then been the subject of magazine articles. Two organizations against child labour, one of them the globally recognized International Joint Effort Against Child Labour in London, had written letters to companies that had placed orders with Fong Soo. Seven letters had been sent to Vitavara Inc., and two of those were addressed to Borgsjö personally. The organization in London had been very willing to supply the evidence. And Vitavara Inc. had not replied to any of the letters.
Worse still, Borgsjö went to Vietnam twice more, in 2001 and 2004, to renew the contracts. This was the coup de grâce. It would be impossible for Borgsjö to claim ignorance.
The inevitable media storm could lead only to one thing. If Borgsjö was smart, he would apologize and resign from his positions on various boards. If he decided to fight, he would be steadily annihilated.
Berger did not care if Borgsjö was or was not chairman of the board of Vitavara Inc. What mattered to her was that he was the board chairman of S. M. P. At a time when the newspaper was on the edge and a campaign of rejuvenation was under way, S. M. P. could not afford to keep him as chairman.
Berger's decision was made.
She would go to Borgsjö, show him the document, and thereby hope to persuade him to resign before the story was published.
If he dug in his heels, she would call an emergency board meeting, explain the situation, and force the board to dismiss Borgsjö. And if they did not, she would have to resign, effective immediately.
She had been thinking for so long that the bathwater was now cold. She showered and towelled herself and went to the bedroom to put on a dressing gown. Then she picked up her mobile and called Blomkvist. No answer. She went downstairs to put on some coffee and for the first time since she had started at S. M. P., she looked to see whether there was a film on T. V. that she could watch to relax.
As she walked into the living room, she felt a sharp pain in her foot. She looked down and saw blood. She took another step and pain shot through her entire foot, and she had to hop over to an antique chair to sit down. She lifted her foot and saw to her dismay that a shard of glass had pierced her heel. At first she felt faint. Then she steeled herself and took hold of the shard and pulled it out. The pain was appalling, and blood gushed from the wound.
She pulled open a drawer in the hall where she kept scarves, gloves and hats. She found a scarf and wrapped it around her foot and tied it tight. That was not going to be enough, so she reinforced it with another improvised bandage. The bleeding had apparently subsided.
She looked at the bloodied piece of glass in amazement. How did this get here? Then she discovered more glass on the hall floor. Jesus Christ... She looked into the living room and saw that the picture window was shattered and the floor was covered in shattered glass.
She went back to the front door and put on the outdoor shoes she had kicked off as she came home. That is, she put on one shoe and stuck the toes of her injured foot into the other, and hopped into the living room to take stock of the damage.
Then she found the brick in the middle of the living-room floor.
She limped over to the balcony door and went out to the garden. Someone had sprayed in metre-high letters on the back wall: WHORE It was just after 9.00 in the evening when Figuerola held the car door open for Blomkvist. She went around the car and got into the driver's seat.
"Should I drive you home or do you want to be dropped off somewhere?"
Blomkvist stared straight ahead. "I haven't got my bearings yet, to be honest. I've never had a confrontation with a prime minister before."
Figuerola laughed. "You played your cards very well," she said. "I would never have guessed you were such a good poker player."
"I meant every word."
"Of course, but what I meant was that you pretended to know a lot more than you actually do. I realized that when I worked out how you identified me."
Blomkvist turned and looked at her profile.
"You wrote down my car registration when I was parked on the hill outside your building. You made it sound as if you knew what was being discussed at the Prime Minister's secretariat."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Blomkvist said.
She gave him a quick look and turned on to Grev Turegatan. "The rules of the game. I shouldn't have picked that spot, but there wasn't anywhere else to park. You keep a sharp eye on your surroundings, don't you?"
"You were sitting with a map spread out on the front seat, talking on the telephone. I took down your registration and ran a routine check. I check out every car that catches my attention. I usually draw a blank. In your case I discovered that you worked for Säpo."
"I was following Mårtensson."
"Aha. So simple."
"Then I discovered that you were tailing him using Susanne Linder at Milton Security."
"Armansky's detailed her to keep an eye on what goes on around my apartment."
"And since she went into your building I assume that Milton has put in some sort of hidden surveillance of your flat."
"That's right. We have an excellent film of how they break in and go through my papers. Mårtensson carries a portable photocopier with him. Have you identified Mårtensson's sidekick?"
"He's unimportant. A locksmith with a criminal record who's probably being paid to open your door."
"Name?"
"Protected source?"
"Naturally."
"Lars Faulsson. Forty-seven. Alias Falun. Convicted of safe-cracking in the '80s and some other minor stuff. Has a shop at Norrtull."
"Thanks."
"But let's save the secrets till we meet again tomorrow."
The meeting had ended with an agreement that Blomkvist would come to Constitutional Protection the next day to set in train an exchange of information. Blomkvist was thinking. They were just passing Sergels Torg in the city centre.
"You know what? I'm incredibly hungry. I had a late lunch and was going to make a pasta when I got home, but I was waylaid by you. Have you eaten?"
"A while ago."
"Take us to a restaurant where we can get some decent food."
"All food is decent."
He looked at her. "I thought you were a health-food fanatic."
"No, I'm a workout fanatic. If you work out you can eat whatever you want. Within reason."
She braked at the Klaraberg viaduct and considered the options. Instead of turning down towards Södermalm she kept going straight to Kungsholmen.
"I don't know what the restaurants are like in Söder, but I know an excellent Bosnian place at Fridhemsplan. Their burek is fantastic."
"Sounds good," Blomkvist said.
Salander tapped her way, letter by letter, through her report. She had worked an average of five hours each day. She was careful to express herself precisely. She left out all the details that could be used against her.
That she was locked up had turned out to be a blessing. She always had plenty of warning to put away her Palm when she heard the rattling of a key ring or a key being put in the lock.
I was about to lock up Bjurman's cabin outside Stallarholmen when Carl-Magnus Lundin and Sonny Nieminen arrived on motorbikes. Since they had been searching for me in vain for a while on behalf of Zalachenko and Niedermann, they were surprised to see me there. Magge Lundin got off his motorbike and declared, quote, I think the dyke needs some cock, unquote. Both he and Nieminen acted so threateningly that I had no choice but to resort to my right of self-defence. I left the scene on Lundin's motorbike which I then abandoned at the shopping centre in Älvsjö.
There was no reason to volunteer the information that Lundin had called her a whore or that she had bent down and picked up Nieminen's P-83 Wanad and punished Lundin by shooting him in the foot. The police could probably work that out for themselves, but it was up to them to prove it. She did not mean to make their job any easier by confessing to something that would lead to a prison sentence.
The text had grown to thirty-three pages and she was nearing the end. In some sections she was particularly reticent about details and went to a lot of trouble not to supply any evidence that could back up in any way the many claims she was making. She went so far as to obscure some obvious evidence and instead moved on to the next link in the chain of events.
She scrolled back and read through the text of a section where she told how Advokat Bjurman had violently and sadistically raped her. That was the part she had spent the most time on, and one of the few she had rewritten several times before she was satisfied. The section took up nineteen lines in her account. She reported in a matter-of-fact manner how he had hit her, thrown her on to her stomach on the bed, taped her mouth and handcuffed her. She then related how he had repeatedly committed acts of sexual violence against her, including anal penetration. She went on to report how at one point during the rape he had wound a piece of clothing - her own T-shirt - around her neck and strangled her for such a long time that she temporarily lost consciousness. Then there were several lines of text where she identified the implements he had used during the rape, which included a short whip, an anal plug, a rough dildo, and clamps which he attached to her nipples.
She frowned and studied the text. At last she raised the stylus and tapped out a few more lines of text.
On one occasion when I still had my mouth taped shut, Bjurman commented on the fact that I had several tattoos and piercings, including a ring in my left nipple. He asked if I liked being pierced and then left the room. He came back with a needle which he pushed through my right nipple.
The matter-of-fact tone gave the text such a surreal touch that it sounded like an absurd fantasy.
The story simply did not sound credible.
That was her intention.
At that moment she heard the rattle of the guard's key ring. She turned off the Palm at once and put it in the recess in the back of the bedside table. It was Giannini. She frowned. It was 9.00 in the evening and Giannini did not usually appear this late.
"Hello, Lisbeth."
"Hello."
"How are you feeling?"
"I'm not finished yet."
Giannini sighed. "Lisbeth, they've set the trial date for July 13."
"That's O.K."
"No, it's not O.K. Time is running out, and you're not telling me anything. I'm beginning to think that I made a colossal mistake taking on the job. If we're going to have the slightest chance, you have to trust me. We have to work together."
Salander studied her for a long moment. Finally she leaned her head back and looked up at the ceiling.
"I know what we're supposed to be doing. I understand Mikael's plan. And he's right."
"I'm not so sure about that."
"But I am."
"The police want to interrogate you again. A detective named Hans Faste from Stockholm."
"Let him interrogate me. I won't say a word."
"You have to hand in a statement."
Salander gave Giannini a sharp look. "I repeat: we won't say a word to the police. When we get to that courtroom the prosecutor won't have a single syllable from any interrogation to fall back on. All they'll have is the statement that I'm composing now, and large parts of it will seem preposterous. And they're going to get it a few days before the trial."
"So when are you actually going to sit down with a pen and paper and write this statement?"
"You'll have it in a few days. But it can't go to the prosecutor until just before the trial."
Giannini looked sceptical. Salander suddenly gave her a cautious smile. "You talk about trust. Can I trust you?"
"Of course you can."
"O.K., could you smuggle me in a hand-held computer so that I can keep in touch with people online?"
"No, of course not. If it were discovered I'd be charged with a crime and lose my licence to practise."
"But if someone else got one in... would you report it to the police?"
Giannini raised her eyebrows. "If I didn't know about it..."
"But if you did know about it, what would you do?"
"I'd shut my eyes. How about that?"
"This hypothetical computer is soon going to send you a hypothetical email. When you've read it I want you to come again."
"Lisbeth-"
"Wait. It's like this. The prosecutor is dealing with a marked deck. I'm at a disadvantage no matter what I do, and the purpose of the trial is to get me committed to a secure psychiatric ward."
"I know."
"If I'm going to survive, I have to fight dirty."
Finally Giannini nodded.
"When you came to see me the first time," Salander said, "you had a message from Blomkvist. He said that he'd told you almost everything, with a few exceptions. One of those exceptions had to do with the skills he discovered I had when we were in Hedestad."
"That's correct."
"He was referring to the fact that I'm extremely good with computers. So good that I can read and copy what's on Ekström's machine."
Giannini went pale.
"You can't be involved in this. And you can't use any of that material at the trial," Salander said.
"Hardly. You're right about that."
"So you know nothing about it."
"O.K."
"But someone else - your brother, let's say - could publish selected excerpts from it. You'll have to think about this possibility when you plan your strategy."
"I understand."
"Annika, this trial is going to turn on who uses the toughest methods."
"I know."
"I'm happy to have you as my lawyer. I trust you and I need your help."
"Hmm."
"But if you get difficult about the fact that I'm going to use unethical methods, then we'll lose the trial."
"Right."
"And if that were the case, I need to know now. I'd have to get myself a new lawyer."
"Lisbeth, I can't break the law."
"You don't have to break any law. But you do have to shut your eyes to the fact that I am. Can you manage that?"
Salander waited patiently for almost a minute before Annika nodded.
"Good. Let me tell you the main points that I'm going to put in my statement."
Figuerola had been right. The burek was fantastic. Blomkvist studied her carefully as she came back from the ladies'. She moved as gracefully as a ballerina, but she had a body like... hmm. Blomkvist could not help being fascinated. He repressed an impulse to reach out and feel her leg muscles.
"How long have you been working out?" he said.
"Since I was a teenager."
"And how many hours a week do you do it?"
"Two hours a day. Sometimes three."
"Why? I mean, I understand why people work out, but..."
"You think it's excessive."
"I'm not sure exactly what I think."
She smiled and did not seem at all irritated by his questions.
"Maybe you're just bothered by seeing a girl with muscles. Do you think it's a turn-off, or unfeminine?"
"No, not at all. It suits you somehow. You're very sexy."
She laughed.
"I'm cutting back on the training now. Ten years ago I was doing rock-hard bodybuilding. It was cool. But now I have to be careful that the muscles don't turn to fat. I don't want to get flabby. So I lift weights once a week and spend the rest of the time doing some cross-training, or running, playing badminton, or swimming, that sort of thing. It's exercise more than hard training."
"I see."
"The reason I work out is that it feels great. That's a normal phenomenon among people who do extreme training. The body produces a pain-suppressing chemical and you become addicted to it. If you don't run every day, you get withdrawal symptoms after a while. You feel an enormous sense of wellbeing when you give something your all. It's almost as powerful as good sex."
Blomkvist laughed.
"You should start working out yourself," she said. "You're getting a little thick in the waist."
"I know," he said. "A constant guilty conscience. Sometimes I start running regularly and lose a couple of kilos. Then I get involved in something and don't get time to do it again for a month or two."
"You've been pretty busy these last few months. I've been reading a lot about you. You beat the police by several lengths when you tracked down Zalachenko and identified Niedermann."
"Lisbeth Salander was faster."
"How did you find out Niedermann was in Gosseberga?"
Blomkvist shrugged. "Routine research. I wasn't the one who found him. It was our assistant editor, well, now our editor-in-chief Malin Eriksson who managed to dig him up through the corporate records. He was on the board of Zalachenko's company, K. A. B Import."
"That simple..."
"And why did you become a Säpo activist?" he said.
"Believe it or not, I'm something as old-fashioned as a democrat. I mean, the police are necessary, and a democracy needs a political safeguard. That's why I'm proud to be working at Constitutional Protection."
"Is it really something to be proud of?" said Blomkvist.
"You don't like the Security Police."
"I don't like institutions that are beyond normal parliamentary scrutiny. It's an invitation to abuse of power, no matter how noble the intentions. Why are you so interested in the religion of antiquity?"
Figuerola looked at Blomkvist.
"You were reading a book about it on my staircase," he said.
"The subject fascinates me."
"I see."
"I'm interested in a lot of things. I've studied law and political science while I've worked for the police. Before that I studied both philosophy and the history of ideas."
"Do you have any weaknesses?"
"I don't read fiction, I never go to the cinema, and I watch only the news on T. V. How about you? Why did you become a journalist?"
"Because there are institutions like Säpo that lack parliamentary oversight and which have to be exposed from time to time. I don't really know. I suppose my answer to that is the same one you gave me: I believe in a constitutional democracy and sometimes it has to be protected."
"The way you did with Hans-Erik Wennerström?"
"Something like that."
"You're not married. Are you and Erika Berger together?"
"Erika Berger's married."
"So all the rumours about you two are nonsense. Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No-one steady."
"So the rumours might be true after all."
Blomkvist smiled.
Eriksson worked at her kitchen table at home in Årsta until the small hours. She sat bent over spreadsheets of Millennium's budget and was so engrossed that Anton, her boyfriend, eventually gave up trying to have a conversation with her. He washed the dishes, made a late snack, and put on some coffee. Then he left her in peace and sat down to watch a repeat of C. S. I.
Malin had never before had to cope with anything more complex than a household budget, but she had worked alongside Berger balancing the monthly books, and she understood the principles. Now she was suddenly editor-in-chief, and with that role came responsibility for the budget. Sometime after midnight she decided that, whatever happened, she was going to have to get an accountant to help her. Ingela Oscarsson, who did the bookkeeping one day a week, had no responsibility for the budget and was not at all helpful when it came to making decisions about how much a freelancer should be paid or whether they could afford to buy a new laser printer that was not already included in the sum earmarked for capital investments or I.T. upgrades. In practice it was a ridiculous situation - Millennium was making a profit, but that was because Berger had always managed to balance an extremely tight budget. Instead of investing in something as fundamental as a new colour laser printer for 45,000 kronor, they would have to settle for a black-and-white printer for 8,000 instead.
For a moment she envied Berger. At S. M. P. she had a budget in which such a cost would be considered pin money.
Millennium's financial situation had been healthy at the last annual general meeting, but the surplus in the budget was primarily made up of the profits from Blomkvist's book about the Wennerström affair. The revenue that had been set aside for investment was shrinking alarmingly fast. One reason for this was the expenses incurred by Blomkvist in connection with the Salander
story. Millennium did not have the resources to keep any employee on an open-ended budget with all sorts of expenses in the form of rental cars, hotel rooms, taxis, purchase of research material, new mobile telephones and the like.
Eriksson signed an invoice from Daniel Olsson in Göteborg. She sighed. Blomkvist had approved a sum of 14,000 kronor for a week's research on a story that was not now going to be published. Payment to an Idris Ghidi went into the budget under fees to sources who could not be named, which meant that the accountant would remonstrate about the lack of an invoice or receipt and insist that the matter have the board's approval. Millennium had paid a fee to Advokat Giannini which was supposed to come out of the general fund, but she had also invoiced Millennium for train tickets and other costs.
She put down her pen and looked at the totals. Blomkvist had blown 150,000 kronor on the Salander story, way beyond their budget. Things could not go on this way.
She was going to have to have a talk with him.
Berger spent the evening not on her sofa watching T. V., but in A. & E. at Nacka hospital. The shard of glass had penetrated so deeply that the bleeding would not stop. It turned out that one piece had broken off and was still in her heel, and would have to be removed. She was given a local anaesthetic and afterwards the wound was sewn up with three stitches.
Berger cursed the whole time she was at the hospital, and she kept trying to call her husband or Blomkvist. Neither chose to answer the telephone. By 10.00 she had her foot wrapped in a thick bandage. She was given crutches and took a taxi home.
She spent a while limping around the living room, sweeping up the floor. She called Emergency Glass to order a new window. She was in luck. It had been a quiet evening and they arrived within twenty minutes. But the living-room window was so big that they did not have the glass in stock. The glazier offered to board up the window with plywood for the time being, and she accepted gratefully.
As the plywood was being put up, she called the duty officer at Nacka Integrated Protection, and asked why the hell their expensive burglar alarm had not gone off when someone threw a brick through her biggest window.
Someone from N. I. P. came out to look at the damage. It turned out that whoever had installed the alarm several years before had neglected to connect the leads from the windows in the living room.
Berger was furious.
The man from N. I. P. said they would fix it first thing in the morning. Berger told him not to bother. Instead she called the duty officer at Milton Security and explained her situation. She said that she wanted to have a complete alarm package installed the next morning. I know I have to sign a contract, but tell Armansky that Erika Berger called and make damn sure someone comes round in the morning.
Then, finally, she called the police. She was told that there was no car available to come and take her statement. She was advised to contact her local station in the morning. Thank you. Fuck off.
Then she sat and fumed for a long time until her adrenaline level dropped and it began to sink in that she was going to have to sleep alone in a house without an alarm while somebody was running around the neighbourhood calling her a whore and smashing her windows.
She wondered whether she ought to go into the city to spend the night at a hotel, but Berger was not the kind of person who liked to be threatened. And she liked giving in to threats even less.
But she did take some elementary safety precautions.
Blomkvist had told her once how Salander had put paid to the serial killer Martin Vanger with a golf club. So she went to the garage and spent several minutes looking for her golf bag, which she had hardly even thought about for fifteen years. She chose an iron that she thought had a certain heft to it and laid it within easy reach of her bed. She left a putter in the hall and an 8-iron in the kitchen. She took a hammer from the tool box in the basement and put that in the master bathroom too.
She put the canister of Mace from her shoulder bag on her bedside table. Finally she found a rubber doorstop and wedged it under the bedroom door. And then she almost hoped that the moron who had called her a whore and destroyed her window would be stupid enough to come back that night.
By the time she felt sufficiently entrenched it was 1.00. She had to be at S.M.P. at 8.00. She checked her diary and saw that she had four meetings, the first at 10.00. Her foot was aching badly. She undressed and crept into bed.
Then, inevitably, she lay awake and worried.
Whore.
She had received nine emails, all of which had contained the word "whore," and they all seemed to come from sources in the media. The first had come from her own newsroom, but the source was a fake.
She got out of bed and took out the new Dell laptop that she had been given when she had started at S. M. P.
The first email - which was also the most crude and intimidating with its suggestion that she would be fucked with a screwdriver - had come on May 16, a couple of weeks ago.
Email number two had arrived two days later, on May 18.
Then a week went by before the emails started coming again, now at intervals of about twenty-four hours. Then the attack on her home. Again, whore.
During that time Carlsson on the culture pages had received an ugly email purportedly sent by Berger. And if Carlsson had received an email like that, it was entirely possible that the emailer
had been busy elsewhere too - that other people had got mail apparently from her that she did not know about.
It was an unpleasant thought.
The most disturbing was the attack on her house.
Someone had taken the trouble to find out where she lived, drive out here, and throw a brick through the window. It was obviously premeditated - the attacker had brought his can of spray paint. The next moment she froze when she realized that she could add another attack to the list. All four of her tyres had been slashed when she spent the night with Blomkvist at the Slussen Hilton.
The conclusion was just as unpleasant as it was obvious. She was being stalked.
Someone, for some unknown reason, had decided to harass her.
The fact that her home had been subject to an attack was understandable - it was where it was and impossible to disguise. But if her car had been damaged on some random street in Södermalm, her stalker must have been somewhere nearby when she parked it. They must have been following her.
CHAPTER 18
Thursday, 2. vi
Berger's mobile was ringing. It was 9.05.
"Good morning, Fru Berger. Dragan Armansky. I understand you called last night."
Berger explained what had happened and asked whether Milton Security could take over the contract from Nacka Integrated Protection.
"We can certainly install an alarm that will work," Armansky said. "The problem is that the closest car we have at night is in Nacka centre. Response time would be about thirty minutes. If we took the job I'd have to subcontract out your house. We have an agreement with a local security company, Adam Security in Fisksätra, which has a response time of ten minutes if all goes as it should."
"That would be an improvement on N. I. P., which doesn't bother to turn up at all."
"It's a family-owned business, a father, two sons, and a couple of cousins. Greeks, good people. I've known the father for many years. They handle coverage about 320 days a year. They tell us in advance the days they aren't available because of holidays or something else, and then our car in Nacka takes over."
"That works for me."
"I'll be sending a man out this morning. His name is David Rosin, and in fact he's already on his way. He's going to do a security assessment. He needs your keys if you're not going to be home, and he needs your authorization to do a thorough examination of your house, from top to bottom. He's going to take pictures of the entire property and the immediate surroundings."
"Alright."
"Rosin has a lot of experience, and we'll make you a proposal. We'll have a complete security plan ready in a few days which will include a personal attack alarm, fire security, evacuation and break-in protection."
"O.K."
"If anything should happen, we also want you to know what to do in the ten minutes before the car arrives from Fisksätra."
"Sounds good."
"We'll install the alarm this afternoon. Then we'll have to sign a contract."
Only after she had finished her conversation with Armansky did Berger realize that she had overslept. She picked up her mobile to call Fredriksson and explained that she had hurt herself. He would have to cancel the 10.00.
"What's happened?" he said.
"I cut my foot," Berger said. "I'll hobble in as soon as I've pulled myself together."
She used the toilet in the master bathroom and then pulled on some black trousers and borrowed one of Greger's slippers for her injured foot. She chose a black blouse and put on a jacket. Before she removed the doorstop from the bedroom door, she armed herself with the canister of Mace.
She made her way cautiously through the house and switched on the coffeemaker. She had her breakfast at the kitchen table, listening out for sounds in the vicinity. She had just poured a second cup of coffee when there was a firm knock on the front door. It was David Rosin from Milton Security.
Figuerola walked to Bergsgatan and summoned her four colleagues for an early morning conference.
"We've got a deadline now," she said. "Our work has to be done by July 13, the day the Salander trial begins. We have just under six weeks. Let's agree on what's most important right now. Who wants to go first?"
Berglund cleared his throat. "The blond man with Mårtensson. Who is he?"
"We have photographs, but no idea how to find him. We can't put out an A. P. B."
"What about Gullberg, then? There must be a story to track down there. We have him in the Secret State Police from the early '50s to 1964, when S.I.S. was founded. Then he vanishes."
Figuerola nodded.
"Should we conclude that the Zalachenko club was an association formed in 1964? That would be some time before Zalachenko even came to Sweden."
"There must have been some other purpose... a secret organization within the organization."
"That was after Stig Wennerström. Everyone was paranoid."
"A sort of secret spy police?"
"There are in fact parallels overseas. In the States a special group of internal spy chasers was created within the C.I.A. in the '60s. It was led by a James Jesus Angleton, and it very nearly sabotaged the entire C.I.A. Angleton's gang were as fanatical as they were paranoid - they suspected everyone in the C.I.A. of being a Russian agent. As a result the agency's effectiveness in large areas was paralysed."
"But that's all speculation..."
"Where are the old personnel files kept?"
"Gullberg isn't in them. I've checked."
"But what about a budget? An operation like this has to be financed."
The discussion went on until lunchtime, when Figuerola excused herself and went to the gym for some peace, to think things over.
Berger did not arrive in the newsroom until lunchtime. Her foot was hurting so badly that she could not put any weight on it. She hobbled over to her glass cage and sank into her chair with relief. Fredriksson looked up from his desk and she waved him in.
"What happened?" he said.
"I trod on a piece of glass and a shard lodged in my heel."
"That... wasn't so good."
"No. It wasn't good. Peter, has anyone received any more weird emails?"
"Not that I've heard."
"O.K. Keep your ears open. I want to know if anything odd happens around S. M. P."
"What sort of odd?"
"I'm afraid some idiot is sending really vile emails and he seems to have targeted me. So I want to know if you hear of anything going on."
"The type of email Eva Carlsson got?"
"Right, but anything strange at all. I've had a whole string of crazy emails accusing me of being all kinds of things - and suggesting various perverse things that ought to be done to me."
Fredriksson's expression darkened. "How long has this been going on?"
"A couple of weeks. Keep your eyes peeled... So tell me, what's going to be in the paper tomorrow?"
"Well..."
"Well, what?"
"Holm and the head of the legal section are on the warpath."
"Why is that?"
"Because of Frisk. You extended his contract and gave him a feature assignment. And he won't tell anybody what it's about."
"He is forbidden to talk about it. My orders."
"That's what he says. Which means that Holm and the legal editor are up in arms."
"I can see that they might be. Set up a meeting with legal at 3.00. I'll explain the situation."
"Holm is not best pleased-"
"I'm not best pleased with Holm, so we're all square."
"He's so upset that he's complained to the board."
Berger looked up. Damn it. I'm going to have to face up to the Borgsjö problem.
"Borgsjö is coming in this afternoon and wants a meeting with you. I suspect it's Holm's doing."
"O.K. What time?"
"2.00," said Fredriksson, and he went back to his desk to write the midday memo.
Jonasson visited Salander during her lunch. She pushed away a plate of the health authority's vegetable stew. As always, he did a brief examination of her, but she noticed that he was no longer putting much effort into it.
"You've recovered nicely," he said.
"Hmm. You'll have to do something about the food at this place."
"What about it?"
"Couldn't you get me a pizza?"
"Sorry. Way beyond the budget."
"I was afraid of that."
"Lisbeth, we're going to have a discussion about the state of your health tomorrow-"
"Understood. And I've recovered nicely."
"You're now well enough to be moved to Kronoberg prison. I might be able to postpone the move for another week, but my colleagues are going to start wondering."
"You don't need to do that."
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. "I'm ready. And it had to happen sooner or later."
"I'll give the go-ahead tomorrow, then," Jonasson said. "You'll probably be transferred pretty soon."
She nodded.
"It might be as early as this weekend. The hospital administration doesn't want you here."
"Who could blame them."
"Er... that device of yours-"
"I'll leave it in the recess behind the table here." She pointed.
"Good idea."
They sat in silence for a moment before Jonasson stood up.
"I have to check on my other patients."
"Thanks for everything. I owe you one."
"Just doing my job."
"No. You've done a great deal more. I won't forget it."
Blomkvist entered police headquarters on Kungsholmen through the entrance on Polhemsgatan. Figuerola accompanied him up to the offices of the Constitutional Protection Unit. They exchanged only silent glances in the lift.
"Do you think it's such a good idea for me to be hanging around at police H. Q.?" Blomkvist said. "Someone might see us together and start to wonder."
"This will be our only meeting here. From now on we'll meet in an office we've rented at Fridhemsplan. We get access tomorrow. But this will be O.K. Constitutional Protection is a small and more or less self-sufficient unit, and nobody else at S. I. S. cares about it. And we're on a different floor from the rest of Säpo."
He greeted Edklinth without shaking hands and said hello to two colleagues who were apparently part of his team. They introduced themselves only as Stefan and Anders. He smiled to himself.
"Where do we start?" he said.
"We could start by having some coffee... Monica?" Edklinth said.
"Thanks, that would be nice," Figuerola said.
Edklinth had probably meant for her to serve the coffee. Blomkvist noticed that the chief of the Constitutional Protection Unit hesitated for only a second before he got up and brought the thermos over to the conference table, where place settings were already laid out. Blomkvist saw that Edklinth was also smiling to himself, which he took to be a good sign. Then Edklinth turned serious.
"I honestly don't know how I should be managing this. It must be the first time a journalist has sat in on a meeting of the Security Police. The issues we'll be discussing now are in very many respects confidential and highly classified."
"I'm not interested in military secrets. I'm only interested in the Zalachenko club."
"But we have to strike a balance. First of all, the names of today's participants must not be mentioned in your articles."
"Agreed."
Edklinth gave Blomkvist a look of surprise.
"Second, you may not speak with anyone but myself and Monica Figuerola. We're the ones who will decide what we can tell you."
"If you have a long list of requirements, you should have mentioned them yesterday."
"Yesterday I hadn't yet thought through the matter."
"Then I have something to tell you too. This is probably the first and only time in my professional career that I will reveal the contents of an unpublished story to a police officer. So, to quote you... I honestly don't know how I should be managing this."
A brief silence settled over the table.
"Maybe we-"
"What if we-"
Edklinth and Figuerola had started talking at the same time before falling silent.
"My target is the Zalachenko club," Blomkvist said. "You want to bring charges against the Zalachenko club. Let's stick to that."
Edklinth nodded.
"So, what have you got?" Blomkvist said.
Edklinth explained what Figuerola and her team had unearthed. He showed Blomkvist the photograph of Evert Gullberg with Colonel Wennerström.
"Good. I'll have a copy of that."
"It's in Åhlen's archive," Figuerola said.
"It's on the table in front of me. With text on the back," Blomkvist said.
"Give him a copy," Edklinth said.
"That means that Zalachenko was murdered by the Section."
"Murder, coupled with the suicide of a man who was dying of cancer. Gullberg's still alive, but the doctors don't give him more than a few weeks. After his suicide attempt he sustained such severe brain damage that he is to all intents and purposes a vegetable."
"And he was the person with primary responsibility for Zalachenko when he defected."
"How do you know that?"
"Gullberg met Prime Minister Fälldin six weeks after Zalachenko's defection."
"Can you prove that?"
"I can. The visitors' log of the government Secretariat. Gullberg arrived together with the then chief of S. I. S."
"And the chief has since died."
"But Fälldin is alive and willing to talk about the matter."
"Have you-"
"No, I haven't. But someone else has. I can't give you the name. Source protection."
Blomkvist explained how Fälldin had reacted to the information about Zalachenko and how he had travelled to the Hague to interview Janeryd.
"So the Zalachenko club is somewhere in this building," Blomkvist said, pointing at the photograph.
"Partly. We think it's an organization inside the organization. What you call the Zalachenko club cannot exist without the support of key people in this building. But we think that the so-called Section for Special Analysis set up shop somewhere outside."
"So that's how it works? A person can be employed by Säpo, have his salary paid by Säpo, and then in fact report to another employer?"
"Something like that."
"So who in the building is working for the Zalachenko club?"
"We don't know yet. But we have several suspects."
"Mårtensson," Blomkvist suggested.
Edklinth nodded.
"Mårtensson works for Säpo, and when he's needed by the Zalachenko club he's released from his regular job," Figuerola said.
"How does that work in practice?"
"That's a very good question," Edklinth said with a faint smile. "Wouldn't you like to come and work for us?"
"Not on your life," Blomkvist said.
"I jest, of course. But it's a good question. We have a suspect, but we're unable to verify our suspicions just yet."
"Let's see... it must be someone with administrative authority."
"We suspect Chief of Secretariat Albert Shenke," Figuerola said.
"And here we are at our first stumbling block," Edklinth said. "We've given you a name, but we have no proof. So how do you intend to proceed?"
"I can't publish a name without proof. If Shenke is innocent he would sue Millennium for libel."
"Good. Then we are agreed. This co-operative effort has to be based on mutual trust. Your turn. What have you got?"
"Three names," Blomkvist said. "The first two were members of the Zalachenko club in the '80s."
Edklinth and Figuerola were instantly alert.
"Hans von Rottinger and Fredrik Clinton. Von Rottinger is dead. Clinton is retired. But both of them were part of the circle closest to Zalachenko."
"And the third name?" Edklinth said.
"Teleborian has a link to a person I know only as Jonas. We don't know his last name, but we do know that he was with the Zalachenko club in 2005... We've actually speculated a bit that he might be the man with Mårtensson in the pictures from Café Copacabana."
"And in what context did the name Jonas crop up?"
Salander hacked Teleborian's computer, and we can follow the correspondence that shows how Teleborian is conspiring with Jonas in the same way he conspired with Björck in 1991.
"He gives Teleborian instructions. And now we come to another stumbling block," Blomkvist said to Edklinth with a smile. "I can prove my assertions, but I can't give you the documentation without revealing a source. You'll have to accept what I'm saying."
Edklinth looked thoughtful.
"Maybe one of Teleborian's colleagues in Uppsala. O.K. Let's start with Clinton and von Rottinger. Tell us what you know."
*
Borgsjö received Berger in his office next to the boardroom. He looked concerned.
"I heard that you hurt yourself," he said, pointing to her foot.
"It'll pass," Berger said, leaning her crutches against his desk as she sat down in the visitor's chair.
"Well... that's good. Erika, you've been here a month and I want us to have a chance to catch up. How do you feel it's going?"
I have to discuss Vitavara with him. But how? When?
"I've begun to get a handle on the situation. There are two sides to it. On the one hand, S. M. P. has financial problems and the budget is strangling the newspaper. On the other, S. M. P. has a huge amount of dead meat in the newsroom."
"Aren't there any positive aspects?"
"Of course there are. A whole bunch of experienced professionals who know how to do their jobs. The problem is the ones who won't let them do their jobs."
"Holm has spoken to me..."
"I know."
Borgsjö looked puzzled. "He has a number of opinions about you. Almost all of them are negative."
"That's O.K. I have a number of opinions about him too."
"Negative too? It's no good if the two of you can't work together-"
"I have no problem working with him. But he does have a problem with me." Berger sighed. "He's driving me nuts. He's very experienced and doubtless one of the most competent news chiefs I've come across. At the same time he's a bastard of exceptional proportions. He enjoys indulging in intrigue and playing people against each other. I've worked in the media for twenty-five years and I have never met a person like him in a management position."
"He has to be tough to handle the job. He's under pressure from every direction."
"Tough... by all means. But that doesn't mean he has to behave like an idiot. Unfortunately Holm is a walking disaster, and he's one of the chief reasons why it's almost impossible to get the staff to work as a team. He takes divide-and-rule as his job description."
"Harsh words."
"I'll give him one month to sort out his attitude. If he hasn't managed it by then, I'm going to remove him as news editor."
"You can't do that. It's not your job to take apart the operational organization."
Berger studied the chairman of the board.
"Forgive me for pointing this out, but that was exactly why you hired me. We also have a contract which explicitly gives me free rein to make the editorial changes I deem necessary. My task here is to rejuvenate the newspaper, and I can do that only by changing the organization and the work routines."
"Holm has devoted his life to S. M. P."
"Right. And he's fifty-eight with six years to go before retirement. I can't afford to keep him on as a dead weight all that time. Don't misunderstand me, Magnus. From the moment I sat down in that glass cage, my life's goal has been to raise S. M. P. 's quality as well as its circulation figures. Holm has a choice: either he can do things my way, or he can do something else. I'm going to bulldoze anyone who is obstructive or who tries to damage S. M. P. in some other way."
Damn... I've got to bring up the Vitavara thing. Borgsjö is going to be fired.
Suddenly Borgsjö smiled. "By God, I think you're pretty tough too."
"Yes, I am, and in this case it's regrettable since it shouldn't be necessary. My job is to produce a good newspaper, and I can do that only if I have a management that functions and colleagues who enjoy their work."
After the meeting with Borgsjö, Berger limped back to the glass cage. She felt depressed. She had been with Borgsjö for forty-five minutes without mentioning one syllable about Vitavara. She had not, in other words, been particularly straight or honest with him.
When she sat at her computer she found a message from MikBlom@millennium. nu>. She knew perfectly well that no such address existed at Millennium. She opened the email: YOU THINK THAT BORGSJÖ CAN SAVE YOU, YOU LITTLE WHORE. HOW DOES YOUR FOOT FEEL?
She raised her eyes involuntarily and looked out across the newsroom. Her gaze fell on Holm. He looked back at her. Then he smiled.
It can only be someone at S. M. P.
The meeting at the Constitutional Protection Unit lasted until after 5.00, and they agreed to have another meeting the following week. Blomkvist could contact Figuerola if he needed to be in touch with S.I.S. before then. He packed away his laptop and stood up.
"How do I get out of here?" he asked.
"You certainly can't go running around on your own," Edklinth said.
"I'll show him out," Figuerola said. "Give me a couple of minutes, I just have to pick up a few things from my office." They walked together through Kronoberg park towards Fridhemsplan.
"So what happens now?" Blomkvist said.
"We stay in touch," Figuerola said.
"I'm beginning to like my contact with Säpo."
"Do you feel like having dinner later?"
"Bosnian again?"
"No, I can't afford to eat out every night. I was thinking of something simple at my place."
She stopped and smiled at him.
"Do you know what I'd like to do now?" she said.
"No."
"I'd like to take you home and undress you."
"This could get a bit awkward."
"I know. But I hadn't thought of telling my boss."
"We don't know how this story's going to turn out. We could end up on opposite sides of the barricades."
"I'll take my chances. Now, are you going to come quietly or do I have to handcuff you?"
The consultant from Milton Security was waiting for Berger when she got home at around 7.00. Her foot was throbbing painfully, and she limped into the kitchen and sank on to the nearest chair. He had made coffee and he poured her some.
"Thanks. Is making coffee part of Milton's service agreement?"
He gave her a polite smile. David Rosin was a short, plump man in his fifties with a reddish goatee. "Thanks for letting me borrow your kitchen today."
"It's the least I could do. What's the situation?"
"Our technicians were here and installed a proper alarm. I'll show you how it works in a minute. I've also gone over every inch of your house from the basement to the attic and studied the area around it. I'll review your situation with my colleagues at Milton, and in a few days we'll present an assessment that we'll go over with you. But before that there are one or two things we ought to discuss."
"Go ahead."
"First of all, we have to take care of a few formalities. We'll work out the final contract later - it depends what services we agree on - but this is an agreement saying that you've commissioned Milton Security to install the alarm we put in today. It's a standard document saying that we at Milton require certain things of you and that we commit to certain things, client confidentiality and so forth."
"You require things of me?"
"Yes. An alarm is an alarm and is completely pointless if some nutcase is standing in your living room with an automatic weapon. For the security to work, we want you and your husband to be aware of certain things and to take certain routine measures. I'll go over the details with you."
"O.K."
"I'm jumping ahead and anticipating the final assessment, but this is how I view the general situation. You and your husband live in a detached house. You have a beach at the back of the house and a few large houses in the immediate vicinity. Your neighbours do not have an unobstructed view of your house. It's relatively isolated."
"That's correct."
"Therefore an intruder would have a good chance of approaching your house without being observed."
"The neighbours on the right are away for long periods, and on the left is an elderly couple who go to bed quite early."
"Precisely. In addition, the houses are positioned with their gables facing each other. There are few windows, and so on. Once an intruder comes on to your property - and it takes only five seconds to turn off the road and arrive at the rear of the house - then the view is completely blocked. The rear is screened by your hedge, the garage, and that large freestanding building."
"That's my husband's studio."
"He's an artist, I take it?"
"That's right. Then what?"
"Whoever smashed your window and sprayed your outside wall was able to do so undisturbed. There might have been some risk that the sound of the breaking window would be
heard and someone might have reacted... but your house sits at an angle and the sound was deflected by the facade."
"I see."
"The second thing is that you have a large property here with a living area of approximately 250 square metres, not counting the attic and basement. That's eleven rooms on two floors."
"The house is a monster. It's my husband's old family home."
"There are also a number of different ways to get into the house. Via the front door, the balcony at the back, the porch on the upper floor, and the garage. There are also windows on the ground floor and six basement windows that were left without alarms by our predecessors. Finally, I could break in by using the fire escape at the back of the house and entering through the roof hatch leading to the attic. The trapdoor is secured by nothing more than a latch."
"It sounds as if there are revolving doors into the place. What do we have to do?"
"The alarm we installed today is temporary. We'll come back next week and do the proper installation with alarms on every window on the ground floor and in the basement. That's your protection against intruders in the event that you and your husband are away."
"That's good."
"But the present situation has arisen because you have been subject to a direct threat from a specific individual. That's much more serious. We don't know who this person is, what his motives are, or how far he's willing to go, but we can make a few assumptions. If it were just a matter of anonymous hate mail we would make a decreased threat assessment, but in this case a person has actually taken the trouble to drive to your house - and it's pretty far to Saltsjöbaden - to carry out an attack. That is worrisome."
"I agree with you there."
"I talked with Dragan today, and we're of the same mind: until we know more about the person making the threat, we have to play it safe."
"Which means-"
"First of all, the alarm we installed today contains two components. On the one hand it's an ordinary burglar alarm which is on when you're not at home, but it's also a sensor for the ground floor that you'll have to turn on when you're upstairs at night."
"Hmm."
"It's an inconvenience because you have to turn off the alarm every time you come downstairs."
"I've got you."
"Second, we changed your bedroom door today."
"You changed the whole door?"
"Yes. We installed a steel safety door. Don't worry... it's painted white and looks just like a normal bedroom door. The difference is that it locks automatically when you close it. To open the door from the inside you just have to press down the handle as on any normal door. But to open the door from the outside, you have to enter a three-digit code on a plate on the door handle."
"And you've done all this today..."
"If you're threatened in your home then you have a safe room into which you can barricade yourself. The walls are sturdy and it would take quite a while to break down that door even if your assailant had tools at hand."
"That's a comfort."
"Third, we're going to install surveillance cameras, so that you'll be able to see what's going on in the garden and on the ground floor when you're in the bedroom. That will be done later this week, at the same time as we install the movement detectors outside the house."
"It sounds like the bedroom won't be such a romantic place in the future."
"It's a small monitor. We can put it inside a wardrobe or a cabinet so that it isn't in full view."
"Thank you."
"Later in the week I'll change the doors in your study and in a downstairs room too. If anything happens you should quickly seek shelter and lock the door while you wait for assistance."
"Alright."
"If you trip the burglar alarm by mistake, then you'll have to call Milton's alarm centre immediately to cancel the emergency vehicle. To cancel it you'll have to give a password that will be registered with us. If you forget the password, the emergency vehicle will come out anyway and you'll be charged a fee."
"Understood."
"Fourth, there are now attack alarms in four places inside the house. Here in the kitchen, in the hall, in your study upstairs, and in your bedroom. The attack alarm consists of two buttons that you press simultaneously and hold down for three seconds. You can do it with one hand, but you can't do it by mistake. If the attack alarm is sounded, three things will happen. First, Milton will send cars out here. The closest car will come from Adam Security in Fisksätra. Two strong men will be here in ten to twelve minutes. Second, a car from Milton will come down from Nacka. For that the response time is at best twenty minutes but more likely twenty-five. Third, the police will be alerted automatically. In other words, several cars will arrive at the scene within a short time, a matter of minutes."
"O.K."
"An attack alarm can't be cancelled the same way you would cancel the burglar alarm. You can't call and say that it was a mistake. Even if you meet us in the driveway and say it was a mistake, the police will enter the house. We want to be sure that nobody's holding a gun to your husband's head or anything like that. So you use the attack alarm, obviously, only when there is real danger."
"I understand."
"It doesn't have to be a physical attack. It could be if someone is trying to break in or turns up in the garden or something like that. If you feel threatened in any way, you should set off the alarm, but use your good judgement."
"I promise."
"I notice that you have golf clubs planted here and there around the house."
"Yes. I slept here alone last night."
"I myself would have checked into a hotel. I have no problem with you taking safety precautions on your own. But you ought to know that you could easily kill an intruder with a golf club."
"Hmm."
"And if you did that, you would most probably be charged with manslaughter. If you admitted that you put golf clubs around the place with the intent of arming yourself, it could also be classified as murder."
"If someone attacks me then the chances are that I do intend to bash in that person's skull."
"I understand you. But the point of hiring Milton Security is so that you have an alternative to doing that. You should be able to call for help, and above all you shouldn't end up in a situation where you have to bash in someone's skull."
"I'm only too happy to hear it."
"And, by the way, what would you do with the golf clubs if an intruder had a gun? The key to good security is all about staying one step ahead of anyone who means you harm."
"Tell me how I'm supposed to do that if I have a stalker after me?"
"You see to it that he never has a chance to get close to you. Now, we won't be finished with the installations here for a couple of days, and then we'll also have to have a talk with your husband. He'll have to be as safety-conscious as you are."
"He will be."
"Until then I'd rather you didn't stay here."
"I can't move anywhere else. My husband will be home in a couple of days. But both he and I travel fairly often, and one or other of us has to be here alone from time to time."
"I understand. But I'm only talking about a couple of days until we have all the installations ready. Isn't there a friend you could stay with?"
Berger thought for a moment about Blomkvist's apartment but remembered that just now it was not such a good idea.
"Thanks, but I'd rather stay here."
"I was afraid of that. In that case, I'd like you to have company here for the rest of the week."
"Well..."
"Do you have a friend who could come and stay with you?"
"Sure. But not at 7.30 in the evening if there's a nutcase on the prowl outside."
Rosin thought for a moment. "Do you have anything against a Milton employee staying here? I could call and find out if my colleague Susanne Linder is free tonight. She certainly wouldn't mind earning a few hundred kronor on the side."
"What would it cost exactly?"
"You'd have to negotiate that with her. It would be outside all our formal agreements. But I really don't want you to stay here alone."
"I'm not afraid of the dark."
"I didn't think you were or you wouldn't have slept here last night. Susanne Linder is also a former policewoman. And it's only temporary. If we had to arrange for bodyguard protection that would be a different matter - and it would be rather expensive."
Rosin's seriousness was having an effect. It dawned on her that here he was calmly talking of the possibility of there being a threat to her life. Was he exaggerating? Should she dismiss his professional caution? In that case, why had she telephoned Milton Security in the first place and asked them to install an alarm?
"O.K. Call her. I'll get the spare room ready."
It was not until after 10.00 p.m. that Figuerola and Blomkvist wrapped sheets around themselves and went to her kitchen to make a cold pasta salad with tuna and bacon from the leftovers in her fridge. They drank water with their dinner.
Figuerola giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"I'm thinking that Edklinth would be a little bit disturbed if he saw us right now. I don't believe he intended for me to go to bed with you when he told me to keep a close eye on you."
"You started it. I had the choice of being handcuffed or coming quietly," Blomkvist said.
"True, but you weren't very hard to convince."
"Maybe you aren't aware of this - though I doubt that - but you give off the most incredible sexual vibrations. Who on earth do you think can resist that?"
"You're very kind, but I'm not that sexy. And I don't have sex quite that often either."
"You amaze me."
"I don't, and I don't end up in bed with that many men. I was going out with a guy this spring. But it ended."
"Why was that?"
"He was sweet, but it turned into a wearisome sort of arm-wrestling contest. I was stronger than he was and he couldn't bear it. Are you the kind of man who'll want to arm-wrestle me?"
"You mean, am I someone who has a problem with the fact that you're fitter and physically stronger than I am? No, I'm not."
"Thanks for being honest. I've noticed that quite a few men get interested, but then they start challenging me and looking for ways to dominate me. Especially if they discover I'm a policewoman."
"I'm not going to compete with you. I'm better than you are at what I do. And you're better than I am at what you do."
"I can live with that attitude."
"Why did you pick me up?"
"I give in to impulses. And you were one of them!"
"But you're an officer in Säpo, of all places, and we're in the middle of an investigation in which I'm involved..."
"You mean it was unprofessional of me. You're right. I shouldn't have done it. And I'd have a serious problem if it became known. Edklinth would go through the roof."
"I won't tell him."
"Very chivalrous."
They were silent for a moment.
"I don't know what this is going to turn into. You're a man who gets more than his fair share of action, as I gather. Is that accurate?"
"Yes, unfortunately. And I may not be looking for a steady girlfriend."
"Fair warning. I'm probably not looking for a steady boyfriend either. Can we keep it on a friendly level?"
"I think that would be best. Monica, I'm not going to tell anybody that we got together. But if we aren't careful I could end up in one hell of a conflict with your colleagues."
"I don't think so. Edklinth is as straight as a die. And we share the same objective, you and my people."
"We'll see how it goes."
"You had a thing with Lisbeth Salander too."
Blomkvist looked at her. "Listen... I'm not an open book for everyone to read. My relationship with Lisbeth is none of anyone's business."
"She's Zalachenko's daughter."
"Yes, and she has to live with that. But she isn't Zalachenko. There's the world of difference."
"I didn't mean it that way. I was wondering about your involvement in this story."
"Lisbeth is my friend. That should be enough of an explanation."
*
Linder from Milton Security was dressed in jeans, a black leather jacket and running shoes. She arrived in Saltsjöbaden at 9.00 in the evening and Rosin showed her around the house. She had brought a green military bag containing her laptop, a spring baton, a Mace canister, handcuffs and a toothbrush, which she unpacked in Berger's spare room.
Berger made coffee.
"Thanks for the coffee. You're probably thinking of me as a guest you have to entertain. The fact is, I'm not a guest at all. I'm a necessary evil that's suddenly appeared in your life, albeit just for a couple of days. I was in the police for six years and I've worked at Milton for four. I'm a trained bodyguard."
"I see."
"There's a threat against you and I'm here to be a gatekeeper so that you can sleep in peace or work or read a book or do whatever you feel like doing. If you need to talk, I'm happy to listen. Otherwise, I brought my own book."
"Understood."
"What I mean is that you should go on with your life and not feel as though you need to entertain me. Then I'd just be in the way. The best thing would be for you to think of me as a temporary work colleague."
"Well, I'm certainly not used to this kind of situation. I've had threats before, when I was editor-in-chief at Millennium, but then it was to do with my work. Right now it's some seriously unpleasant individual-"
"Who's got a hang-up about you in particular."
"Something along those lines."
"If we have to arrange full bodyguard protection, it'll cost a lot of money. And for it to be worth the cost, there has to be a very clear and specific threat. This is just an extra job for me. I'll ask you for 500 kronor a night to sleep here the rest of the week. It's cheap and far below what I would charge if I took the job for Milton. Is that O.K. with you?"
"It's completely O.K."
"If anything happens, I want you to lock yourself in your bedroom and let me handle the situation. Your job is to press the attack alarm. That's all. I don't want you underfoot if there's any trouble."
*
Berger went to bed at 11.00. She heard the click of the lock as she closed her bedroom door. Deep in thought, she undressed and climbed into bed.
She had been told not to feel obliged to entertain her "guest," but she had spent two hours with Linder at the kitchen table. She discovered that they got along famously. They had discussed the psychology that causes certain men to stalk women. Linder told her that she did not hold with psychological mumbo-jumbo. She thought the most important thing was simply to stop the bastards, and she enjoyed her job at Milton Security a great deal, since her assignments were largely to act as a counter-force to raging lunatics.
"So why did you resign from the police force?" Berger said.
"A better question would be why did I become a police officer in the first place."
"Why did you become a police officer?"
"Because when I was seventeen a close friend of mine was mugged and raped in a car by three utter bastards. I became a police officer because I thought, rather idealistically, that the police existed to prevent crimes like that."
"Well-"
"I couldn't prevent shit. As a policewoman I invariably arrived on the scene after a crime had been committed. I couldn't cope with the arrogant lingo on the squad. And I soon found out that some crimes are never even investigated. You're a typical example. Did you try to call the police about what happened?"
"Yes."
"And did they bother to come out here?"
"Not really. I was told to file a report at the local station."
"So now you know. I work for Armansky, and I come into the picture before a crime is committed."
"Mostly to do with women who are threatened?"
"I work with all kinds of things. Security assessments, bodyguard protection, surveillance and so on. But the work is often to do with people who have been threatened. I get on considerably better at Milton than on the force, although there's a drawback."
"What's that?"
"We are only there for clients who can pay."
As she lay in bed Berger thought about what Linder had said. Not everyone can afford security. She herself had accepted Rosin's proposal for several new doors, engineers, back-up alarm systems and everything else without blinking. The cost of all that work would be almost 50,000 kronor. But she could afford it.
She pondered for a moment her suspicion that the person threatening her had something to do with S. M. P. Whoever it was had known that she had hurt her foot. She thought of Holm. She did not like him, which added to her mistrust of him, but the news that she had been injured had spread fast from the second she appeared in the newsroom on crutches.
And she had the Borgsjö problem.
She suddenly sat up in bed and frowned, looking around the bedroom. She wondered where she had put Cortez's file on Borgsjö and Vitavara Inc.
She got up, put on her dressing gown and leaned on a crutch. She went to her study and turned on the light. No, she had not been in her study since... since she had read through the file in the bath the night before. She had put it on the windowsill.
She looked in the bathroom. It was not on the windowsill.
She stood there for a while, worrying.
She had no memory of seeing the folder that morning. She had not moved it anywhere else.
She turned ice-cold and spent the next five minutes searching the bathroom and going through the stacks of papers and newspapers in the kitchen and bedroom. In the end she had to admit that the folder was gone.
Between the time when she had stepped on the shard of glass and Rosin's arrival that morning, somebody had gone into her bathroom and taken Millennium's material about Vitavara Inc.
Then it occurred to her that she had other secrets in the house. She limped back to the bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of the chest by her bed. Her heart sank like a stone. Everyone has secrets. She kept hers in the chest of drawers in her bedroom. Berger did not regularly write a diary, but there were periods when she had. There were also old love letters which she had kept from her teenage years.
There was an envelope with photographs that had been cool at the time, but... When Berger was twenty-five she had been involved in Club Xtreme, which arranged private dating parties for people who were into leather. There were photographs from various parties, and if she had been sober at the time, she would have recognized that she looked completely demented.
And - most disastrous of all - there was a video taken on holiday in the early '90s when she and Greger had been guests of the glass artist Torkel Bollinger at his villa on the Costa del Sol. During the holiday Berger had discovered that her husband had a definite bisexual tendency, and they had both ended up in bed with Torkel. It had been a pretty wonderful holiday. Video cameras were still a relatively new phenomenon. The movie they had playfully made was definitely not for general release.
The drawer was empty.
How could I have been so bloody stupid?
On the bottom of the drawer someone had spray-painted the familiar five-letter word.
CHAPTER 19
Friday, 3.vi - Saturday 4.vi
Salander finished her autobiography at 4.00 on Friday morning and sent a copy to Blomkvist via the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]. Then she lay quite still in bed and stared at the ceiling.
She knew that on Walpurgis Night she had had her twenty-seventh birthday, but she had not even reflected on the fact at the time. She was imprisoned. She had experienced the same thing at St Stefan's. If things did not go right for her there was a risk that she would spend many more birthdays in some form of confinement.
She was not going to accept a situation like that.
The last time she had been locked up she was scarcely into her teens. She was grown-up now, and had more knowledge and skills. She wondered how long it would take for her to escape and settle down safely in some other country to create a new identity and a new life for herself.
She got up from the bed and went to the bathroom where she looked in the mirror. She was no longer limping. She ran her fingers over her hip where the wound had healed to a scar. She twisted her arms and stretched her left shoulder back and forth. It was tight, but she was more or less healed. She tapped herself on the head. She supposed that her brain had not been too greatly damaged after being perforated by a bullet with a full-metal jacket.
She had been extraordinarily lucky.
Until she had access to a computer, she had spent her time trying to work out how to escape from this locked room at Sahlgrenska.
Then Dr Jonasson and Blomkvist had upset her plans by smuggling in her Palm. She had read Blomkvist's articles and brooded over what he had to say. She had done a risk assessment and pondered his plan, weighing her chances. She had decided that for once she was going to do as he advised. She would test the system. Blomkvist had convinced her that she had nothing to lose, and he was offering her a chance to escape in a very different way. If the plan failed, she would simply have to plan her escape from St Stefan's or whichever other nuthouse.
What actually convinced her to decide to play the game Blomkvist's way was her desire for revenge.
She forgave nothing.
Zalachenko, Björck and Bjurman were dead.
Teleborian, on the other hand, was alive.
So too was her brother, the so-called Ronald Niedermann, even though in reality he was not her problem. Certainly, he had helped in the attempt to murder and bury her, but he seemed peripheral. If I run into him sometime, we'll see, but until such time he's the police's problem.
Yet Blomkvist was right: behind the conspiracy there had to be others not known to her who had contributed to the shaping of her life. She had to put names and social security numbers to these people.
So she had decided to go along with Blomkvist's plan. That was why she had written the plain, unvarnished truth about her life in a cracklingly terse autobiography of forty pages. She had been quite precise. Everything she had written was true. She had accepted Blomkvist's reasoning that she had already been so savaged in the Swedish media by such grotesque libels that a little sheer nonsense could not possibly further damage her reputation.
The autobiography was a fiction in the sense that she had not, of course, told the whole truth. She had no intention of doing that.
She went back to bed and pulled the covers over her.
She felt a niggling irritation that she could not identify. She reached for a notebook, given to her by Giannini and hardly used. She turned to the first page, where she had written: She had spent several weeks in the Caribbean last winter working herself into a frenzy over Fermat's theorem. When she came back to Sweden, before she got mixed up in the hunt for Zalachenko, she had kept on playing with the equations. What was maddening was that she had the feeling she had seen a solution... that she had discovered a solution.
But she could not remember what it was.
Not being able to remember something was a phenomenon unknown to Salander. She had tested herself by going on the Net and picking out random H. T. M. L. codes that she glanced at, memorized, and reproduced exactly.
She had not lost her photographic memory, which she had always considered a curse.
Everything was running as usual in her head.
Save for the fact that she thought she recalled seeing a solution to Fermat's theorem, but she could not remember how, when, or where.
The worst thing was that she did not have the least interest in it. Fermat's theorem no longer fascinated her. That was ominous. That was just the way she usually functioned. She would be fascinated by a problem, but as soon as she had solved it, she lost interest.
That was how she felt about Fermat. He was no longer a demon riding on her shoulder, demanding her attention and vexing her intellect. It was an ordinary formula, some squiggles on a piece of paper, and she felt no desire at all to engage with it.
This bothered her. She put down the notebook.
She should get some sleep.
Instead she took out her Palm again and went on the Net. She thought for a moment and then went into Armansky's hard drive, which she had not done since she got the hand-held. Armansky was working with Blomkvist, but she had not had any particular need to read what he was up to.
Absentmindedly she read his email.
She found the assessment Rosin had carried out of Berger's house. She could scarcely believe what she was reading.
Erika Berger has a stalker.
She found a message from Susanne Linder, who had evidently stayed at Berger's house the night before and who had emailed a report late that night. She looked at the time of the message. It had been sent just before 3.00 in the morning and reported Berger's discovery that diaries, letters and photographs, along with a video of a personal nature, had been stolen from a chest of drawers in her bedroom.
After discussing the matter with Fru Berger, we determined that the theft must have occurred during the time she was at Nacka hospital. That left a period of c .2.5 hours when the house was empty, and the defective alarm from N.I.P. was not switched on. At all other times either Berger or David were in the house until the theft was discovered.
Conclusion: Berger's stalker remained in her area and was able to observe that she was picked up by a taxi, also possibly that she was injured. The stalker then took the opportunity to get into the house.
Salander updated her download of Armansky's hard drive and then switched off the Palm, lost in thought. She had mixed feelings.
She had no reason to love Berger. She remembered still the humiliation she had felt when she saw her walk off down Hornsgatan with Blomkvist the day before New Year's Eve a year and a half ago.
It had been the stupidest moment of her life and she would never again allow herself those sorts of feelings.
She remembered the terrible hatred she had felt, and her desire to run after them and hurt Berger.
Embarrassing.
She was cured.
But she had no reason to sympathize with Berger.
She wondered what the video "of a personal nature" contained. She had her own film of a personal nature which showed how Advokat Bastard Bjurman had raped her. And it was now in Blomkvist's keeping. She wondered how she would have reacted if someone had broken into her place and stolen the D. V. D. Which Blomkvist by definition had actually done, even though his motives were not to harm her.
Hmm. An awkward situation.
Berger had not been able to sleep on Thursday night. She hobbled restlessly back and forth while Linder kept a watchful eye on her. Her anxiety lay like a heavy fog over the house.
At 2.30 Linder managed to talk Berger into getting into bed to rest, even if she did not sleep. She heaved a sigh of relief when Berger closed her bedroom door. She opened her laptop and summarized the situation in an email to Armansky. She had scarcely sent the message before she heard that Berger was up and moving about again.
At 7.30 she made Berger call S.M.P. and take the day off sick. Berger had reluctantly agreed and then fallen asleep on the living-room sofa in front of the boarded-up picture window. Linder spread a blanket over her. Then she made some coffee and called Armansky, explaining her presence at the house and that she had been called in by Rosin.
"Stay there with Berger," Armansky told her, "and get a couple of hours' sleep yourself."
"I don't know how we're going to bill this-"
"We'll work that out later."
Berger slept until 2.30. She woke up to find Linder sleeping in a recliner on the other side of the living room.
Figuerola slept late on Friday morning; she did not have time for her morning run. She blamed Blomkvist for this state of affairs as she showered and then rousted him out of bed.
Blomkvist drove to Millennium, where everyone was surprised to see him up so early. He mumbled something, made some coffee, and called Eriksson and Cortez into his office. They spent three hours going over the articles for the themed issue and keeping track of the book's progress.
"Dag's book went to the printer yesterday," Eriksson said. "We're going down the perfect-bound trade paperback route."
"The special issue is going to be called The Lisbeth Salander Story," Cortez said. "They're bound to move the date of the trial, but at the moment it's set for Wednesday, July 13. The magazine will be printed by then, but we haven't fixed on a distribution date yet. You can decide nearer the time."
"Good. That leaves the Zalachenko book, which right now is a nightmare. I'm calling it The Section. The first half is basically what's in the magazine. It begins with the murders of Dag and Mia, and then follows the hunt for Salander first, then Zalachenko, and then Niedermann. The second half will be everything that we know about the Section."
"Mikael, even if the printer breaks every record for us, we're going to have to send them the camera-ready copy by the end of this month - at the latest," Eriksson said. "Christer will need a couple of days for the layout, the typesetter, say, a week. So we have about two weeks left for the text. I don't know how we're going to make it."
"We won't have time to dig up the whole story," Blomkvist conceded. "But I don't think we could manage that even if we had a whole year. What we're going to do in this book is to state what happened. If we don't have a source for something, then I'll say so. If we're flying kites, we'll make that clear. So, we're going to write about what happened, what we can document, and what we believe to have happened."
"That's pretty vague," Cortez said.
Blomkvist shook his head. "If I say that a Säpo agent broke into my apartment and I can document it - and him - with a video, then it's documented. If I say that he did it on behalf of the Section, then that's speculation, but in the light of all the facts we're setting out, it's a reasonable speculation. Does that make sense?"
"It does."
"I won't have time to write all the missing pieces myself. I have a list of articles here that you, Henry, will have to cobble together. It corresponds to about fifty pages of book text. Malin,
you're back-up for Henry, just as when we were editing Dag's book. All three of our names will be on the cover and title page. Is that alright with you two?"
"That's fine," Eriksson said. "But we have other urgent problems."
"Such as?"
"While you were concentrating on the Zalachenko story, we had a hell of a lot of work to do here-"
"You're saying I wasn't available?"
Eriksson nodded.
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"No need to apologize. We all know that when you're in the throes of a story, nothing else matters. But that won't work for the rest of us, and it definitely doesn't work for me. Erika had me to lean on. I have Henry, and he's an ace, but he's putting in an equal amount of time on your story. Even if we count you in, we're still two people short in editorial."
"Two?"
"And I'm not Erika. She had a routine that I can't compete with. I'm still learning this job. Monika is working her backside off. And so is Lottie. Nobody has a moment to stop and think."
"This is all temporary. As soon as the trial begins-"
"No, Mikael. It won't be over then. When the trial begins, it'll be sheer hell. Remember what it was like during the Wennerström affair. We won't see you for three months while you hop from one T. V. interview sofa to another."
Blomkvist sighed. "What do you suggest?"
"If we're going to run Millennium effectively during the autumn, we're going to need new blood. Two people at least, maybe three. We just don't have the editorial capacity for what we're trying to do, and..."
"And?"
"And I'm not sure that I'm ready to do it."
"I hear you, Malin."
"I mean it. I'm a damn good assistant editor - it's a piece of cake with Erika as your boss. We said that we were going to try this over the summer... well, we've tried it. I'm not a good editor-in-chief."
"Stuff and nonsense," Cortez said.
Eriksson shook her head.
"I hear what you're saying," Blomkvist said, "But remember that it's been an extreme situation."
Eriksson smiled at him sadly. "You could take this as a complaint from the staff," she said.
The operations unit of Constitutional Protection spent Friday trying to get a handle on the information they had received from Blomkvist. Two of their team had moved into a temporary office at Fridhemsplan, where all the documentation was being assembled. It was inconvenient because the police intranet was at headquarters, which meant that they had to walk back and forth between the two buildings several times a day. Even if it was only a ten-minute walk, it was tiresome. By lunchtime they already had extensive documentation of the fact that both Fredrik Clinton and Hans von Rottinger had been associated with the Security Police in the '60s and early '70s.
Von Rottinger came originally from the military intelligence service and worked for several years in the office that coordinated military defence with the Security Police. Clinton's background was in the air force and he began working for the Personal Protection Unit of the Security Police in 1967.
They had both left S.I.S.: Clinton in 1971 and von Rottinger in 1973. Clinton had gone into business as a management consultant, and von Rottinger had entered the civil service to do investigations for the Swedish Atomic Energy Agency. He was based in London.
It was late afternoon by the time Figuerola was able to convey to Edklinth with some certainty the discovery that Clinton's and von Rottinger's careers after they left S. I. S. were falsifications. Clinton's career was hard to follow. Being a consultant for industry can mean almost anything at all, and a person in that role is under no obligation to report his activities to the government. From his tax returns it was clear that he made good money, but his clients were for the most part corporations with head offices in Switzerland or Liechtenstein, so it was not easy to prove that his work was a fabrication.
Von Rottinger, on the other hand, had never set foot in the office in London where he supposedly worked. In 1973 the office building where he had claimed to be working was in fact torn down and replaced by an extension to King's Cross Station. No doubt someone made a blunder when the cover story was devised. In the course of the day Figuerola's team had interviewed a number of people now retired from the Swedish Atomic Energy Agency. Not one of them had heard of Hans von Rottinger.
"Now we know," Edklinth said. "We just have to discover what it was they really were doing."
Figuerola said: "What do we do about Blomkvist?"
"In what sense?"
"We promised to give him feedback if we uncovered anything about Clinton and von Rottinger."
Edklinth thought about it. "He's going to be digging up that stuff himself if he keeps at it for a while. It's better that we stay on good terms with him. You can give him what you've found. But use your judgement."
Figuerola promised that she would. They spent a few minutes making arrangements for the weekend. Two of Figuerola's team were going to keep working. She would be taking the weekend off.
Then she clocked out and went to the gym at St Eriksplan, where she spent two hours driving herself hard to catch up on lost training time. She was home by 7.00. She showered, made a simple dinner, and turned on the T. V. to listen to the news. But then she got restless and put on her running kit. She paused at the front door to think. Bloody Blomkvist. She flipped open her mobile and called his Ericsson.
"We found out a certain amount about von Rottinger and Clinton."
"Tell me."
"I will if you come over."
"Sounds like blackmail," Blomkvist said.
"I've just changed into jogging things to work off a little of my surplus energy," Figuerola said. "Should I go now or should I wait for you?"
"Would it be O.K. if I came after 9.00?"
"That'll be fine."
At 8.00 on Friday evening Salander had a visit from Dr Jonasson. He sat in the visitor's chair and leaned back.
"Are you going to examine me?" Salander said.
"No. Not tonight."
"O.K."
"We studied all your notes today and we've informed the prosecutor that we're prepared to discharge you."
"I understand."
"They want to take you over to the prison in Göteborg tonight."
"So soon?"
He nodded. "Stockholm is making noises. I said I had a number of final tests to run on you tomorrow and that I couldn't discharge you until Sunday."
"Why's that?"
"Don't know. I was just annoyed they were being so pushy."
Salander actually smiled. Given a few years she would probably be able to make a good anarchist out of Dr Anders Jonasson. In any case he had a penchant for civil disobedience on a private level.
"Fredrik Clinton," Blomkvist said, staring at the ceiling above Figuerola's bed.
"If you light that cigarette I'll stub it out in your navel," Figuerola said.
Blomkvist looked in surprise at the cigarette he had extracted from his jacket.
"Sorry," he said. "Could I borrow your balcony?"
"As long as you brush your teeth afterwards."
He tied a sheet around his waist. She followed him to the kitchen and filled a large glass with cold water. Then she leaned against the door frame by the balcony.
"Clinton first?"
"If he's still alive, he's the link to the past."
"He's dying, he needs a new kidney and spends a lot of his time in dialysis or some other treatment."
"But he's alive. We should contact him and put the question to him directly. Maybe he'll talk."
"No," Figuerola said. "First of all, this is a preliminary investigation and the police are handling it. In that sense, there is no 'we' about it. Second, you're receiving this information in accordance with your agreement with Edklinth, but you've given your word not to take any initiatives that could interfere with the investigation."
Blomkvist smiled at her. "Ouch," he said. "The Security Police are pulling on my leash." He stubbed out his cigarette.
"Mikael, this is not a joke."
Berger drove to the office on Saturday morning still feeling queasy. She had thought that she was beginning to get to grips with the actual process of producing a newspaper and had planned to reward herself with a weekend off - the first since she started at S. M. P. - but the discovery that her most personal and intimate possessions had been stolen, and the Borgsjö report too, made it impossible for her to relax.
During a sleepless night spent mostly in the kitchen with Linder, Berger had expected the "Poison Pen" to strike, disseminating pictures of her that would be deplorably damaging. What an excellent tool the Internet was for freaks. Good grief... a video of me shagging my husband and another man - I'm going to end up on half the websites in the world.
Panic and terror had dogged her through the night.
It took all of Linder's powers of persuasion to send her to bed.
At 8.00 she got up and drove to S.M.P. She could not stay away. If a storm was brewing, then she wanted to face it first before anyone else got wind of it.
But in the half-staffed Saturday newsroom everything was normal. People greeted her as she limped past the central desk. Holm was off today. Fredriksson was the acting news editor.
"Morning. I thought you were taking today off," he said.
"Me too. But I wasn't feeling well yesterday and I've got things I have to do. Anything happening?"
"No, it's pretty slow today. The hottest thing we've got is that the timber industry in Dalarna is reporting a boom, and there was a robbery in Norrköping in which one person was injured."
"Right. I'll be in the cage for a while."
She sat down, leaned her crutches against the bookshelves, and logged on. First she checked her email. She had several messages, but nothing from Poison Pen. She frowned. It had been two days now since the break-in, and he had not yet acted on what had to be a treasure trove of opportunities. Why not? Maybe he's going to change tactics. Blackmail? Maybe he just wants to keep me guessing.
She had nothing specific to work on, so she clicked on the strategy document she was writing for S. M. P. She stared at the screen for fifteen minutes without seeing the words.
She tried to call Greger, but with no success. She did not even know if his mobile worked in other countries. Of course she could have tracked him down with a bit of effort, but she felt lazy to the core. Wrong, she felt helpless and paralysed.
She tried to call Blomkvist to tell him that the Borgsjö folder had been stolen, but he did not answer.
By 10.00 she had accomplished nothing and decided to go home. She was just reaching out to shut down her computer when her I.C.Q. account pinged. She looked in astonishment at the icon bar. She knew what I.C.Q. was but she seldom chatted, and she had not used the program since starting at S.M.P.
She clicked hesitantly on Answer.
A trick? Poison Pen?
Berger stared at the screen. It took her a few seconds to make the connection. Lisbeth Salander. Impossible.
Berger swallowed. Only four people in the world knew how he had come by that scar. Salander was one of them.
Salander is a devil with computers. But how the hell is she managing to communicate from Sahlgrenska, where she's been isolated since April?
She doesn't want the police to know she has access to the Net. Of course not. Which is why she's chatting with the editor-in-chief of one of the biggest newspapers in Sweden.
Berger's heart beat furiously.
Berger could not believe she was asking this question. It was absurd. Salander was in rehabilitation at Sahlgrenska and was up to her neck in her own problems. She was the most unlikely person Berger could turn to with any hope of getting help.
Berger thought for while before she replied.
Berger stared at the screen as she tried to work out what Salander was getting at.
Why am I not surprised?
Berger hesitated for ten seconds. Open up S. M. P. to... what? A complete loony? Salander might be innocent of murder, but she was definitely not normal.
But what did she have to lose?
Berger followed the instruction.
It took three minutes.
Berger stared in fascination at the screen as her computer slowly rebooted. She wondered whether she was mad. Then her I. C. Q. pinged.
Figuerola woke at 8.00 on Saturday morning, about two hours later than usual. She sat up in bed and looked at the man beside her. He was snoring. Well, nobody's perfect.
She wondered where this affair with Blomkvist was going to lead. He was obviously not the faithful type, so no point in looking forward to a long-term relationship. She knew that much from his biography. Anyway, she was not so sure she wanted a stable relationship herself - with a partner and a mortgage and kids. After a dozen failed relationships since her teens, she was tending towards the theory that stability was overrated. Her longest had been with a colleague in Uppsala - they had shared an apartment for two years.
But she was not someone who went in for one-night stands, although she did think that sex was an underrated therapy for just about all ailments. And sex with Blomkvist, out of shape as he was, was just fine. More than just fine, actually. Plus, he was a good person. He made her want more.
A summer romance? A love affair? Was she in love?
She went to the bathroom and washed her face and brushed her teeth. Then she put on her shorts and a thin jacket and quietly left the apartment. She stretched and went on a 45-minute run out past Rålambshov hospital and around Fredhäll and back via Smedsudden. She was home by 9.00
and discovered Blomkvist still asleep. She bent down and bit him on the ear. He opened his eyes in bewilderment.
"Good morning, darling. I need somebody to scrub my back."
He looked at her and mumbled something.
"What did you say?"
"You don't need to take a shower. You're soaked to the skin already."
"I've been running. You should come along."
"If I tried to go at your pace, I'd have a heart attack on Norr Mälarstrand."
"Nonsense. Come on, time to get up."
He scrubbed her back and soaped her shoulders. And her hips. And her stomach. And her breasts. And after a while she had completely lost interest in her shower and pulled him back to bed.
They had their coffee at the pavement café beside Norr Mälarstrand.
"You could turn out to be a bad habit," she said. "And we've only known each other a few days."
"I find you incredibly attractive. But you know that already."
"Why do you think that is?"
"Sorry, can't answer that question. I've never understood why I'm attracted to one woman and totally uninterested in another."
She smiled thoughtfully. "I have today off," she said.
"But not me. I have a mountain of work before the trial begins, and I've spent the last three evenings with you instead of getting on with it."
"What a shame."
He stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She took hold of his shirtsleeve.
"Blomkvist, I'd like to spend some more time with you."
"Same here. But it's going to be a little up and down until we put this story to bed."
He walked away down Hantverkargatan.
Berger got some coffee and watched the screen. For fifty-three minutes absolutely nothing happened except that her screen saver started up from time to time. Then her I. C. Q. pinged again.
But Salander was gone from her I. C. Q. Berger stared at the screen in frustration. Finally she turned off the computer and went out to find a café where she could sit and think.
CHAPTER 20
Saturday, 4.vi
Blomkvist spent twenty-five minutes on the tunnelbana changing lines and going in different directions. He finally got off a bus at Slussen, jumped on the Katarina lift up to Mosebacke and took a circuitous route to Fiskargatan 9. He had bought bread, milk and cheese at the mini supermarket next to the County Council building and he put the groceries straight into the fridge. Then he turned on Salander's computer.
After a moment's thought he also turned on his Ericsson T10. He ignored his normal mobile because he did not want to talk to anyone who was not involved in the Zalachenko story. He saw that he had missed six calls in the past twenty-four hours: three from Cortez, two from Eriksson, and one from Berger.
First he called Cortez who was in a café in Vasastad and had a few details to discuss, nothing urgent.
Eriksson had only called, she told him, to keep in touch.
Then he called Berger, who was engaged.
He opened the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] and found the final version of Salander's autobiographical statement. He smiled, printed out the document and began to read it at once.
Salander switched on her Palm Tungsten T3. She had spent an hour infiltrating and charting the intranet at S.M.P. with the help of Berger's account. She had not tackled the Peter Fleming account because she did not need to have full administrator rights. What she was interested in was access to S.M.P.'s personnel files. And Berger's account had complete access to those.
She fervently wished that Blomkvist had been kind enough to smuggle in her PowerBook with a real keyboard and a 17" screen instead of only the hand-held. She downloaded a list of everyone who worked at S.M.P. and began to check them off. There were 223 employees, 82 of whom were women.
She began by crossing off all the women. She did not exclude women on the grounds of their being incapable of such folly, but statistics showed that the absolute majority of people who harassed women were men. That left 141 individuals.
Statistics also argued that the majority of poison pen artists were either teenagers or middle-aged. Since S.M.P. did not have any teenagers on its staff, she drew an age curve and deleted everyone over fifty-five and under twenty-five. That left 103.
She thought for a moment. She did not have much time. Maybe not even twenty-four hours. She made a snap decision. At a stroke she eliminated all employees in distribution, advertising, the picture department, maintenance and I. T. She focused on a group of journalists and editorial staff, forty-eight men between the ages of twenty-six and fifty-four.
Then she heard the rattle of a set of keys. She turned off the Palm and put it under the covers between her thighs. This would be her last Saturday lunch at Sahlgrenska. She took stock of the cabbage stew with resignation. After lunch she would not, she knew, be able to work undisturbed for a while. She put the Palm in the recess behind the bedside table and waited while two Eritrean women vacuumed the room and changed her bedlinen.
One of the women was named Sara. She had regularly smuggled in a few Marlboro Lights for Salander during the past month. She had also given her a lighter, now hidden behind the bedside table. Salander gratefully accepted two cigarettes, which she planned to smoke by the vent window during the night.
Not until 2.00 p.m. was everything quiet again in her room. She took out the Palm and connected to the Net. She had intended to go straight back to S.M.P.'s administration, but she had also to deal with her own problems. She made her daily sweep, starting with the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]. She saw that Blomkvist had not uploaded anything new for three days and wondered what he was working on. The son-of-a-bitch is probably out screwing around with some bimbo with big boobs.
She then proceeded to the Yahoo group [The_Knights] and checked whether Plague had added anything. He had not.
Then she checked the hard drives of Ekström (some routine correspondence about the trial) and Teleborian.
Every time she accessed Teleborian's hard drive she felt as if her body temperature dropped a few degrees.
She found that he had already written her forensic psychiatric report, even though he was obviously not supposed to write it until after he had been given the opportunity to examine her. He had brushed up his prose, but there was nothing much new. She downloaded the report and sent it off to [Idiotic_Table]. She checked Teleborian's emails from the past twenty-four hours, clicking through one after another. She almost missed the terse message: Saturday, 3.00 at the Ring in Central Station. Jonas Shit. Jonas. He was mentioned in a lot of correspondence with Teleborian. Used a hotmail account. Not identified.
Salander glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table .2.28. She immediately pinged Blomkvist's I.C.Q. No response.
Blomkvist printed out the 220 pages of the manuscript that were finished. Then he shut off the computer and sat down at Salander's kitchen table with an editing pencil.
He was pleased with the text. But there was still a gigantic gaping hole. How could he find the remainder of the Section? Eriksson might be right: it might be impossible. He was running out of time.
Salander swore in frustration and pinged Plague. He did not answer either. She looked again at the clock .2.30.
She sat on the edge of the bed and tried Cortez next and then Eriksson. Saturday. Everybody's off work .2.32.
Then she tried to reach Berger. No luck. I told her to go home. Shit .2.33.
She should be able to send a text message to Blomkvist's mobile... but it was tapped. She tugged her lip.
Finally in desperation she rang for the nurse.
It was 2.35 when she heard the key in the lock and Nurse Agneta looked in on her.
"Hello. Are you O.K.?"
"Is Dr Jonasson on duty?"
"Aren't you feeling well?"
"I feel fine. But I need to have a few words with him. If possible."
"I saw him a little while ago. What's it about?"
"I just have to talk to him."
Nurse Agneta frowned. Lisbeth Salander had seldom rung for a nurse if she did not have a severe headache or some other equally serious problem. She never pestered them for anything and had never before asked to speak to a specific doctor. But Nurse Agneta had noticed that Dr Jonasson had spent time with the patient who was under arrest and otherwise seemed withdrawn from the world. It was possible that he had established some sort of rapport.
"I'll find out if he has time," Nurse Agneta said gently, and closed the door. And then locked it. It was 2.36, and then the clock clicked over to 2.37.
Salander got up from the edge of the bed and went to the window. She kept an eye on the clock .2.39 .2.40.
At 2.44 she heard steps in the corridor and the rattle of the Securitas guard's key ring. Jonasson gave her an inquisitive glance and stopped in his tracks when he saw her desperate look.
"Has something happened?"
"Something is happening right now. Have you got a mobile on you?"
"A what?"
"A mobile. I have to make a call."
Jonasson looked over his shoulder at the door.
"Anders - I need a mobile. Now!"
When he heard the desperation in her voice he dug into his inside pocket and handed her his Motorola. Salander grabbed it from him. She could not call Blomkvist because he had not given her the number of his Ericsson T10. It had never come up, and he had never supposed that she would be able to call him from her isolation. She hesitated a tenth of a second and punched in Berger's number. It rang three times before Berger answered.
Berger was in her B. M. W. half a mile from home in Saltsjöbaden when her mobile rang.
"Berger."
"Salander. No time to explain. Have you got the number of Mikael's second mobile? The one that's not tapped."
"Yes."
Salander had already surprised her once today.
"Call him. Now! Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00."
"What's-"
"Just hurry. Teleborian. Jonas. The Ring in Central Station .3.00. He has fifteen minutes."
Salander flipped the mobile shut so that Berger would not be tempted to waste precious seconds with unnecessary questions.
Berger pulled over to the curb. She reached for the address book in her bag and found the number Blomkvist had given her the night they met at Samir's Cauldron.
Blomkvist heard his mobile beeping. He got up from the kitchen table, went to Salander's office and picked up the telephone from the desk.
"Yes?"
"Erika."
"Hi."
"Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00. You've only got a few minutes."
"What? What? What?"
"Teleborian-"
"I heard you. How do you know about that?"
"Stop arguing and make it snappy."
Mikael glanced at the clock .2.47. "Thanks. Bye."
He grabbed his laptop case and took the stairs instead of waiting for the lift. As he ran he called Cortez on his T10.
"Cortez."
"Where are you now?"
"At the Academy bookshop."
"Teleborian is meeting Jonas at the Ring in Central Station at 3.00. I'm on my way, but you're closer."
"Oh, boy. I'm on my way."
Blomkvist jogged down to Götgatan and sped up towards Slussen. When he reached Slussplan he was badly out of breath. Maybe Figuerola had a point. He was not going to make it. He looked about for a taxi.
*
Salander handed back the mobile to Dr Jonasson.
"Thanks," she said.
"Teleborian?" Jonasson could not help overhearing the name.
She met his gaze. "Teleborian is a really, really bad bastard. You have no idea."
"No, but I could see that something happened just now that got you more agitated than I've seen you in all the time you've been in my care. I hope you know what you're doing."
Salander gave Jonasson a lopsided smile.
"You should have the answer to that question quite soon," she said.
Cortez left the Academy bookshop running like a madman. He crossed Sveavägen on the viaduct at Mäster Samuelsgatan and went straight down to Klara Norra, where he turned up the Klaraberg viaduct and across Vasagatan. He flew across Klarabergsgatan between a bus and two cars, one of whose drivers punched his windscreen in fury, and through the doors of Central Station as the station clock ticked over to 3.00 sharp.
He took the escalator three steps at a time down to the main ticket hall, and jogged past the Pocket bookshop before slowing down so as not to attract attention. He scanned every face of every person standing or walking near the Ring.
He did not see Teleborian or the man Malm had photographed outside Café Copacabana, whom they believed to be Jonas. He looked back at the clock .3.01. He was gasping as if he had just run a marathon.
He took a chance and hurried across the hall and out through the doors on to Vasagatan. He stopped and looked about him, checking one face after another, as far as his eyes could see. No Teleborian. No Jonas.
He turned back into the station .3.03. The Ring area was almost deserted.
Then he looked up and got a split second's glimpse of Teleborian's dishevelled profile and goatee as he came out of Pressbyrån on the other side of the ticket hall. A second later the man from Malm's photograph materialized at Teleborian's side. Jonas. They crossed the concourse and went out on to Vasagatan by the north door.
Cortez exhaled in relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and set off in pursuit of the two men.
Blomkvist's taxi got to Central Station at 3.07. He walked rapidly into the ticket hall, but he could see neither Teleborian nor anyone looking like they might be Jonas. Nor Cortez for that matter.
He was about to call Cortez when the T10 rang in his hand.
"I've got them. They're sitting in the Tre Remmare pub on Vasagatan by the stairs down to the Akalla line."
"Thanks, Henry. Where are you?"
"I'm at the bar. Having my afternoon beer. I earned it."
"Very good. They know what I look like, so I'll stay out of it. I don't suppose you have any chance of hearing what they're saying."
"Not a hope. I can only see Jonas' back and that bloody psychoanalyst mumbles when he speaks, so I can't even see his lips move."
"I get it."
"But we may have a problem."
"What's that?"
"Jonas has put his wallet and mobile on the table. And he put his car keys on top of the wallet."
"O.K. I'll handle it."
Figuerola's mobile played out the theme tune from Once Upon a Time in the West. She put down her book about God in antiquity. It did not seem as though she would ever be able to finish it "Hi. It's Mikael. What are you up to?"
"I'm sitting at home sorting through my collection of photographs of old lovers. I was ignominiously ditched earlier today."
"Do you have your car nearby?"
"The last time I checked it was in the parking space outside."
"Good. Do you feel like an afternoon on the town?"
"Not particularly. What's going on?"
"A psychiatrist called Teleborian is having a beer with an undercover agent - code name Jonas - down on Vasagatan. And since I'm co-operating with your Stasi-style bureaucracy, I thought you might be amused to tag along."
Figuerola was on her feet and reaching for her car keys.
"This is not your little joke, is it?"
"Hardly. And Jonas has his car keys on the table in front of him."
"I'm on my way."
Eriksson did not answer the telephone, but Blomkvist got lucky and caught Karim, who had been at Åhlens department store buying a birthday present for her husband. He asked her to please - on overtime - hurry over to the pub as back-up for Cortez. Then he called Cortez.
"Here's the plan. I'll have a car in place in five minutes. It'll be on Järnvägsgatan, down the street from the pub. Lottie is going to join you in a few minutes as back-up."
"Good."
"When they leave the pub, you tail Jonas. Keep me posted by mobile. As soon as you see him approach a car, we have to know. Lottie will follow Teleborian. If we don't get there in time, make a note of his registration number."
"O.K."
Figuerola parked beside the Nordic Light Hotel next to the Arlanda Express platforms. Blomkvist opened the driver's door a minute later.
"Which pub are they in?"
Blomkvist told her.
"I have to call for support."
"I'd rather you didn't. We've got them covered. Too many cooks might wreck the whole dish."
Figuerola gave him a sceptical look. "And how did you know that this meeting was going to take place?"
"I have to protect my source. Sorry."
"Do you have your own bloody intelligence service at Millennium?" she burst out.
Blomkvist looked pleased. It was cool to outdo Säpo in their own field of expertise.
In fact he did not have the slightest idea how Berger came to call him out of the blue to tell him of the meeting. She had not had access to ongoing editorial work at Millennium since early April. She knew about Teleborian, to be sure, but Jonas had not come into the picture until May. As far as he knew, Berger had not even known of his existence, let alone that he was the focus of intense speculation both at Säpo and Millennium.
He needed to talk to Berger.
Salander pressed her lips together and looked at the screen of her handheld. After using Jonasson's mobile, she had pushed all thoughts of the Section to one side and concentrated on Berger's problem. She had next, after careful consideration, eliminated all the men in the twenty-six to fifty-four age group who were married. She was working with a broad brush, of that she was perfectly aware. The selection was scarcely based on any statistical, sociological or scientific rationale. Poison Pen might easily be a married man with five children and a dog. He might also be a man who worked in maintenance. "He" could even be a woman.
She simply needed to prune the number of names on the list, and her group was now down from forty-eight to eighteen since her latest cut. The list was made up largely of the better-known reporters, managers or middle managers aged thirty-five or older. If she did not find anything of interest in that group, she could always widen the net again.
At 4.00 she logged on to Hacker Republic and uploaded the list to Plague. He pinged her a few minutes later.
She outlined the Poison Pen situation.
She sent him the access codes for S. M. P. 's newsroom and then logged off from I. C. Q.
It was 4.20 before Cortez called.
"They're showing signs of leaving."
"We're ready."
Silence.
"They're going their separate ways outside the pub. Jonas heading north. Teleborian to the south. Lottie's going after him."
Blomkvist raised a finger and pointed as Jonas flashed past them on Vasagatan. Figuerola nodded and started the engine. Seconds later Blomkvist could also see Cortez.
"He's crossing Vasagatan, heading towards Kungsgatan," Cortez said into his mobile.
"Keep your distance so he doesn't spot you."
"Quite a few people out."
Silence.
"He's turning north on Kungsgatan."
"North on Kungsgatan," Blomkvist said.
Figuerola changed gear and turned up Vasagatan. They were stopped by a red light.
"Where is he now?" Blomkvist said as they turned on to Kungsgatan.
"Opposite P. U. B. department store. He's walking fast. Whoops, he's turned up Drottninggatan heading north."
"Drottninggatan heading north," Blomkvist said.
"Right," Figuerola said, making an illegal turn on to Klara Norra and heading towards Olof Palmes Gata. She turned and braked outside the S. I. F. building. Jonas crossed Olof Palmes Gata and turned up towards Sveavägen. Cortez stayed on the other side of the street.
"He turned east-"
"We can see you both."
"He's turning down Holländargatan. Hello... Car. Red Audi."
"Car," Blomkvist said, writing down the registration number Cortez read off to him.
"Which way is he facing?" Figuerola said.
"Facing south," Cortez reported. "He's pulling out in front of you on Olof Palmes Gata... now."
Monica was already on her way and passing Drottninggatan. She signalled and headed off a couple of pedestrians who tried to sneak across even though their light was red.
"Thanks, Henry. We'll take him from here."
The red Audi turned south on Sveavägen. As Figuerola followed she flipped open her mobile with her left hand and punched in a number.
"Could I get an owner of a red Audi?" she said, rattling off the number.
"Jonas Sandberg, born 1971. What did you say? Helsingörsgatan, Kista. Thanks."
Blomkvist wrote down the information.
They followed the red Audi via Hamngatan to Strandvägen and then straight up to Artillerigatan. Jonas parked a block away from the Armémuseum. He walked across the street and through the front door of an 1890s building.
"Interesting," Figuerola said, turning to Blomkvist.
Jonas Sandberg had entered a building that was only a block away from the apartment the Prime Minister had borrowed for their private meeting.
"Nicely done," Figuerola said.
Just then Karim called and told them that Teleborian had gone up on to Klarabergsgatan via the escalators in Central Station and from there to police headquarters on Kungsholmen.
"Police headquarters at 5.00 on a Saturday afternoon?"
Figuerola and Blomkvist exchanged a sceptical look. Monica pondered this turn of events for a few seconds. Then she picked up her mobile and called Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski.
"Hello, it's Monica from S. I. S. We met on Norr Mälarstrand a while back."
"What do you want?" Bublanski said.
"Have you got anybody on duty this weekend?"
"Modig," Bublanski said.
"I need a favour. Do you know if she's at headquarters?"
"I doubt it. It's beautiful weather and Saturday afternoon."
"Could you possibly reach her or anyone else on the investigative team who might be able to take a look in Prosecutor Ekström's corridor... to see if there's a meeting going on in his office at the moment."
"What sort of meeting?"
"I can't explain just yet. I just need to know if he has a meeting with anybody right now. And if so, who."
"You want me to spy on a prosecutor who happens to be my superior?"
Figuerola raised her eyebrows. Then she shrugged. "Yes, I do."
"I'll do what I can," he said and hung up.
Sonja Modig was closer to police headquarters than Bublanski had thought. She was having coffee with her husband on the balcony of a friend's place in Vasastaden. Their children were away with her parents who had taken them on a week's holiday, and they planned to do something as old-fashioned as have a bite to eat and go to the movies.
Bublanski explained why he was calling.
"And what sort of excuse would I have to barge in on Ekström?" Modig asked.
"I promised to give him an update on Niedermann yesterday, but in fact I forgot to deliver it to his office before I left. It's on my desk."
"O.K.," said Modig. She looked at her husband and her friend. "I have to go in to H. Q. I'll take the car and with a little luck I'll be back in an hour."
Her husband sighed. Her friend sighed.
"I'm on call this weekend," Modig said in apology.
She parked on Bergsgatan, took the lift up to Bublanski's office, and picked up the three A4 pages that comprised the meagre results of their search for Niedermann. Not much to hang on the Christmas tree, she thought.
She took the stairs up to the next floor and stopped at the door to the corridor. Headquarters was almost deserted on this summer afternoon. She was not exactly sneaking around. She was just walking very quietly. She stopped outside Ekström's closed door. She heard voices and all of a sudden her courage deserted her. She felt a fool. In any normal situation she would have knocked on the door, pushed it open and exclaimed, "Hello! So you're still here?" and then sailed right in. Now it seemed all wrong.
She looked around.
Why had Bublanski called her? What was this meeting about?
She glanced across the corridor. Opposite Ekström's office was a conference room big enough for ten people. She had sat through a number of presentations there herself. She went into the room and closed the door. The blinds were down, and the glass partition to the corridor was covered by curtains. It was dark. She pulled up a chair and sat down, then opened the curtains a crack so that she would have a view of the corridor.
She felt uneasy. If anyone opened the door she would have quite a problem explaining what she was doing there. She took out her mobile and looked at the time display. Just before 6.00. She changed the ring to silent and leaned back in her chair, watching the door of Ekström's office.
At 7.00 Plague pinged Salander.
He sent over a U. R. L.
She logged out and went to the U. R. L. where Plague had uploaded all the administrator rights for S. M. P. She started by checking whether Fleming was online and at work. He was not. So she borrowed his identity and went into S. M. P.'s mail server. That way she could look at all the activity in the email system, even messages that had long since been deleted from individual accounts.
She started with Ernst Teodor Billing, one of the night editors at S. M. P., forty-three years old. She opened his mail and began to click back in time. She spent about two seconds on each message, just long enough to get an idea of who sent it and what it was about. After a few minutes she had worked out what was routine mail in the form of daily memos, schedules and other uninteresting stuff. She started to scroll past these.
She went through three months' worth of messages one by one. Then she skipped month to month and read only the subject lines, opening the message only if it was something that caught her attention. She learned that Billing was going out with a woman named Sofia and that he used an unpleasant tone with her. She saw that this was nothing unusual, since Billing took an unpleasant tone with most of the people to whom he wrote messages - reporters, layout artists and others. Even so, she thought it odd that a man would consistently address his girlfriend with the words fucking fatty, fucking airhead or fucking cunt.
After an hour of searching, she shut down Billing and crossed him off the list. She moved on to Lars Örjan Wollberg, a veteran reporter at fifty-one who was on the legal desk.
Edklinth walked into police headquarters at 7.30 on Saturday evening. Figuerola and Blomkvist were waiting for him. They were sitting at the same conference table at which Blomkvist had sat the day before.
Edklinth reminded himself that he was on very thin ice and that a host of regulations had been violated when he gave Blomkvist access to the corridor. Figuerola most definitely had no right to invite him here on her own authority. Even the spouses of his colleagues were not permitted in the corridors of S. I. S., but were asked instead to wait on the landings if they were meeting their partner. And to cap it all, Blomkvist was a journalist. From now on Blomkvist would be allowed only into the temporary office at Fridhemsplan.
But outsiders were allowed into the corridors by special invitation. Foreign guests, researchers, academics, freelance consultants... he put Blomkvist into the category of freelance consultant. All this nonsense about security classification was little more than words anyway. Someone decides that a certain person should be given a particular level of clearance. And Edklinth had decided that if criticism were raised, he would say that he personally had given Blomkvist clearance.
If something went wrong, that is. He sat down and looked at Figuerola.
"How did you find out about the meeting?"
"Blomkvist called me at around 4.00," she said with a satisfied smile.
Edklinth turned to Blomkvist. "And how did you find out about the meeting?"
"Tipped off by a source."
"Am I to conclude that you're running some sort of surveillance on Teleborian?"
Figuerola shook her head. "That was my first thought too," she said in a cheerful voice, as if Blomkvist were not in the room. "But it doesn't add up. Even if somebody were following Teleborian for Blomkvist, that person could not have known in advance that he was on his way to meet Jonas Sandberg."
"So... what else? Illegal tapping or something?" Edklinth said.
"I can assure you," Blomkvist said to remind them that he was there in the room, "that I'm not conducting illegal eavesdropping on anyone. Be realistic. Illegal tapping is the domain of government authorities."
Edklinth frowned. "So you aren't going to tell us how you heard about the meeting?"
"I've already told you that I won't. I was tipped off by a source. The source is protected. Why don't we concentrate on what we've discovered?"
"I don't like loose ends," Edklinth said. "But O.K. What have you found out?"
"His name is Jonas Sandberg," Figuerola said. "Trained as a navy frogman and then attended the police academy in the early '90s. Worked first in Uppsala and then in Södertälje."
"You're from Uppsala."
"Yes, but we missed each other by about a year. He was recruited by S.I.S. Counter-Espionage in 1998. Reassigned to a secret post abroad in 2000. According to our documents, he's at the embassy in Madrid. I checked with the embassy. They have no record of a Jonas Sandberg on their staff."
"Just like Mårtensson. Officially moved to a place where he doesn't exist."
"The chief of Secretariat is the only person who could make this sort of arrangement."
"And in normal circumstances everything would be dismissed as muddled red tape. We've noticed it only because we're specifically looking for it. And if anyone starts asking awkward questions, they'll say it's confidential or that it has something to do with terrorism."
"There's quite a bit of budget work to check up on."
"The chief of Budget?"
"Maybe."
"Anything else?"
"Sandberg lives in Sollentuna. He's not married, but he has a child with a teacher in Södertälje. No black marks on his record. Licence for two handguns. Conscientious and a teetotaller. The only thing that doesn't quite fit is that he seems to be an evangelical and was a member of the Word of Life in the '90s."
"Where did you find that out?"
"I had a word with my old chief in Uppsala. He remembers Sandberg quite well."
"A Christian frogman with two weapons and offspring in Södertälje. More?"
"We only I. D.'d him about three hours ago. This is pretty fast work, you have to admit."
"Fair enough. What do we know about the building on Artillerigatan?"
"Not a lot yet. Stefan went to chase someone up from the city building office. We have blueprints of the building. A housing association block since the 1890s. Six floors with a total of twenty-two apartments, plus eight apartments in a small building in the courtyard. I looked up the tenants, but didn't find anything that stood out. Two of the people living in the building have police records."
"Who are they?"
"Lindström on the second floor, sixty-three. Convicted of insurance fraud in the '70s. Wittfelt on the fourth floor, forty-seven. Twice convicted for beating his ex-wife. Otherwise what sounds like a cross-section of middle-class Sweden. There's one apartment that raises a question mark though."
"What?"
"It's on the top floor. Eleven rooms and apparently a bit of a snazzy joint. It's owned by a company called Bellona Inc."
"And what's their stated business?"
"God only knows. They do marketing analyses and have annual sales of around thirty million kronor. All the owners live abroad."
"Aha."
"Aha what?"
"Nothing. Just 'aha'. Do some more checks on Bellona."
At that moment the officer Blomkvist knew only as Stefan entered the room.
"Hi, chief," he greeted Edklinth. "This is really cool. I checked out the story behind the Bellona apartment."
"And?" Figuerola said.
"Bellona Inc. was founded in the '70s. They bought the apartment from the estate of the former owner, a woman by the name of Kristina Cederholm, born in 1917, married to Hans Wilhelm Francke, the loose cannon who quarrelled with P.G. Vinge at the time S.I.S. was founded."
"Good," Edklinth said. "Very good. Monica, we want surveillance on that apartment around the clock. Find out what telephones they have. I want to know who goes in and who comes out, and what vehicles drop anyone off at that address. The usual."
Edklinth turned to Blomkvist. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but he restrained himself. Blomkvist looked at him expectantly.
"Are you satisfied with the information flow?" Edklinth said at last.
"Very satisfied. Are you satisfied with Millennium's contribution?"
Edklinth nodded reluctantly. "You do know that I could get into very deep water for this."
"Not because of me. I regard the information that I receive here as source-protected. I'll report the facts, but I won't mention how or where I got them. Before I go to press I'm going to do a formal interview with you. If you don't want to give me an answer to something, you just say 'No comment'. Or else you could expound on what you think about the Section for Special Analysis. It's up to you."
"Indeed," Edklinth nodded.
Blomkvist was happy. Within a few hours the Section had taken on tangible form. A real breakthrough.
To Modig's great frustration the meeting in Ekström's office was lasting a long time. Mercifully someone had left a full bottle of mineral water on the conference table. She had twice texted her husband to tell him that she was still held up, promising to make it up to him as soon as she could get home. She was starting to get restless and felt like an intruder.
The meeting did not end until 7.30. She was taken completely by surprise when the door opened and Faste came out. And then Dr Teleborian. Behind them came an older, grey-haired man Modig had never seen before. Finally Prosecutor Ekström, putting on a jacket as he switched off the lights and locked the door to his office.
Modig held up her mobile to the gap in the curtains and took two low-res photographs of the group outside Ekström's door. Seconds later they had set off down the corridor.
She held her breath until they were some distance from the conference room in which she was trapped. She was in a cold sweat by the time she heard the door to the stairwell close. She stood up, weak at the knees.
Bublanski called Figuerola just after 8.00.
"You wanted to know if Ekström had a meeting."
"Correct," Figuerola said.
"It just ended. Ekström met with Dr Peter Teleborian and my former colleague Criminal Inspector Faste, and an older gentleman we didn't recognize."
"Just a moment," Figuerola said. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the others. "Teleborian went straight to Ekström."
"Hello, are you still there?"
"Sorry. Do we have a description of the third man?"
"Even better. I'm sending you a picture."
"A picture? I'm in your debt."
"It would help if you'd tell me what's going on."
"I'll get back to you."
They sat in silence around the conference table for a moment.
"So," Edklinth said at last. "Teleborian meets with the Section and then goes directly to see Prosecutor Ekström. I'd give a lot of money to find out what they talked about."
"Or you could just ask me," Blomkvist said.
Edklinth and Figuerola looked at him.
"They met to finalize their strategy for nailing Salander at her trial."
Figuerola gave him a look. Then she nodded slowly.
"That's a guess," Edklinth said. "Unless you happen to have paranormal abilities."
"It's no guess," said Mikael. "They met to discuss the forensic psychiatric report on Salander. Teleborian has just finished writing it."
"Nonsense. Salander hasn't even been examined."
Blomkvist shrugged and opened his laptop case. "That hasn't stopped Teleborian in the past. Here's the latest version. It's dated, as you can see, the week the trial is scheduled to begin."
Edklinth and Figuerola read through at the text before them. At last they exchanged glances and then looked at Blomkvist.
"And where the devil did you get hold of this?" Edklinth said.
"That's from a source I have to protect," said Blomkvist.
"Blomkvist... we have to be able to trust each other. You're withholding information. Have you got any more surprises up your sleeve?"
"Yes. I do have secrets, of course. Just as I'm persuaded that you haven't given me carte blanche to look at everything you have here at Säpo."
"It's not the same thing."
"It's precisely the same thing. This arrangement involves cooperation. You said it yourself: we have to trust each other. I'm not holding back anything that could be useful to your investigation of the Section or throw light on the various crimes that have been committed. I've already handed over evidence that Teleborian committed crimes with Björck in 1991, and I told you that he would be hired to do the same thing again now. And this is the document that proves me right."
"But you're still withholding key material."
"Naturally, and you can either suspend our co-operation or you can live with that."
Figuerola held up a diplomatic finger. "Excuse me, but does this mean that Ekström is working for the Section?"
Blomkvist frowned. "That I don't know. My sense is that he's more a useful fool being used by the Section. He's ambitious, but I think he's honest, if a little stupid. One source did tell me that he swallowed most of what Teleborian fed him about Salander at a presentation of reports when the hunt for her was still on."
"So you don't think it takes much to manipulate him?"
"Exactly. And Criminal Inspector Faste is an unadulterated idiot who believes that Salander is a lesbian Satanist."
Berger was at home. She felt paralysed and unable to concentrate on any real work. All the time she expected someone to call and tell her that pictures of her were posted on some website.
She caught herself thinking over and over about Salander, although she realized that her hopes of getting help from her were most likely in vain. Salander was locked up at Sahlgrenska. She was not allowed visitors and could not even read the newspapers. But she was an oddly resourceful young woman. Despite her isolation she had managed to contact Berger on I. C. Q. and then by telephone. And two years ago she had single-handedly destroyed Wennerström's financial empire and saved Millennium.
At 8.00 Linder arrived and knocked on the door. Berger jumped as though someone had fired a shot in her living room.
"Hello, Erika. You're sitting here in the dark looking glum."
Berger nodded and turned on a light. "Hi. I'll put on some coffee-"
"No. Let me do it. Anything new?"
You can say that again. Lisbeth Salander got in touch with me and took control of my computer. And then she called to say that Teleborian and somebody called Jonas were meeting at Central Station this afternoon.
"No. Nothing new," she said. "But I have something I'd like to try on you."
"Try it."
"What do you think the chances are that this isn't a stalker but somebody I know who wants to fuck with me?"
"What's the difference?"
"To me a stalker is someone I don't know who's become fixated on me. The alternative is a person who wants to take some sort of revenge and sabotage my life for personal reasons."
"Interesting thought. Why did this come up?"
"I was... discussing the situation with someone today. I can't give you her name, but she suggested that threats from a real stalker would be different. She said a stalker would never have written the email to the girl on the culture desk. It seems completely beside the point."
Linder said: "There is something to that. You know, I never read the emails. Could I see them?"
Berger set up her laptop on the kitchen table.
Figuerola escorted Blomkvist out of police headquarters at 10.00 p.m. They stopped at the same place in Kronoberg park as the day before.
"Here we are again. Are you going to disappear to work or do you want to come to my place and come to bed with me?"
"Well..."
"You don't have to feel pressured, Mikael. If you have to work, then do it."
"Listen, Figuerola, you're worryingly habit-forming."
"And you don't want to be dependent on anything. Is that what you're saying?"
"No. That's not what I'm saying. But there's someone I have to talk to tonight and it'll take a while. You'll be asleep before I'm done."
She shrugged.
"See you."
He kissed her cheek and headed for the bus stop on Fridhemsplan.
"Blomkvist," she called.
"What?"
"I'm free tomorrow morning as well. Come and have breakfast if you can make it."
CHAPTER 21
Saturday, 4.vi - Monday, 6.vi
Salander picked up a number of ominous vibrations as she browsed the emails of the news editor, Holm. He was fifty-eight and thus fell outside the group, but Salander had included him anyway
because he and Berger had been at each other's throats. He was a schemer who wrote messages to various people telling them how someone had done a rotten job.
It was obvious to Salander that Holm did not like Berger, and he certainly wasted a lot of space talking about how the bitch had said this or done that. He used the Net exclusively for work-related sites. If he had other interests, he must google them in his own time on some other machine.
She kept him as a candidate for the title of Poison Pen, but he was not a favourite. Salander spent some time thinking about why she did not believe he was the one, and arrived at the conclusion that he was so damned arrogant he did not have to go to the trouble of using anonymous email. If he wanted to call Berger a whore, he would do it openly. And he did not seem the type to go sneaking into Berger's home in the middle of the night.
At 10.00 in the evening she took a break and went into [Idiotic_Table]. She saw that Blomkvist had not come back yet. She felt slightly peeved and wondered what he was up to, and whether he had made it in time to Teleborian's meeting.
Then she went back into S. M. P.'s server.
She moved to the next name on the list, assistant sports editor Claes Lundin, twenty-nine. She had just opened his email when she stopped and bit her lip. She closed it again and went instead to Berger's.
She scrolled back in time. There was relatively little in her inbox, since her email account had been opened only on May 2. The very first message was a midday memo from Peter Fredriksson. In the course of Berger's first day several people had emailed her to welcome her to S.M.P.
Salander carefully read each message in Berger's inbox. She could see how even from day one there had been a hostile undertone in her correspondence with Holm. They seemed unable to agree on anything, and Salander saw that Holm was already trying to exasperate Berger by sending several emails about complete trivialities.
She skipped over ads, spam and news memos. She focused on any kind of personal correspondence. She read budget calculations, advertising and marketing projections, an exchange with C. F. O. Sellberg that went on for a week and was virtually a brawl over staff layoffs. Berger had received irritated messages from the head of the legal department about some temp. by the name of Johannes Frisk. She had apparently detailed him to work on some story and this had not been appreciated. Apart from the first welcome emails, it seemed as if no-one at management level could see anything positive in any of Berger's arguments or proposals.
After a while Salander scrolled back to the beginning and did a statistical calculation in her head. Of all the upper-level managers at S. M. P., only four did not engage in sniping. They were the chairman of the board Magnus Borgsjö, assistant editor Fredriksson, front-page editor Magnusson, and culture editor Sebastian Strandlund.
Had they never heard of women at S. M. P.? All the heads of department were men.
Of these, the one that Berger had least to do with was Strandlund. She had exchanged only two emails with the culture editor. The friendliest and most engaging messages came from front-page editor Gunnar Magnusson. Borgsjö's were terse and to the point.
Why the hell had this group of boys hired Berger at all, if all they did was tear her limb from limb?
The colleague Berger seemed to have the most to do with was Fredriksson. His role was to act as a kind of shadow, to sit in on her meetings as an observer. He prepared memos, briefed Berger on various articles and issues, and got the jobs moving.
He emailed Berger a dozen times a day.
Salander sorted all of Fredriksson's emails to Berger and read them through. In a number of instances he had objected to some decision Berger had made and presented counter-proposals. Berger seemed to have confidence in him since she would then often change her decision or accept his argument. He was never hostile. But there was not a hint of any personal relationship to her.
Salander closed Berger's email and thought for a moment.
She opened Fredriksson's account.
Plague had been fooling around with the home computers of various employees of S.M.P. all evening without much success. He had managed to get into Holm's machine because it had an open line to his desk at work; any time of the day or night he could go in and access whatever he was working on. Holm's P.C. was one of the most boring Plague had ever hacked. He had no luck with the other eighteen names on Salander's list. One reason was that none of the people he tried to hack was online on a Saturday night. He was beginning to tire of this impossible task when Salander pinged him at 10.30.
Plague sighed. This girl who had once been his student now had a better handle on things than he did.
Blomkvist was back at Salander's apartment on Mosebacke just before midnight. He was tired. He took a shower and put on some coffee, and then he booted up Salander's computer and pinged her I. C. Q.
Linder woke with a start when her earpiece beeped. Someone had just tripped the motion detector she had placed in the hall on the ground floor. She propped herself up on her elbow. It was 5.23 on Sunday morning. She slipped silently out of bed and pulled on her jeans, a T-shirt and trainers. She stuffed the Mace in her back pocket and picked up her spring-loaded baton.
She passed the door to Berger's bedroom without a sound, noticing that it was closed and therefore locked.
She stopped at the top of the stairs and listened. She heard a faint clinking sound and movement from the ground floor. Slowly she went down the stairs and paused in the hall to listen again.
A chair scraped in the kitchen. She held the baton in a firm grip and crept to the kitchen door. She saw a bald, unshaven man sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice, reading S. M. P. He sensed her presence and looked up.
"And who the hell are you?"
Linder relaxed and leaned against the door jamb. "Greger Beckman, I presume. Hello. I'm Susanne Linder."
"I see. Are you going to hit me over the head or would you like a glass of juice?"
"Yes, please," Linder said, putting down her baton. "Juice, that is."
Beckman reached for a glass from the draining board and poured some for her.
"I work for Milton Security," Linder said. "I think it's probably best if your wife explains what I'm doing here."
Beckman stood up. "Has something happened to Erika?"
"Your wife is fine. But there's been some trouble. We tried to get hold of you in Paris."
"Paris? Why Paris? I've been in Helsinki, for God's sake."
"Alright. I'm sorry, but your wife thought you were in Paris."
"That's next month," said Beckman on his way out of the door.
"The bedroom is locked. You need a code to open the door," Linder said.
"I beg your pardon... what code?"
She told him the three numbers he had to punch in to open the bedroom door. He ran up the stairs.
At 10.00 on Sunday morning Jonasson came into Salander's room.
"Hello, Lisbeth."
"Hello."
"Just thought I'd warn you: the police are coming at lunchtime."
"Fine."
"You don't seem worried."
"I'm not."
"I have a present for you."
"A present? What for?"
"You've been one of my most interesting patients in a long time."
"You don't say," Salander said sceptically.
"I heard that you're fascinated by D. N. A. and genetics."
"Who's been gossiping? That psychologist lady, I bet."
Jonasson nodded. "If you get bored in prison... this is the latest thing on D. N. A. research."
He handed her a brick of a book entitled Spirals - Mysteries of DNA, by Professor Yoshito Takamura of Tokyo University. Salander opened it and studied the table of contents.
"Beautiful," she said.
"Someday I'd be interested to hear how it is that you can read academic texts that even I can't understand."
As soon as Jonasson had left the room, she took out her Palm. Last chance. From S.M.P.'s personnel department Salander had learned that Fredriksson had worked at the paper for six years. During that time he had been off sick for two extended periods: two months in 2003 and three months in 2004. From the personnel files she concluded that the reason in both instances was burnout. Berger's predecessor Morander had on one occasion questioned whether Fredriksson should indeed stay on as assistant editor.
Yak, yak, yak. Nothing concrete to go on.
At 11.45 Plague pinged her.
Salander logged off from I. C. Q. She glanced at the clock and realized that it would soon be lunchtime. She rapidly composed a message that she addressed to the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]: Mikael. Important. Call Berger right away and tell her Fredriksson is Poison Pen.
The instant she sent the message she heard movement in the corridor. She polished the screen of her Palm Tungsten T3 and then switched it off and placed it in the recess behind the bedside table.
"Hello, Lisbeth." It was Giannini in the doorway.
"Hello."
"The police are coming for you in a while. I've brought you some clothes. I hope they're the right size."
Salander looked distrustfully at the selection of neat, dark-coloured linen trousers and pastel-coloured blouses.
Two uniformed Göteborg policewomen came to get her. Giannini was to go with them to the prison.
As they walked from her room down the corridor, Salander noticed that several of the staff were watching her with curiosity. She gave them a friendly nod, and some of them waved back. As if by chance, Jonasson was standing by the reception desk. They looked at each other and nodded. Even before they had turned the corner Salander noticed that he was heading for her room.
During the entire procedure of transporting her to the prison, Salander did not say a word to the police.
Blomkvist had closed his iBook at 7.00 on Sunday morning. He sat for a moment at Salander's desk listless, staring into space.
Then he went to her bedroom and looked at her gigantic, king-size bed. After a while he went back to her office and flipped open his mobile to call Figuerola.
"Hi. It's Mikael."
"Hello there. Are you already up?"
"I've just finished working and I'm on my way to bed. I just wanted to call and say hello."
"Men who just want to call and say hello generally have ulterior motives."
He laughed.
"Blomkvist... you could come here and sleep if you like."
"I'd be wretched company."
"I'll get used to it."
He took a taxi to Pontonjärgatan.
Berger spent Sunday in bed with her husband. They lay there talking and dozing. In the afternoon they got dressed and went for a walk down to the steamship dock.
"S. M. P. was a mistake," Berger said when they got home.
"Don't say that. Right now it's tough, but you knew it would be. Things will calm down after you've been there a while."
"It's not the job. I can handle that. It's the atmosphere."
"I see."
"I don't like it there, but on the other hand I can't walk out after a few weeks."
She sat at the kitchen table and stared morosely into space. Beckman had never seen his wife so stymied.
Inspector Faste met Salander for the first time at 11.30 on Sunday morning when a woman police officer brought her into Erlander's office at Göteborg police headquarters.
"You were difficult enough to catch," Faste said.
Salander gave him a long look, satisfied herself that he was an idiot, and decided that she would not waste too many seconds concerning herself with his existence.
"Inspector Gunilla Wäring will accompany you to Stockholm," Erlander said.
"Alright," Faste said. "Then we'll leave at once. There are quite a few people who want to have a serious talk with you, Salander."
Erlander said goodbye to her. She ignored him.
They had decided for simplicity's sake to do the prisoner transfer to Stockholm by car. Wäring drove. At the start of the journey Hans Faste sat in the front passenger seat with his head turned towards the back as he tried to have some exchange with Salander. By the time they reached Alingsås his neck was aching and he gave up.
Salander looked at the countryside. In her mind Faste did not exist.
Teleborian was right. She's fucking retarded, Faste thought. We'll see about changing that attitude when we get to Stockholm.
Every so often he glanced at Salander and tried to form an opinion of the woman he had been desperate to track down for such a long time. Even he had some doubts when he saw the skinny girl. He wondered how much she could weigh. He reminded himself that she was a lesbian and consequently not a real woman.
But it was possible that the bit about Satanism was an exaggeration. She did not look the type.
The irony was that he would have preferred to arrest her for the three murders that she was originally suspected of, but reality had caught up with his investigation. Even a skinny girl can handle a weapon. Instead she had been taken in for assaulting the top leadership of Svavelsjö M. C., and she was guilty of that crime, no question. There was forensic evidence related to the incident which she no doubt intended to refute.
Figuerola woke Blomkvist at 1.00 in the afternoon. She had been sitting on her balcony and had finished reading her book about the idea of God in antiquity, listening all the while to Blomkvist's snores from the bedroom. It had been peaceful. When she went in to look at him it came to her, acutely, that she was more attracted to him than she had been to any other man in years.
It was a pleasant yet unsettling feeling. There he was, but he was not a stable element in her life.
They went down to Norr Mälarstrand for a coffee. Then she took him home and to bed for the rest of the afternoon. He left her at 7.00. She felt a vague sense of loss a moment after he kissed her cheek and was gone.
At 8.00 on Sunday evening Linder knocked on Berger's door. She would not be sleeping there now that Beckman was home, and this visit was not connected with her job. But during the
time she had spent at Berger's house they had both grown to enjoy the long conversations they had in the kitchen. She had discovered a great liking for Berger. She recognized in her a desperate woman who succeeded in concealing her true nature. She went to work apparently calm, but in reality she was a bundle of nerves.
Linder suspected that her anxiety was due not solely to Poison Pen. But Berger's life and problems were none of her business. It was a friendly visit. She had come out here just to see Berger and to be sure that everything was alright. The couple were in the kitchen in a solemn mood. It seemed as though they had spent their Sunday working their way through one or two serious issues.
Beckman put on some coffee. Linder had been there only a few minutes when Berger's mobile rang.
Berger had answered every call that day with a feeling of impending doom.
"Berger," she said.
"Hello, Ricky."
Blomkvist. Shit. I haven't told him the Borgsjö file has disappeared.
"Hi, Micke."
"Salander was moved to the prison in Göteborg this evening, to wait for transport to Stockholm tomorrow."
"O.K."
"She sent you a... well, a message."
"Oh?"
"It's pretty cryptic."
"What did she say?"
"She says: 'Poison Pen is Peter Fredriksson.'"
Erika sat for ten seconds in silence while thoughts rushed through her head. Impossible. Peter isn't like that. Salander has to be wrong.
"Was that all?"
"That's the whole message. Do you know what it's about?"
"Yes."
"Ricky... what are you and that girl up to? She rang you to tip me off about Teleborian and-"
"Thanks, Micke. We'll talk later."
She turned off her mobile and looked at Linder with an expression of absolute astonishment.
"Tell me," Linder said.
Linder was in two minds. Berger had been told that her assistant editor was the one sending the vicious emails. She talked non-stop. Then Linder had asked her how she knew Fredriksson was her stalker. Then Berger was silent. Linder noticed her eyes and saw that something had changed in her attitude. She was all of a sudden totally confused.
"I can't tell you..."
"What do you mean you can't tell me?"
"Susanne, I just know that Fredriksson is responsible. But I can't tell you how I got that information. What can I do?"
"If I'm going to help you, you have to tell me."
"I... I can't. You don't understand."
Berger got up and stood at the kitchen window with her back to Linder. Finally she turned.
"I'm going to his house."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You're not going anywhere, least of all to the home of somebody who obviously hates you."
Berger looked torn.
"Sit down. Tell me what happened. It was Blomkvist calling you, right?"
Berger nodded.
"I... today I asked a hacker to go through the home computers of the staff."
"Aha. So you've probably by extension committed a serious computer crime. And you don't want to tell me who your hacker is?"
"I promised I would never tell anyone... Other people are involved. Something that Mikael is working on."
"Does Blomkvist know about the emails and the break-in here?"
"No, he was just passing on a message."
Linder cocked her head to one side, and all of a sudden a chain of associations formed in her mind.
Erika Berger. Mikael Blomkvist. Millennium. Rogue policemen who broke in and bugged Blomkvist's apartment. Linder watching the watchers. Blomkvist working like a madman on a story about Lisbeth Salander.
The fact that Salander was a wizard at computers was widely known at Milton Security. No-one knew how she had come by her skills, and Linder had never heard any rumours that Salander
might be a hacker. But Armansky had once said something about Salander delivering quite incredible reports when she was doing personal investigations. A hacker...
But Salander is under guard on a ward in Göteborg.
It was absurd.
"Is it Salander we're talking about?" Linder said.
Berger looked as though she had touched a live wire.
"I can't discuss where the information came from. Not one word."
Linder laughed aloud.
It was Salander. Berger's confirmation of it could not have been clearer. She was completely off balance.
Yet it's impossible.
Under guard as she was, Salander had nevertheless taken on the job of finding out who Poison Pen was. Sheer madness.
Linder thought hard.
She could not understand the whole Salander story. She had met her maybe five times during the years she had worked at Milton Security and had never had so much as a single conversation with her. She regarded Salander as a sullen and asocial individual with a skin like a rhino. She had heard that Armansky himself had taken Salander on and since she respected Armansky she assumed that he had good reason for his endless patience towards the sullen girl.
Poison Pen is Peter Fredriksson.
Could she be right? What was the proof?
Linder then spent a long time questioning Erika on everything she knew about Fredriksson, what his role was at S. M. P., and how their relationship had been. The answers did not help her at all.
Berger had displayed a frustrating indecision. She had wavered between a determination to drive out to Fredriksson's place and confront him, and an unwillingness to believe that it could really be true. Finally Linder convinced her that she could not storm into Fredriksson's apartment and launch into an accusation - if he was innocent, she would make an utter fool of herself.
So Linder had promised to look into the matter. It was a promise she regretted as soon as she made it, because she did not have the faintest idea how she was going to proceed.
She parked her Fiat Strada as close to Fredriksson's apartment building in Fisksätra as she could. She locked the car and looked about her. She was not sure what she was going to do, but she supposed she would have to knock on his door and somehow get him to answer a number of
questions. She was acutely aware that this was a job that lay well outside her remit at Milton, and she knew Armansky would be furious if he found out what she was doing.
It was not a good plan, and in any case it fell apart before she had managed to put it into practice. She had reached the courtyard and was approaching Fredriksson's apartment when the door opened. Linder recognized him at once from the photograph in his personnel file which she had studied on Berger's computer. She kept walking and they passed each other. He disappeared in the direction of the garage. It was just before 11.00 and Fredriksson was on his way somewhere. Linder turned and ran back to her car.
Blomkvist sat for a long time looking at his mobile after Berger hung up. He wondered what was going on. In frustration he looked at Salander's computer. By now she had been moved to the prison in Göteborg, and he had no chance of asking her anything.
He opened his Ericsson T10 and called Idris Ghidi in Angered.
"Hello. Mikael Blomkvist."
"Hello," Ghidi said.
"Just to tell you that you can stop that job you were doing for me."
Ghidi had already worked out that Blomkvist would call since Salander had been taken from the hospital.
"I understand," he said.
"You can keep the mobile as we agreed. I'll send you the final payment this week."
"Thanks."
"I'm the one who should thank you for your help."
Blomkvist opened his iBook. The events of the past twenty-four hours meant that a significant part of the manuscript had to be revised and that in all probability a whole new section would have to be added.
He sighed and got to work.
At 11.15 Fredriksson parked three streets away from Berger's house. Linder had already guessed where he was going and had stopped trying to keep him in sight. She drove past his car fully two minutes after he parked. The car was empty. She went on a short distance past Berger's house and stopped well out of sight. Her palms were sweating.
She opened her tin of Catch Dry snuff and tucked a teenage-sized portion inside her upper lip.
Then she opened her car door and looked around. As soon as she could tell that Fredriksson was on his way to Saltsjöbaden, she knew that Salander's information must be correct. And
obviously he had not come all this way for fun. Trouble was brewing. Which was fine by her, so long as she could catch him red-handed.
She took her telescopic baton from the side pocket of her car door and weighed it in her hand for a moment. She pressed the lock in the handle and out shot a heavy, spring-loaded steel cable. She clenched her teeth.
That was why she had left the Södermalm force.
She had had one mad outbreak of rage when for the third time in as many days the squad car had driven to an address in Hägersten after the same woman had called the police and screamed for help because her husband had abused her. And just as on the first two occasions, the situation had resolved itself before they arrived.
They had detained the husband on the staircase while the woman was questioned. No, she did not want to file a police report. No, it was all a mistake. No, he was fine... it was actually all her fault. She had provoked him...
And the whole time the bastard had stood there grinning, looking Linder straight in the eye.
She could not explain why she did it. But suddenly something had snapped in her, and she took out her baton and slammed it across his face. The first blow had lacked power. She had only given him a fat lip and forced him on to his knees. In the next ten seconds - until her colleagues grabbed her and half dragged, half carried her out of the halfway - she had let the blows rain down on his back, kidneys, hips and shoulders.
Charges were never filed. She had resigned the same evening and went home and cried for a week. Then she pulled herself together and went to see Dragan Armansky. She explained what she had done and why she had left the force. She was looking for a job. Armansky had been sceptical and said he would need some time to think it over. She had given up hope by the time he called six weeks later and told her he was ready to take her on trial.
Linder frowned and stuck the baton into her belt at the small of her back. She checked that she had the Mace canister in her right-hand pocket and that the laces of her trainers were securely tied. She walked back to Berger's house and slipped into the garden.
She knew that the outside motion detector had not yet been installed, and she moved soundlessly across the lawn, along the hedge at the border of the property. She could not see him. She went around the house and stood still. Then she spotted him as a shadow in the darkness near Beckman's studio.
He can't know how stupid it is for him to come back here.
He was squatting down, trying to see through a gap in a curtain in the room next to the living room. Then he moved up on to the veranda and looked through the cracks in the drawn blinds at the big picture window.
Linder suddenly smiled.
She crossed the lawn to the corner of the house while he still had his back to her. She crouched behind some currant bushes by the gable end and waited. She could see him through the branches. From his position Fredriksson would be able to look down the hall and into part of the kitchen. Apparently he had found something interesting to look at, and it was ten minutes before he moved again. This time he came closer to Linder.
As he rounded the corner and passed her, she stood up and spoke in a low voice: "Hello there, Fredriksson."
He stopped short and spun towards her.
She saw his eyes glistening in the dark. She could not see his expression, but she could hear that he was holding his breath and she could sense his shock.
"We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way," she said. "We're going to walk to your car and-"
He turned and made to run away.
Linder raised her baton and directed a devastatingly painful blow to his left kneecap.
He fell with a moan.
She raised the baton a second time, but then caught herself. She thought she could feel Armansky's eyes on the back of her neck.
She bent down, flipped him over on to his stomach and put her knee in the small of his back. She took hold of his right hand and twisted it round on to his back and handcuffed him. He was frail and he put up no resistance.
*
Berger turned off the lamp in the living room and limped upstairs. She no longer needed the crutches, but the sole of her foot still hurt when she put any weight on it. Beckman turned off the light in the kitchen and followed his wife upstairs. He had never before seen her so unhappy. Nothing he said could soothe her or alleviate the anxiety she was feeling.
She got undressed, crept into bed and turned her back to him.
"It's not your fault, Greger," she said when she heard him get in beside her.
"You're not well," he said. "I want you to stay at home for a few days."
He put an arm around her shoulders. She did not to push him away, but she was completely passive. He bent over, kissed her cautiously on the neck, and held her.
"There's nothing you can say or do to make the situation any better. I know I need to take a break. I feel as though I've climbed on to an express train and discovered that I'm on the wrong track."
"We could go sailing for a few days. Get away from it all."
"No. I can't get away from it all."
She turned to him. "The worst thing I could do now would be to run away. I have to sort things out first. Then we can go."
"O. K," Beckman said. "I'm not being much help."
She smiled wanly. "No, you're not. But thanks for being here. I love you insanely - you know that."
He mumbled something inaudible.
"I simply can't believe it's Fredriksson," Berger said. "I've never felt the least bit of hostility from him."
Linder was just wondering whether she should ring Berger's doorbell when she saw the lights go off on the ground floor. She looked down at Fredriksson. He had not said a word. He was quite still. She thought for a long time before she made up her mind.
She bent down and grabbed the handcuffs, pulled him to his feet, and leaned him against the wall.
"Can you stand by yourself?" she said.
He did not answer.
"Right, we'll make this easy. You struggle in any way and you'll get the same treatment on your right leg. You struggle even more and I'll break your arms. Do you understand?"
She could hear him breathing heavily. Fear?
She pushed him along in front of her out on to the street all the way to his car. He was limping badly so she held him up. Just as they reached the car they met a man out walking his dog. The man stopped and looked at Fredriksson in his handcuffs.
"This is a police matter," Linder said in a firm voice. "You go home." The man turned and walked away in the direction he had come.
She put Fredriksson in the back seat and drove him home to Fisksätra. It was 12.30 and they saw no-one as they walked into his building. Linder fished out his keys and followed him up the stairs to his apartment on the fourth floor.
"You can't go into my apartment," said Fredriksson.
It was the first thing he had said since she cuffed him. She opened the apartment door and shoved him inside.
"You have no right. You have to have a search warrant-"
"I'm not a police officer," she said in a low voice.
He stared at her suspiciously.
She took hold of his shirt and dragged him into the living room, pushing him down on to a sofa. He had a neatly kept two-bedroom apartment. Bedroom to the left of the living room, kitchen across the hall, a small office off the living room.
She looked in the office and heaved a sigh of relief. The smoking gun. Straightaway she saw photographs from Berger's album spread out on a desk next to a computer. He had pinned up thirty or so pictures on the wall behind the computer. She regarded the exhibition with raised eyebrows. Berger was a fine-looking woman. And her sex life was more active than Linder's own.
She heard Fredriksson moving and went back to the living room, rapped him once across his lower back and then dragged him into the office and sat him down on the floor.
"You stay there," she said.
She went into the kitchen and found a paper carrier bag from Konsum. She took down one picture after another and then found the stripped album and Berger's diaries.
"Where's the video?" she said.
Fredriksson did not answer. Linder went into the living room and turned on the T. V. There was a tape in the V. C. R., but it took a while before she found the video channel on the remote so she could check it. She popped out the video and looked around to ensure he had not made any copies.
She found Berger's teenage love letters and the Borgsjö folder. Then she turned her attentions to Fredriksson's computer. She saw that he had a Microtek scanner hooked up to his P.C., and when she lifted the lid she found a photograph of Berger at a Club Xtreme party, New Year's Eve 1986 according to a banner on the wall.
She booted up the computer and discovered that it was password-protected.
"What's your password," she asked.
Fredriksson sat obstinately silent and refused to answer.
Linder suddenly felt utterly calm. She knew that technically she had committed one crime after another this evening, including unlawful restraint and even aggravated kidnapping. She did not care. On the contrary, she felt almost exhilarated.
After a while she shrugged and dug in her pocket for her Swiss Army knife. She unplugged all the cables from the computer, turned it round and used the screwdriver to open the back. It took her fifteen minutes to take it apart and remove the hard drive.
She had taken everything, but for safety's sake she did a thorough search of the desk drawers, the stacks of paper and the shelves. Suddenly her gaze fell on an old school yearbook lying on the windowsill. She saw that it was from Djurholm Gymnasium 1978. Did Berger not come from Djurholm's upper class? She opened the yearbook and began to look through that year's school leavers.
She found Erika Berger, eighteen years old, with student cap and a sunny smile with dimples. She wore a thin, white cotton dress and held a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She looked the epitome of an innocent teenager with top grades.
Linder almost missed the connection, but there it was on the next page. She would never have recognized him but for the caption. Peter Fredriksson. He was in a different class from Berger. Linder studied the photograph of a thin boy in a student cap who looked into the camera with a serious expression.
Her eyes met Fredriksson's.
"Even then she was a whore."
"Fascinating," Linder said.
"She fucked every guy in the school."
"I doubt that."
"She was a fucking-"
"Don't say it. So what happened? Couldn't you get into her knickers?"
"She treated me as though I didn't exist. She laughed at me. And when she started at S. M. P. she didn't even recognize me."
"Right," said Linder wearily. "I'm sure you had a terrible childhood. How about we have a serious talk?"
"What do you want?"
"I'm not a police officer," Linder said. "I'm someone who takes care of people like you."
She paused and let his imagination do the work.
"I want to know if you put photographs of her anywhere on the Internet."
He shook his head.
"Are you quite sure about that?"
He nodded.
"Berger will have to decide for herself whether she wants to make a formal complaint against you for harassment, threats, and breaking and entering, or whether she wants to settle things amicably."
He said nothing.
"If she decides to ignore you - and I think that's about what you're worth - then I'll be keeping an eye on you."
She held up her baton.
"If you ever go near her house again, or send her email or otherwise molest her, I'll be back. I'll beat you so hard so that even your own mother won't recognize you. Do I make myself clear?"
Still he said nothing.
"So you have the opportunity to influence how this story ends. Are you interested?"
He nodded slowly.
"In that case, I'm going to recommend to Fru Berger that she lets you off, but don't think about coming into work again. As of right now you're fired."
He nodded.
"You will disappear from her life and move out of Stockholm. I don't give a shit what you do with your life or where you end up. Find a job in Göteborg or Malmö. Go on sick leave again. Do whatever you like. But leave Berger in peace. Are we agreed?"
Fredriksson began to sob.
"I didn't mean any harm," he said. "I just wanted-"
"You just wanted to make her life a living hell and you certainly succeeded. Do I or do I not have your word?"
He nodded.
She bent over, turned him on to his stomach and unlocked the handcuffs. She took the Konsum bag containing Berger's life and left him there on the floor.
It was 2.30 a.m. on Monday when Linder left Fredriksson's building. She considered letting the matter rest until the next day, but then it occurred to her that if she had been the one involved, she would have wanted to know straightaway. Besides, her car was still parked out in Saltsjöbaden. She called a taxi.
Beckman opened the door even before she managed to ring the bell. He was wearing jeans and did not look as if he had just got out of bed.
"Is Erika awake?" Linder asked.
He nodded.
"Has something else happened?" he said.
She smiled at him.
"Come in. We're just talking in the kitchen."
They went in.
"Hello, Erika," Linder said. "You need to learn to get some sleep once in a while."
"What's happened?"
Linder held out the Konsum bag.
"Fredriksson promises to leave you alone from now on. God knows if we can trust him, but if he keeps his word it'll be less painful than hassling with a police report and a trial. It's up to you."
"So it was him?"
Linder nodded. Beckman poured a coffee, but she did not want one. She had drunk much too much coffee over the past few days. She sat down and told them what had happened outside their house that night.
Berger sat in silence for a moment. Then she went upstairs, and came back with her copy of the school yearbook. She looked at Fredriksson's face for a long time.
"I do remember him," she said at last. "But I had no idea it was the same Peter Fredriksson. I wouldn't even have remembered his name if it weren't written here."
"What happened?" Linder asked.
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was a quiet and totally uninteresting boy in another class. I think we might have had some subjects together. French, if I remember correctly."
"He said that you treated him as though he didn't exist."
"I probably did. He wasn't somebody I knew and he wasn't in our group."
"I know how cliques work. Did you bully him or anything like that?"
"No... no, for God's sake. I hated bullying. We had campaigns against bullying in the school, and I was president of the student council. I don't remember that he ever spoke to me."
"O. K," Linder said. "But he obviously had a grudge against you. He was off sick for two long periods, suffering from stress and overwork. Maybe there were other reasons for his being off sick that we don't know about."
She got up and put on her leather jacket.
"I've got his hard drive. Technically it's stolen goods so I shouldn't leave it with you. You don't have to worry - I'll destroy it as soon as I get home."
"Wait, Susanne. How can I ever thank you?"
"Well, you can back me up when Armansky's wrath hits me like a bolt of lightning."
Berger gave her a concerned look.
"Will you get into trouble for this?"
"I don't know. I really don't know."
"Can we pay you for-"
"No. But Armansky may bill you for tonight. I hope he does, because that would mean he approves of what I did and probably won't decide to fire me."
"I'll make sure he sends us a bill."
Berger stood up and gave Linder a long hug.
"Thanks, Susanne. If you ever need a friend, you've got one in me. If there's anything I can do for you..."
"Thanks. Don't leave those pictures lying around. And while we're on the subject, Milton could install a much better safe for you."
Berger smiled as Beckman walked Linder back to her car.
CHAPTER 22
Monday, 6.vi
Berger woke up at 6.00 on Monday morning. She had not slept for more than an hour, but she felt strangely rested. She supposed that it was a physical reaction of some sort. For the first time in several months she put on her jogging things and went for a furious and excruciatingly painful sprint down to the steamboat wharf. But after a hundred metres or so her heel hurt so much that she had to slow down and go on at a more leisurely pace, relishing the pain in her foot with each step she took.
She felt reborn. It was as though the Grim Reaper had passed by her door and at the last moment changed his mind and moved on to the next house. She could still not take in how fortunate she was that Fredriksson had had her pictures in his possession for four days and done nothing with them. The scanning he had done indicated that he had something planned, but he had simply not got around to whatever it was.
She decided to give Susanne Linder a very expensive Christmas present this year. She would think of something really special.
She left her husband asleep and at 7.30 drove to S.M.P.'s office at Norrtull. She parked in the garage, took the lift to the newsroom, and settled down in the glass cage. Before she did anything else, she called someone from maintenance.
"Peter Fredriksson has left the paper. He won't be back," she said. "Please bring as many boxes as you need to empty his desk of personal items and have them delivered to his apartment this morning."
She looked over towards the news desk. Holm had just arrived. He met her gaze and nodded to her.
She nodded back.
Holm was a bloody-minded bastard, but after their altercation a few weeks earlier he had stopped trying to cause trouble. If he continued to show the same positive attitude, he might possibly survive as news editor. Possibly.
She should, she felt, be able to turn things around.
At 8.45 she saw Borgsjö come out of the lift and disappear up the internal staircase to his office on the floor above. I have to talk to him today.
She got some coffee and spent a while on the morning memo. It looked like it was going to be a slow news day. The only item of interest was an agency report, to the effect that Lisbeth Salander had been moved to the prison in Stockholm the day before. She O.K.'d the story and forwarded it to Holm.
At 8.59 Borgsjö called.
"Berger, come up to my office right away." He hung up.
He was white in the face when Berger found him at his desk. He stood up and slammed a thick wad of papers on to his desk.
"What the hell is this?" he roared.
Berger's heart sank like a stone. She only had to glance at the cover to see what Borgsjö had found in the morning post.
Fredriksson hadn't managed to do anything with her photographs. But he had posted Cortez's article and research to Borgsjö.
Calmly she sat down opposite him.
"That's an article written by a reporter called Henry Cortez. Millennium had planned to run it in last week's issue."
Borgsjö looked desperate.
"How the hell do you dare? I brought you into S. M. P. and the first thing you do is to start digging up dirt. What kind of a media whore are you?"
Berger's eyes narrowed. She turned ice-cold. She had had enough of the word "whore".
"Do you really think anyone is going to care about this? Do you think you can trap me with this crap? And why the hell did you send it to me anonymously?"
"That's not what happened, Magnus."
"Then tell me what did happen."
"The person who sent that article to you anonymously was Fredriksson. He was fired from S. M. P. yesterday."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"It's a long story. But I've had a copy of the article for more than two weeks, trying to work out a way of raising the subject with you."
"You're behind this article?"
"No, I am not. Cortez researched and wrote the article entirely off his own bat. I didn't know anything about it."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"As soon as my old colleagues at Millennium saw how you were implicated in the story, Blomkvist stopped its publication. He called me and gave me a copy, out of concern for my position. It was then stolen from me, and now it's ended up with you. Millennium wanted me to have a chance to talk with you before they printed it. Which they mean to do in the August issue."
"I've never met a more unscrupulous media whore in my whole life. It defies belief."
"Now that you've read the story, perhaps you have also considered the research behind it. Cortez has a cast-iron story. You know that."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"If you're still here when Millennium goes to press, that will hurt S. M. P. I've worried myself sick and tried to find a way out... but there isn't one."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll have to go."
"Don't be absurd. I haven't done anything illegal."
"Magnus, don't you understand the impact of this exposé? I don't want to have to call a board meeting. It would be too embarrassing."
"You're not going to call anything at all. You're finished at S. M. P."
"Wrong. Only the board can sack me. Presumably you're allowed to call them in for an extraordinary meeting. I would suggest you do that for this afternoon."
Borgsjö came round the desk and stood so close to Berger that she could feel his breath.
"Berger, you have one chance to survive this. You have to go to your damned colleagues at Millennium and get them to kill this story. If you do a good job I might even forget what you've done."
Berger sighed.
"Magnus, you aren't understanding how serious this is. I have no influence whatsoever on what Millennium is going to publish. This story is going to come out no matter what I say. The only thing I care about is how it affects S. M. P. That's why you have to resign."
Borgsjö put his hands on the back of her chair.
"Berger, your cronies at Millennium might change their minds if they knew that you would be fired the instant they leak this bullshit."
He straightened up.
"I'll be at a meeting in Norrköping today." He looked at her, furious and arrogant. "At Svea Construction."
"I see."
"When I'm back tomorrow you will report to me that this matter has been taken care of. Understood?"
He put on his jacket. Berger watched him with her eyes half closed.
"Maybe then you'll survive at S. M. P. Now get out of my office."
She went back to the glass cage and sat quite still in her chair for twenty minutes. Then she picked up the telephone and asked Holm to come to her office. This time he was there within a minute.
"Sit down."
Holm raised an eyebrow and sat down.
"What did I do wrong this time?" he said sarcastically.
"Anders, this is my last day at S. M. P. I'm resigning here and now. I'm calling in the deputy chairman and as many of the board as I can find for a meeting over lunch."
He stared at her with undisguised shock.
"I'm going to recommend that you be made acting editor-in-chief."
"What?"
"Are you O.K. with that?"
Holm leaned back in his chair and looked at her.
"I've never wanted to be editor-in-chief," he said.
"I know that. But you're tough enough to do the job. And you'll walk over corpses to be able to publish a good story. I just wish you had more common sense."
"So what happened?"
"I have a different style to you. You and I have always argued about what angle to take, and we'll never agree."
"No," he said. "We never will. But it's possible that my style is old-fashioned."
"I don't know if old-fashioned is the right word. You're a very good newspaperman, but you behave like a bastard. That's totally unnecessary. But what we were most at odds about was that you claimed that as news editor you couldn't allow personal considerations to affect how the news was assessed."
Berger suddenly gave Holm a sly smile. She opened her bag and took out her original text of the Borgsjö story.
"Let's test your sense of news assessment. I have a story here that came to us from a reporter at Millennium. This morning I'm thinking that we should run this article as today's top story." She tossed the folder into Holm's lap. "You're the news editor. I'd be interested to hear whether you share my assessment."
Holm opened the folder and began to read. Even the introduction made his eyes widen. He sat up straight in his chair and stared at Berger. Then he lowered his eyes and read through the article to the end. He studied the source material for ten more minutes before he slowly put the folder aside.
"This is going to cause one hell of an uproar."
"I know. That's why I'm leaving. Millennium was planning to run the story in their July issue, but Mikael Blomkvist stopped publication. He gave me the article so that I could talk with Borgsjö before they run it."
"And?"
"Borgsjö ordered me to suppress it."
"I see. So you're planning to run it in S. M. P. out of spite?"
"Not out of spite, no. There's no other way. If S. M. P. runs the story, we have a chance of getting out of this mess with our honour intact. Borgsjö has no choice but to go. But it also means that I can't stay here any longer."
Holm sat in silence for two minutes.
"Damn it, Berger... I didn't think you were that tough. I never thought I'd ever say this, but if you're that thick-skinned, I'm actually sorry you're leaving."
"You could stop publication, but if both you and I O.K. it... Do you think you'll run the story?"
"Too right we'll run it. It would leak anyway."
"Exactly."
Holm got up and stood uncertainly by her desk.
"Get to work," said Berger.
After Holm left her office she waited five minutes before she picked up the telephone and rang Eriksson.
"Hello, Malin. Is Henry there?"
"Yes, he's at his desk."
"Could you call him into your office and put on the speakerphone? We have to have a conference."
Cortez was there within fifteen seconds.
"What's up?"
"Henry, I did something immoral today."
"Oh, you did?"
"I gave your story about Vitavara to the news editor here at S. M. P."
"You what?"
"I told him to run the story in S. M. P. tomorrow. Your byline. And you'll be paid, of course. In fact, you can name your price."
"Erika... what the hell is going on?"
She gave him a brisk summary of what had happened during the last weeks, and how Fredriksson had almost destroyed her.
"Jesus Christ," Cortez said.
"I know that this is your story, Henry. But equally I have no choice. Can you agree to this?"
Cortez was silent for a long while.
"Thanks for asking. " he said. "It's O.K. to run the story with my byline. If it's O.K. with Malin, I should say."
"It's O.K. with me," Eriksson said.
"Thank you both," Berger said. "Can you tell Mikael? I don't suppose he's in yet."
"I'll talk to Mikael," Eriksson said. "But Erika, does this mean that you're out of work from today?"
Berger laughed. "I've decided to take the rest of the year off. Believe me, a few weeks at S. M. P. was enough."
"I don't think you ought to start thinking in terms of a holiday yet," Eriksson said.
"Why not?"
"Could you come here this afternoon?"
"What for?"
"I need help. If you want to come back to being editor-in-chief here, you could start tomorrow morning."
"Malin, you're the editor-in-chief. Anything else is out of the question."
"Then you could start as assistant editor," Eriksson laughed.
"Are you serious?"
"Oh, Erika, I miss you so much that I'm ready to die. One reason I took the job here was so that I'd have a chance to work with you. And now you're somewhere else."
Berger said nothing for a minute. She had not even thought about the possibility of making a comeback at Millennium.
"Do you think I'd really be welcome?" she said hesitantly.
"What do you think? I reckon we'd begin with a huge celebration which I would arrange myself. And you'd be back just in time for us to publish you-know-what."
Berger checked the clock on her desk .10.55. In a couple of hours her whole world had been turned upside down. She realized what a longing she had to walk up the stairs at Millennium again.
"I have a few things to take care of here over the next few hours. Is it O.K. if I pop in at around 4.00?"
Linder looked Armansky directly in the eye as she told him exactly what had happened during the night. The only thing she left out was her sudden intuition that the hacking of Fredriksson's computer had something to do with Salander. She kept that to herself for two reasons. First, she thought it sounded too implausible. Second, she knew that Armansky was somehow up to his neck in the Salander affair along with Blomkvist.
Armansky listened intently. When Linder finished her account, he said: "Beckman called about an hour ago."
"Oh?"
"He and Berger are coming in later this week to sign a contract. He wants to thank us for what Milton has done and above all for what you have done."
"I see. It's nice to have a satisfied client."
"He also wants to order a safe for the house. We'll install it and finish up the alarm package before this weekend."
"That's good."
"He says he wants us to invoice him for your work over the weekend. That'll make it quite a sizable bill we'll be sending them." Armansky sighed. "Susanne, you do know that Fredriksson could go to the police and get you into very deep water on a number of counts."
She nodded.
"Mind you, he'd end up in prison so fast it would make his head spin, but he might think it was worth it."
"I doubt he has the balls to go to the police."
"You may be right, but what you did far exceeded instructions."
"I know."
"So how do you think I should react?"
"Only you can decide that."
"How did you think I would to react?"
"What I think has nothing to do with it. You could always sack me."
"Hardly. I can't afford to lose a professional of your calibre."
"Thanks."
"But if you do anything like this again, I'm going to get very angry."
Linder nodded.
"What did you do with the hard drive?"
"It's destroyed. I put it in a vice this morning and crushed it."
"Then we can forget about all this."
Berger spent the rest of the morning calling the board members of S. M. P. She reached the deputy chairman at his summer house near Vaxholm and persuaded him to drive to the city as quickly as he could. A rather makeshift board assembled over lunch. Berger began by explaining how the Cortez folder had come to her, and what consequences it had already had.
When she finished it was proposed, as she had anticipated, that they try to find another solution. Berger told them that S. M. P. was going to run the story the next day. She also told them that this would be her last day of work and that her decision was final.
She got the board to approve two decisions and enter them in the minutes. Magnus Borgsjö would be asked to vacate his position as chairman, effective immediately, and Anders Holm would be appointed acting editor-in-chief. Then she excused herself and left the board members to discuss the situation among themselves.
At 2.00 she went down to the personnel department and had a contract drawn up. Then she went to speak to Sebastian Strandlund, the culture editor, and the reporter Eva Karlsson.
"As far as I can tell, you consider Eva to be a talented reporter."
"That's true," said Strandlund.
"And in your budget requests over the past two years you've asked that your staff be increased by at least two."
"Correct."
"Eva, in view of the email to which you were subjected, there might be ugly rumours if I were to hire you full-time. But are you still interested?"
"Of course."
"In that case my last act here at S. M. P. will be to sign this employment contract."
"Your last act?"
"It's a long story. I'm leaving today. Could you two be so kind as to keep quiet about it for an hour or so?"
"What..."
"There'll be a memo coming around soon."
Berger signed the contract and pushed it across the desk towards Karlsson.
"Good luck," she said, smiling.
"The older man who participated in the meeting with Ekström on Saturday is Georg Nyström, a police superintendent," Figuerola said as she put the surveillance photographs from Modig's mobile on Edklinth's desk.
"Superintendent," Edklinth muttered.
"Stefan identified him last night. He went to the apartment on Artillerigatan."
"What do we know about him?"
"He comes from the regular police and has worked for S.I.S. since 1983. Since 1996 he's been serving as an investigator with his own area of responsibility. He does internal checks and examines cases that S.I.S. has completed."
"O.K."
"Since Saturday morning six persons of interest have been to the building. Besides Sandberg and Nyström, Clinton is definitely operating from there. This morning he was taken by ambulance to have dialysis."
"Who are the other three?"
"A man named Otto Hallberg. He was in S.I.S. in the '80s but he's actually connected to the Defence General Staff. He works for the navy and the military intelligence service."
"I see. Why am I not surprised?"
Figuerola laid down one more photograph. "This man we haven't identified yet. He went to lunch with Hallberg. We'll have to see if we can get a better picture when he goes home tonight. But the most interesting one is this man." She laid another photograph on the desk.
"I recognize him," Edklinth said.
"His name is Wadensjöö."
"Precisely. He worked on the terrorist detail around fifteen years ago. A desk man. He was one of the candidates for the post of top boss here at the Firm. I don't know what became of him."
"He resigned in 1991. Guess who he had lunch with an hour or so ago."
She put her last photograph on the desk.
"Chief of Secretariat Shenke and Chief of Budget Gustav Atterbom. I want to have surveillance on these gentlemen around the clock. I want to know exactly who they meet."
"That's not practical," Edklinth said. "I have only four men available."
Edklinth pinched his lower lip as he thought. Then he looked up at Figuerola.
"We need more people," he said. "Do you think you could reach Inspector Bublanski discreetly and ask him if he might like to have dinner with me today? Around 7.00, say?"
Edklinth then reached for his telephone and dialled a number from memory.
"Hello, Armansky. It's Edklinth. Might I reciprocate for that wonderful dinner? No, I insist. Shall we say 7.00?"
Salander had spent the night in Kronoberg prison in a two-by-four-metre cell. The furnishings were pretty basic, but she had fallen asleep within minutes of the key being turned in the lock. Early on Monday morning she was up and obediently doing the stretching exercises prescribed
for her by the physio at Sahlgrenska. Breakfast was then brought to her, and she sat on her cot and stared into space.
At 9.30 she was led to an interrogation cell at the end of the corridor. The guard was a short, bald, old man with a round face and hornrimmed glasses. He was polite and cheerful.
Giannini greeted her affectionately. Salander ignored Faste. She was meeting Prosecutor Ekström for the first time, and she spent the next half hour sitting on a chair staring stonily at a spot on the wall just above Ekström's head. She said nothing and she did not move a muscle.
At 10.00 Ekström broke off the fruitless interrogation. He was annoyed not to be able to get the slightest response out of her. For the first time he felt uncertain as he observed the thin, doll-like young woman. How was it possible that she could have beaten up those two thugs Lundin and Nieminen in Stallarholmen? Would the court really believe that story, even if he did have convincing evidence?
Salander was brought a simple lunch at noon and spent the next hour solving equations in her head. She focused on an area of spherical astronomy from a book she had read two years earlier.
At 2.30 she was led back to the interrogation cell. This time her guard was a young woman. Salander sat on a chair in the empty cell and pondered a particularly intricate equation.
After ten minutes the door opened.
"Hello, Lisbeth." A friendly tone. It was Teleborian.
He smiled at her, and she froze. The components of the equation she had constructed in the air before her came tumbling to the ground. She could hear the numbers and mathematical symbols bouncing and clattering as if they had physical form.
Teleborian stood still for a minute and looked at her before he sat down on the other side of the table. She continued to stare at the same spot on the wall.
After a while she met his eyes.
"I'm sorry that you've ended up in this situation," Teleborian said. "I'm going to try to help you in every way I can. I hope we can establish some level of mutual trust."
Salander examined every inch of him. The dishevelled hair. The beard. The little gap between his front teeth. The thin lips. The brand-new brown jacket. The shirt open at the neck. She listened to his smooth and treacherously friendly voice.
"I also hope that I can be of more help to you than the last time we met."
He placed a small notebook and pen on the table. Salander lowered her eyes and looked at the pen. It was a pointed, silver-coloured tube.
Risk assessment.
She suppressed an impulse to reach out and grab the pen.
Her eyes sought the little finger of his left hand. She saw a faint white mark where fifteen years earlier she had sunk in her teeth and locked her jaws so hard that she almost bit his finger off. It had taken three guards to hold her down and prise open her jaws.
I was a scared little girl barely into my teens then. Now I'm a grown woman. I can kill you whenever I want.
Again she fixed her eyes on the spot on the wall, and gathered up the scattered numbers and symbols and began to reassemble the equation.
Teleborian studied Salander with a neutral expression. He had not become an internationally respected psychiatrist for nothing. He had a gift for reading emotions and moods. He could sense a cold shadow passing through the room, and interpreted this as a sign that the patient felt fear and shame beneath her imperturbable exterior. He assumed that she was reacting to his presence, and was pleased that her attitude towards him had not changed over the years. She's going to hang herself in the district court.
Berger's final act at S. M. P. was to write a memo to the staff. To begin with her mood was angry, and she filled two pages explaining why she was resigning, including her opinion of various colleagues. Then she deleted the whole text and started again in a calmer tone.
She did not refer to Fredriksson. If she had done, all interest would have focused on him, and her real reasons would be drowned out by the sensation a case of sexual harassment would inevitably cause.
She gave two reasons. The principal one was that she had met implacable resistance from management to her proposal that managers and owners should reduce their salaries and bonuses. Which meant that she would have had to start her tenure at S. M. P. with damaging cutbacks in staff. This was not only a breach of the promise she had been given when she accepted the job, but it would undercut her every attempt to bring about long-term change in order to strengthen the newspaper.
The second reason she gave was the revelation about Borgsjö. She wrote that she had been instructed to cover up the story, and this flew in the face of all she believed to be her job. It meant that she had no choice but to resign her position as editor. She concluded by saying that S. M. P.'s dire situation was not a personnel problem, but a management problem.
She read through the memo, corrected the typos, and emailed it to all the paper's employees. She sent a copy to Pressens Tidning, a media journal, and also to the trade magazine Journalisten. Then she packed away her laptop and went to see Holm at his desk.
"Goodbye," she said.
"Goodbye, Berger. It was hellish working with you."
They smiled at each other.
"One last thing," she said.
"Tell me?"
"Frisk has been working on a story I commissioned."
"Right, and nobody has any idea what it's about."
"Give him some support. He's come a long way, and I'll be staying in touch with him. Let him finish the job. I guarantee you'll be pleased with the result."
He looked wary. Then he nodded.
They did not shake hands. She left her card key on his desk and took the lift down to the garage. She parked her B.M.W. near the Millennium offices at a little after 4.00.
PART 4
REBOOTING SYSTEM
I.vii - 7.x
Despite the rich variety of Amazon legends from ancient Greece, South America, Africa and elsewhere, there is only one historically documented example of female warriors. This is the women's army that existed among the Fon of Dahomey in West Africa, now Benin.
These female warriors have never been mentioned in the published military histories; no romanticized films have been made about them, and today they exist as no more than footnotes to history. Only one scholarly work has been written about these women, Amazons of Black Sparta by Stanley B. Alpern (C. Hurst & Co., London, 1998), and yet they made up a force that was the equal of every contemporary body of male elite soldiers from among the colonial powers.
It is not clear exactly when Fon's female army was founded, but some sources date it to the 1600s. It was originally a royal guard, but it developed into a military collective of six thousand soldiers with a semi-divine status. They were not merely window-dressing. For almost two hundred years they constituted the vanguard of the Fon against European colonizers. They were feared by
the French forces, who lost several battles against them. This army of women was not defeated until 1892, when France sent troops with artillery, the Foreign Legion, a marine infantry regiment and cavalry.
It is not known how many of these female warriors fell in battle. For many years survivors continued to wage guerrilla warfare, and veterans of the army were interviewed and photographed as late as the 1940s.
CHAPTER 23
Friday, 1.vii - Sunday, 10.vii
Two weeks before the trial of Lisbeth Salander began, Malm finished the layout of the 352-page book tersely entitled The Section. The cover was blue with yellow type. Malm had positioned seven postage-stamp-sized black-and-white images of Swedish Prime Ministers along the bottom. Over the top of them hovered a photograph of Zalachenko. He had used Zalachenko's passport photograph as an illustration, increasing the contrast so that only the darkest areas stood out like a shadow across the whole cover. It was not a particularly sophisticated design, but it was effective. Blomkvist, Cortez and Eriksson were named as the authors.
It was 5.00 in the morning and he had been working all night. He felt slightly sick and had badly wanted to go home and sleep. Eriksson had sat up with him doing final corrections page by page as Malm O.K.'d them and printed them out. By now she was asleep on the sofa.
Malm put the entire text plus illustrations into a folder. He started up the Toast program and burned two C.D.s. One he put in the safe. The other was collected by a sleepy Blomkvist just before 7.00.
"Go and get some rest," Blomkvist said.
"I'm on my way."
They left Eriksson asleep and turned on the door alarm. Cortez would be in at 8.00 to take over.
Blomkvist walked to Lundagatan, where he again borrowed Salander's abandoned Honda without permission. He drove to Hallvigs Reklam, the printers near the railway tracks in Morgongåva, west of Uppsala. This was a job he would not entrust to the post.
He drove slowly, refusing to acknowledge the stress he felt, and then waited until the printers had checked that they could read the C. D. He made sure that the book would indeed be ready to distribute on the first day of the trial. The problem was not the printing but the binding, which could take time. But Jan Köbin, Hallvigs' manager, promised to deliver at least five hundred copies of the first printing of ten thousand by that day. The book would be a trade paperback.
Finally, Blomkvist made sure that everyone understood the need for the greatest secrecy, although this reminder was probably unnecessary. Two years earlier Hallvigs had printed Blomkvist's book about Hans-Erik Wennerström under very similar circumstances. They knew that books from this peculiar publisher Millennium always promised something extra.
Blomkvist drove back to Stockholm in no particular hurry. He parked outside Bellmansgatan 1 and went to his apartment to pack a change of clothes and a wash bag. He drove on to Stavsnäs wharf in Värmdö, where he parked the Honda and took the ferry out to Sandhamn.
It was the first time since Christmas that he had been to the cabin. He unfastened the window shutters to let in the air and drank a Ramlösa. As always when a job was finished and at the printer, and nothing could be changed, he felt empty.
He spent an hour sweeping and dusting, scouring the shower tray, switching on the fridge, checking the water pipes and changing the bedclothes up in the sleeping loft. He went to the grocery and bought everything he would need for the weekend. Then he started up the coffeemaker and sat outside on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and not thinking about anything in particular.
Just before 5.00 he went down to the steamboat wharf and met Figuerola.
"I thought you said you couldn't take time off," he said, kissing her on the cheek.
"That's what I thought too. But I told Edklinth I've been working every waking minute for the past few weeks and I'm starting to burn out. I said I needed two days off to recharge my batteries."
"In Sandhamn?"
"I didn't tell him where I was going," she said with a smile.
Figuerola ferreted around in Blomkvist's 25-square-metre cabin. She subjected the kitchen area, the bathroom and the loft to a critical inspection before she nodded in approval. She washed and changed into a thin summer dress while Blomkvist cooked lamb chops in red wine sauce and set the table on the veranda. They ate in silence as they watched the parade of sailing boats on their way to or from the marina. They shared the rest of the bottle of wine.
"It's a wonderful cabin. Is this where you bring all your girlfriends?" Figuerola said.
"Just the important ones."
"Has Erika Berger been here?"
"Many times."
"And Salander?"
"She stayed here for a few weeks when I was writing the book about Wennerström. And we spent Christmas here two years ago."
"So both Berger and Salander are important in your life?"
"Erika is my best friend. We've been friends for twenty-five years. Lisbeth is a whole different story. She's certainly unique, and she the most antisocial person I've ever known. You could say that she made a big impression on me when we first met. I like her. She's a friend."
"You don't feel sorry for her?"
"No. She has herself to blame for a lot of the crap that's happened to her. But I do feel enormous sympathy and solidarity with her."
"But you aren't in love either with her or with Berger?"
He shrugged. Figuerola watched an Amigo 23 coming in late with its navigation lights glowing as it chugged past a motorboat on the way to the marina.
"If love is liking someone an awful lot, then I suppose I'm in love with several people," Blomkvist said.
"And now with me?"
Blomkvist nodded. Figuerola frowned and looked at him.
"Does it bother you?"
"That you've brought other women here? No. But it does bother me that I don't really know what's happening between us. And I don't think I can have a relationship with a man who screws around whenever he feels like it..."
"I'm not going to apologize for the way I've led my life."
"And I guess that in some way I'm falling for you because you are who you are. It's easy to sleep with you because there's no bullshit and you make me feel safe. But this all started because I gave in to a crazy impulse. It doesn't happen very often, and I hadn't planned it. And now we've got to the stage where I've become just another one of the girls you invite out here."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"You didn't have to come."
"Yes, I did. Oh, Mikael..."
"I know."
"I'm unhappy. I don't want to fall in love with you. It'll hurt far too much when it's over."
"Listen, I've had this cabin for twenty-five years, since my father died and my mother moved back to Norrland. We shared out the property so that my sister got our apartment and I got the cabin. Apart from some casual acquaintances in the early years, there are five women who have
been here before you: Erika, Lisbeth and my ex-wife, who I was together with in the '80s, a woman I was in a serious relationship with in the late '90s, and someone I met two years ago, whom I still see occasionally. It's sort of special circumstances..."
"I bet it is."
"I keep this cabin so that I can get away from the city and have some quiet time. I'm mostly here on my own. I read books, I write, and I relax and sit on the wharf and look at the boats. It's not a secret love nest."
He stood up to get the bottle of wine he had put in the shade.
"I won't make any promises. My marriage broke up because Erika and I couldn't keep away from each other," he said, and then he added in English, "Been there, done that, got the T-shirt."
He filled their glasses.
"But you're the most interesting person I've met in a long time. It's as if our relationship took off at full speed from a standing start. I think I fell for you the moment you picked me up outside my apartment. The few times I've slept at my place since then, I've woken up in the middle of the night needing you. I don't know if I want a steady relationship, but I'm terrified of losing you." He looked at her. "So what do you think we should do?"
"Let's think about things," Figuerola said. "I'm badly attracted to you too."
"This is starting to get serious," Blomkvist said.
She suddenly felt a great sadness. They did not say much for a long time. When it got dark they cleared the table, went inside and closed the door.
On the Friday before the week of the trial, Blomkvist stopped at the Pressbyrån news-stand at Slussen and read the billboards for the morning papers. Svenska Morgon-Posten's C. E. O. and chairman of the board Magnus Borgsjö had capitulated and tendered his resignation. Blomkvist bought the papers and walked to Java on Hornsgatan to have a late breakfast. Borgsjö cited family reasons as the explanation for his unexpected resignation. He would not comment on claims that Berger had also resigned after he ordered her to cover up a story about his involvement in the wholesale enterprise Vitavara Inc. But in a sidebar it was reported that the chair of Svenskt Näringsliv, the confederation of Swedish enterprise, had decided to set up an ethics committee to investigate the dealings of Swedish companies with businesses in South East Asia known to exploit child labour.
Blomkvist burst out laughing, and then he folded the morning papers and flipped open his Ericsson to call the woman who presented She on T.V.4, who was in the middle of a lunchtime sandwich.
"Hello, darling," Blomkvist said. "I'm assuming you'd still like dinner sometime."
"Hi, Mikael," she laughed. "Sorry, but you couldn't be further from my type."
"Still, how about coming out with me this evening to discuss a job?"
"What have you got going?"
"Erika Berger made a deal with you two years ago about the Wennerström affair. I want to make a similar deal that will work just as well."
"I'm all ears."
"I can't tell you about it until we've agreed on the terms. I've got a story in the works. We're going to publish a book and a themed issue of the magazine, and it's going to be huge. I'm offering you an exclusive look at all the material, provided you don't leak anything before we publish. This time the publication is extra complicated because it has to happen on a specific day."
"How big is the story?"
"Bigger than Wennerström," Blomkvist said. "Are you interested?"
"Are you serious? Where shall we meet?"
"How about Samir's Cauldron? Erika's going to sit in on the meeting."
"What's going with on her? Is she back at Millennium now that she's been thrown out of S. M. P.?"
"She didn't get thrown out. She resigned because of differences of opinion with Magnus Borgsjö."
"He seems to be a real creep."
"You're not wrong there," Blomkvist said.
*
Clinton was listening to Verdi through his earphones. Music was pretty much the only thing left in life that could take him away from dialysis machines and the growing pain in the small of his back. He did not hum to the music. He closed his eyes and followed the notes with his right hand, which hovered and seemed to have a life of its own alongside his disintegrating body.
That is how it goes. We are born. We live. We grow old. We die. He had played his part. All that remained was the disintegration.
He felt strangely satisfied with life.
He was playing for his friend Evert Gullberg.
It was Saturday, July 9. Only four days until the trial, and the Section could set about putting this whole wretched story behind them. He had had the message that morning. Gullberg had been tougher than almost anyone he had known. When you fire a 9 mm full-metal-jacketed bullet into your own temple you expect to die. Yet it was three months before Gullberg's body gave up at last. That was probably due as much to chance as to the stubbornness with which the doctors had waged the battle for Gullberg's life. And it was the cancer, not the bullet, that had finally determined his end.
Gullberg's death had been painful, and that saddened Clinton. Although incapable of communicating with the outside world, he had at times been in a semi-conscious state, smiling when the hospital staff stroked his cheek or grunting when he seemed to be in pain. Sometimes he had tried to form words and even sentences, but nobody was able to understand anything he said.
He had no family, and none of his friends came to his sickbed. His last contact with life was an Eritrean night nurse by the name of Sara Kitama, who kept watch at his bedside and held his hand as he died.
Clinton realized that he would soon be following his former comrade-in-arms. No doubt about that. The likelihood of his surviving a transplant operation decreased each day. His liver and intestinal functions appeared to have declined at each examination.
He hoped to live past Christmas.
Yet he was contented. He felt an almost spiritual, giddy satisfaction that his final days had involved such a sudden and surprising return to service.
It was a boon he could not have anticipated.
The last notes of Verdi faded away just somebody opened the door to the small room in which he was resting at the Section's headquarters on Artillerigatan.
Clinton opened his eyes. It was Wadensjöö.
He had come to the conclusion that Wadensjöö was a dead weight. He was entirely unsuitable as director of the most important vanguard of Swedish national defence. He could not conceive how he and von Rottinger could ever have made such a fundamental miscalculation as to imagine that Wadensjöö was the appropriate successor.
Wadensjöö was a warrior who needed a fair wind. In a crisis he was feeble and incapable of making a decision. A timid encumbrance lacking steel in his backbone who would most likely have remained in paralysis, incapable of action, and let the Section go under.
It was this simple. Some had it. Others would always falter when it came to the crunch.
"You wanted a word?"
"Sit down," Clinton said.
Wadensjöö sat.
"I'm at a stage in my life when I can no longer waste time. I'll get straight to the point. When all this is over, I want you to resign from the management of the Section."
"You do?"
Clinton tempered his tone.
"You're a good man, Wadensjöö. But unfortunately you're completely unsuited to shouldering the responsibility after Gullberg. You should not have been given that responsibility. Von Rottinger and I were at fault when we failed to deal properly with the succession after I got sick."
"You've never liked me."
"You're wrong about that. You were an excellent administrator when von Rottinger and I were in charge of the Section. We would have been helpless without you, and I have great admiration for your patriotism. It's your inability to make decisions that lets you down."
Wadensjöö smiled bitterly. "After this, I don't know if I even want to stay in the Section."
"Now that Gullberg and von Rottinger are gone, I've had to make the crucial decisions myself," Clinton said. "And you've obstructed every decision I've made during the past few months."
"And I maintain that the decisions you've made are absurd. It's going to end in disaster."
"That's possible. But your indecision would have guaranteed our collapse. Now at least we have a chance, and it seems to be working. Millennium don't know which way to turn. They may suspect that we're somewhere out here, but they lack documentation and they have no way of finding it - or us. And we know at least as much as they do."
Wadensjöö looked out of the window and across the rooftops.
"The only thing we still have to do is to get rid of Zalachenko's daughter," Clinton said. "If anyone starts burrowing about in her past and listening to what she has to say, there's no knowing what might happen. But the trial starts in a few days and then it'll be over. This time we have to bury her so deep that she'll never come back to haunt us."
Wadensjöö shook his head.
"I don't understand your attitude," Clinton said.
"I can see that. You're sixty-eight years old. You're dying. Your decisions are not rational, and yet you seem to have bewitched Nyström and Sandberg. They obey you as if you were God the Father."
"I am God the Father in everything that has to do with the Section. We're working according to a plan. Our decision to act has given the Section a chance. And it is with the utmost conviction that I say that the Section will never find itself in such an exposed position again. When all this is over, we're going to put in hand a complete overhaul of our activities."
"I see."
"Nyström will be the new director. He's really too old, but he's the only choice we have, and he's promised to stay on for six years at least. Sandberg is too young and - as a direct result of your management policies - too inexperienced. He should have been fully trained by now."
"Clinton, don't you see what you've done? You've murdered a man. Björck worked for the Section for thirty-five years, and you ordered his death. Do you not understand-"
"You know quite well that it was necessary. He betrayed us, and he would never have withstood the pressure when the police closed in."
Wadensjöö stood up.
"I'm not finished."
"Then we'll have to take it up later. I have a job to do while you lie here fantasizing that you're the Almighty."
"If you're so morally indignant, why don't you go to Bublanski and confess your crimes?"
"Believe me, I've considered it. But whatever you may think, I'm doing everything in my power to protect the Section."
He opened the door and met Nyström and Sandberg on their way in.
"Hello, Fredrik," Nyström said. "We have to talk."
"Wadensjöö was just leaving."
Nyström waited until the door had closed. "Fredrik, I'm seriously worried."
"What's going on?"
"Sandberg and I have been thinking. Things are happening that we don't understand. This morning Salander's lawyer lodged her autobiographical statement with the prosecutor."
"What?"
Inspector Faste scrutinized Advokat Giannini as Ekström poured coffee from a thermos jug. The document Ekström had been handed when he arrived at work that morning had taken both of them by surprise. He and Faste had read the forty pages of Salander's story and discussed the extraordinary document at length. Finally he felt compelled to ask Giannini to come in for an informal chat.
They were sitting at the small conference table in Ekström's office.
"Thank you for agreeing to come in," Ekström said. "I have read this... hmm, account that arrived this morning, and there are a few matters I'd like to clarify."
"I'll do what I can to help" Giannini said.
"I don't know exactly where to start. Let me say from the outset that both Inspector Faste and I are profoundly astonished."
"Indeed?"
"I'm trying to understand what your objective is."
"How do you mean?"
"This autobiography, or whatever you want to call it... What's the point of it?"
"The point is perfectly clear. My client wants to set down her version of what has happened to her."
Ekström gave a good-natured laugh. He stroked his goatee, an oft-repeated gesture that was beginning to irritate Giannini.
"Yes, but your client has had several months to explain herself. She hasn't said a word in all her interviews with Faste."
"As far as I know there is no law that forces my client to talk simply when it suits Inspector Faste."
"No, but I mean... Salander's trial will begin in four days' time, and at the eleventh hour she comes up with this. To tell the truth, I feel a responsibility here which is beyond my duties as prosecutor."
"You do?"
"I do not in the very least wish to sound offensive. That is not my intention. But we have a procedure for trials in this country. You, Fru Giannini, are a lawyer specialising in women's rights, and you have never before represented a client in a criminal case. I did not charge Lisbeth Salander because she is a woman, but on a charge of grievous bodily harm. Even you, I believe, must have realized that she suffers from a serious mental illness and needs the protection and assistance of the state."
"You're afraid that I won't be able to provide Lisbeth Salander with an adequate defence," Giannini said in a friendly tone.
"I do not wish to be judgemental," Ekström said, "and I don't question your competence. I'm simply making the point that you lack experience."
"I do understand, and I completely agree with you. I am woefully inexperienced when it comes to criminal cases."
"And yet you have all along refused the help that has been offered by lawyers with considerably more experience-"
"At the express wish of my client. Lisbeth Salander wants me to be her lawyer, and accordingly I will be representing her in court." She gave him a polite smile.
"Very well, but I do wonder whether in all seriousness you intend to offer the content of this statement to the court."
"Of course. It's her story."
Ekström and Faste glanced at one another. Faste raised his eyebrows. He could not see what Ekström was fussing about. If Giannini did not understand that she was on her way to sinking her
client, then that certainly was not the prosecutor's fault. All they needed to do was to say thank you, accept the document, and put the issue aside.
As far as he was concerned, Salander was off her rocker. He had employed all his skills to persuade her to tell them, at the very least, where she lived. But in interview after interview that damn girl had just sat there, silent as a stone, staring at the wall behind him. She had refused the cigarettes he offered, and had never so much as accepted a coffee or a cold drink. Nor had she registered the least reaction when he pleaded with her, or when he raised his voice in moments of extreme annoyance. Faste had never conducted a more frustrating set of interviews.
"Fru Giannini," Ekström said at last, "I believe that your client ought to be spared this trial. She is not well. I have a psychiatric report from a highly qualified doctor to fall back on. She should be given the psychiatric care that for so many years she has badly needed."
"I take it that you will be presenting this recommendation to the district court."
"That's exactly what I'll be doing. It's not my business to tell you how to conduct her defence. But if this is the line you seriously intend to take, then the situation is, quite frankly, absurd. This statement contains wild and unsubstantiated accusations against a number of people... in particular against her guardian, Advokat Bjurman, and Dr Peter Teleborian. I hope you do not in all seriousness believe that the court will accept an account that casts suspicion on Dr Teleborian without offering a single shred of evidence. This document is going to be the final nail in your client's coffin, if you'll pardon the metaphor."
"I hear what you're saying."
"In the course of the trial you may claim that she is not ill and request a supplementary psychiatric assessment, and then the matter can be submitted to the medical board. But to be honest her statement leaves me in very little doubt that every other forensic psychiatrist will come to the same conclusion as Dr Teleborian. Its very existence confirms all documentary evidence that she is a paranoid schizophrenic."
Giannini smiled politely. "There is an alternative view," she said.
"What's that?"
"That her account is in every detail true and that the court will elect to believe it."
Ekström looked bewildered by the notion. Then he smiled and stroked his goatee.
Clinton was sitting at the little side table by the window in his office. He listened attentively to Nyström and Sandberg. His face was furrowed, but his peppercorn eyes were focused and alert.
"We've been monitoring the telephone and email traffic of Millennium's key employees since April," Clinton said. "We've confirmed that Blomkvist and Eriksson and this Cortez fellow are pretty downcast on the whole. We've read the outline version of the next issue. It seems that even Blomkvist has reversed his position and is now of the view that Salander is mentally unstable after all. There is a socially linked defence for her - he's claiming that society let her down, and that as a result it's somehow not her fault that she tried to murder her father. But that's hardly an argument.
There isn't one word about the break-in at his apartment or the fact that his sister was attacked in Göteborg, and there's no mention of the missing reports. He knows he can't prove anything."
"That is precisely the problem," Sandberg said. "Blomkvist must know that someone has their eye on him. But he seems to be completely ignoring his suspicions. Forgive me, but that isn't Millennium's style. Besides, Erika Berger is back in editorial and yet this whole issue is so bland and devoid of substance that it seems like a joke."
"What are you saying? That it's a decoy?"
Sandberg nodded. "The summer issue should have come out in the last week of June. According to one of Malin Eriksson's emails, it's being printed by a company in Södertälje, but when I rang them this morning, they told me they hadn't even got the C. R. C. All they'd had was a request for a quote about a month ago."
"Where have they printed before?" Clinton said.
"At a place called Hallvigs in Morgongåva. I called to ask how far they had got with the printing - I said I was calling from Millennium. The manager wouldn't tell me a thing. I thought I'd drive up there this evening and take a look."
"Makes sense. Georg?"
"I've reviewed all the telephone traffic from the past week," Nyström said. "It's bizarre, but the Millennium staff never discuss anything to do with the trial or Zalachenko."
"Nothing at all?"
"No. They mention it only when they're talking with someone outside Millennium. Listen to this, for instance. Blomkvist gets a call from a reporter at Aftonbladet asking whether he has any comment to make on the upcoming trial."
He put a tape recorder on the table.
"Sorry, but I have no comment."
"You've been involved with the story from the start. You were the one who found Salander down in Gosseberga. And you haven't published a single word since. When do you intend to publish?"
"When the time is right. Provided I have anything to say."
"Do you?"
"Well, you can buy a copy of Millennium and see for yourself."
He turned off the recorder.
"We didn't think about this before, but I went back and listened to bits at random. It's been like this the entire time. He hardly discusses the Zalachenko business except in the most general terms. He doesn't even discuss it with his sister, and she's Salander's lawyer."
"Maybe he really doesn't have anything to say."
"He consistently refuses to speculate about anything. He seems to live at the offices round the clock; he's hardly ever at his apartment. If he's working night and day, then he ought to have come up with something more substantial than whatever's going to be in the next issue of Millennium."
"And we still haven't been able to tap the phones at their offices?"
"No," Sandberg said. "There's been somebody there twenty-four hours a day - and that's significant - ever since we went into Blomkvist's apartment the first time. The office lights are always on, and if it's not Blomkvist it's Cortez or Eriksson, or that faggot... er, Christer Malm."
Clinton stroked his chin and thought for a moment.
"Conclusions?"
Nyström said: "If I didn't know better, I'd think they were putting on an act for us."
Clinton felt a cold shiver run down the back of his neck. "Why hasn't this occurred to us before?"
"We've been listening to what they've been saying, not to what they haven't been saying. We've been gratified when we've heard their confusion or noticed it in an email. Blomkvist knows damn well that someone stole copies of the 1991 Salander report from him and his sister. But what the hell is he doing about it?"
"And they didn't report her mugging to the police?"
Nyström shook his head. "Giannini was present at the interviews with Salander. She's polite, but she never says anything of any weight. And Salander herself never says anything at all."
"But that will work in our favour. The more she keeps her mouth shut, the better. What does Ekström say?"
"I saw him a couple of hours ago. He'd just been given Salander's statement." He pointed to the pages in Clinton's lap.
"Ekström is confused. It's fortunate that Salander is no good at expressing herself in writing. To an outsider this would look like a totally insane conspiracy theory with added pornographic elements. But she still shoots very close to the mark. She describes exactly how she came to be locked up at St Stefan's, and she claims that Zalachenko worked for Säpo and so on. She says she thinks everything is connected with a little club inside Säpo, pointing to the existence of something corresponding to the Section. All in all it's fairly accurate. But as I said, it's not plausible. Ekström is in a dither because this also seems to be the line of defence Giannini is going to use at the trial."
"Shit," Clinton said. He bowed his head and thought intently for several minutes. Finally he looked up.
"Jonas, drive up to Morgongåva this evening and find out if anything is going on. If they're printing Millennium, I want a copy."
"I'll take Falun with me."
"Good. Georg, I want you to see Ekström this afternoon and take his pulse. Everything has gone smoothly until now, but I can't ignore what you two are telling me."
Clinton sat in silence for a moment more.
"The best thing would be if there wasn't any trial..." he said at last.
He raised his eyes and looked at Nyström. Nyström nodded. Sandberg nodded.
"Nyström, can you investigate our options?"
Sandberg and the locksmith known as Falun parked a short distance from the railway tracks and walked through Morgongåva. It was 8.30 in the evening. It was too light and too early to do anything, but they wanted to reconnoitre and get a look at the place.
"If the building is alarmed, I'm not doing it," Falun said. "It would be better to have a look through the window. If there's anything lying around, you can just chuck a rock through, jump in, grab what you need and run like hell."
"That'll work," Sandberg said.
"If you only need one copy of the magazine, we can check the dustbins round the back. There must be overruns and test printings and things like that."
Hallvigs Reklam printing factory was in a low, brick building. They approached from the south on the other side of the street. Sandberg was about to cross when Falun took hold of his elbow.
"Keep going straight," he said.
"What?"
"Keep going straight, as if we're out for an evening stroll."
They passed Hallvigs and made a tour of the neighbourhood.
"What was all that about?" Sandberg said.
"You've got to keep your eyes peeled. The place isn't just alarmed. There was a car parked alongside the building."
"You mean somebody's there?"
"It was a car from Milton Security. The factory is under surveillance, for Christ's sake."
"Milton Security?" Clinton felt the shock hit him in the gut.
"If it hadn't been for Falun, I would have walked right into their arms," Sandberg said.
"There's something fishy going on," Nyström said. "There is no rationale for a small out-of-town printer to hire Milton Security for 24-hour surveillance."
Clinton's lips were pressed tight. It was after 11.00 and he needed to rest.
"And that means Millennium really is up to something," Sandberg said.
"I can see that," Clinton said. "O.K. Let's analyse the situation. What's the worst-case scenario? What could they know?" He gave Nyström an urgent look.
"It has to be the Salander report," he said. "They beefed up their security after we lifted the copies. They must have guessed that they're under surveillance. The worst case is that they still have a copy of the report."
"But Blomkvist was at his wits' end when it went missing."
"I know. But we may have been duped. We can't shut our eyes to that possibility."
"We'll work on that assumption," Clinton said. "Sandberg?"
"We do know what Salander's defence will be. She's going to tell the truth as she sees it. I've read this autobiography of hers. In fact it plays right into our hands. It's full of such outrageous accusations of rape and violation of her civil rights that it will come across as the ravings of a paranoid personality."
Nyström said: "Besides, she can't prove a single one of her claims. Ekström will use the account against her. He'll annihilate her credibility."
"O.K. Teleborian's new report is excellent. There is, of course, the possibility that Giannini will call in her own expert who'll say that Salander isn't crazy, and the whole thing will end up before the medical board. But again - unless Salander changes tactics, she's going to refuse to talk to them too, and then they'll conclude that Teleborian is right. She's her own worst enemy."
"The best thing would still be if there was no trial," Clinton said.
Nyström shook his head. "That's virtually impossible. She's in Kronoberg prison and she has no contact with other prisoners. She gets an hour's exercise each day in the little area on the roof, but we can't get to her up there. And we have no contacts among the prison staff."
"There may still be time."
"If we'd wanted to dispose of her, we should have done it when she was at Sahlgrenska. The likelihood that a hit man would do time is almost 100 per cent. And where would we find a gun who'd agree to that? And at such short notice it would be impossible to arrange a suicide or an accident."
"I was afraid of that. And unexpected deaths have a tendency to invite questions. O.K., we'll have to see how the trial goes. In reality, nothing has changed. We've always anticipated that they would make some sort of counter-move, and it seems to be this so-called autobiography."
"The problem is Millennium," Sandberg said.
"Millennium and Milton Security," Clinton said pensively. "Salander has worked for Armansky, and Blomkvist once had a thing with her. Should we assume that they've joined forces?"
"It doesn't seem unreasonable that Milton Security is watching the factory where Millennium is being printed. And it can't be a coincidence."
"When are they going to publish? Sandberg, you said that they're almost two weeks behind schedule. If we assume that Milton is keeping an eye on the printer's to make sure that nobody gets hold of a copy, that means either that they're publishing something that they don't want to leak, or that the magazine has already been printed."
"To coincide with the opening of the trial," Sandberg said. "That's the only reasonable explanation."
Clinton nodded. "O.K. What's going to be in the magazine?"
They thought for a while, until Nyström broke the silence.
"In the worst case they have a copy of the 1991 report, as we said."
Clinton and Sandberg had reached the same conclusion.
"But what can they do with it?" Sandberg said. "The report implicates Björck and Teleborian. Björck is dead. They can press hard with Teleborian, but he'll claim that he was doing a routine forensic psychiatric examination. It'll be their word against his."
"And what can we do if they publish the report?" Nyström said.
"I think we're holding the trump card," Clinton said. "If there's a ruckus over the report, the focus will be on Säpo, not the Section. And when reporters start asking questions, Säpo will just pull it out of the archive..."
"And it won't be the same report," Sandberg said.
"Shenke has put the modified version in the archive, that is, the version Ekström was given to read. It was assigned a case number. So we could swiftly present a lot of disinformation to the media... We have the original, which Bjurman got hold of, and Millennium only has a copy. We could even spread information to suggest that it was Blomkvist himself who falsified the original."
"Good. What else could Millennium know?"
"They can't know anything about the Section. That wouldn't be possible. They'll have to focus on Säpo, and that would mean Blomkvist being cast as a conspiracy theorist."
"By now he's rather well known," Clinton said slowly. "Since the resolution of the Wennerström affair he's been taken pretty seriously."
"Could we somehow reduce his credibility?" Sandberg said.
Nyström and Clinton exchanged glances. Clinton looked at Nyström.
"Do you think you could put your hands on... let's say, fifty grams of cocaine?"
"Maybe from the Yugos."
"Give it a try. And get a move-on. The trial starts in three days."
"I don't get it," Sandberg said.
"It's a trick as old as the profession. But still extremely effective."
"Morgongåva?" Edklinth said with a frown. He was sitting in his dressing gown on the sofa at home, reading through Salander's autobiography for the third time, when Figuerola called. Since it was after midnight, he assumed that something was up.
"Morgongåva," Figuerola repeated. "Sandberg and Lars Faulsson were there at 8.30 this evening. They were tailed by Inspector Andersson from Bublanski's gang, and we had a radio transmitter planted in Sandberg's car. They parked near the old railway station, walked around for a while, and then returned to the car and drove back to Stockholm."
"I see. Did they meet anyone, or-"
"No. That was the strange thing. They just got out of the car and walked around a little, then drove straight back to Stockholm, so Andersson told me."
"I see. And why are you calling me at 12.30 at night to tell me this?"
"It took a little while to work it out. They walked past Hallvigs printers. I talked to Blomkvist about it. That's where Millennium's being printed."
"Oh shit," Edklinth said. He saw the implications immediately.
"Since Falun was along, I have to suppose that they were intending to pay the printer's a late-night visit, but they abandoned the expedition," Figuerola said.
"Why?"
"Because Blomkvist asked Armansky to keep an eye on the factory until the magazine was distributed. They probably saw the car from Milton Security. I thought you'd want to know straightaway."
"You're right. It means that they've begun to smell a rat."
"Alarm bells must have gone off in their heads when they saw the car. Sandberg dropped Faulsson off in town and then went back to Artillerigatan. We know that Clinton is there. Nyström arrived at about the same time. The question is, what are they going to do?"
"The trial starts on Wednesday... Can you reach Blomkvist and urge him to double up on security at Millennium? Just in case."
"They already have good security. And they blew smoke rings round their tapped telephones - like old pros. Blomkvist is so paranoid already that he's using diversionary tactics we could learn from."
"I'm happy to hear it, but call him anyway."
Figuerola closed her mobile and put it on the bedside table. She looked up and studied Blomkvist as he lay naked with his head against the foot of the bed.
"I'm to call you and tell you to beef up security at Millennium," she said.
"Thanks for the suggestion," he said wryly.
"I'm serious. If they start to smell a rat, there's a danger that they'll go and do something without thinking. They might break in."
"Henry's sleeping there tonight. And we have a burglar alarm that goes straight to Milton Security, three minutes away."
He lay in silence with his eyes shut.
"Paranoid," he muttered.
CHAPTER 24
Monday, 11.vii
It was 6.00 on Monday morning when Linder from Milton Security called Blomkvist on his T10.
"Don't you people ever rest?" Blomkvist said, drunk with sleep.
He glanced at Figuerola. She was up already and had changed into jogging shorts, but had not yet put on her T-shirt.
"Sure. But the night duty officer woke me. The silent alarm we installed at your apartment went off at 3.00."
"Did it?"
"I drove down to see what was going on. This is a bit tricky. Could you come to Milton this morning? As soon as possible, that is."
"This is serious," Armansky said.
It was just after 8.00 when Armansky, Blomkvist and Linder were gathered in front of a T. V. monitor in a conference room at Milton Security. Armansky had also called in Johan Fräklund, a retired criminal inspector in the Solna police, now chief of Milton's operations unit, and the former inspector Sonny Bohman, who had been involved in the Salander affair from the start. They were pondering the surveillance video that Linder had just shown them.
"What we see here is Säpo officer Jonas Sandberg opening the door to Mikael's apartment at 3.17. He has his own keys. You will recall that Faulsson the locksmith made copies of the spare set when he and Göran Mårtensson broke in several weeks ago."
Armansky nodded sternly.
"Sandberg is in the apartment for approximately eight minutes. During that time he does the following things. First, he takes a small plastic bag from the kitchen, which he fills. Then he unscrews the back plate of a loudspeaker which you have in the living room, Mikael. That's where he places the bag. The fact that he takes a bag from your kitchen is significant."
"It's a Konsum bag," Blomkvist said. "I save them to put cheese and stuff in."
"I do the same. What matters, of course, is that the bag has your fingerprints on it. Then he takes a copy of S. M. P. from the recycling bin in the hall. He tears off a page to wrap up an object which he puts on the top shelf of your wardrobe. Same thing there: the paper has your fingerprints on it."
"I get you," Blomkvist said.
"I drive to your apartment at around 5.00," Linder said. "I find the following items: in your loudspeaker there are now approximately 180 grams of cocaine. I've taken a sample which I have here."
She put a small evidence bag on the conference table.
"What's in the wardrobe?" Blomkvist said.
"About 120,000 kronor in cash."
Armansky motioned to Linder to turn off the T. V. He turned to Fräklund.
"So Mikael Blomkvist is involved in cocaine dealing," Fräklund said good-naturedly. "Apparently they've started to get a little worried about what Blomkvist is working on."
"This is a counter-move," Blomkvist said.
"A counter-move to what?"
"They ran into Milton's security patrol in Morgongåva last night."
He told them what he had heard from Figuerola about Sandberg's expedition to the printing factory.
"That busy little rascal," Bohman said.
"But why now?"
"They must be nervous about what Millennium might publish when the trial starts," Fräklund said. "If Blomkvist is arrested for dealing cocaine, his credibility will drop dramatically."
Linder nodded. Blomkvist looked sceptical.
"How are we going to handle this?" Armansky said.
"We should do nothing," Fräklund said. "We hold all the cards. We have crystal-clear evidence of Sandberg planting the stuff in your apartment. Let them spring the trap. We can prove your innocence in a second, and besides, this will be further proof of the Section's criminal activities. I would so love to be prosecutor when those guys are brought to trial."
"I don't know," Blomkvist said slowly. "The trial starts the day after tomorrow. The magazine is on the stands on Friday, day three of the trial. If they plan to frame me for dealing cocaine, I'll never have the time to explain how it happened before the magazine comes out. I risk sitting in prison and missing the beginning of the trial."
"So, all the more reason for you to stay out of sight this week," Armansky said.
"Well... I have to work with T.V.4 and I've got a number of other things to do. It would be enormously inconvenient-"
"Why right now?" Linder said suddenly.
"How do you mean?" Armansky said.
"They've had three months to smear Blomkvist. Why do it right now? Whatever happens they're not going to be able to prevent publication."
They all sat in silence for a moment.
"It might be because they don't have a clue what you're going to publish, Mikael," Armansky said. "They have to suppose that you have something in the offing... but they might think all you have is Björck's report. They have no reason to know that you're planning on rolling up the whole Section. If it's only about Björck's report, then it's certainly enough to blacken your reputation. Any revelations you might come up with would be drowned out when you're arrested and charged. Big scandal. The famous Mikael Blomkvist arrested on a drugs charge. Six to eight years in prison."
"Could I have two copies of the video?" Blomkvist said.
"What are you going to do with them?"
"Lodge one copy with Edklinth. And in three hours I'm going to be at T.V.4. I think it would be prudent to have this ready to run on T. V. if or when all hell breaks loose."
Figuerola turned off the D. V. D. player and put the remote on the table. They were meeting in the temporary office on Fridhemsplan.
"Cocaine," Edklinth said. "They're playing a very dirty game here."
Figuerola looked thoughtful. She glanced at Blomkvist.
"I thought it best to keep all of you up to date," he said with a shrug.
"I don't like this," Figuerola said. "It implies a recklessness. Someone hasn't really thought this through. They must realize that you wouldn't go quietly and let yourself be thrown into Kumla bunker under arrest on a drugs charge."
"I agree," Blomkvist said.
"Even if you were convicted, there's still a strong likelihood that people would believe what you have to say. And your colleagues at Millennium wouldn't keep quiet either."
"Furthermore, this is costing them a great deal," Edklinth said. "They have a budget that allows them to distribute 120,000 kronor here and there without blinking, plus whatever the cocaine costs them."
"I know, but the plan is actually not bad," Blomkvist said. "They're counting on Salander landing back in the asylum while I disappear in a cloud of suspicion. They're also assuming that any attention would be focused on Säpo - not on the Section."
"But how are they going to convince the drug squad to search your apartment? I mean, an anonymous tip will hardly be enough for someone to kick in the door of a star journalist. And if this is going to work, suspicion would have to be cast on you within forty-eight hours."
"Well, we don't really know anything about their schedule," Blomkvist said.
He felt exhausted and longed for all this to be over. He got up.
"Where are you off to?" Figuerola said. "I'd like to know where you're going to be for the next few days."
"I have a meeting with T.V.4 at lunchtime. And at 6.00 I'm going to catch up with Erika Berger over a lamb stew at Samir's. We're going to fine-tune the press release. The rest of the afternoon and evening I'll be at Millennium, I imagine."
Figuerola's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Berger.
"I need you to stay in touch during the day. I'd prefer it if you stayed in close contact until the trial starts."
"Maybe I could move in with you for a few days," Blomkvist said with a playful smile.
Figuerola's face darkened. She cast a hasty glance at Edklinth.
"Monica's right," Edklinth said. "I think it would be best if you stay more or less out of sight for the time being."
"You take care of your end," Blomkvist said, "and I'll take care of mine."
The presenter of She on T.V.4 could hardly conceal her excitement over the video material that Blomkvist had delivered. Blomkvist was amused at her undisguised glee. For a week they had worked like dogs to put together coherent material about the Section that they could use on T. V. Her producer and the news editor at T.V.4 were in no doubt as to what a scoop the story would be. It was being produced in the utmost secrecy, with only a very few people involved. They had agreed to Blomkvist's insistence that the story be the lead on the evening of the third day of the trial. They had decided to do an hour-long news special.
Blomkvist had given her a quantity of still photographs to work with, but on television nothing compares to the moving image. She was simply delighted when he showed her the video - in razor-sharp definition - of an identifiable police officer planting cocaine in his apartment.
"This is great T. V.," she said. "Camera shot: Here is Säpo planting cocaine in the reporter's apartment."
"Not Säpo... the Section," Blomkvist corrected her. "Don't make the mistake of muddling the two."
"Sandberg works for Säpo, for God's sake," she said.
"Sure, but in practice he should be regarded as an infiltrator. Keep the boundary line very clear."
"Understood. It's the Section that's the story here. Not Säpo. Mikael, can you explain to me how it is that you keep getting mixed up in these sensational stories? And you're right. This is going to be bigger than the Wennerström affair."
"Sheer talent, I guess. Ironically enough this story also begins with a Wennerström. The spy scandal of the '60s, that is."
Berger called at 4.00. She was in a meeting with the newspaper publishers' association sharing her views on the planned cutbacks at S.M.P., which had given rise to a major conflict in the industry after she had resigned. She would not be able to make it to their dinner before 6.30.
Sandberg helped Clinton move from the wheelchair to the daybed in the room that was his command centre in the Section's headquarters on Artillerigatan. Clinton had just returned from a whole morning spent in dialysis. He felt ancient, infinitely weary. He had hardly slept the past few days and wished that all this would soon come to an end. He had managed to make himself comfortable, sitting up in the bed, when Nyström appeared.
Clinton concentrated his energy. "Is it ready?"
"I've just come from a meeting with the Nikolich brothers," Nyström said. "It's going to cost 50,000."
"We can afford it," Clinton said.
Christ, if only I were young again.
He turned his head and studied Nyström and Sandberg in turn.
"No qualms of conscience?" he said.
They shook their heads.
"When?" Clinton said.
"Within twenty-four hours," Nyström said. "It's difficult to pin down where Blomkvist is staying, but if the worst comes to the worst they'll do it outside Millennium's offices."
"We have a possible opportunity tonight, two hours from now," said Sandberg.
"Oh, really?"
"Erika Berger called him a while ago. They're going to have dinner at Samir's Cauldron. It's a restaurant near Bellmansgatan."
"Berger..." Clinton said hesitantly.
"I hope for God's sake that she doesn't-" Nyström said.
"That wouldn't be the end of the world," Sandberg said.
Clinton and Nyström both stared at him.
"We're agreed that Blomkvist is our greatest threat, and that he's going to publish something damaging in the next issue of Millennium. We can't prevent publication, so we have to destroy his credibility. If he's killed in what appears to be a typical underworld hit and the police then find drugs and cash in his apartment, the investigators will draw certain conclusions. They won't initially be looking for conspiracies involving the Security Police."
"Go on," Clinton said.
"Erika Berger is actually Blomkvist's lover," Sandberg said with some force. "She's unfaithful to her husband. If she too were to be a victim, that would lead to further speculation."
Clinton and Nyström exchanged glances. Sandberg had a natural talent when it came to creating smokescreens. He learned fast. But Clinton and Nyström felt a surge of anxiety. Sandberg was too cavalier about life-and-death decisions. That was not good. Extreme measures were not to be employed just because an opportunity had presented itself. Murder was no easy solution; it should be resorted to only when there was no alternative.
Clinton shook his head.
Collateral damage, he thought. He suddenly felt disgust for the whole operation.
After a lifetime in service to the nation, here we sit like primitive mercenaries. Zalachenko was necessary. Björck was... regrettable, but Gullberg was right: Björck would have caved in. Blomkvist is... possibly necessary. But Erika Berger could only be an innocent bystander.
He looked steadily at Sandberg. He hoped that the young man would not develop into a psychopath.
"How much do the Nikolich brothers know?"
"Nothing. About us, that is. I'm the only one they've met. I used another identity and they can't trace me. They think the killing has to do with trafficking."
"What happens to them after the hit?"
"They leave Sweden at once," Nyström said. "Just like after Björck. If the murder investigation yields no results, they can very cautiously return after a few weeks."
"And the method?"
"Sicilian style. They walk up to Blomkvist, empty a magazine into him, and walk away."
"Weapon?"
"They have an automatic. I don't know what type."
"I do hope they won't spray the whole restaurant-"
"No danger of that. They're cold-blooded, they know what they have to do. But if Berger is sitting at the same table-"
Collateral damage.
"Look here," Clinton said. "It's important that Wadensjöö doesn't get wind of this. Especially not if Berger becomes a victim. He's stressed to breaking point as it is. I'm afraid we're going to have to put him out to pasture when this is over."
Nyström nodded.
"Which means that when we get word that Blomkvist has been shot, we're going to have to put on a good show. We'll call a crisis meeting and act thunderstruck by the development. We can speculate who might be behind the murder, but we'll say nothing about the drugs until the police find the evidence."
Blomkvist took leave of the presenter of She just before 5.00. They had spent the afternoon filling in the gaps in the material. Then Blomkvist had gone to make-up and subjected himself to a long interview on film.
One question had been put to him which he struggled to answer in a coherent way, and they had to film that section several times.
How is it possible that civil servants in the Swedish government will go so far as to commit murder?
Blomkvist had brooded over the question long before She's presenter had asked it. The Section must have considered Zalachenko an unacceptable threat, but it was still not a satisfactory answer. The reply he eventually gave was not satisfactory either: "The only reasonable explanation I can give is that over the years the Section developed into a cult in the true sense of the word. They became like Knutby, or the pastor Jim Jones or something like that. They write their own laws, within which concepts like right and wrong have ceased to be relevant. And through these laws they imagine themselves isolated from normal society."
"It sounds like some sort of mental illness, don't you think?"
"That wouldn't be an inaccurate description."
Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Slussen. It was too early to go to Samir's Cauldron. He stood on Södermalmstorg for a while. He was worried still, yet all of a sudden life felt right again. It was not until Berger came back to Millennium that he realized how terribly he had missed her. Besides, her retaking of the helm had not led to any internal strife; Eriksson had reverted happily to the position of assistant editor, indeed was almost ecstatic - as she put it - that life would now return to normal.
Berger's coming back had also meant that everyone discovered how incredibly understaffed they had been during the past three months. Berger had had to resume her duties at Millennium at a run, and she and Eriksson managed to tackle together some of the organizational issues that had been piling up.
Blomkvist decided to buy the evening papers and have coffee at Java on Hornsgatan to kill time before he was to meet Berger.
*
Prosecutor Ragnhild Gustavsson of the National Prosecutors' Office set her reading glasses on the conference table and studied the group. She had a lined but apple-cheeked face and short, greying hair. She had been a prosecutor for twenty-five years and had worked at the N.P.O. since the early '90s. She was fifty-eight Only three weeks had passed since she had been without warning summoned to the N.P.O. to meet Superintendent Edklinth, Director of Constitutional Protection. That day she had been busily finishing up one or two routine matters so she could begin her six-week leave at her cabin on the island of Husarö with a clear conscience. Instead she had been assigned to lead the investigation of a group of civil servants who went by the name of "the Section". Her holiday plans had quickly to be shelved. She had been advised that this would be her priority for the foreseeable future, and she had been given a more or less free hand to shape her operational team and take the necessary decisions.
"This may prove one of the most sensational criminal investigations this country has witnessed," the Prosecutor General had told her.
She was beginning to think he was right.
She had listened with increasing amazement to Edklinth's summary of the situation and the investigation he had undertaken at the instruction of the Prime Minister. The investigation was not yet complete, but he believed that his team had come far enough to be able to present the case to a prosecutor.
First of all Gustavsson had reviewed all the material that Edklinth had delivered. When the sheer scope of the criminal activity began to emerge, she realized that every decision she made would some day be pored over by historians and their readers. Since then she had spent every waking minute trying to get to grips with the numerous crimes. The case was unique in Swedish law, and since it involved charting criminal activity that had gone on for at least thirty years, she recognized the need for a very particular kind of operational team. She was reminded of the Italian government's anti-Mafia investigators who had been forced in the '70s and '80s to work almost underground in order to survive. She knew why Edklinth himself had been bound to work in secret. He did not know whom he could trust.
Her first action was to call in three colleagues from the N. P. O. She selected people she had known for many years. Then she hired a renowned historian who had worked on the Crime Prevention Council to help with an analysis of the growth of Security Police responsibilities and powers over the decades. She formally appointed Inspector Figuerola head of the investigation.
At this point the investigation of the Section had taken on a constitutionally valid form. It could now be viewed like any other police investigation, even though its operation would be conducted in absolute secrecy.
Over the past two weeks Prosecutor Gustavsson had summoned a large number of individuals to official but extremely discreet interviews. As well as with Edklinth and Figuerola, interviews had been conducted with Criminal Inspectors Bublanski, Modig, Andersson and Holmberg. She had called in Mikael Blomkvist, Malin Eriksson, Henry Cortez, Christer Malm, Advokat Giannini, Dragan Armansky and Susanne Linder, and she had herself gone to visit Lisbeth Salander's former guardian, Holger Palmgren. Apart from the members of Millennium's staff who on principle did not answer questions that might reveal the identity of their sources, all had readily provided detailed answers, and in some cases supporting documentation as well.
Prosecutor Gustavsson had not been at all pleased to have been presented with a timetable that had been determined by Millennium. It meant that she would have to order the arrest of a number of individuals on a specific date. She knew that ideally she would have had several months of preparation before the investigation reached its present stage, but she had no choice. Blomkvist had been adamant. Millennium was not subject to any governmental ordinances or regulations, and he intended to publish the story on day three of Salander's trial. Gustavsson was thus compelled to adjust her own schedule to strike at the same time, so that those individuals who were under suspicion would not be given a chance to disappear along with the evidence. Blomkvist received a surprising degree of support from Edklinth and Figuerola, and the prosecutor came to see that Blomkvist's plan had certain clear advantages. As prosecutor she would get just the kind of fully focused media back-up she needed to push forward the prosecution. In addition, the whole process would move ahead so quickly that this complex investigation would not have time to leak into the corridors of the bureaucracy and thus risk being unearthed by the Section.
"Blomkvist's first priority is to achieve justice for Salander. Nailing the Section is merely a by-product," Figuerola said.
The trial of Lisbeth Salander was to commence on Wednesday, in two days' time. The meeting on Monday involved doing a review of the latest material available to them and dividing up the work assignments.
Thirteen people participated in the meeting. From N. P. O., Ragnhild Gustavsson had brought her two closest colleagues. From Constitutional Protection, Inspector Monica Figuerola had come with Bladh and Berglund. Edklinth, as Director of Constitutional Protection, was sitting in as an observer.
But Gustavsson had decided that a matter of this importance could not credibly be restricted to S. I. S. She had therefore called in Inspector Bublanski and his team, consisting of Modig, Holmberg and Andersson from the regular police force. They had, after all, been working on the Salander case since Easter and were familiar with all the details. Gustavsson had also called in Prosecutor Jervas and Inspector Erlander from the Göteborg police. The investigation of the Section had a direct connection to the investigation of the murder of Alexander Zalachenko.
When Figuerola mentioned that former Prime Minister Thorbjörn Fälldin might have to take the stand as a witness, Holmberg and Modig were scarcely able to conceal their discomfort.
For five hours they examined one individual after another who had been identified as an activist in the Section. After that they established the various crimes that could be linked to the apartment on Artillerigatan. A further nine people had been identified as being connected to the Section, although they never visited Artillerigatan. They worked primarily at S. I. S. on Kungsholmen, but had met with some of the Section's activists.
"It is still impossible to say how widespread the conspiracy is. We do not know under what circumstances these people meet with Wadensjöö or with anyone else. They could be informers, or they may have been given the impression that they're working for internal affairs or something similar. So there is some uncertainty about the degree of their involvement, and that can be resolved only after we've had a chance to interview them. Furthermore, these are merely those individuals we have observed during the weeks the surveillance has been in effect; there could be more that we do not yet know about."
"But the chief of Secretariat and the chief of Budget-"
"We have to assume that they're working for the Section."
It was 6.00 on Monday when Gustavsson gave everyone an hour's break for dinner, after which they would reconvene.
It was just as everyone had stood up and begun to move about that Jesper Thoms, Figuerola's colleague from C. P.'s operations unit, drew her aside to report on what had developed during the last few hours of surveillance.
"Clinton has been in dialysis for most of the day and got back to Artillerigatan at 3.00. The only one who did anything of interest was Nyström, although we aren't quite sure what it was he did."
"Tell me," said Figuerola.
"At 1.30 he drove to Central Station and met up with two men. They walked across to the Sheraton and had coffee in the bar. The meeting lasted for about twenty minutes, after which Nyström returned to Artillerigatan."
"O.K. So who were they?"
"They're new faces. Two men in their mid-thirties who seem to be of eastern European origin. Unfortunately our observer lost them when they went into the tunnelbana."
"I see," Figuerola said wearily.
"Here are the pictures," Thoms said. He handed her a series of surveillance photographs.
She glanced at the enlargements of two faces she had never set eyes on before.
"Thanks," she said, laying out the photographs on the conference table. She picked up her handbag to go and find something to eat.
Andersson, who was standing nearby, bent to look more closely at the pictures.
"Oh shit," he said. "Are the Nikolich brothers involved in this?"
Figuerola stopped in her tracks. "Who did you say?"
"These two are seriously rotten apples," Andersson said. "Tomi and Miro Nikolich."
"Have you had dealings with them?"
"Sure. Two brothers from Huddinge. Serbs. We had them under observation several times when they were in their twenties and I was in the gangs unit. Miro is the dangerous one. He's been wanted for about a year for G. B. H. I thought they'd both gone back to Serbia to become politicians or something."
"Politicians?"
"Right. They went down to Yugoslavia in the early '90s and helped carry out ethnic cleansing. They worked for a Mafia leader, Arkan, who was running some sort of private fascist militia. They got a reputation for being shooters."
"Shooters?"
"Hit men. They've been flitting back and forth between Belgrade and Stockholm. Their uncle has a restaurant in Norrmalm, and they've apparently worked there once in a while. We've had reports that they were mixed up in at least two of the killings in what was known as the 'cigarette war', but we never got close to charging them with anything."
Figuerola gazed mutely at the photographs. Then suddenly she turned pale as a ghost. She stared at Edklinth.
"Blomkvist," she cried with panic in her voice. "They're not just planning to involve him in a scandal, they're planning to murder him. Then the police will find the cocaine during the investigation and draw their own conclusions."
Edklinth stared back at her.
"He's supposed to be meeting Erika Berger at Samir's Cauldron," Figuerola said. She grabbed Andersson by the shoulder. "Are you armed?"
"Yes..."
"Come with me."
Figuerola rushed out of the conference room. Her office was three doors down. She ran in and took her service weapon from the desk drawer. Against all regulations she left the door to her office unlocked and wide open as she raced off towards the lifts. Andersson hesitated for a second.
"Go," Bublanski told him. "Sonja, you go with them too."
Blomkvist got to Samir's Cauldron at 6.20. Berger had just arrived and found a table near the bar, not far from the entrance. He kissed her on the cheek. They both ordered lamb stew and strong beers from the waiter.
"How was the She woman?" Berger said.
"Cool, as usual."
Berger laughed. "If you don't watch out you're going to become obsessed by her. Imagine, a woman who can resist the famous Blomkvist charm."
"There are in fact several women who haven't fallen for me over the years," Blomkvist said. "How has your day been?"
"Wasted. But I accepted an invitation to be on a panel to debate the whole S. M. P. business at the Publicists' Club. That will be my final contribution."
"Great."
"It's just such a relief to be back at Millennium."
"You have no idea how good it is that you're back. I'm still elated."
"It's fun to be at work again."
"Mmm."
"I'm happy."
"And I have to go to the gents'," Blomkvist said, getting up.
He almost collided with a man who had just walked in. Blomkvist noticed that he looked vaguely eastern European and was staring at him. Then he saw the sub-machine gun.
As they passed Riddarholmen, Edklinth called to tell them that neither Blomkvist nor Berger were answering their mobiles. They had presumably turned them off for dinner.
Figuerola swore and passed Södermalmstorg at a speed of close to eighty kilometres an hour. She kept her horn pressed down and made a sharp turn on to Hornsgatan. Andersson had to brace himself against the door. He had taken out his gun and checked the magazine. Modig did the same in the back seat.
"We have to call for back-up," Andersson said. "You don't play games with the Nikolich boys."
Figuerola ground her teeth.
"This is what we'll do," she said. "Sonja and I will go straight into the restaurant and hope they're sitting inside. Curt, you know what these guys look like, so you stay outside and keep watch."
"Right."
"If all goes well, we'll take Blomkvist and Berger straight out to the car and drive them down to Kungsholmen. If we suspect anything's wrong, we stay inside the restaurant and call for back-up."
"O.K.," Modig said.
Figuerola was nearly at the restaurant when the police radio crackled beneath the dashboard.
All units. Shots fired on Tavastgatan on Södermalm. Samir's Cauldron restaurant.
Figuerola felt a sudden lurch in her chest.
Berger saw Blomkvist bump into a man as he was heading past the entrance towards the gents'. She frowned without really knowing why. She saw the other man stare at Blomkvist with a surprised expression. She wondered if it was somebody he knew.
Then she saw the man take a step back and drop a bag to the floor. At first she did not know what she was seeing. She sat paralysed as he raised some kind of gun and aimed it at Blomkvist Blomkvist reacted without stopping to think. He flung out his left hand, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and twisted it up towards the ceiling. For a microsecond the muzzle passed in front of his face.
The burst of fire from the sub-machine gun was deafening in the small room. Mortar and glass from the overhead lights rained down on Blomkvist as Miro Nikolich squeezed off eleven shots. For a moment Blomkvist looked directly into the eyes of his attacker.
Then Nikolich took a step back and yanked the gun towards him. Blomkvist was unprepared and lost his grip on the barrel. He knew at once that he was in mortal danger. Instinctively he threw himself at the attacker instead of crouching down or trying to take cover. Later he realized that if he had ducked or backed away, he would have been shot on the spot. He got a new grip on the barrel
of the sub-machine gun and used his entire weight to drive the man against the wall. He heard another six or seven shots go off and tore desperately at the gun to direct the muzzle at the floor.
Berger instinctively took cover when the second series of shots was fired. She stumbled and fell, hitting her head on a chair. As she lay on the floor she looked up and saw that three holes had appeared in the wall just behind where she had been sitting.
In shock she turned her head and saw Blomkvist struggling with the man by the door. He had fallen to his knees and was gripping the gun with both hands, trying to wrench it loose. She saw the attacker struggling to get free. He kept smashing his fist over and over into Blomkvist's face and temple.
Figuerola braked hard opposite Samir's Cauldron, flung open the car door and ran across the road towards the restaurant. She had her Sig Sauer in her hand with the safety off when she noticed the car parked right outside the restaurant.
She saw one of the Nikolich brothers behind the wheel and pointed her weapon at his face behind the driver's door "Police. Hands up," she screamed.
Tomi Nikolich held up his hands.
"Get out of the car and lie face down on the pavement," she roared, fury in her voice. She turned and glanced at Andersson and Modig beside her. "The restaurant," she said.
Modig was thinking of her children. It was against all police protocol to gallop into a building with her weapon drawn without first having back-up in place and without knowing the exact situation.
Then she heard the sound of more shots from inside.
Blomkvist had his middle finger between the trigger and the trigger guard as Miro Nikolich tried to keep shooting. He heard glass shattering behind him. He felt a searing pain as the attacker squeezed the trigger again and again, crushing his finger. As long as his finger was in place the gun could not be fired. But as Nikolich's fist pummelled again and again on the side of his head, it suddenly occurred to him that he was too old for this sort of thing.
Have to end it, he thought.
That was his first rational thought since he had become aware of the man with the sub-machine gun.
He clenched his teeth and shoved his finger further into the space behind the trigger.
Then he braced himself, rammed his shoulder into the attacker's body and forced himself back on to his feet. He let go of the gun with his right hand and raised elbow up to protect his face from the pummelling. Nikolich switched to hitting him in the armpit and ribs. For a second they stood eye to eye again.
The next moment Blomkvist felt the attacker being pulled away from him. He felt one last devastating pain in his finger and became aware of Andersson's huge form. The police officer literally picked up Nikolich with a firm grip on his neck and slammed his head into the wall by the door. Nikolich collapsed to the ground.
"Get down! This is the police. Stay very still," he heard Modig yell.
He turned his head and saw her standing with her legs apart and her gun held in both hands as she surveyed the chaos. At last she raised her gun to point it at the ceiling and looked at Blomkvist.
"Are you hurt?" she said.
In a daze Blomkvist looked back at her. He was bleeding from his eyebrows and nose.
"I think I broke a finger," he said, sitting down on the floor.
Figuerola received back-up from the Södermalm armed response team less than a minute after she forced Tomi Nikolich on to the pavement at gunpoint. She showed her I. D. and left the officers to take charge of the prisoner. Then she ran inside. She stopped in the entrance to take stock of the situation.
Blomkvist and Berger were sitting side by side. His face was bloodied and he seemed to be in shock. She sighed in relief. He was alive. Then she frowned as Berger put her arm around his shoulders. At least her face was bruised.
Modig was squatting down next to them, examining Blomkvist's hand. Andersson was handcuffing Nikolich, who looked as though he had been hit by a truck. She saw a Swedish Army model M/45 submachine gun on the floor.
Figuerola looked up and saw shocked restaurant staff and terrorstricken patrons, along with shattered china, overturned chairs and tables, and debris from the rounds that had been fired. She smelled cordite. But she was not aware of anyone dead or wounded in the restaurant. Officers from the armed response team began to squeeze into the room with their weapons drawn. She reached out and touched Andersson's shoulder. He stood up.
"You said that Miro Nikolich was on our wanted list?"
"Correct. G. B. H. About a year ago. A street fight down in Hallunda."
"O.K. Here's what we'll do," Figuerola said. "I'll take off as fast as I can with Blomkvist and Berger. You stay here. The story is that you and Modig came here to have dinner and you recognized Nikolich from your time in the gangs unit. When you tried to arrest him he pulled a weapon and started shooting. So you sorted him out."
Andersson looked completely astonished. "That's not going to hold up. There are witnesses."
"The witnesses will say that somebody was fighting and shots were fired. It only has to hold up until tomorrow's evening papers. The story is that the Nikolich brothers were apprehended by sheer chance because you recognized them."
Andersson surveyed the shambles all around him.
Figuerola pushed her way through the knot of police officers out on the street and put Blomkvist and Berger in the back seat of her car. She turned to the armed response team leader and spoke in a low voice with him for half a minute. She gestured towards the car in which Blomkvist and Berger were now sitting. The leader looked puzzled but at last he nodded. She drove to Zinkensdamm, parked, and turned around to her passengers.
"How badly are you hurt?"
"I took a few punches. I've still got all my teeth, but my middle finger's hurt."
"I'll take you to A. & E. at St Göran's."
"What happened?" Berger said. "And who are you?"
"I'm sorry," Blomkvist said. "Erika, this is Inspector Monica Figuerola. She works for Säpo. Monica, this is Erika Berger."
"I worked that out all by myself," Figuerola said in a neutral tone. She did not spare Berger a glance.
"Monica and I met during the investigation. She's my contact at S. I. S."
"I understand," Berger said, and she began to shake as suddenly the shock set in.
Figuerola stared hard at Berger.
"What went wrong?" Blomkvist said.
"We misinterpreted the reason for the cocaine," Figuerola said. "We thought they were setting a trap for you, to create a scandal. Now we know they wanted to kill you. They were going to let the police find the cocaine when they went through your apartment."
"What cocaine?" Berger said.
Blomkvist closed his eyes for a moment.
"Take me to St Göran's," he said.
"Arrested?" Clinton barked. He felt a butterfly-light pressure around his heart.
"We think it's alright," Nyström said. "It seems to have been sheer bad luck."
"Bad luck?"
"Miro Nikolich was wanted on some old assault story. A policeman from the gangs unit happened to recognize him when he went into Samir's Cauldron and wanted to arrest him. Nikolich panicked and tried to shoot his way out."
"And Blomkvist?"
"He wasn't involved. We don't even know if he was in the restaurant at the time."
"This cannot be fucking true," Clinton said. "What do the Nikolich brothers know?"
"About us? Nothing. They think Björck and Blomkvist were both hits that had to do with trafficking."
"But they know that Blomkvist was the target?"
"Sure, but they're hardly going to start blabbing about being hired to do a hit. They'll keep their mouths shut all the way to district court. They'll do time for possession of illegal weapons and, as like as not, for resisting arrest."
"Those damned fuck-ups," Clinton said.
"Well, they seriously screwed up. We've had to let Blomkvist give us the slip for the moment, but no harm was actually done."
It was 11.00 by the time Linder and two hefty bodyguards from Milton Security's personal protection unit collected Blomkvist and Berger from Kungsholmen.
"You really do get around," Linder said.
"Sorry," Berger said gloomily.
Berger had been in a state of shock as they drove to St Göran's. It had dawned on her all of a sudden that both she and Blomkvist had very nearly been killed.
Blomkvist had spent an hour in A. & E. having his head X-rayed and his face bandaged. His left middle finger was put in a splint. The end joint of his finger was badly bruised and he would lose the fingernail. Ironically the main injury was caused when Andersson came to his rescue and pulled Nikolich off him. Blomkvist's middle finger had been caught in the trigger guard of the M/45 and had snapped straight across. It hurt a lot but was hardly life-threatening.
For Blomkvist the shock did not set in until two hours later, when he had arrived at Constitutional Protection at S. I. S. and reported to Inspector Bublanski and Prosecutor Gustavsson. He began to shiver and felt so tired that he almost fell asleep between questions. At that point a certain amount of palavering ensued.
"We don't know what they're planning and we have no idea whether Mikael was the only intended victim," Figuerola said. "Or whether Erika here was supposed to die too. We don't know if they will try again or if anyone else at Millennium is being targeted. And why not kill Salander? After all, she's the truly serious threat to the Section."
"I've already rung my colleagues at Millennium while Mikael was being patched up," Berger said. "Everyone's going to lie extremely low until the magazine comes out. The office will be left unstaffed."
Edklinth's immediate reaction had been to order bodyguard protection for Blomkvist and Berger. But on reflection he and Figuerola decided that it would not be the smartest move to contact
S. I. S.'s Personal Protection unit. Berger solved the problem by declining police protection. She called Armansky to explain what had happened, which was why, later that night, Linder was called in for duty.
Blomkvist and Berger were lodged on the top floor of a safe house just beyond Drottningholm on the road to Ekerö. It was a large '30s villa overlooking Lake Mälaren. It had an impressive garden, outbuildings and extensive grounds. The estate was owned by Milton Security, but Martina Sjögren lived there. She was the widow of their colleague of many years, Hans Sjögren, who had died in an accident on assignment fifteen years earlier. After the funeral, Armansky had talked with Fru Sjögren and then hired her as housekeeper and general caretaker of the property. She lived rent-free in a wing of the ground floor and kept the top floor ready for those occasions, a few times each year, when Milton Security at short notice needed to hide away individuals who for real or imagined reasons feared for their safety.
Figuerola went with them. She sank on to a chair in the kitchen and allowed Fru Sjögren to serve her coffee, while Berger and Blomkvist installed themselves upstairs and Linder checked the alarm and electronic surveillance equipment around the property.
"There are toothbrushes and so on in the chest of drawers outside the bathroom," Sjögren called up the stairs.
Linder and Milton's bodyguards installed themselves in rooms on the ground floor.
"I've been on the go ever since I was woken at 4.00," Linder said. "You can put together a watch rota, but let me sleep till at least 5.00."
"You can sleep all night. We'll take care of this," one of the bodyguards said.
"Thanks," Linder said, and she went straight to bed.
Figuerola listened absent-mindedly as the bodyguards switched on the motion detector in the courtyard and drew straws to see who would take the first watch. The one who lost made himself a sandwich and went into the T. V. room next to the kitchen. Figuerola studied the flowery coffee cups. She too had been on the go since early morning and was feeling fairly exhausted. She was just thinking about driving home when Berger came downstairs and poured herself a cup of coffee. She sat down opposite Figuerola.
"Mikael went out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow."
"Reaction to the adrenaline," Figuerola said.
"What happens now?"
"You'll have to lie low for a few days. Within a week this will all be over, whichever way it ends. How are you feeling?"
"So-so. A bit shaky still. It's not every day something like this happens. I just called my husband to explain why I wouldn't be coming home."
"Hmm."
"I'm married to-"
"I know who you're married to."
Silence. Figuerola rubbed her eyes and yawned.
"I have to go home and get some sleep," she said.
"Oh, for God's sake, stop talking rubbish and go and lie down with Mikael," Berger said.
Figuerola looked at her.
"Is it that obvious?" she said.
Berger nodded.
"Did Mikael say anything-"
"Not a word. He's generally rather discreet when it comes to his lady friends. But sometimes he's an open book. And you're clearly hostile every time you even look at me. The pair of you obviously have something to hide."
"It's my boss," Figuerola said.
"Where does he come into it?"
"He'd fly off the handle if he knew that Mikael and I were-"
"I can quite see that."
Silence.
"I don't know what's going on between you two, but I'm not your rival," Berger said.
"You're not?"
"Mikael and I sleep together now and then. But I'm not married to him."
"I heard that you two had a special relationship. He told me about you when we were out at Sandhamn."
"So you've been to Sandhamn? Then it is serious."
"Don't make fun of me."
"Monica, I hope that you and Mikael... I'll try to stay out of your way."
"And if you can't?"
Berger shrugged. "His ex-wife flipped out big time when Mikael was unfaithful with me. She threw him out. It was my fault. As long as Mikael is single and available, I would have no compunction. But I promised myself that if he was ever serious about someone, then I'd keep my distance."
"I don't know if I dare count on him."
"Mikael is special. Are you in love with him?"
"I think so."
"Alright, then. Just don't tell him too soon. Now go to bed."
Figuerola thought about it for a moment. Then she went upstairs, undressed and crawled into bed next to Blomkvist. He mumbled something and put his arm around her waist.
Berger sat alone in the kitchen for a long time. She felt deeply unhappy.
CHAPTER 25
Wednesday, 13.vii - Thursday, 14.vii
Blomkvist had always wondered why the loudspeakers in the district court were so faint, discreet almost. He could hardly make out the words of the announcement that the trial vs Lisbeth Salander would begin in courtroom 5 at 10.00. But he had arrived in plenty of time and positioned himself to wait right by the entrance to the courtroom. He was one of the first to be let in. He chose a seat in the public gallery on the left-hand side of the room, where he would have the best view of the defence table. The seats filled up fast. Media interest had steadily increased in the weeks leading up to the trial, and over the past week Prosecutor Ekström had been interviewed daily.
Lisbeth Salander was charged with assault and grievous bodily harm in the case of Carl-Magnus Lundin; with unlawful threats, attempted murder and grievous bodily harm in the case of Karl Axel Bodin, alias Alexander Zalachenko, now deceased; with two counts of breaking and entering - the first at the summer cabin of the deceased lawyer Nils Erik Bjurman in Stallarholmen, the second at Bjurman's home on Odenplan; with the theft of a vehicle - a Harley-Davidson owned by one Sonny Nieminen of Svavelsjö M.C.; with three counts of possession of illegal weapons - a canister of Mace, a taser and a Polish P-83 Wanad, all found in Gosseberga; with the theft of or withholding of evidence - the formulation was imprecise but it referred to the documentation she had found in Bjurman's summer cabin; and with a number of further misdemeanours. In all, sixteen charges had been filed against Lisbeth Salander.
Ekström had been busy.
He had also leaked information indicating that Salander's mental state was cause for alarm. He cited first the forensic psychiatric report by Dr Jesper H. Löderman that had been compiled at the time of her eighteenth birthday, and second, a report which, in accordance with a decision by the district court at a preliminary hearing, had been written by Dr Peter Teleborian. Since the mentally ill girl had, true to form, refused categorically to speak to psychiatrists, the analysis was made on the basis of "observations" carried out while she was detained at Kronoberg prison in Stockholm during the month before her trial. Teleborian, who had many years of experience with the patient, had determined that Salander was suffering from a serious mental disturbance and employed words such as psychopathy, pathological narcissism, paranoid schizophrenia, and similar.
The press had also reported that seven police interviews had been conducted with Salander. At each of these interviews the defendant had declined even to say good morning to those who were leading the interrogation. The first few interviews had been conducted by the Göteborg police, the remainder had taken place at police headquarters in Stockholm. The tape recordings of the interview protocol revealed that the police had used every means of persuasion and repeated questioning, but had not received the favour of a single reply.
She had not even bothered to clear her throat.
Occasionally Advokat Giannini's voice could be heard on the tapes, at such points as she realized that her client evidently was not going to answer any questions. The charges against Salander were accordingly based exclusively on forensic evidence and on whatever facts the police investigation had been able to determine.
Salander's silence had at times placed her defence lawyer in an awkward position, since she was compelled to be almost as silent as her client. What Giannini and Salander discussed in private was confidential.
Ekström made no secret of the fact that his primary objective was secure psychiatric care for the defendant; of secondary interest to him was a substantial prison sentence. The normal process was the reverse, but he believed that in her case there were such transparent mental disturbances and such an unequivocal forensic psychiatric assessment that he was left with no alternative. It was highly unusual for a court to decide against a forensic psychiatric assessment.
He also believed that Salander's declaration of incompetence should be rescinded. In an interview he had explained with a concerned expression that in Sweden there were a number of sociopaths with such grave mental disturbances that they presented a danger to themselves as well as to others, and modern medicine could offer no alternative to keeping these individuals safely locked up. He cited the case of a violent girl, Anette, who in the '70s had been a frequent focus of attention in the media, and who thirty years on was still in a secure psychiatric institution. Every endeavour to ease the restrictions had resulted in her launching reckless and violent attacks on relatives and carers, or in attempts to injure herself. Ekström was of the view that Salander suffered from a similar form of psychopathic disturbance.
Media interest had also increased for the simple reason that Salander's defence lawyer, Advokat Giannini, had made not a single statement to the press. She had refused all requests to be interviewed so that the media were, as they many times put it, "unable to have an opportunity to
present the views of the other side of the case". Journalists were therefore in a difficult situation: the prosecution kept on shovelling out information while the defence, uncharacteristically, gave not the slightest hint of Salander's reaction to the charges against her, nor of what strategy the defence might employ.
This state of affairs was commented on by the legal expert engaged to follow the trial in one of the evening newspapers. The expert had stated in his column that Advokat Giannini was a respected women's rights lawyer, but that she had absolutely no experience in criminal law outside this case. He concluded that she was unsuitable for the purpose of defending Salander. From his sister Blomkvist had also learned that several distinguished lawyers had offered their services. Giannini had, on behalf of her client, courteously turned down every such proposal.
As he waited for the trial to begin, Blomkvist glanced around at the other spectators. He caught sight of Armansky sitting near the exit and their eyes met for a moment.
Ekström had a large stack of papers on his table. He greeted several journalists.
Giannini sat at her table opposite Ekström. She had her head down and was sorting through her papers. Blomkvist thought that his sister looked a bit tense. Stage fright, he supposed.
Then the judge, assessor and lay assessors entered the courtroom. Judge Jörgen Iversen was a white-haired, 57-year-old man with a gaunt face and a spring in his step. Blomkvist had researched Iversen's background and found that he was an exacting judge of long experience who had presided over many high-profile cases.
Finally Salander was brought into the courtroom.
Even though Blomkvist was used to Salander's penchant for shocking clothing, he was amazed that his sister had allowed her to turn up to the courtroom in a black leather miniskirt with frayed seams and a black top - with the legend I am annoyed - which barely covered her many tattoos. She had ten piercings in her ears and rings through her lower lip and left eyebrow. Her head was covered in three months' worth of uneven stubble after her surgery. She wore grey lipstick and heavily darkened eyebrows, and had applied more black mascara than Blomkvist had ever seen her wear. In the days when he and Salander had spent time together, she had shown almost no interest in make-up.
She looked a bit vulgar, to put it mildly. It was almost a Goth look. She reminded him of a vampire in some pop-art movie from the '60s. Blomkvist was aware of some of the reporters in the press gallery catching their breath in astonishment or smiling broadly. They were at last getting a look at the scandal-ridden young woman they had written so much about, and she was certainly living up to all their expectations.
Then he realized that Salander was in costume. Usually her style was sloppy and rather tasteless. Blomkvist had assumed that she was not really interested in fashion, but that she tried instead to accentuate her own individuality. Salander always seemed to mark her private space as hostile territory, and he had thought of the rivets in her leather jacket as a defence mechanism, like the quills of a hedgehog. To everyone around her it was as good a signal as any: Don't try to touch me - it will hurt.
But here in the district court she had exaggerated her style to the point of parody.
It was no accident, it was part of Giannini's strategy.
If Salander had come in with her hair smoothed down and wearing a twin-set and pearls and sensible shoes, she would have came across as a con artist trying to sell a story to the court. It was a question of credibility. She had come as herself and no-one else. Way over the top - for clarity. She was not pretending to be someone she was not. Her message to the court was that she had no reason to be ashamed or to put on a show. If the court had a problem with her appearance, it was no concern of hers. The state had accused her of a multitude of things, and the prosecutor had dragged her into court. With her very appearance she had already indicated that she intended to brush aside the prosecutor's accusations as nonsense.
She moved with confidence and sat down next to her lawyer. She surveyed the spectators. There was no curiosity in her gaze. She seemed instead defiantly to be observing and registering those who had already convicted her in the press.
It was the first time Blomkvist had seen her since she lay like a bloody rag doll on the bench in that kitchen in Gosseberga, and a year and a half or more since he had last seen her under normal circumstances. If the term "normal circumstances" could ever be used in connection with Salander. For a matter of seconds their eyes met. Hers lingered on him, but she betrayed no sign of recognition. Yet she did seem to study the bruises that covered Blomkvist's cheek and temple and the surgical tape over his right eyebrow. Blomkvist thought he discerned the merest hint of a smile in her eyes but could not be sure he had not imagined it. Then Judge Iversen pounded his gavel and called the court to order.
The spectators were allowed to be present in the courtroom for all of thirty minutes. They listened to Ekström's introductory presentation of the case.
Every reporter except Blomkvist was busily taking notes even though by now all of them knew the charges Ekström intended to bring. Blomkvist had already written his story.
Ekström's introductory remarks went on for twenty-two minutes. Then it was Giannini's turn. Her presentation took thirty seconds. Her voice was firm.
"The defence rejects all the charges brought against her except one. My client admits to possession of an illegal weapon, that is, one spray canister of Mace. To all other counts, my client pleads not guilty of criminal intent. We will show that the prosecutor's assertions are flawed and that my client has been subjected to grievous encroachment of her civil rights. I will demand that my client be acquitted of all charges, that her declaration of incompetence be revoked, and that she be released."
There was a murmuring from the press gallery. Advokat Giannini's strategy had at last been revealed. It was obviously not what the reporters had been expecting. Most had speculated that Giannini would in some way exploit her client's mental illness to her advantage. Blomkvist smiled.
"I see," Judge Iversen said, making a swift note. He looked at Giannini. "Are you finished?"
"That is my presentation."
"Does the prosecutor have anything to add?" Judge Iversen said.
It was at this point that Ekström requested a private meeting in the judge's chambers. There he argued that the case hinged upon one vulnerable individual's mental state and welfare, and that it also involved matters which, if explored before the public in court, could be detrimental to national security.
"I assume that you are referring to what may be termed the Zalachenko affair," Judge Iversen said.
"That is correct. Alexander Zalachenko came to Sweden as a political refugee and sought asylum from a terrible dictatorship. There are elements in the handling of his situation, personal connections and the like, that are still classified, even though Herr Zalachenko is now deceased. I therefore request that the deliberations be held behind closed doors and that a rule of confidentiality be applied to those sections of the deliberations that are particularly sensitive."
"I believe I understand your point," Judge Iversen said, knitting his brows.
"In addition, a large part of the deliberations will deal with the defendant's guardianship. This touches on matters which in all normal cases become classified almost automatically, and it is out of respect for the defendant that I am requesting a closed court."
"How does Advokat Giannini respond to the prosecutor's request?"
"For our part it makes no difference."
Judge Iversen consulted his assessor and then announced, to the annoyance of the reporters present, that he had accepted the prosecutor's request. So Blomkvist left the courtroom.
Armansky waited for Blomkvist at the bottom of the stairs in the courthouse. It was sweltering in the July heat and Blomkvist could feel sweat in his armpits. His two bodyguards joined him as he emerged from the courthouse. Both nodded to Armansky and then they busied themselves studying the surroundings.
"It feels strange to be walking around with bodyguards," Blomkvist said. "What's all this going to cost?"
"It's on the firm. I have a personal interest in keeping you alive. But, since you ask, we've spent roughly 250,000 kronor on pro bono work in the past few months."
"Coffee?" Blomkvist said, pointing to the Italian café on Bergsgatan.
Blomkvist ordered a latte and Armansky a double espresso with a teaspoon of milk. They sat in the shade on the pavement outside. The bodyguards sat at the next table drinking Cokes.
"Closed court," Armansky said.
"That was expected. And it's O.K., since it means that we can control the news flow better."
"You're right, it doesn't matter to us, but my opinion of Prosecutor Ekström is sinking fast," Armansky said.
They drank their coffee and contemplated the courthouse in which Salander's future would be decided.
"Custer's last stand," Blomkvist said.
"She's well prepared," Armansky said. "And I must say I'm impressed with your sister. When she began planning her strategy I thought it made no sense, but the more I think about it, the more effective it seems."
"This trial won't be decided in there," Blomkvist said. He had been repeating these words like a mantra for several months.
"You're going to be called as a witness," Armansky said.
"I know. I'm ready. But it won't happen before the day after tomorrow. At least that's what we're counting on."
Ekström had left his reading glasses at home and had to push his glasses up on to his forehead and squint to be able to read the last-minute handwritten additions to his text. He stroked his blond goatee before once more he readjusted his glasses and surveyed the room.
Salander sat with her back ramrod straight and gave the prosecutor an unfathomable look. Her face and eyes were impassive and she did not appear to be wholly present. It was time for the prosecutor to begin questioning her.
"I would like to remind Fröken Salander that she is speaking under oath," Ekström said at last.
Salander did not move a muscle. Prosecutor Ekström seemed to be anticipating some sort of response and waited for a few seconds. He looked at her expectantly.
"You are speaking under oath," he said.
Salander tilted her head very slightly. Giannini was busy reading something in the preliminary investigation protocol and seemed unconcerned by whatever Prosecutor Ekström was saying. Ekström shuffled his papers. After an uncomfortable silence he cleared his throat.
"Very well then," Ekström said. "Let us proceed directly to the events at the late Advokat Bjurman's summer cabin outside Stallarholmen on April 6 of this year, which was the starting point of my presentation of the case this morning. We shall attempt to bring clarity to how it happened that you drove down to Stallarholmen and shot Carl-Magnus Lundin."
Ekström gave Salander a challenging look. Still she did not move a muscle. The prosecutor suddenly seemed resigned. He threw up his hands and looked pleadingly at the judge. Judge Iversen seemed wary. He glanced at Giannini who was still engrossed in some papers, apparently unaware of her surroundings.
Judge Iversen cleared his throat. He looked at Salander. "Are we to interpret your silence to mean that you don't want to answer any questions?" he asked.
Salander turned her head and met Judge Iversen's eyes.
"I will gladly answer questions," she said.
Judge Iversen nodded.
"Then perhaps you can answer the question," Ekström put in.
Salander looked at Ekström and said nothing.
"Could you please answer the question?" Judge Iversen urged her.
Salander looked back at the judge and raised her eyebrows. Her voice was clear and distinct.
"Which question? Until now that man there" - she nodded towards Ekström - "has made a number of unverified statements. I haven't yet heard a question."
Giannini looked up. She propped her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand with an interested expression.
Ekström lost his train of thought for few seconds.
"Could you please repeat the question?" Judge Iversen said.
"I asked whether... you drove down to Advokat Bjurman's summer cabin in Stallarholmen with the intention of shooting Carl-Magnus Lundin."
"No. You said that you were going to try to bring clarity to how it happened that I drove down to Stallarholmen and shot Carl-Magnus Lundin. That was not a question. It was a general assertion in which you anticipated my answer. I'm not responsible for the assertions you are making."
"Don't quibble. Answer the question."
"No."
Silence.
"No what?"
"No is my answer to the question."
Prosecutor Ekström sighed. This was going to be a long day. Salander watched him expectantly.
"It might be best to take this from the beginning," he said. "Were you at the late Advokat Bjurman's summer cabin in Stallarholmen on the afternoon of April 6 this year?"
"Yes."
"How did you get there?"
"I went by shuttle train to Södertälje and took the Strängnäs bus."
"What was your reason for going to Stallarholmen? Had you arranged a meeting there with Carl-Magnus Lundin and his friend Sonny Nieminen?"
"No."
"How was it that they showed up there?"
"You'll have to ask them that."
"I'm asking you."
Salander did not reply.
Judge Iversen cleared his throat. "I presume that Fröken Salander is not answering because - purely semantically - you have once again made an assertion," the judge said helpfully.
Giannini suddenly sniggered just loud enough to be heard. She pulled herself together at once and studied her papers again. Ekström gave her an irritated glance.
"Why do you think Lundin and Nieminen went to Bjurman's summer cabin?"
"I don't know. I suspect that they went there to commit arson. Lundin had a litre of petrol in a plastic bottle in the saddlebag of his Harley-Davidson."
Ekström pursed his lips. "Why did you go to Advokat Bjurman's summer cabin?"
"I was looking for information."
"What sort of information?"
"The information that I suspect Lundin and Nieminen were there to destroy, and which could contribute to clarifying who murdered the bastard."
"Is it your opinion that Advokat Bjurman was a bastard? Is that correctly construed?"
"Yes."
"And why do you think that?"
"He was a sadistic pig, a pervert, and a rapist - and therefore a bastard."
She was quoting the text that had been tattooed on the late Advokat Bjurman's stomach and thus indirectly admitting that she was responsible for it. This affray, however, was not included in the charges against Salander. Bjurman had never filed a report of assault, and it would be impossible now to prove whether he had allowed himself to be tattooed or whether it had been done against his will.
"In other words, you are alleging that your guardian forced himself on you. Can you tell the court when these assaults are supposed to have taken place?"
"They took place on Tuesday, February 18, 2003 and again on Friday, March 7 of the same year."
"You have refused to answer every question asked by the police in their attempts to interview you. Why?"
"I had nothing to say to them."
"I have read the so-called 'autobiography' that your lawyer delivered without warning a few days ago. I must say it is a strange document, and we'll come back to it in more detail later. But in it you claim that Advokat Bjurman allegedly forced you to perform oral sex on the first occasion, and on the second subjected you to an entire night of repeated and consummated rape and severe torture."
Lisbeth did not reply.
"Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Did you report the rapes to the police?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"The police never listened before when I tried to tell them something. So there seemed no point in reporting anything to them then."
"Did you discuss these assaults with any of your acquaintances? A girlfriend?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's none of their business."
"Did you try to contact a lawyer?"
"No."
"Did you go to a doctor to be treated for the injuries you claim to have sustained?"
"No."
"And you didn't go to any women's crisis centre either."
"Now you're making an assertion again."
"Excuse me. Did you go to any women's crisis centre?"
"No."
Ekström turned to the judge. "I want to make the court aware that the defendant has stated that she was subjected to sexual assaults on two occasions, the second of which should be considered exceptionally severe. The person she claims committed these rapes was her guardian, the late Advokat Nils Bjurman. The following facts should be taken into account at this juncture..." Ekström pointed at the text in front of him. "In the investigation carried out by the Violent Crimes Division, there was nothing in Advokat Bjurman's past to support the credibility of Lisbeth Salander's account. Bjurman was never convicted of any crime. He has never been reported to the police or been the subject of an investigation. He had previously been a guardian or trustee to several other young people, none of whom have claimed that they were subjected to any sort of attack. On the contrary, they assert that Bjurman invariably behaved correctly and kindly towards them."
Ekström turned a page.
"It is also my duty to remind the court that Lisbeth Salander has been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. This is a young woman with a documented violent tendency, who since her early teens has had serious problems in her interactions with society. She spent several years in a children's psychiatric institution and has been under guardianship since the age of eighteen. However regrettable this may be, there are reasons for it. Lisbeth Salander is a danger to herself and to those around her. It is my conviction that she does not need a prison sentence. She needs psychiatric care."
He paused for effect.
"Discussing a young person's mental state is an innately disagreeable task. So much is an invasion of privacy, and her mental state becomes the subject of interpretation. In this case, however, we have Lisbeth Salander's own confused world view on which to base our decision. It becomes manifestly clear in what she has termed her 'autobiography'. Nowhere is her want of a foothold in reality as evident as it is here. In this instance we need no witnesses or interpretations to invariably contradict one another. We have her own words. We can judge for ourselves the credibility of her assertions."
His gaze fell on Salander. Their eyes met. She smiled. She looked malicious. Ekström frowned.
"Does Advokat Giannini have anything to say?" Judge Iversen said.
"No," Giannini said. "Other than that Prosecutor Ekström's conclusions are nonsensical."
The afternoon session began with the cross-questioning of witnesses. The first was Ulrika von Liebenstaahl from the guardianship agency. Ekström had called her to the stand to establish whether complaints had ever been lodged against Advokat Bjurman. This was strongly denied by von Liebenstaahl. Such assertions were defamatory.
"There exists a rigorous supervision of guardianship cases. Advokat Bjurman had been active on behalf of the guardianship agency for almost twenty years before he was so shockingly murdered."
She gave Salander a withering look, despite the fact that Salander was not accused of murder; it had already been established that Bjurman was murdered by Ronald Niedermann.
"In all these years there has not been a single complaint against Advokat Bjurman. He was a conscientious person who evidenced a deep commitment to his wards."
"So you don't think it's plausible that he would have subjected Lisbeth Salander to aggravated sexual assault?"
"I think that statement is ridiculous. We have monthly reports from Advokat Bjurman, and I personally met him on several occasions to go over the assignment."
"Advokat Giannini has presented a request that Lisbeth Salander's guardianship be rescinded, effective immediately."
"No-one is happier than we who work at the agency when a guardianship can be rescinded. Unfortunately we have a responsibility, which means that we have to follow the appropriate regulations. For the agency's part, we are required in accordance with normal protocol to see to it that Lisbeth Salander is declared fit by a psychiatric expert before there can be any talk of changes to her legal status."
"I understand."
"This means that she has to submit to a psychiatric examination. Which, as everyone knows, she has refused to do."
The questioning of Ulrika von Liebenstaahl lasted for about forty minutes, during which time Bjurman's monthly reports were examined.
Giannini asked only one question before Ulrika von Liebenstaahl was dismissed.
"Were you in Advokat Bjurman's bedroom on the night of 7 to 8 March, 2003?"
"Of course not."
"In other words, you haven't the faintest idea whether my client's statement is true or not?"
"The accusation against Advokat Bjurman is preposterous."
"That is your opinion. Can you give him an alibi or in any other way document that he did not assault my client?"
"That's impossible, naturally. But the probability-"
"Thank you. That will be all," Giannini said.
Blomkvist met his sister at Milton's offices near Slussen at around 7.00 to go through the day's proceedings.
"It was pretty much as expected," Giannini said. "Ekström has bought Salander's autobiography."
"Good. How's she holding up?"
Giannini laughed.
"She's holding up very well, coming across as a complete psychopath. She's merely being herself."
"Wonderful."
"Today has mostly been about what happened at the cabin in Stallarholmen. Tomorrow it'll be about Gosseberga, interrogations of people from forensics and so forth. Ekström is going to try to prove that Salander went down there intending to murder her father."
"Well..."
"But we may have a technical problem. This afternoon Ekström called Ulrika von Liebenstaahl from the guardianship agency. She started going on about how I had no right to represent Lisbeth."
"Why so?"
"She says that Lisbeth is under guardianship and therefore isn't entitled to choose her own lawyer. So, technically, I may not be her lawyer if the guardianship agency hasn't rubber-stamped it."
"And?"
"Judge Iversen is to decide tomorrow morning. I had a brief word with him after today's proceedings. I think he'll decide that I can continue to represent her. My point was that the agency has had three whole months to raise the objection - to show up with that kind of objection after proceedings have started is an unwarranted provocation."
"Teleborian will testify on Friday, I gather. You have to be the one who cross-examines him."
On Thursday Prosecutor Ekström explained to the court that after studying maps and photographs and listening to extensive technical conclusions about what had taken place in Gosseberga, he had determined that the evidence indicated that Salander had gone to her father's farmhouse at Gosseberga with the intention of killing him. The strongest link in the chain of evidence was that she had taken a weapon with her, a Polish P-83 Wanad.
The fact that Alexander Zalachenko (according to Salander's account) or possibly the police murderer Ronald Niedermann (according to testimony that Zalachenko had given before he was murdered at Sahlgrenska) had in turn attempted to kill Salander and bury her in a trench in woods nearby could in no way be held in mitigation of the fact that she had tracked down her father to Gosseberga with the express intention of killing him. Moreover, she had all but succeeded in that objective when she struck him in the face with an axe. Ekström demanded that Salander be convicted of attempted murder or premeditation with the intent to kill and, in that case, grievous bodily harm.
Salander's own account stated that she had gone to Gosseberga to confront her father, to persuade him to confess to the murders of Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson. This statement was of dramatic significance in the matter of establishing intent.
When Ekström had finished questioning the witness Melker Hansson from the technical unit of the Göteborg police, Advokat Giannini had asked some succinct questions.
"Herr Hansson, is there anything at all in your investigation or in all the technical documentation that you have compiled which could in any way establish that Lisbeth Salander is lying about her intent regarding the visit to Gosseberga? Can you prove that she went there with the intention of murdering her father?"
Hansson thought for a moment.
"No," he said at last.
"Do you have anything to say about her intent?"
"No."
"Prosecutor Ekström's conclusion, eloquent and extensive as it is, is therefore speculation?"
"I believe so."
"Is there anything in the forensic evidence that contradicts Lisbeth Salander's statement that she took with her the Polish weapon, a P-83 Wanad, by chance simply because it was in her bag, and she didn't know what she should do with the weapon having taken it the day before from Sonny Nieminen in Stallarholmen?"
"No."
"Thank you," Giannini said and sat down. Those were her only words throughout Hansson's testimony, which had lasted one hour.
Wadensjöö left the Section's apartment on Artillerigatan at 6.00 on Thursday evening with a feeling that he was hedged about by ominous clouds of turmoil, of imminent ruin. For several weeks he had known that his title as director, that is, the chief of the Section for Special Analysis, was but a meaningless label. His opinions, protests and entreaties carried no weight. Clinton had taken over all decision-making. If the Section had been an open and public institution, this would not have been a problem - he would merely have gone to his superior and lodged his protests.
As things stood now, there was no-one he could protest to. He was alone and subject to the mercy or disfavour of a man whom he regarded as insane. And the worst of it was that Clinton's authority was absolute. Snot-nosed kids like Sandberg and faithful retainers like Nyström... they all seemed to jump into line at once and obey the fatally ill lunatic's every whim.
No question that Clinton was a soft-spoken authority who was not working for his own gain. He would even acknowledge that Clinton was working in the best interests of the Section, or at least in what he regarded as its best interests. The whole organization seemed to be in free fall, indulging
in a collective fantasy in which experienced colleagues refused to admit that every movement they made, every decision that was taken and implemented, only led them one step closer to the abyss.
Wadensjöö felt a pressure in his chest as he turned on to Linnégatan, where he had found a parking spot earlier that day. He disabled the alarm and was about to open the car door when he heard a movement behind him. He turned around, squinting against the sun. It was a few seconds before he recognized the stately man on the pavement before him.
"Good evening, Herr Wadensjöö," Edklinth said. "I haven't been out in the field in ten years, but today I felt that my presence might be appropriate."
Wadensjöö looked in confusion at the two plain-clothes policemen flanking Edklinth. Bublanski he knew, but not the other man.
Suddenly he guessed what was going to happen.
"It is my unenviable duty to inform you that the Prosecutor General has decided that you are to be arrested for such a long string of crimes that it will surely take weeks to compile a comprehensive catalogue of them."
"What's going on here?" Wadensjöö said indignantly.
"What is going on at this moment is that you are being arrested, suspected of being an accessory to murder. You are also suspected of extortion, bribery, illegal telephone tapping, several counts of criminal forgery, criminal embezzlement of funds, participation in breaking and entering, misuse of authority, espionage and a long list of other lesser but that's not to say insignificant offences. The two of us are going to Kungsholmen to have a very serious talk in peace and quiet."
"I haven't committed murder," Wadensjöö said breathlessly.
"That will have to be established by the investigation."
"It was Clinton. It was always Clinton," Wadensjöö said.
Edklinth nodded in satisfaction.
Every police officer knows that there are two classic ways to conduct the interrogation of a suspect. The bad cop and the good cop. The bad cop threatens, swears, slams his fist on the table and generally behaves aggressively with the intent of scaring the suspect into submission and confession. The good cop, often a small, grey-haired, elderly man, offers cigarettes and coffee, nods sympathetically, and speaks in a reasonable tone.
Many policemen - though not all - also know that the good cop's interrogation technique is by far a superior way of getting results. The tough-as-nails veteran thief will be least impressed by the bad cop. And the uncertain amateur, who might be frightened into a confession by a bad cop, would in all likelihood have confessed everything anyway, regardless of the technique used.
Blomkvist listened to the questioning of Birger Wadensjöö from an adjoining room. His presence had been the topic of a good deal of internal argument before Edklinth decided that he would probably have use for Blomkvist's observation.
Blomkvist noticed that Edklinth was using a third variant on the police interrogator, the uninterested cop, which in this particular case seemed to be working even better. Edklinth strolled into the interrogation room, served coffee in china cups, turned on the tape recorder and leaned back in his chair.
"This is how it is: we already have every conceivable forensic evidence against you. We have, accordingly, no interest whatsoever in hearing your story save as confirmation of what we already know. But the question we might want an answer to is: why? Or how could you be so idiotic as to decide to begin liquidating individuals in Sweden just as we saw happen in Chile under the Pinochet dictatorship? The tape is rolling. If you have anything to say, now is the time. If you don't want to talk, I'll turn off the tape recorder and then we'll remove your tie and shoelaces and accommodate you in a cell upstairs while we wait for a lawyer, a trial, and in due course, sentencing."
Edklinth then took a sip of coffee and sat in silence. When nothing was said for two minutes, he reached out and turned off the tape recorder. He stood up.
"I'll see that you're taken upstairs in a few minutes. Good evening."
"I didn't murder anyone," Wadensjöö said when Edklinth had already opened the door. Edklinth paused on the threshold.
"I'm not interested in having a general discussion with you. If you want to explain yourself, then I'll sit down and turn the tape recorder back on. All of Swedish officialdom - and the Prime Minister in particular - is eagerly waiting to hear what you have to say. If you tell me, then I can go and see the Prime Minister tonight to give him your version of events. If you don't tell me, you will be charged and convicted anyway."
"Please sit down," Wadensjöö said.
It was evident to everyone that he was resigned to it already. Blomkvist exhaled. He was there with Figuerola, Prosecutor Gustavsson, the otherwise anonymous Säpo officer Stefan, and two other altogether nameless individuals. Blomkvist suspected that one of them at least was there to represent the Minister of Justice.
"I had nothing to do with the murders," Wadensjöö said when Edklinth started the tape recorder again.
"Murders?" Blomkvist whispered to Figuerola.
"Ssshh," she said.
"It was Clinton and Gullberg. I had no idea what they intended. I swear it. I was utterly shocked when I heard that Gullberg had shot Zalachenko. I couldn't believe it... I simply couldn't believe it. And when I heard about Björck I thought I was going to have a heart attack."
"Tell me about Björck's murder," Edklinth said without altering his tone. "How was it carried out?"
"Clinton hired some people. I don't even know how it happened, but it was two Yugoslavs. Serbs, if I'm not mistaken. Georg Nyström gave them the contract and paid them afterwards. When I found out, I knew it would end in disaster."
"Should we take this from the beginning?" Edklinth said. "When did you first start working for the Section?"
Once Wadensjöö had begun to talk he could not be stopped. The interview lasted for almost five hours.
CHAPTER 26
Friday, 15.vii
Teleborian's appearance inspired confidence as he sat in the witness box in the courtroom on Friday morning. He was questioned by Prosecutor Ekström for some ninety minutes and he replied with calm authority to every question. The expression on his face was sometimes concerned and sometimes amused.
"To sum up..." Ekström said, leafing through his sheaf of papers. "It is your judgement as a psychiatrist of long standing that Lisbeth Salander suffers from paranoid schizophrenia?"
"I have said that it is unusually difficult to make a precise evaluation of her condition. The patient is, as you know, almost autistic in her relation to doctors and other figures of authority. My assessment is that she suffers from a serious mental disorder, but that at the present time I cannot give an exact diagnosis. Nor can I determine what stage of the psychosis she is in without more extensive study."
"At any rate, you don't consider her to be sane."
"Indeed her entire history presents most compelling proof that she is not sane."
"You have been allowed to read what Lisbeth Salander has termed her 'autobiography', which she has presented to the district court. What are your comments on this?"
Teleborian threw up his hands and shrugged.
"How would you judge the credibility of her account?"
"There is no credibility. It is a series of assertions about various individuals, one story more fantastical than the other. Taken as a whole, her written explanation confirms our suspicions that she suffers from paranoid schizophrenia."
"Could you give an instance?"
"The most obvious is of course the description of the alleged rape by her guardian Advokat Bjurman."
"Could you expand on that?"
"The description is extremely detailed. It is a classic example of the sort of grotesque fantasy that children are capable of. There are plenty of parallel examples from familial incest cases in which the child gives an account which falls through due to its utter improbability, and for which there is no forensic evidence. These are erotic fantasies which even children of a very young age can have... Almost as if they were watching a horror film on television."
"But Lisbeth Salander is not a child, she is a grown woman," Ekström said.
"That is correct. Although it remains to be seen exactly what her mental level may be. But basically you are correct. She is a grown woman, and presumably she believes in the account she has presented."
"So you're saying it is all lies."
"No. If she believes what she says, then it is not a lie. It's a story which shows that she cannot distinguish fantasy from reality."
"So she was not raped by Advokat Bjurman?"
"No. There is no likelihood of that at all. She needs expert care."
"You yourself appear in Lisbeth Salander's account-"
"Yes, and that is rather intriguing. But once again, it's a figment of her imagination. If we are to believe the poor girl, then I'm something approximate to a paedophile..." He smiled and continued. "But this is all just another expression of what I was speaking of before. In Salander's autobiography we are told that she was abused by being placed in restraints for long spells at St Stefan's. And that I came to her room at night... This is a classic manifestation of her inability to interpret reality, or rather, she is giving reality her own interpretation."
"Thank you. I leave it to the defence, if Fru Giannini has any questions."
Since Giannini had not had any questions or objections on the first two days of the trial, those in the courtroom expected that she would once again ask some obligatory questions and then bring the questioning to an end. This really is an embarrassingly deficient effort by the defence, Ekström thought.
"Yes, I do," Giannini said. "I do in fact have a number of questions, and they may take some time. It's 11.30 now. May I propose that we break for lunch, and that I be allowed to carry out my cross-examination of the witness after lunch without interval?"
Judge Iversen agreed that the court should adjourn for lunch.
*
Andersson was accompanied by two uniformed officers when he placed his huge hand on Superintendent Nyström's shoulder outside the Mäster Anders restaurant on Hantverkargatan at noon precisely. Nyström looked up in amazement at the man who was shoving his police I. D. right under his nose.
"Hello. You're under arrest, suspected of being an accessory to murder and attempted murder. The charges will be explained to you by the Prosecutor General at a hearing this afternoon. I suggest that you come along peacefully," he said.
Nyström did not seem to comprehend the language Andersson was speaking in, but he could see that he was a man you went along with without protest.
Inspector Bublanski was accompanied by Modig and seven uniformed officers when Stefan Bladh of the Constitutional Protection Unit admitted them at noon precisely into the locked section that comprised the domain of the Security Police at Kungsholmen. They walked through the corridors behind Bladh until he stopped and pointed at an office door. The chief of Secretariat's assistant looked up and was utterly perplexed when Bublanski held up his I. D.
"Kindly remain where you are. This is a police action."
He strode to the inner door. Chief of Secretariat Albert was on the telephone.
"What is this interruption?" Shenke said.
"I am Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski. You are under arrest for violation of the Swedish constitution. There is a long list of specific points in the charge, all of which will be explained to you this afternoon."
"This is outrageous," Shenke said.
"It most certainly is," Bublanski said.
He had Shenke's office sealed and then placed two officers on guard outside the door, with instructions to let no-one cross the threshold. They had permission to use their batons and even draw their service weapons if anyone tried to enter the sealed office by force.
They continued their procession down the corridor until Bladh pointed to another door, and the procedure was repeated with chief of Budget, Gustav Atterbom.
*
Inspector Holmberg had the Södermalm armed response team as backup when at exactly noon he knocked on the door of an office rented temporarily on the fourth floor just across the street from Millennium's offices on Götgatan.
Since no-one opened the door, Holmberg ordered the Södermalm police to force the lock, but the door was opened a crack before the crowbar was used.
"Police," Holmberg said. "Come out with your hands up."
"I'm a policeman myself," Inspector Mårtensson said.
"I know. And you have licences for a great many guns."
"Yes, well... I'm an officer on assignment."
"I think not," Holmberg said.
He accepted the assistance of his colleagues in propping Mårtensson against the wall so he could confiscate his service weapon.
"You are under arrest for illegal telephone tapping, gross dereliction of duty, repeated break-ins at Mikael Blomkvist's apartment on Bellmansgatan, and additional counts. Handcuff him."
Holmberg took a swift look around the room and saw that there was enough electronic equipment to furnish a recording studio. He detailed an officer to guard the premises, but told him to sit still on a chair so he would not leave any fingerprints.
As Mårtensson was being led through the front door of the building, Cortez took a series of twenty-two photographs with his Nikon. He was, of course, no professional photographer, and the quality left something to be desired. But the best images were sold the next day to an evening newspaper for an obscene sum of money.
Figuerola was the only police officer participating in the day's raids who encountered an unexpected incident. She had back-up from the Norrmalm team and three colleagues from S. I. S. when at noon she walked through the front door of the building on Artillerigatan and went up the stairs to the top-floor apartment, registered in the name of Bellona Inc.
The operation had been planned at short notice. As soon as the group was assembled outside the door of the apartment, she gave the go-ahead. Two burly officers from the Norrmalm team raised a forty-kilo steel battering ram and opened the door with two well-aimed blows. The team, equipped with bulletproof vests and assault rifles, took control of the apartment within ten seconds of the door being forced.
According to surveillance carried out at dawn that morning, five individuals identified as members of the Section had arrived at the apartment that morning. All five were apprehended and put in handcuffs.
Figuerola was wearing a protective vest. She went through the apartment, which had been the headquarters of the Section since the '60s, and flung open one door after another. She was going to need an archaeologist to sort through the reams and reams of paper that filled the rooms.
A few seconds after she entered the apartment, she opened the door to a small room towards the back and discovered that it was used for overnight stays. She found herself eye to eye with Jonas Sandberg. He had been a question mark during that morning's assignment of tasks, as the surveillance officer detailed to watch him had lost track of him the evening before. His car had been parked on Kungsholmen and he had not been home to his apartment during the night. This morning they had not expected to locate and apprehend him.
They man the place at night for security reasons. Of course. And Sandberg sleeps over after the night shift.
Sandberg had on only his underpants and seemed to be dazed with sleep. He reached for his service weapon on the bedside table, but Figuerola bent over and swept the weapon away from him on to the floor.
"Jonas Sandberg... you are under arrest as a suspect and accessory to the murders of Gunnar Björck and Alexander Zalachenko, and as an accomplice in the attempted murders of Mikael Blomkvist and Erika Berger. Now get your trousers on."
Sandberg threw a punch at Figuerola. She blocked it instinctively.
"You must be joking," she said. She took hold of his arm and twisted his wrist so hard that he was forced backwards to the floor. She flipped him over on to his stomach and put her knee in the small of his back. She handcuffed him herself. It was the first time she had used handcuffs on an assignment since she began at S. I. S.
She handed Sandberg over to one of the back-up team and continued her passage through the apartment until she opened the last door at the very back. According to the blueprints, this was a small cubbyhole looking out on to the courtyard. She stopped in the doorway and looked at the most emaciated figure she had ever seen. She did not for one second doubt that here was a person who was mortally ill.
"Fredrik Clinton, you are under arrest as an accomplice to murder, attempted murder, and for a long list of further crimes," she said. "Stay where you are in bed. We've called an ambulance to take you to Kungsholmen."
Malm was stationed immediately outside the building on Artillerigatan. Unlike Cortez, he knew how to handle his digital Nikon. He used a short telephoto lens and the pictures he took were of excellent quality.
They showed the members of the Section, one by one, being led out through the front door and down to the police cars. And finally the ambulance that arrived to pick up Clinton. His eyes were fixed on the lens as the shutter clicked. Clinton looked nervous and confused.
The photograph later won the Picture of the Year award.
CHAPTER 27
Friday, 15.vii
Judge Iversen banged his gavel at 12.30 and decreed that district court proceedings were thereby resumed. He noticed that a third person had appeared at Advokat Giannini's table. It was Holger Palmgren in a wheelchair.
"Hello, Holger," Judge Iversen said. "I haven't seen you in a courtroom in quite a while."
"Good day to you, Judge Iversen. Some cases are so complicated that these younger lawyers need a little assistance."
"I thought you had retired."
"I've been ill. But Advokat Giannini engaged me as assistant counsel in this case."
"I see."
Giannini cleared her throat.
"It is germane to the case that Advokat Palmgren was until his illness Lisbeth Salander's guardian."
"I have no intention of commenting on that matter," Judge Iversen said.
He nodded to Giannini to begin and she stood up. She had always disliked the Swedish tradition of carrying on court proceedings informally while sitting around a table, almost as though the occasion were a dinner party. She felt better when she could speak standing up.
"I think we should begin with the concluding comments from this morning. Dr Teleborian, what leads you so consistently to dismiss as untrue everything that Lisbeth Salander says?"
"Because her statements so obviously are untrue," replied Teleborian.
He was relaxed. Giannini turned to the judge.
"Judge Iverson, Dr Teleborian claims that Lisbeth Salander tells lies and that she fantasizes. The defence will now demonstrate that every word in her autobiography is true. We will present copious documentation, both visual and written, as well as the testimony of witnesses. We have now reached the point in this trial when the prosecutor has presented the principal elements of his case... We have listened and we now know the exact nature of the accusations against Lisbeth Salander."
Giannini's mouth was suddenly dry and she felt her hands shake. She took a deep breath and sipped her mineral water. Then she placed her hands in a firm grip on the back of the chair so that they would not betray her nervousness.
"From the prosecutor's presentation we may conclude that he has a great many opinions but a woeful shortage of evidence. He believes that Lisbeth Salander shot Carl-Magnus Lundin in Stallarholmen. He claims that she went to Gosseberga to kill her father. He assumes that my client is a paranoid schizophrenic and mentally ill in every sense. And he bases this assumption on information from a single source, to wit, Dr Peter Teleborian."
She paused to catch her breath and forced herself to speak slowly.
"As it now stands, the case presented by the prosecutor rests on the testimony of Dr Teleborian. If he is right, then my client would be best served by receiving the expert psychiatric care that both he and the prosecutor are seeking."
Pause.
"But if Dr Teleborian is wrong, this prosecution case must be seen in a different light. Furthermore, if he is lying, then my client is now, here in this courtroom, being subjected to a violation of her civil rights, a violation that has gone on for many years."
She turned to face Ekström.
"What we shall do this afternoon is to show that your witness is a false witness, and that you as prosecutor have been deceived into accepting these false testimonies."
Teleborian flashed a smile. He held out his hands and nodded to Giannini, as if applauding her presentation. Giannini now turned to the judge.
"Your honour. I will show that Dr Teleborian's so-called forensic psychiatric investigation is nothing but a deception from start to finish. I will show that he is lying about Lisbeth Salander. I will show that my client has in the past been subjected to a gross violation of her rights. And I will show that she is just as sane and intelligent as anyone in this room."
"Excuse me, but-" Ekström began.
"Just a moment." She raised a finger. "I have for two days allowed you to talk uninterrupted. Now it's my turn."
She turned back to Judge Iversen.
"I would not make so serious an accusation before the court if I did not have ample evidence to support it."
"By all means, continue," the judge said. "But I don't want to hear any long-winded conspiracy theories. Bear in mind that you can be charged with slander for statements that are made before a court."
"Thank you. I will bear that in mind."
She turned to Teleborian. He still seemed entertained by the situation.
"The defence has repeatedly asked to be allowed to examine Lisbeth Salander's medical records from the time when she, in her early teens, was committed to your care at St Stefan's. Why have we not been shown those records?"
"Because a district court decreed that they were classified. That decision was made out of solicitude for Lisbeth Salander, but if a higher court were to rescind that decision, I would naturally hand them over."
"Thank you. For how many nights during the two years that Lisbeth Salander spent at St Stefan's was she kept in restraints?"
"I couldn't recall that offhand."
"She herself claims that it was 380 out of the total of 786 days and nights she spent at St Stefan's."
"I can't possibly answer as to the exact number of days, but that is a fantastic exaggeration. Where do those figures come from?"
"From her autobiography."
"And you believe that today she is able to remember accurately each night she was kept in restraints? That's preposterous."
"Is it? How many nights do you recall?"
"Lisbeth Salander was an extremely aggressive and violence-prone patient, and undoubtedly she was placed in a stimulus-free room on a number of occasions. Perhaps I should explain the purpose of a stimulus-free room-"
"Thank you, that won't be necessary. According to theory, it is a room in which a patient is denied any sensory input that might provoke agitation. For how many days and nights did thirteen-year-old Lisbeth Salander lie strapped down in such a room?"
"It would be... I would estimate perhaps on thirty occasions during the time she was at the hospital."
"Thirty. Now that's only a fraction of the 380 that she claims."
"Undeniably."
"Not even 10 per cent of her figure."
"Yes..."
"Would her medical records perhaps give us more accurate information?"
"It's possible."
"Excellent," Giannini said, taking out a large sheaf of paper from her briefcase. "Then I ask to be allowed to hand over to the court a copy of Lisbeth Salander's medical records from St Stefan's. I have counted the number of notes about the restraining straps and find that the figure is 381, one more than my client claims."
Teleborian's eyes widened.
"Stop... this is classified information. Where did you get that from?"
"I got it from a reporter at Millennium magazine. It can hardly be classified if it's lying around a newspaper's offices. Perhaps I should add that extracts from these medical records were published today in Millennium. I believe, therefore, that even this district court should have the opportunity to look at the records themselves."
"This is illegal-"
"No, it isn't. Lisbeth Salander has given her permission for the extracts to be published. My client has nothing to hide."
"Your client has been declared incompetent and has no right to make any such decision for herself."
"We'll come back to her declaration of incompetence. But first we need to examine what happened to her at St Stefan's."
Judge Iversen frowned as he accepted the papers that Giannini handed to him.
"I haven't made a copy for the prosecutor. On the other hand, he received a copy of this privacy-invading document more than a month ago."
"How did that happen?" the judge said.
"Prosecutor Ekström got a copy of these classified records from Teleborian at a meeting which took place in his office at 5.00 p.m. on Saturday, June 4 this year."
"Is that correct?" Judge Iversen said.
Ekström's first impulse was to deny it. Then he realized that Giannini might somehow have evidence.
"I requested permission to read parts of the records if I signed a confidentiality agreement," Ekström said. "I had to make sure that Salander had the history she was alleged to have."
"Thank you," Giannini said. "This means that we now have confirmation that Dr Teleborian not only tells lies but also broke the law by disseminating records that he himself claims are classified."
"Duly noted," said the judge.
Judge Iversen was suddenly very alert. In a most unorthodox way, Giannini had launched a serious attack on a witness, and she already made mincemeat of an important part of his testimony. And she claims that she can document everything she says. Judge Iversen adjusted his glasses.
"Dr Teleborian, based on these records which you yourself wrote... could you now tell me how many days Lisbeth Salander was kept in restraints?"
"I have no recollection that it could have been so extensive, but if that's what the records say, then I have to believe it."
"A total of 381 days and nights. Does that not strike you as excessive?"
"It is unusually long... yes."
"How would you perceive it if you were thirteen years old and someone strapped you to a steel-framed bed for more than a year? Would it feel like torture?"
"You have to understand that the patient was dangerous to herself as well as to others-"
"O.K. Let's look at dangerous to herself. Has Lisbeth Salander ever injured herself?"
"There were such misgivings-"
"I'll repeat the question: has Lisbeth Salander ever injured herself? Yes or no?"
"As psychiatrists we must teach ourselves to interpret the overall picture. With regard to Lisbeth Salander, you can see on her body, for example, a multitude of tattoos and piercings, which are also a form of self-destructive behaviour and a way of damaging one's own body. We can interpret that as a manifestation of self-hate."
Giannini turned to Salander.
"Are your tattoos a manifestation of self-hate?" she said.
"No," Salander said.
Giannini turned back to Teleborian. "So you believe that I am also dangerous to myself because I wear earrings and actually have a tattoo in a private place?"
Palmgren sniggered, but he managed to transform the snigger into a clearing of his throat.
"No, not at all... tattoos can also be part of a social ritual."
"Are you saying that Lisbeth Salander is not part of this social ritual?"
"You can see for yourself that her tattoos are grotesque and extend over large parts of her body. That is no normal measure of fetishism or body decoration."
"What percentage?"
"Excuse me?"
"At what percentage of tattooed body surface does it stop being fetishism and become a mental illness?"
"You're distorting my words."
"Am I? How is it that, in your opinion, it is part of a wholly acceptable social ritual when it applies to me or to other young people, but it becomes dangerous when it's a matter of evaluating my client's mental state?"
"As a psychiatrist I have to look at the whole picture. The tattoos are merely an indicator. As I have already said, it is one of many indicators which need to be taken into account when I evaluate her condition."
Giannini was silent for a few seconds as she fixed Teleborian with her gaze. She now spoke very slowly.
"But Dr Teleborian, you began strapping down my client when she was twelve years old, going on thirteen. At that time she did not have a single tattoo, did she?"
Teleborian hesitated and Giannini went on.
"I presume that you did not strap her down because you predicted that she would begin tattooing herself sometime in the future."
"Of course not. Her tattoos had nothing to do with her condition in 1991."
"With that we are back to my original question. Did Lisbeth Salander ever injure herself in a way that would justify keeping her bound to a bed for a whole year? For example, did she cut herself with a knife or a razor blade or anything like that?"
Teleborian looked unsure for a second.
"No... I used the tattoos as an example of self-destructive behaviour."
"And we have just agreed that tattoos are a legitimate part of a social ritual. I asked why you restrained her for a year and you replied that it was because she was a danger to herself."
"We had reason to believe that she was a danger to herself."
"Reason to believe. So you're saying that you restrained her because you guessed something?"
"We carried out assessments."
"I have now been asking the same question for about five minutes. You claim that my client's self-destructive behaviour was one reason why she was strapped down for a total of more than a year out of the two years she was in your care. Can you please finally give me some examples of the self-destructive behaviour she evidenced at the age of twelve?"
"The girl was extremely undernourished, for example. This was partially due to the fact that she refused food. We suspected anorexia."
"I see. Was she anorexic? As you can see, my client is even today uncommonly thin and fine-boned."
"Well, it's difficult to answer that question. I would have to observe her eating habits for quite a long time."
"You did observe her eating habits - for two years. And now you're suggesting that you confused anorexia with the fact that my client is small and thin. You say that she refused food."
"We were compelled to force-feed her on several occasions."
"And why was that?"
"Because she refused to eat, of course."
Giannini turned to her client.
"Lisbeth, is it true that you refused to eat at St Stefan's?"
"Yes."
"And why was that?"
"Because that bastard was mixing psychoactive drugs into my food."
"I see. So Dr Teleborian wanted to give you medicine. Why didn't you want to take it?"
"I didn't like the medicine I was being given. It made me sluggish. I couldn't think and I was sedated for most of the time I was awake. And the bastard refused to tell me what the drugs contained."
"So you refused to take the medicine?"
"Yes. Then he began putting the crap in my food instead. So I stopped eating. Every time something had been put in my food, I stopped eating for five days."
"So you had to go hungry."
"Not always. Several of the attendants smuggled sandwiches in to me on various occasions. One in particular gave me food late at night. That happened quite often."
"So you think that the nursing staff at St Stefan's saw that you were hungry and gave you food so that you would not have to starve?"
"That was during the period when I was battling with this bastard over psychoactive drugs."
"Tell us what happened."
"He tried to drug me. I refused to take his medicine. He started putting it in my food. I refused to eat. He started force-feeding me. I began vomiting up the food."
"So there was a completely rational reason why you refused the food."
"Yes."
"It was not because you didn't want food?"
"No. I was often hungry."
"And since you left St Stefan's... do you eat regularly?"
"I eat when I'm hungry."
"Would it be correct to say that a conflict arose between you and Dr Teleborian?"
"You could say that."
"You were sent to St Stefan's because you had thrown petrol at your father and set him on fire."
"Yes."
"Why did you do that?"
"Because he abused my mother."
"Did you ever explain that to anyone?"
"Yes."
"And who was that?"
"I told the police who interviewed me, the social workers, the children's care workers, the doctors, a pastor, and that bastard."
"By 'that bastard' you are referring to...?"
"That man." She pointed at Dr Teleborian.
"Why do you call him a bastard?"
"When I first arrived at St Stefan's I tried to explain to him what had happened."
"And what did Dr Teleborian say?"
"He didn't want to listen to me. He claimed that I was fantasizing. And as punishment I was to be strapped down until I stopped fantasizing. And then he tried to force-feed me psychoactive drugs."
"This is nonsense," Teleborian said.
"Is that why you won't speak to him?"
"I haven't said a word to the bastard since the night I turned thirteen. I was strapped to the bed. It was my birthday present to myself."
Giannini turned to Teleborian. "This sounds as if the reason my client refused to eat was that she did want the psychoactive drugs you were forcing upon her."
"It's possible that she views it that way."
"And how do you view it?"
"I had a patient who was abnormally difficult. I maintain that her behaviour showed that she was a danger to herself, but this might be a question of interpretation. However, she was violent and exhibited psychotic behaviour. There is no doubt that she was dangerous to others. She came to St Stefan's after she tried to murder her father."
"We'll get to that later. For 381 of those days you kept her in restraints. Could it have been that you used strapping as a way to punish my client when she didn't do as you said?"
"That is utter nonsense."
"Is it? I notice that according to the records the majority of the strapping occurred during the first year.. .320 of 381 instances. Why was the strapping discontinued?"
"I suppose the patient changed her behaviour and became less agitated."
"Is it not true that your measures were considered unnecessarily brutal by other members of staff?"
"How do you mean?"
"Is it not true that the staff lodged complaints against the forcefeeding of Lisbeth Salander, among other things?"
"Inevitably people will arrive at differing evaluations. This is nothing unusual. But it became a burden to force-feed her because she resisted so violently-"
"Because she refused to take psychoactive drugs which made her listless and passive. She had no problem eating when she was not being drugged. Wouldn't that have been a more reasonable method of treatment than resorting to forcible measures?"
"If you don't mind my saying so, Fru Giannini, I am actually a physician. I suspect that my medical expertise is rather more extensive than yours. It is my job to determine what medical treatments should be employed."
"It's true, I'm not a physician, Doctor Teleborian. However, I am not entirely lacking in expertise. Besides my qualifications as lawyer I was also trained as a psychologist at Stockholm University. This is necessary background training in my profession."
You could have heard a pin drop in the courtroom. Both Ekström and Teleborian stared in astonishment at Giannini. She continued inexorably.
"Is it not correct that your methods of treating my client eventually resulted in serious disagreements between you and your superior, Dr Johannes Caldin, head physician at the time?"
"No, that is not correct."
"Dr Caldin passed away several years ago and cannot give testimony. But here in the court we have someone who met Dr Caldin on several occasions. Namely my assistant counsel, Holger Palmgren."
She turned to him.
"Can you tell us how that came about?"
Palmgren cleared his throat. He still suffered from the after-effects of his stroke and had to concentrate to pronounce the words.
"I was appointed as trustee for Lisbeth Salander after her mother was so severely beaten by Lisbeth's father that she was disabled and could no longer take care of her daughter. She suffered permanent brain damage and repeated brain haemorrhages."
"You're speaking of Alexander Zalachenko, I presume." Ekström was leaning forward attentively.
"That's correct," Palmgren said.
Ekström said: "I would ask you to remember that we are now into a subject which is highly classified."
"It's hardly a secret that Alexander Zalachenko persistently abused Lisbeth's mother," Giannini said.
Teleborian raised his hand.
"The matter is probably not quite as self-evident as Fru Giannini is presenting it."
"What do you mean by that?" Giannini said.
"There is no doubt that Lisbeth Salander witnessed a family tragedy... that something triggered a serious beating in 1991. But there is no documentation to suggest that this was a situation that went on for many years, as Fru Giannini claims. It could have been an isolated incident or a quarrel that got out of hand. If truth be told, there is not even any documentation to point towards Herr Zalachenko as Lisbeth's mother's aggressor. We have been informed that she was a prostitute, so there could have been a number of other possible perpetrators."
Giannini looked in astonishment at Teleborian. She seemed to be speechless for a moment. Then her eyes bored into him.
"Could you expand on that?" she said.
"What I mean is that in practice we have only Lisbeth Salander's assertions to go on."
"And?"
"First of all, there were two sisters, twins in fact. Camilla Salander has never made any such claims, indeed she has denied that such a thing occurred. And if there was abuse to the extent your client maintains, then it would naturally have been noted in social welfare reports and so forth."
"Is there an interview with Camilla Salander that we might examine?"
"Interview?"
"Do you have any documentation to show that Camilla Salander was even asked about what occurred at their home?"
Salander squirmed in her seat at the mention of her sister. She glanced at Giannini.
"I presume that the social welfare agency filed a report-"
"You have just stated that Camilla Salander never made any assertions that Alexander Zalachenko abused their mother, that on the contrary she denied it. That was a categorical statement. Where did you get that information?"
Teleborian sat in silence for several seconds. Giannini could see that his eyes changed when he realized that he had made a mistake. He could anticipate what it was that she wanted to introduce, but there was no way to avoid the question.
"I seem to remember that it appeared in the police report," he said at last.
"You seem to remember... I myself have searched high and low for police reports about the incident on Lundagatan during which Alexander Zalachenko was severely burned. The only ones available are the brief reports written by the officers at the scene."
"That's possible-"
"So I would very much like to know how it is that you were able to read a police report that is not available to the defence."
"I can't answer that," Teleborian said. "I was shown the report in 1991 when I wrote a forensic psychiatric report on your client after the attempted murder of her father."
"Was Prosecutor Ekström shown this report?"
Ekström squirmed. He stroked his goatee. By now he knew that he had underestimated Advokat Giannini. However, he had no reason to lie.
"Yes, I've seen it."
"Why wasn't the defence given access to this material?"
"I didn't consider it of interest to the trial."
"Could you please tell me how you were allowed to see this report? When I asked the police, I was told only that no such report exists."
"The report was written by the Security Police. It's classified."
"So Säpo wrote a report on a case involving grievous bodily harm on a woman and decided to make the report classified."
"It's because of the perpetrator... Alexander Zalachenko. He was a political refugee."
"Who wrote the report?"
Silence.
"I don't hear anything. What name was on the title page?"
"It was written by Gunnar Björck from the Immigration Division of S. I. S."
"Thank you. Is that the same Gunnar Björck who my client claims worked with Doctor Teleborian to fabricate the forensic psychiatric report about her in 1991?"
"I assume it is."
Giannini turned her attention back to Teleborian.
"In 1991 you committed Lisbeth Salander to the secure ward of St Stefan's children's psychiatric clinic-"
"That's not correct."
"Is it not?"
"No. Lisbeth Salander was sentenced to the secure psychiatric ward. This was the outcome of an entirely routine legal action in a district court. We're talking about a seriously disturbed minor. That was not my own decision-"
"In 1991 a district court decided to lock up Lisbeth Salander in a children's psychiatric clinic. Why did the district court make that decision?"
"The district court made a careful assessment of your client's actions and mental condition - she had tried to murder her father with a petrol bomb, after all. This is not an activity that a normal teenager would engage in, whether they are tattooed or not." Teleborian gave her a polite smile.
"And what did the district court base their judgement on? If I've understood correctly, they had only one forensic medical assessment to go on. It was written by yourself and a policeman by the name of Gunnar Björck."
"This is about Fröken Salander's conspiracy theories, Fru Giannini. Here I would have to-"
"Excuse me, but I haven't asked a question yet," Giannini said and turned once again to Palmgren. "Holger, we were talking about your meeting Dr Teleborian's superior, Dr Caldin."
"Yes. In my capacity as trustee for Lisbeth Salander. At that stage I had met her only very briefly. Like everyone else, I got the impression that she had a serious mental illness. But since it was my job, I undertook to research her general state of health."
"And what did Dr Caldin say?"
"She was Dr Teleborian's patient, and Dr Caldin had not paid her any particular attention except in routine assessments and the like. It wasn't until she had been there for more than a year that I began to discuss how she could be rehabilitated back into society. I suggested a foster family. I don't know exactly what went on internally at St Stefan's, but after about a year Dr Caldin began to take an interest in her."
"How did that manifest itself?"
"I discovered that he had arrived at an opinion that differed from Dr Teleborian's," Palmgren said. "He told me once that he had decided to change the type of care she was receiving. I did not understand until later that he was referring to the strap restraints. Dr Caldin had decided that she should not be restrained. He didn't think there was any reason for it."
"So he went against Dr Teleborian's directives?"
Ekström interrupted. "Objection. That's hearsay."
"No," Palmgren said. "Not entirely. I asked for a report on how Lisbeth Salander was supposed to re-enter society. Dr Caldin wrote that report. I still have it today."
He handed a document to Giannini.
"Can you tell us what it says?"
"It's a letter from Dr Caldin to me dated October 1992, which is when Lisbeth had been at St Stefan's for twenty months. Here Dr Caldin expressly writes that, I quote, My decision for the patient not to be restrained or force-fed has also produced the noticeable effect that she is now calm. There is no need for psychoactive drugs. However, the patient is extremely withdrawn and uncommunicative and needs continued supportive therapies. End quote."
"So he expressly writes that it was his decision," Giannini said.
"That is correct. It was also Dr Caldin himself who decided that Lisbeth should be able to re-enter society by being placed with a foster family."
Salander nodded. She remembered Dr Caldin the same way she remembered every detail of her stay at St Stefan's. She had refused to talk to Dr Caldin... He was a "crazy-doctor," another man in a white coat who wanted to rootle around in her emotions. But he had been friendly and good-natured. She had sat in his office and listened to him when he explained things to her.
He had seemed hurt when she did not want to speak to him. Finally she had looked him in the eye and explained her decision: I will never ever talk to you or any other crazy-doctor. None of you listen to what I have to say. You can keep me locked up here until I die. That won't change a thing. I won't talk to any of you. He had looked at her with surprise and hurt in his eyes. Then he had nodded as if he understood.
"Dr Teleborian," Giannini said, "we have established that you had Lisbeth Salander committed to a children's psychiatric clinic. You were the one who furnished the district court with
the report, and this report constituted the only basis for the decisions that were made. Is this correct?"
"That is essentially correct. But I think-"
"You'll have plenty of time to explain what you think. When Lisbeth Salander was about to turn eighteen, you once again interfered in her life and tried to have her locked up in a clinic."
"This time I wasn't the one who wrote the forensic medical report-"
"No, it was written by Dr Jesper H. Löderman. And he just happened to be a doctoral candidate at that time. You were his supervisor. So it was your assessments that caused the report to be approved."
"There's nothing unethical or incorrect in these reports. They were done according to the proper regulations of my profession."
"Now Lisbeth Salander is twenty-seven years old, and for the third time we are in a situation in which you are trying to convince a district court that she is mentally ill and must be committed to a secure psychiatric ward."
Teleborian took a deep breath. Giannini was well prepared. She had surprised him with a number of tricky questions and she had succeeded in distorting his replies. She had not fallen for his charms, and she completely ignored his authority. He was used to having people nod in agreement when he spoke.
How much does she know?
He glanced at Prosecutor Ekström but realized that he could expect no help from that quarter. He had to ride out the storm alone.
He reminded himself that, in spite of everything, he was an authority.
It doesn't matter what she says. It's my assessment that counts.
Giannini picked up his forensic psychiatric report.
"Let's take a closer look at your latest report. You expend a great deal of energy analysing Lisbeth Salander's emotional life. A large part deals with your interpretation of her personality, her behaviour and her sexual habits."
"In this report I have attempted to give a complete picture."
"Good. And based on this complete picture you came to the conclusion that Lisbeth suffers from paranoid schizophrenia."
"I prefer not to restrict myself to a precise diagnosis."
"But you have not reached this conclusion through conversations with my client, have you?"
"You know very well that your client resolutely refuses to answer questions that I or any other person in authority might put to her. This behaviour is in itself particularly telling. One can conclude that the patient's paranoid traits have progressed to such an extent that she is literally incapable of having a simple conversation with anyone in authority. She believes that everyone is out to harm her and feels so threatened that she shuts herself inside an impenetrable shell and goes mute."
"I notice that you're expressing yourself very carefully. You say, for example, that one can conclude..."
"Yes, that's right. I am expressing myself carefully. Psychiatry is not an exact science, and I must be careful with my conclusions. At the same time it is not true that we psychiatrists sit around making assumptions that have no basis in fact."
"What you are being very precise about is protecting yourself. The literal fact is that you have not exchanged one single word with my client since the night of her thirteenth birthday because she has refused to talk to you."
"Not only to me. She appears unable to have a conversation with any psychiatrist."
"This means that, as you write here, your conclusions are based on experience and on observations of my client."
"That's right."
"What can you learn by studying a girl who sits on a chair with her arms crossed and refuses to talk to you?"
Teleborian sighed as though he thought it was irksome to have to explain the obvious. He smiled.
"From a patient who sits and says nothing, you can learn only that this is a patient who is good at sitting and saying nothing. Even this is disturbed behaviour, but that's not what I'm basing my conclusions upon."
"Later this afternoon I will call upon another psychiatrist. His name is Svante Brandén and he's senior physician at the Institute of Forensic Medicine and a specialist in forensic psychiatry. Do you know him?"
Teleborian felt confident again. He had expected Giannini to call upon another psychiatrist to question his own conclusions. It was a situation for which he was ready, and in which he would be able to dismiss every objection without difficulty. Indeed, it would be easier to handle an academic colleague in a friendly debate than someone like Advokat Giannini who had no inhibitions and was bent on distorting his words. He smiled.
"He is a highly respected and skilled forensic psychiatrist. But you must understand, Fru Giannini, that producing a report of this type is an academic and scientific process. You yourself may disagree with my conclusions, and another psychiatrist may interpret an action or an event in a different way. You may have dissimilar points of view, or perhaps it would be a question purely of
how well one doctor or another knows the patient. He might arrive at a very different conclusion about Lisbeth Salander. That is not at all unusual in psychiatry."
"That's not why I'm calling him. He has not met or examined Lisbeth Salander, and he will not be making any evaluations about her mental condition."
"Oh, is that so?"
"I have asked him to read your report and all the documentation you have produced on Lisbeth Salander and to look at her medical records from St Stefan's. I have asked him to make an assessment, not about the state of my client's health, but about whether, from a purely scientific point of view, there is adequate foundation for your conclusions in the material you recorded."
Teleborian shrugged.
"With all due respect, I think I have a better understanding of Lisbeth Salander than any other psychiatrist in the country. I have followed her development since she was twelve, and regrettably my conclusions were always confirmed by her actions."
"Very well," Giannini said. "Then we'll take a look at your conclusions. In your statement you write that her treatment was interrupted when she was placed with a foster family at the age of fifteen."
"That's correct. It was a serious mistake. If we had been allowed to complete the treatment we might not be here in this courtroom today."
"You mean that if you had had the opportunity to keep her in restraints for another year she might have become more tractable?"
"That is unworthy."
"I do beg your pardon. You cite extensively the report that your doctoral candidate Jesper Löderman put together when she was about to turn eighteen. You write that, quote, Lisbeth Salander's self-destructive and antisocial behaviour is confirmed by drug abuse and the promiscuity which she has exhibited since she was discharged from St Stefan's, unquote. What did you mean by this statement?"
Teleborian sat in silence for several seconds.
"Well... now I'll have to go back a bit. After Lisbeth Salander was discharged from St Stefan's she developed, as I had predicted, problems with alcohol and drug abuse. She was repeatedly arrested by the police. A social welfare report also determined that she had had profligate sexual relations with older men and that she was very probably involved in prostitution."
"Let's analyse this. You say that she abused alcohol. How often was she intoxicated?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Was she drunk every day from when she was released until she turned eighteen? Was she drunk once a week?"
"Naturally I can't answer that."
"But you have just stated that she had problems with alcohol abuse."
"She was a minor and arrested repeatedly by the police for drunkenness."
"That's the second time you have said that she was arrested repeatedly. How often did this occur? Was it once a week or once every other week?"
"No, it's not a matter of so many individual occasions..."
"Lisbeth Salander was arrested on two occasions for drunkenness, once when she was sixteen, once when she was seventeen. On one of those occasions she was so blind drunk that she was taken to hospital. These are the repeatedly you refer to. Was she intoxicated on more than these occasions?"
"I don't know, but one might fear that her behaviour was-"
"Excuse me, did I hear you correctly? You do not know whether she was intoxicated on more than two occasions during her teenage years, but you fear that this was the case. And yet you write reports maintaining that Lisbeth Salander was engaged in repeated alcohol and drug abuse?"
"That is the social service's information, not mine. It has to do with Lisbeth Salander's whole lifestyle. Not surprisingly her prognosis was dismal after her treatment was interrupted, and her life became a round of alcohol abuse, police intervention, and uncontrolled promiscuity."
"You say 'uncontrolled promiscuity'."
"Yes. That's a term which indicates that she had no control over her own life. She had sexual relations with older men."
"That's not against the law."
"No, but it's abnormal behaviour for a sixteen-year-old girl. The question might be asked as to whether she participated in such encounters of her own free will or whether she was in a situation of uncontrollable compulsion."
"But you said that she was very probably a prostitute."
"That may have been a natural consequence of the fact that she lacked education, was incapable of completing school or continuing to higher education, and therefore could not get a job. It's possible that she viewed older men as father figures and that financial remuneration for sexual favours was simply a convenient spin-off. In which case I perceive it as neurotic behaviour."
"So you think that a sixteen-year-old girl who has sex is neurotic?"
"You're twisting my words."
"But you do not know whether she ever took money for sexual favours."
"She was never arrested for prostitution."
"And she could hardly be arrested for it since prostitution is not a crime in our country."
"Well, yes, that's right. In her case this has to do with compulsive neurotic behaviour."
"And you did not hesitate to conclude that Lisbeth Salander is mentally ill based on these unverifiable assumptions? When I was sixteen years old, I drank myself silly on half a bottle of vodka which I stole from my father. Do you think that makes me mentally ill?"
"No, of course not."
"If I may be so bold, is it not a fact that when you were seventeen you went to a party and got so drunk that you all went out on the town and smashed the windows around the square in Uppsala? You were arrested by the police, detained until you were sober, and then let off with a fine."
Teleborian looked shocked.
"Is that not a fact, Dr Teleborian?"
"Well, yes. People do so many stupid things when they're seventeen. But-"
"But that doesn't lead you - or anyone else - to believe that you have a serious mental illness?"
Teleborian was angry. That infernal lawyer kept twisting his words and homing in on details. She refused to see the larger picture. And his own childish escapade... How the hell had she got hold of that information?
He cleared his throat and spoke in a raised voice.
"The reports from social services were unequivocal. They confirmed that Lisbeth Salander had a lifestyle that revolved around alcohol, drugs and promiscuity. Social services also said that she was a prostitute."
"No, social services never said that she was a prostitute."
"She was arrested at-"
"No. She was not arrested," Giannini said. "She was searched in Tantolunden at the age of seventeen when she was in the company of a much older man. That same year she was arrested for drunkenness. Also in the company of a much older man. Social services feared that she might be engaged in prostitution. But no evidence was ever presented."
"She had very loose sexual relations with a large number of individuals, both male and female."
"In your own report, you dwell on my client's sexual habits. You claim that her relationship with her friend Miriam Wu confirms the misgivings about a sexual psychopathy. Why does it confirm any such thing?"
Teleborian made no answer.
"I sincerely hope that you are not thinking of claiming that homosexuality is a mental illness," Giannini said. "That might even be an illegal statement."
"No, of course not. I'm alluding to the elements of sexual sadism in the relationship."
"You think that she's a sadist?"
"I-"
"We have Miriam Wu's statement here. There was, it says, no violence in their relationship."
"They engaged in S. & M. sex and-"
"Now I'm beginning to think you've been reading too many evening newspapers. Lisbeth Salander and her friend Miriam Wu engaged in sexual games on some occasions which involved Miriam Wu tying up my client and giving her sexual satisfaction. That is neither especially unusual nor is it against the law. Is that why you want to lock up my client?"
Teleborian waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.
"When I was sixteen and still at school I was intoxicated on a good many occasions. I have tried drugs. I have smoked marijuana, and I even tried cocaine on one occasion about twenty years ago. I had my first sexual experience with a schoolfriend when I was fifteen, and I had a relationship with a boy who tied my hands to the bedstead when I was twenty. When I was twenty-two I had a relationship with a man who was forty-seven that lasted several months. Am I, in your view, mentally ill?"
"Fru Giannini, you joke about this, but your sexual experiences are irrelevant in this case."
"Why is that? When I read your so-called psychiatric assessment of Lisbeth Salander, I find point after point which, taken out of context, would apply to myself. Why am I healthy and sound while Lisbeth Salander is considered a dangerous sadist?"
"These are not the details that are relevant. You didn't twice try to murder your father-"
"Dr Teleborian, the reality is that it's none of your business who Lisbeth Salander wants to have sex with. It's none of your business which gender her partner is or how they conduct their sexual relations. And yet in her case you pluck out details from her life and use them as the basis for saying that she is sick."
"Lisbeth Salander's whole life - from the time she was in junior school - is a document of unprovoked and violent outbursts of anger against teachers and other pupils."
"Just a moment." Giannini's voice was suddenly like an ice scraper on a car window. "Look at my client."
Everyone looked at Salander.
"My client grew up in abominable family circumstances. Over a period of years her father persistently abused her mother."
"That's-"
"Let me finish. Lisbeth Salander's mother was mortally afraid of Alexander Zalachenko. She did not dare to protest. She did not dare to go to a doctor. She did not dare to go to a women's crisis centre. She was ground down and eventually beaten so badly that she suffered irreversible brain damage. The person who had to take responsibility, the only person who tried to take responsibility for the family long before she reached her teens even, was Lisbeth Salander. She had to shoulder that burden all by herself, since Zalachenko the spy was more important to the state and its social services than Lisbeth's mother."
"I cannot-"
"The result, excuse me, was a situation in which society abandoned Lisbeth's mother and her two children. Are you surprised that Lisbeth had problems at school? Look at her. She's small and skinny. She has always been the smallest girl in her class. She was introverted and eccentric and she had no friends. Do you know how children tend to treat fellow pupils who are different?"
Teleborian sighed.
Giannini continued. "I can go back to her school records and examine one situation after another in which Lisbeth turned violent. They were always preceded by some kind of provocation. I can easily recognize the signs of bullying. Let me tell you something."
"What?"
"I admire Lisbeth Salander. She's tougher than I am. If I had been strapped down for a year when I was thirteen, I would probably have broken down altogether. She fought back with the only weapon she had available - her contempt for you."
Her nervousness was long gone. She felt that she was in control.
"In your testimony this morning you spoke a great deal about fantasies. You stated, for instance, that Lisbeth's Salander's account of her rape by Advokat Bjurman is a fantasy."
"That's correct."
"On what do you base your conclusion?"
"On my experience of the way she usually fantasizes."
"On your experience of the way she usually fantasizes? How do you decide when she is fantasizing? When she says that she was strapped to a bed for 380 days and nights, then in your opinion it's a fantasy, despite the fact that your very own records tell us that this was indeed the case."
"This is something entirely different. There is not a shred of evidence that Bjurman committed rape against Lisbeth Salander. I mean, needles through her nipples and such gross violence that she unquestionably should have been taken by ambulance to hospital? It's obvious that this could not have taken place."
Giannini turned to Judge Iversen. "I asked to have a projector available today..."
"It's in place," the judge said.
"Could we close the curtains, please?"
Giannini opened her PowerBook and plugged in the cables to the projector. She turned to her client.
"Lisbeth. We're going to look at the film. Are you ready for this?"
"I've lived through it," Salander said dryly.
"And I have your approval to show it here?"
Salander nodded. She fixed her eyes on Teleborian.
"Can you tell us when the film was made?"
"On 7 March, 2003."
"Who shot the film?"
"I did. I used a hidden camera, standard equipment at Milton Security."
"Just one moment," Prosecutor Ekström shouted. "This is beginning to resemble a circus act."
"What is it we are about to see?" Judge Iversen said with a sharp edge to his voice.
"Dr Teleborian claims that Lisbeth Salander's account of her rape by Advokat Bjurman is a fantasy. I am going to show you evidence to the contrary. The film is ninety minutes long, but I will only show a few short excerpts. I warn you that it contains some very unpleasant scenes."
"Is this some sort of trick?" Ekström said.
"There's a good way to find out," said Giannini and started the D. V. D. in her laptop.
"Haven't you even learned to tell the time?" Advokat Bjurman greets her gruffly. The camera enters his apartment.
After nine minutes Judge Iversen banged his gavel. Advokat Bjurman was being shown violently shoving a dildo into Lisbeth Salander's anus. Giannini had turned up the volume. Salander's half-stifled screams through the duct tape that covered her mouth were heard throughout the courtroom.
"Turn off the film," Judge Iversen said in a very loud and commanding voice.
Giannini pressed stop and the ceiling lights were turned back on. Judge Iversen was red in the face. Prosecutor Ekström sat as if turned to stone. Teleborian was as pale as a corpse.
"Advokat Giannini... How long is this film, did you say?"
"Ninety minutes. The rape itself went on in stages for about five or six hours, but my client only has a vague sense of the violence inflicted upon her in the last few hours." Giannini turned to Teleborian. "There is a scene, however, in which Bjurman pushes a needle through my client's nipple, something that Doctor Teleborian maintains is an expression of Lisbeth Salander's wild imagination. It takes place in minute seventy-two, and I'm offering to show the episode here and now."
"Thank you, that won't be necessary," the judge said. "Fröken Salander..."
For a second he lost his train of thought and did not know how to proceed.
"Fröken Salander, why did you record this film?"
"Bjurman had already subjected me to one rape and was demanding more. The first time he made me suck him off, the old creep. I thought it was going to be a repeat. I thought I'd be able to get such good evidence of what he did that I could then blackmail him into staying away from me. I misjudged him."
"But why did you go not to the police when you have such... irrefutable evidence?"
"I don't talk to policemen," Salander said flatly.
Palmgren stood up from his wheelchair. He supported himself by leaning on the edge of the table. His voice was very clear.
"Our client on principle does not speak to the police or to other persons of authority, and least of all to psychiatrists. The reason is simple. From the time she was a child she tried time and again to talk to police and social workers to explain that her mother was being abused by Alexander Zalachenko. The result in every instance was that she was punished because government civil servants had decided that Zalachenko was more important than she was."
He cleared his throat and continued.
"And when she eventually concluded that nobody was listening to her, her only means of protecting her mother was to fight Zalachenko with violence. And then this bastard who calls himself a doctor" - he pointed at Teleborian - "wrote a fabricated psychiatric diagnosis which described her as mentally ill, and it gave him the opportunity to keep her in restraints at St Stefan's for 380 days. What a bastard."
Palmgren sat down. Judge Iversen was surprised by this outburst. He turned to Salander.
"Would you perhaps like to take a break..."
"Why?" Salander said.
"Alright, then we'll continue. Advokat Giannini, the recording will be examined, and I will require a technical opinion to verify its authenticity. But I cannot tolerate seeing any more of these appalling scenes at present. Let's proceed."
"Gladly. I too find them appalling," said Giannini. "My client has been subjected to multiple instances of physical and mental abuse and legal misconduct. And the person most to blame for this is Dr Peter Teleborian. He betrayed his oath as a physician and he betrayed his patient. Together with a member of an illegal group within the Security Police, Gunnar Björck, he patched together a forensic psychiatric assessment for the purpose of locking up an inconvenient witness. I believe that this case must be unique in Swedish jurisprudence."
"These are outrageous accusations," Teleborian said. "I have done my best to help Lisbeth Salander. She tried to murder her father. It's perfectly obvious that there's something wrong with her-"
Giannini interrupted him.
"I would now like to bring to the attention of the court Dr Teleborian's second forensic psychiatric assessment of my client, presented at this trial today. I maintain that it is a lie, just as the report from 1991 was a lie."
"Well, this is simply-" Teleborian spluttered.
"Judge Iversen, could you please ask the witness to stop interrupting me?"
"Herr Teleborian..."
"I will be quiet. But these are outrageous accusations. It's not surprising that I'm upset-"
"Herr Teleborian, please be quiet until a question is directed at you. Do go on, Advokat Giannini."
"This is the forensic psychiatric assessment that Dr Teleborian has presented to the court. It is based on what he has termed 'observations' of my client which were supposed to have taken place after she was moved to Kronoberg prison on June 5. The examination was supposed to have been concluded on July 5."
"Yes, so I have understood," Judge Iversen said.
"Dr Teleborian, is it the case that you did not have the opportunity to examine or observe my client before June 6? Before that she was at Sahlgrenska hospital in Göteborg, where she was being kept in isolation, as we know."
"Yes."
"You made attempts on two separate occasions to gain access to my client at Sahlgrenska. Both times you were denied admittance."
Giannini opened her briefcase and took out a document. She walked around her table and handed it to Judge Iversen.
"I see," the judge said. "This appears to be a copy of Dr Teleborian's report. What is your point?"
"I would like to call upon two witnesses. They are waiting outside the courtroom now."
"Who are these witnesses?"
"They are Mikael Blomkvist from Millennium magazine, and Superintendent Torsten Edklinth, Director of the Constitutional Protection Unit of the Security Police."
"And they are outside?"
"Yes."
"Show them in," Judge Iversen said.
"This is highly irregular," Prosecutor Ekström said.
Ekström had watched in extreme discomfort as Giannini shredded his key witness. The film had been devastating evidence. The judge ignored Ekström and gestured to the bailiff to open the door to admit Blomkvist and Edklinth.
"I would first like to call upon Mikael Blomkvist."
"Then I would ask that Herr Teleborian stand down for a while," Judge Iverson said.
"Are you finished with me?" Teleborian said.
"No, not by any means," Giannini said.
Blomkvist replaced Teleborian in the witness box. Judge Iversen swiftly dealt with the formalities, and Blomkvist took the oath.
"Mikael," Giannini said, and then she smiled. "I would find it difficult, if your honour will forgive me, to call my brother Herr Blomkvist, so I will settle for his first name."
She went to Judge Iversen's bench and asked for the forensic psychiatric report which she had just handed to him. She then gave it to Blomkvist.
"Have you seen this document before?"
"Yes, I have. I have three versions in my possession. The first I acquired on May 12, the second on May 19, and the third - this one - on June 3."
"Can you tell us how you acquired the copies?"
"I received them in my capacity as a journalist from a source I do not intend to name."
Salander stared at Teleborian. He was once more deathly pale.
"What did you do with the report?"
"I gave it to Torsten Edklinth at Constitutional Protection."
"Thank you, Mikael. Now I'd like to call Torsten Edklinth," Giannini said, taking back the report. She handed it to Judge Iversen and the procedure with the oath was repeated.
"Superintendent Edklinth, is it correct that you received a forensic psychiatric report on Lisbeth Salander from Mikael Blomkvist?"
"Yes, it is."
"When did you receive it?"
"It was logged in at S.I.S. on June 4."
"And this is the same report I have just handed to Judge Iversen?"
"If my signature is on the back, then it's the same one."
The judge turned over the document and saw Edklinth's signature there.
"Superintendent Edklinth, could you explain how you happened to have a forensic psychiatric report in your possession which claims have analysed a patient who was still in isolation at Sahlgrenska?"
"Yes, I can. Herr Teleborian's report is a sham. It was put together with the help of a person by the name of Jonas Sandberg, just as he produced a similar document in 1991 with Gunnar Björck."
"That's a lie," Teleborian said in a weak voice.
"Is it a lie?" Giannini said.
"No, not at all," Edklinth said. "I should perhaps mention that Jonas Sandberg is one of a dozen or so individuals who were arrested today by order of the Prosecutor General. Sandberg is being held as an accomplice to the murder of Gunnar Björck. He is part of a criminal unit operating within the Security Police which has been protecting Alexander Zalachenko since the '70s. This same group of officers was responsible for the decision to lock up Lisbeth Salander in 1991. We have incontrovertible evidence, as well as a confession from the unit's director."
The courtroom was hushed, transfixed.
"Would Herr Teleborian like to comment on what has just been said?" Judge Iversen said.
Teleborian shook his head.
"In that case it is my duty tell you that you risk being charged with perjury and possibly other counts in addition," Judge Iversen said.
"If you'll excuse me, your honour," Blomkvist said.
"Yes?"
"Herr Teleborian has bigger problems than this. Outside the courtroom are two police officers who would like to bring him for questioning."
"I see," the judge said. "Is it a matter which concerns this court?"
"I believe it is, your honour."
Judge Iversen gestured to the bailiff, who admitted Inspector Modig and a woman Prosecutor Ekström did not immediately recognize. Her name was Lisa Collsjö, criminal inspector for the Special Investigations Division, the unit within the National Police Board responsible for investigating cases of child pornography and sexual assault on children.
"And what is your business here?" Judge Iversen said.
"We are here to arrest Peter Teleborian with your permission, and without wishing to disturb the court's proceedings."
Judge Iversen looked at Advokat Giannini.
"I'm not quite finished with him... but the court may have heard enough of Herr Teleborian."
"You have my permission," Judge Iversen said to the police officers.
Collsjö walked across to the witness box. "Peter Teleborian, you are under arrest for violation of the law on child pornography."
Teleborian sat still, hardly breathing. Giannini saw that all light seemed to have been extinguished in his eyes.
"Specifically, for possession of approximately eight thousand pornographic photographs of children found on your computer."
She bent down to pick up his laptop case, which he had brought with him.
"This is confiscated as evidence," she said.
As he was being led from the courtroom, Salander's blazing eyes bored into Teleborian's back.
CHAPTER 28
Friday, 15.vii - Saturday, 16.vii
Judge Iversen tapped his pen on the edge of his table to quell the murmuring that had arisen in the wake of Teleborian's departure. He seemed unsure how to proceed. Then he turned to Prosecutor Ekström.
"Do you have any comment to make to the court on what has been seen and heard in the past hour?"
Ekström stood up and looked at Judge Iversen and then at Edklinth before he turned his head and met Salander's unwavering gaze. He understood that the battle was lost. He glanced over at Blomkvist and realized with sudden terror that he too risked being exposed to Millennium's investigators... Which could ruin his career.
He was at a loss to comprehend how this had happened. He had come to the trial convinced that he knew everything about the case.
He had understood the delicate balance sought by national security after his many candid talks with Superintendent Nyström. It had been explained to him that the Salander report from 1991 had been fabricated. He had received the inside information he needed. He had asked questions - hundreds of questions - and received answers to all of them. A deception in the national interest. And now Nyström had been arrested, according to Edklinth. He had believed in Teleborian, who had, after all, seemed so... so competent. So convincing.
Good Lord. What sort of a mess have I landed in?
And then, How the hell am I going to get out of it?
He stroked his goatee. He cleared his throat. Slowly he removed his glasses.
"I regret to say that it seems I have been misinformed on a number of essential points in this investigation."
He wondered if he could shift the blame on to the police investigators. Then he had a vision of Inspector Bublanski. Bublanski would never back him up. If Ekström made one wrong move, Bublanski would call a press conference and sink him.
Ekström met Salander's gaze. She was sitting there patiently, and in her eyes he read both curiosity and vengeance.
No compromises.
He could still get her convicted of grievous bodily harm in Stallarholmen. And he could probably get her convicted for the attempted murder of her father in Gosseberga. That would mean changing his strategy immediately; he would drop everything that had anything to do with Teleborian. All claims that she was a psychopath had to go, but that meant that her story would be strengthened all the way back to 1991. The whole declaration of incompetence was bogus, and with that...
Plus she had that blasted film...
Then it struck him.
Good God. She's a victim, pure and simple.
"Judge Iverson... I believe I can no longer rely on the documents I have here in my hand."
"I suppose not," Judge Iversen said.
"I'm going to have to ask for a recess, or that the trial be suspended until I am able to make certain adjustments to my case."
"Advokat Giannini?" the judge said.
"I request that my client be at once acquitted on all counts and be released immediately. I also request that the district court take a definite position on the question of Fröken Salander's declaration of incompetence. Moreover, I believe that she should adequately be compensated for the violations of her rights that have occurred."
Lisbeth Salander turned towards Judge Iversen.
No compromises.
Judge Iversen looked at Salander's autobiography. He then looked over at Prosecutor Ekström.
"I too believe we would be wise to investigate exactly what has happened that brings us to this sorry pass. I fear that you are probably not the right person to conduct that investigation. In all my years as a jurist and judge, I have never been party to anything even approaching the legal dilemma in this case. I confess that I am at a loss for words. I have never even heard of a case in which the prosecutor's chief witness is arrested during a court in session, or of a quite convincing argument turning out to be an utter fabrication. I honestly do not see what is left of the prosecutor's case."
Palmgren cleared his throat.
"Yes?" Iversen said.
"As a representative for the defence, I can only share your feelings. Sometimes one must step back and allow common sense to guide the formal procedures. I'd like to state that you, in your capacity as judge, have seen only the first stage of a scandal that is going to rock the whole establishment. Today ten police officers from within Säpo have been arrested. They will be charged with murder and a list of crimes so long that it will take quite some time to draw up the report."
"I presume that I must decide on a suspension of this trial."
"If you'll excuse me for saying so, I think that would be an unfortunate decision."
"I'm listening."
"Lisbeth Salander is innocent. Her 'fantastical' autobiography, as Herr Ekström so contemptuously dismissed it, is in fact true. And it can all be proven. She has suffered an outrageous violation of her rights. As a court we could now stick with formal procedure and continue with the
trial until finally we arrive at an acquittal, but there is an obvious alternative: to let a new investigation take over everything concerning Lisbeth Salander. An investigation is already underway to sort out an integral part of this mess."
"I see what you mean."
"As the judge of this case you have a choice. The wise thing to do would be to reject the prosecutor's entire preliminary investigation and request that he does his homework."
Judge Iversen looked long and hard at Ekström.
"The just thing to do would be to acquit our client at once. She deserves in addition an apology, but the redress will take time and will depend upon the rest of the investigation."
"I understand the points you're making, Advokat Palmgren. But before I can declare your client innocent I will have to have the whole story clear in my mind. That will probably take a while..."
He hesitated and looked at Giannini.
"If I decide that the court will adjourn until Monday and accommodate your wishes insofar as I see no reason to keep your client in custody any longer - which would mean that you could expect that, no matter what else happens, she will not be given a prison sentence - can you guarantee that she will appear for continued proceedings when summoned?"
"Of course," Palmgren said quickly.
"No," Salander said in a sharp voice.
Everyone's eyes turned to the person who was at the heart of the entire drama.
"What do you mean by that?" Judge Iversen said.
"The moment you release me I'm going to leave the country. I do not intend to spend one more minute of my time on this trial."
"You would refuse to appear?"
"That is correct. If you want me to answer more questions, then you'll have to keep me in prison. The moment you release me, this story is settled as far as I'm concerned. And that does not include being available for an indefinite time to you, to Ekström, or to any police officers."
Judge Iversen sighed. Palmgren looked bewildered.
"I agree with my client," Giannini said. "It is the government and the authorities who have committed crimes against Lisbeth Salander, not the other way around. At the very least she deserves to be able to walk out of that door with an acquittal and the chance to put this whole story behind her."
No compromises.
Judge Iversen glanced at his watch.
"It is 3.00. That means that you're going to force me to keep your client in custody."
"If that's your decision, then we accept it. As Fröken Salander's representative I request that she be acquitted of the charges brought by Prosecutor Ekström. I request that you release my client without restrictions, and without delay. And I request that her previous declaration of incompetence be rescinded and that her civil rights be immediately restored."
"The matter of the declaration of incompetence is a significantly longer process. I would have to get statements from psychiatric experts after she has been examined. I cannot simply make a snap decision about that."
"No," Giannini said. "We do not accept that."
"Why not?"
"Lisbeth Salander must have the same civil rights as any other citizen of Sweden. She has been the victim of a crime. She was falsely declared incompetent. We have heard evidence of that falsification. The decision to place her under guardianship therefore lacks a legal basis and must be unconditionally rescinded. There is no reason whatsoever for my client to submit to a psychiatric examination. No-one else has to prove that they are not mentally ill if they are the victim of a crime." Judge Iversen considered the matter for a moment. "Advokat Giannini, I realize that this is an exceptional situation. I'm calling a recess of fifteen minutes so that we can stretch our legs and gather our thoughts. I have no wish that your client be kept in custody tonight if she is innocent, but that means that this trial will have to continue today until we are done."
"That sounds good to me," said Giannini.
Blomkvist hugged his sister. "How did it go?"
"Mikael, I was brilliant against Teleborian. I annihilated him."
"I told you you'd be unbeatable. When it comes down to it, this story is not primarily about spies and secret government agencies; it's about violence against women, and the men who enable it. From what little I heard and saw, you were phenomenal. She's going to be acquitted."
"You're right. There's no longer any doubt"
Judge Iversen banged his gavel.
"Could you please sum up the facts from beginning to end, so that I can get a clear picture of what actually happened?"
"Let's begin," Giannini said, "with the astounding story of a group within the Security Police who call themselves 'the Section', and who got hold of a Soviet defector in the mid-'70s. The story is published today in Millennium magazine. I imagine it will be the lead story on all the news broadcasts this evening..."
At 6.00 that evening Judge Iversen decided to release Salander and to revoke her declaration of incompetence.
But the decision was made on one condition: Judge Iversen demanded that Salander submit to an interview in which she would formally testify to her knowledge of the Zalachenko affair. At first she refused. This refusal brought about a moment's wrangling until Judge Iversen raised his voice. He leaned forward and fixed his gaze on Salander.
"Fröken Salander, if I rescind your declaration of incompetence, that will mean that you have exactly the same rights as all other citizens. It also means that you have the same obligations. It is therefore your duty to manage your finances, pay taxes, obey the law, and assist the police in investigations of serious crimes. So I am summoning you to be questioned like any other citizen who has information that might be vital to an investigation."
The force of this logic seemed to sink in. She pouted and looked cross, but she stopped arguing.
"When the police have interviewed you, the leader of the preliminary investigation - in this case the Prosecutor General - will decide whether you will be summoned as a witness in any future legal proceedings. Like any other Swedish citizen, you can refuse to obey such a summons. How you act is none of my concern, but you do not have carte blanche. If you refuse to appear, then like any other adult you may be charged with obstruction of justice or perjury. There are no exceptions."
Salander's expression darkened yet more.
"So, what is your decision?" Judge Iversen said.
After thinking it over for a minute, Salander gave a curt nod.
O.K. A little compromise.
During her summary of the Zalachenko affair that evening, Giannini launched a savage attack on Prosecutor Ekström. Eventually Ekström admitted that the course of events had proceeded more or less as Giannini had described them. He had been helped during the preliminary investigation by Superintendent Nyström, and had received his information from Dr Teleborian. In Ekström's case there was no conspiracy. He had gone along with the Section in good faith in his capacity as leader of the preliminary investigation. When the whole extent of the conspiracy finally dawned on him, he decided to withdraw all charges against Salander, and that decision meant that a raft of bureaucratic formalities could be set aside. Judge Iversen looked relieved.
Palmgren was exhausted after his day in court, the first in many years. He needed to go back to the Ersta rehabilitation home and go to bed. He was driven there by a uniformed guard from Milton Security. As he was leaving, he put a hand on Salander's shoulder. They looked at each other, saying nothing. After a moment she nodded.
Giannini called Blomkvist at 7.00 to tell him that Salander had been acquitted of all charges, but that she was going to have to stay at police headquarters for what might be another couple of hours for her interview.
The news came as the entire staff of Millennium were gathered at the office. The telephones had been ringing incessantly since the first copies of the magazine had been distributed by messenger that lunchtime to other newsrooms across the city. In the early evening T.V.4 had broadcast its first special program on Zalachenko and the Section. The media were having a field day.
Blomkvist walked into the main office, stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle.
"Great news. Salander has been acquitted on all counts."
Spontaneous applause broke out. Then everyone went back to talking on their telephones as if nothing had happened.
Blomkvist looked up at the television that had been turned on in the editorial office. The news on T.V.4 was just starting. The trailer was a brief clip of the film showing Sandberg planting cocaine in his apartment on Bellmansgatan.
"Here we can clearly see a Säpo officer planting what we later learn is cocaine at the apartment of Mikael Blomkvist, journalist at Millennium magazine."
Then the anchorman came on the screen.
"Twelve officers of the Security Police were today arrested on a range of criminal charges, including murder. Welcome to this extended news broadcast."
Blomkvist turned off the sound when She came on, and he saw himself sitting in a studio armchair. He already knew what he had said. He looked over at the desk where Svensson had sat. All his research documents on the sex-trafficking industry were gone, and the desk was once more home to stacks of newspapers and piles of unsorted paper that nobody had time to deal with.
For Blomkvist, it was at that desk that the Zalachenko affair had begun. He wished that Svensson had been able to see the conclusion of it. A pile of copies of his just-published book was on the table next to Blomkvist's own about the Section.
You would have loved this moment, Dag.
He heard the telephone in his office ringing, but he could not face picking it up. He pulled the door shut and went into Berger's office and sank into a comfortable chair by the window. Berger was on the telephone. He looked about. She had been back a month, but had not yet got around to putting up the paintings and photographs that she had taken away when she left in April. The bookshelves were still bare.
"How does it feel?" she said when she hung up.
"I think I'm happy," he said.
She laughed. "The Section is going to be a sensation. Every newsroom is going crazy for it. Do you feel like appearing on Aktuellt at 9.00 for an interview?"
"I think not."
"I suspected as much."
"We're going to be talking about this for several months. There's no rush."
She nodded.
"What are you doing later this evening?" Berger said.
"I don't know." He bit his lip. "Erika... I..."
"Figuerola," Berger said with a smile.
He nodded.
"So it's serious?"
"I don't know."
"She's terribly in love with you."
"I think I'm in love with her too," he said.
"I promise I'll keep my distance until, you know... well, maybe," she said.
At 8.00 Armansky and Linder appeared at Millennium's offices. They thought the occasion called for champagne, so they had brought over a crate from the state liquor store. Berger hugged Linder and introduced her to everyone. Armansky took a seat in Blomkvist's office.
They drank their champagne. Neither of them said anything for quite a while. It was Armansky who broke the silence.
"You know what, Blomkvist? The first time we met, on that job in Hedestad, I didn't much care for you."
"You don't say."
"You came over to sign a contract when you hired Lisbeth as a researcher."
"I remember."
"I think I was jealous of you. You'd known her only for a couple of hours, yet she was laughing with you. For some years I'd tried to be Lisbeth's friend, but I have never once made her smile."
"Well... I haven't really been that successful either."
They sat in silence once again.
"Great that all this is over," Armansky said.
"Amen to that," Blomkvist said, and they raised their glasses in salute.
Inspectors Bublanski and Modig conducted the formal interview with Salander. They had both been at home with their families after a particularly taxing day but were immediately summoned to return to police headquarters.
Salander was accompanied by Giannini. She gave precise responses to all the questions that Bublanski and Modig asked, and Giannini had little occasion to comment or intervene.
Salander lied consistently on two points. In her description of what had happened in Stallarholmen, she stubbornly maintained that it was Nieminen who had accidentally shot "Magge" Lundin in the foot at the instant that she nailed him with the taser. Where had she got the taser? She had confiscated it from Lundin, she explained.
Bublanski and Modig were both sceptical, but there was no evidence and no witnesses to contradict her story. Nieminen was no doubt in a position to protest, but he refused to say anything about the incident; in fact he had no notion of what had happened in the seconds after he was stunned with the taser.
As far as Salander's journey to Gosseberga was concerned, she claimed that her only objective had been to convince her father to turn himself in to the police.
Salander looked completely guileless; it was impossible to say whether she was telling the truth or not. Giannini had no reason to arrive at an opinion on the matter.
The only person who knew for certain that Salander had gone to Gosseberga with the intention of terminating any relationship she had with her father once and for all was Blomkvist. But he had been sent out of the courtroom shortly after the proceedings were resumed. No-one knew that he and Salander had carried on long conversations online by night while she was confined to Sahlgrenska.
*
The media missed altogether her release from custody. If the time of it had been known, a huge contingent would have descended on police headquarters. But many of the reporters were exhausted after the chaos and excitement that had ensued when Millennium reached the news-stands and certain members of the Security Police were arrested by other Security Police officers.
The presenter of She at T.V.4 was the only journalist who knew what the story was all about. Her hour-long broadcast became a classic, and some months later she won the award for Best T. V. News Story of the Year.
Modig got Salander away from police headquarters by very simply taking her and Giannini down to the garage and driving them to Giannini's office on Kungholm's Kyrkoplan. There they switched to Giannini's car. When Modig had driven away, Giannini headed for Södermalm. As they passed the parliament building she broke the silence.
"Where to?" she said.
Salander thought for a few seconds.
"You can drop me somewhere on Lundagatan."
"Miriam isn't there."
Salander looked at her.
"She went to France quite soon after she came out of hospital. She's staying with her parents if you want to get hold of her."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You never asked. She said she needed some space. This morning Mikael gave me these and said you'd probably like to have them back."
She handed her a set of keys. Salander took it and said: "Thanks. Could you drop me somewhere on Folkungagatan instead?"
"You don't even want to tell me where you live?"
"Later. Right now I want to be left in peace."
"O.K."
Giannini had switched on her mobile when they left police headquarters. It started beeping as they were passing Slussen. She looked at the display.
"It's Mikael. He's called every ten minutes for the past couple of hours."
"I don't want to talk to him."
"Tell me... Could I ask you a personal question?"
"Yes."
"What did Mikael do to you that you hate him so much? I mean, if it weren't for him, you'd probably be back on a secure ward tonight."
"I don't hate Mikael. He hasn't done anything to me. I just don't want to see him right now."
Giannini glanced across at her client. "I don't mean to pry, but you fell for him, didn't you?"
Salander looked out of the window and did not answer.
"My brother is completely irresponsible when it comes to relationships. He screws his way through life and doesn't seem to grasp how much it can hurt those women who think of him as more than a casual affair."
Salander met her gaze. "I don't want to discuss Mikael with you."
"Right," Giannini said. She pulled into the kerb just before the junction with Erstagatan. "Is this O.K.?"
"Yes."
They sat in silence for a moment. Salander made no move to open the door. Then Giannini turned off the engine.
"What happens now?" Salander said at last.
"What happens now is that as from today you are no longer under guardianship. You can live your life however you want. Even though we won in the district court, there's still a whole mass of red tape to get through. There will be reports on accountability within the guardianship agency and the question of compensation and things like that. And the criminal investigation will continue."
"I don't want any compensation. I want to be left in peace."
"I understand. But what you want won't play much of a role here. This process is beyond your control. I suggest that you get yourself a lawyer to represent you."
"Don't you want to go on being my lawyer?"
Giannini rubbed her eyes. After all the stress of the day she felt utterly drained. She wanted to go home and have a shower. She wanted her husband to massage her back.
"I don't know. You don't trust me. And I don't trust you. I have no desire to be drawn into a long process during which I encounter nothing but frustrating silence when I make a suggestion or want to discuss something."
Salander said nothing for a long moment. "I... I'm not good at relationships. But I do trust you."
It sounded almost like an apology.
"That may be. And it needn't be my problem if you're bad at relationships. But it does become my problem if I have to represent you."
Silence.
"Would you want me to go on being your lawyer?"
Salander nodded. Giannini sighed.
"I live at Fiskargatan 9. Above Mosebacke Torg. Could you drive me there?"
Giannini looked at her client and then she started the engine. She let Salander direct her to the address. They stopped short of the building.
"O.K.," Giannini said. "We'll give it a try. Here are my conditions. I agree to represent you. When I need to get hold of you I want you to answer. When I need to know what you want me to do, I want clear answers. If I call you and tell you that you have to talk to a policeman or a prosecutor or anything else that has to do with the criminal investigation, then I have already decided that it's necessary. You will have to turn up at the appointed place, on time, and not make a fuss about it. Can you live with that?"
"I can."
"And if you start playing up, I stop being your lawyer. Understood?"
Salander nodded.
"One more thing. I don't want to get involved in a big drama between you and my brother. If you have a problem with him, you'll have to work it out. But, for the record, he's not your enemy."
"I know. I'll deal with it. But I need some time."
"What do you plan to do now?"
"I don't know. You can reach me on email. I promise to reply as soon as I can, but I might not be checking it every day-"
"You won't become a slave just because you have a lawyer. O.K., that's enough for the time being. Out you get. I'm dead tired and I want to go home and sleep."
Salander opened the door and got out. She paused as she was about to close the car door. She looked as though she wanted to say something but could not find the words. For a moment she appeared to Giannini almost vulnerable.
"That's alright, Lisbeth," Giannini said. "Go and get some sleep. And stay out of trouble for a while."
Salander stood at the curb and watched Giannini drive away until her tail lights disappeared around the corner.
"Thanks," she said at last.
CHAPTER 29
Saturday, 16.vii - Friday, 7.x
Salander found her Palm Tungsten T3 on the hall table. Next to it were her car keys and the shoulder bag she had lost when Lundin attacked her outside the door to her apartment building on Lundagatan. She also found both opened and unopened post that had been collected from her P.O. Box on Hornsgatan. Mikael Blomkvist.
She took a slow tour through the furnished part of her apartment. She found traces of him everywhere. He had slept in her bed and worked at her desk. He had used her printer, and in the wastepaper basket she found drafts of the manuscript of The Section along with discarded notes.
He had bought a litre of milk, bread, cheese, caviar and a jumbo pack of Billy's Pan Pizza and put them in the fridge.
On the kitchen table she found a small white envelope with her name on it. It was a note from him. The message was brief. His mobile number. That was all.
She knew that the ball was in her court. He was not going to get in touch with her. He had finished the story, given back the keys to her apartment, and he would not call her. If she wanted something then she could call him. Bloody pig-headed bastard.
She put on a pot of coffee, made four open sandwiches, and went to sit in her window seat to look out towards Djurgården. She lit a cigarette and brooded.
It was all over, and yet now her life felt more claustrophobic than ever.
Miriam Wu had gone to France. It was my fault that you almost died. She had shuddered at the thought of having to see Mimmi, but had decided that that would be her first stop when she was released. But she had gone to France.
All of a sudden she was in debt to people.
Palmgren. Armansky. She ought to contact them to say thank you. Paolo Roberto. And Plague and Trinity. Even those damned police officers, Bublanski and Modig, who had so obviously been in her corner. She did not like feeling beholden to anyone. She felt like a chess piece in a game she could not control.
Kalle Bloody Blomkvist. And maybe even Erika Bloody Berger with the dimples and the expensive clothes and all that self-assurance.
But it was over, Giannini had said as they left police headquarters. Right. The trial was over. It was over for Giannini. And it was over for Blomkvist. He had published his book and would end up on T. V. and probably win some bloody prize too.
But it was not over for Lisbeth Salander. This was only the first day of the rest of her life.
At 4.00 in the morning she stopped thinking. She discarded her punk outfit on the floor of her bedroom and went to the bathroom and took a shower. She cleaned off all the make-up she had worn in court, put on loose, dark linen trousers, a white top and a thin jacket. She packed an overnight bag with a change of underwear and a couple of tops and put on some simple walking shoes.
She picked up her Palm and called a taxi to collect her from Mosebacke Torg. She drove out to Arlanda Airport and arrived just before 6.00. She studied the departure board and booked a ticket to the first place that took her fancy. She used her own passport in her own name. She was surprised
that nobody at the ticket desk or at the check-in counter seemed to recognize her or react to her name.
She had a seat on the morning flight to Málaga and landed in the blazing midday heat. She stood inside the terminal building for a moment, feeling uncertain. At last she went and looked at a map and thought about what she might do now that she was in Spain. A minute later she decided. She did not waste time trying to figure out bus routes or other means of transportation. She bought a pair of sunglasses at an airport shop, went out to the taxi stand and climbed into the back seat of the first taxi.
"Gibraltar. I'm paying with a credit card."
The trip took three hours via the new motorway along the coast. The taxi dropped her off at British passport control and she walked across the border and over to the Rock Hotel on Europa Road, partway up the slope of the 425-metre monolith. She asked if they had a room and was told there was a double room available. She booked it for two weeks and handed over her credit card.
She showered and sat on the balcony wrapped up in a bath towel, looking out over the Straits of Gibraltar. She could see freighters and a few yachts. She could just make out Morocco in the haze on the other side of the straits. It was peaceful.
After a while she went in and lay down and slept.
The next morning Salander woke at 5.00. She got up, showered and had a coffee in the hotel bar on the ground floor. At 7.00 she left the hotel and set out to buy mangos and apples. She took a taxi to the Peak and walked over to the apes. She was so early that few tourists had yet appeared, and she was practically alone with the animals.
She liked Gibraltar. It was her third visit to the strange rock that housed an absurdly densely populated English town on the Mediterranean. Gibraltar was a place that was not like anywhere else. The town had been isolated for decades, a colony that obstinately refused to be incorporated into Spain. The Spaniards protested the occupation, of course. (But Salander thought that the Spaniards should keep their mouths shut on that score so long as they occupied the enclave of Ceuta on Moroccan territory across the straits.) It was a place that was comically shielded from the rest of the world, consisting of a bizarre rock, about three quarters of a square mile of town and an airport that began and ended in the sea. The colony was so small that every square inch of it was used, and any expansion had to be over the sea. Even to get into the town, visitors had to walk across the landing strip at the airport.
Gibraltar gave the concept of "compact living" a whole new meaning.
Salander watched a big male ape climb up on to a wall next to the path. He glowered at her. He was a Barbary ape. She knew better than to try to stroke any of the animals.
"Hello, friend," she said. "I'm back."
The first time she visited Gibraltar she had not even heard about these apes. She had gone up to the top just to look at the view, and she was surprised when she followed some tourists and found herself in the midst of a group of apes climbing and scrambling on both sides of the pathway.
It was a peculiar feeling to be walking along a path and suddenly have two dozen apes around you. She looked at them with great wariness. They were not dangerous or aggressive, but they were certainly capable of giving you a bad bite if they got agitated or felt threatened.
She found one of the guards and showed him her bag of fruit and asked if she could give it to the apes. He said that it was O.K.
She took out a mango and put it on the wall a little way away from the male ape.
"Breakfast," she said, leaning against the wall and taking a bite of an apple.
The male ape stared at her, bared his teeth, and contentedly picked up the mango.
In the middle of the afternoon five days later, Salander fell off her stool in Harry's Bar on a side street off Main Street, two blocks from her hotel. She had been drunk almost continuously since she left the apes on the rock, and most of her drinking had been done with Harry O'Connell, who owned the bar and spoke with a phoney Irish accent, having never in his life set foot in Ireland. He had been watching her anxiously.
When she had ordered her first drink several days earlier, he had asked to see her I. D. Her name was Lisbeth, he knew, and he called her Liz. She would come in after lunch and sit on a high stool at the far end of the bar with her back leant against the wall. Then she would drink an impressive number of beers or shots of whisky.
When she drank beer she did not care about what brand or type it was; she accepted whatever he served her. When she ordered whisky she always chose Tullamore Dew, except on one occasion when she studied the bottles behind the bar and asked for Lagavulin. When the glass was brought to her, she sniffed at it, stared at it for a moment, and then took a tiny sip. She set down her glass and stared at it for a minute with an expression that seemed to indicate that she considered its contents to be a mortal enemy.
Finally she pushed the glass aside and asked Harry to give her something that could not be used to tar a boat. He poured her another Tullamore Dew and she went back to her drinking. Over the past four days she had consumed almost a whole bottle. He had not kept track of the beers. Harry was surprised that a young woman with her slender build could hold so much, but he took the view that if she wanted alcohol she was going to get it, whether in his bar or somewhere else.
She drank slowly, did not talk to any of the other customers, and did not make any trouble. Her only activity apart from the consumption of alcohol seemed to be to play with a hand-held computer which she connected to a mobile now and then. He had several times tried to start a conversation but was met with a sullen silence. She seemed to avoid company. Sometimes, when there were too many people in the bar, she had moved outside to a table on the pavement, and at other times she had gone two doors down to an Italian restaurant and had dinner. Then she would come back to Harry's and order another Tullamore Dew. She usually left the bar at around 10.00 and made her way unsteadily off, always to the north.
Today she had drunk more and at a faster rate than on the other days, and Harry had kept a watchful eye on her. When she had put away seven glasses of Tullamore Dew in a little over two
hours, he decided not to give her any more. It was then that he heard the crash as she fell off the bar stool.
He put down the glass he was drying and went around the counter to pick her up. She seemed offended.
"I think you've had enough, Liz," he said.
She looked at him, bleary-eyed.
"I believe you're right," she said in a surprisingly lucid voice.
She held on to the bar with one hand as she dug some notes out of her top pocket and then wobbled off towards the door. He took her gently by the shoulder.
"Hold on a minute. Why don't you go to the toilet and throw up the last of that whisky and then sit at the bar for a while? I don't want to let you go in this condition."
She did not object when he led her to the toilet. She stuck her fingers down her throat. When she came back out to the bar he had poured her a large glass of club soda. She drank the whole glass and burped. He poured her another.
"You're going to feel like death in the morning," Harry said.
She nodded.
"It's none of my business, but if I were you I'd sober up for a couple of days."
She nodded. Then she went back to the toilet and threw up again.
She stayed at Harry's Bar for another hour until she looked sober enough to be turned loose. She left the bar on unsteady legs, walked down to the airport and followed the shoreline around the marina. She walked until after 8.00, when the ground at last stopped swaying under her feet. Then she went back to the hotel. She took the lift to her room, brushed her teeth and washed her face, changed her clothes, and went back down to the hotel bar to order a cup of black coffee and a bottle of mineral water.
She sat there, silent and unnoticed next to a pillar, studying the people in the bar. She saw a couple in their thirties engaged in quiet conversation. The woman was wearing a light-coloured summer dress, and the man was holding her hand under the table. Two tables away sat a black family, the man with the beginnings of grey at his temples, the woman wearing a lovely, colourful dress in yellow, black and red. They had two young children with them. She studied a group of businessmen in white shirts and ties, their jackets hung over the backs of their chairs. They were drinking beer. She saw a group of elderly people, without a doubt American tourists. The men wore baseball caps, polo shirts and loose-fitting trousers. She watched a man in a light-coloured linen jacket, grey shirt and dark tie come in from the street and pick up his room key at the front desk before he headed over to the bar and ordered a beer. He sat down three metres away from her. She gave him an expectant look as he took out his mobile and began to speak in German.
"Hello, is that you?... Is everything alright?... It's going fine, we're having our next meeting tomorrow afternoon... No, I think it'll work out... I'll be staying here five or six days at least, and then I go to Madrid... No, I won't be home before the end of next week... Me too. I love you... Sure... I'll call you later in the week... Kiss kiss."
He was a little over one metre eighty-five tall, about fifty years old maybe fifty-five, blond hair that was turning grey and was a bit on the long side, a weak chin, and too much weight around the middle. But still reasonably well preserved. He was reading the Financial Times. When he finished his beer and headed for the lift, Salander got up and followed him.
He pushed the button for the sixth floor. Salander stood next to him and leaned her head against the side of the lift.
"I'm drunk," she said.
He smiled down at her. "Oh, really?"
"It's been one of those weeks. Let me guess. You're a businessman of some sort, from Hanover or somewhere in northern Germany. You're married. You love your wife. And you have to stay here in Gibraltar for another few days. I gathered that much from your telephone call in the bar."
The man looked at her, astonished.
"I'm from Sweden myself. I'm feeling an irresistible urge to have sex with somebody. I don't care if you're married and I don't want your phone number."
He looked startled.
"I'm in room 711, the floor above yours. I'm going to go up to my room, take a bath and get into bed. If you want to keep me company, knock on the door within half an hour. Otherwise I'll be asleep."
"Is this some kind of joke?" he said as the lift stopped.
"No. It's just that I can't be bothered to go out to some pick-up bar. Either you knock on my door or you don't."
Twenty-five minutes later there was a knock on the door of Salander's room. She had a bath towel around her when she opened the door.
"Come in," she said.
He stepped inside and looked around the room suspiciously.
"I'm alone here," she said.
"How old are you, actually?"
She reached for her passport on top of a chest of drawers and handed it to him.
"You look younger."
"I know," she said, taking off the bath towel and throwing it on to a chair. She went over to the bed and pulled off the bedspread.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was staring at her tattoos.
"This isn't a trap. I'm a woman, I'm single, and I'll be here for a few days. I haven't had sex for months."
"Why did you choose me?"
"Because you were the only man in the bar who looked as if you were here alone."
"I'm married-"
"And I don't want to know who she is or even who you are. And I don't want to discuss sociology. I want to fuck. Take off your clothes or go back down to your room."
"Just like that?"
"Yes. Why not? You're a grown man - you know what you're supposed to do."
He thought about it for all of thirty seconds. He looked as if he was going to leave. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited. He bit his lip. Then he took off his trousers and shirt and stood hesitantly in his boxer shorts.
"Take it all off," Salander said. "I don't intend to fuck somebody in his underwear. And you have to use a condom. I know where I've been, but I don't know where you've been."
He took off his shorts and went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. Salander closed her eyes when he bent down to kiss her. He tasted good. She let him tip her back on to the bed. He was heavy on top of her.
Jeremy Stuart MacMillan, solicitor, felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as soon as he tried to unlock the door to his office at Buchanan House on Queensway Quay above the marina. It was already unlocked. He opened it and smelled tobacco smoke and heard a chair creak. It was just before 7.00, and his first thought was that he had surprised a burglar.
Then he smelled the coffee from the machine in the kitchenette. After a couple of seconds he stepped hesitantly over the threshold and walked down the corridor to look into his spacious and elegantly furnished office. Salander was sitting in his desk chair with her back to him and her feet on the windowsill. His P. C. was turned on. Obviously she had not had any problem cracking his password. Nor had she had any problem opening his safe. She had a folder with his most private correspondence and bookkeeping on her lap.
"Good morning, Miss Salander," he said at last.
"Ah, there you are," she said. "There's freshly brewed coffee and croissants in the kitchen."
"Thanks," he said, sighing in resignation.
He had, after all, bought the office with her money and at her request, but he had not expected her to turn up without warning. What is more, she had found and apparently read a gay porn magazine that he had kept hidden in a desk drawer.
So embarrassing.
Or maybe not.
When it came to Salander, he felt that she was the most judgemental person he had ever met. But she never once raised an eyebrow at people's weaknesses. She knew that he was officially heterosexual, but his dark secret was that he was attracted to men; since his divorce fifteen years ago he had been making his most private fantasies a reality. It's funny, but I feel safe with her.
Since she was in Gibraltar anyway, Salander had decided to visit MacMillan, the man who handled her finances. She had not been in touch with him since just after New Year, and she wanted to know if he had been busy ruining her ever since.
But there had not been any great hurry, and it was not for him that she had gone straight to Gibraltar after her release. She did it because she felt a burning desire to get away from everything, and in that respect Gibraltar was an excellent choice. She had spent almost a week getting drunk, and then a few days having sex with the German businessman, who eventually introduced himself as Dieter. She doubted it was his real name but had not bothered to check. He spent the days sitting in meetings and the evenings having dinner with her before they went back to his or her room.
He was not at all bad in bed, Salander thought, although he was a bit out of practice and sometimes needlessly rough.
Dieter seemed genuinely astonished that on sheer impulse she had picked up an overweight German businessman who was not even looking for it. He was indeed married, and he was not in the habit of being unfaithful or seeking female company on his business trips. But when the opportunity was presented on a platter in the form of a thin, tattooed young woman, he could not resist the temptation. Or so he said.
Salander did not care much what he said. She had not been looking for anything more than recreational sex, but she was gratified that he actually made an effort to satisfy her. It was not until the fourth night, their last together, that he had a panic attack and started going on about what his wife would say. Salander thought he should keep his mouth shut and not tell his wife a thing.
But she did not tell him what she thought.
He was a grown man and could have said no to her invitation. It was not her problem if he was now attacked by feelings of guilt, or if he confessed anything to his wife. She had lain with her back to him and listened for fifteen minutes, until finally she rolled her eyes in exasperation, turned over and straddled him.
"Do you think you could take a break from the worryguts stuff and get me off again?" she said.
Jeremy MacMillan was a very different story. He held zero erotic attraction for her. He was a crook. Amusingly enough, he looked a lot like Dieter. He was forty-eight, a bit overweight, with greying, dark-blond curly hair that he combed straight back from a high forehead. He wore thin gold-rimmed glasses.
He had once been a Cambridgeeducated business lawyer and stockbroker in London. He had had a promising future and was a partner in a law firm that was engaged by big corporations and wealthy yuppies interested in real estate and tax planning. He had spent the go-go '80s hanging out with nouveau riche celebrities. He had drunk hard and snorted coke with people that he really did not want to wake up with the next morning. He had never been charged with anything, but he did lose his wife and two kids along with his job when he mismanaged several transactions and tottered drunk into a mediation hearing.
Without thinking too much about it, he sobered up and fled London with his tail between his legs. Why he picked Gibraltar he did not know, but in 1991 he went into partnership with a local solicitor and opened a modest back-street law office which officially dealt with much less glamorous matters: estate planning, wills and such like. Unofficially, MacMillan & Marks also helped to set up P.O. Box companies and acted as gatekeepers for a number of shady figures in Europe. The firm was barely making ends meet when Salander selected Jeremy MacMillan to administer the $2.4 billion she had stolen from the collapsing empire of the Swedish financier Hans-Erik Wennerström.
MacMillan was a crook, no doubt about it, but she regarded him as her crook, and he had surprised himself by being impeccably honest in his dealings with her. She had first hired him for a simple task. For a modest fee he had set up a string of P.O. Box companies for her to use; she put a million dollars into each of them. She had contacted him by telephone and had been nothing more than a voice from afar. He never tried to discover where the money came from. He had done what she asked and took 5 per cent commission. A little while later she had transferred a large sum of money that he was to use to set up a corporation, Wasp Enterprises, which then acquired a substantial apartment in Stockholm. His dealings with Salander were becoming quite lucrative, even if it was still only quite modest pickings.
Two months later she had paid a visit to Gibraltar. She had called him and suggested dinner in her room at the Rock Hotel, which was, if not the biggest hotel in Gibraltar, then certainly the most famous. He was not sure what he had expected, but he could not believe that his client was this doll-like girl who looked as if she were in her early teens. He thought he was the butt of some outlandish practical joke.
He soon changed his mind. The strange young woman talked with him impersonally, without ever smiling or showing any warmth. Or coolness, for that matter. He had sat paralysed as, over the course of a few minutes, she obliterated the professional facade of sophisticated respectability that he was always so careful to maintain.
"What is it that you want?" he had asked.
"I've stolen a sum of money," she replied with great seriousness. "I need a crook who can administer it."
He had stared at her, wondering whether she was deranged, but politely he played along. She might be a possible mark for a con game that could bring in a small income. Then he had sat as if struck by lightning when she explained who she had stolen the money from, how she did it, and what the amount was. The Wennerström affair was the hottest topic of conversation in the world of international finance.
"I see."
The possibilities flew through his head.
"You're a skilled business lawyer and stockbroker. If you were an idiot you would never have got the jobs you did in the '80s. However, you behaved like an idiot and managed to get yourself fired."
He winced.
"In the future I will be your only client."
She had looked at him with the most ingenuous expression he had ever seen.
"I have two conditions. The first is that you never ever commit a crime or get mixed up in anything that could create problems for us and focus the authorities' attention on my companies and accounts. The second is that you never lie to me. Never ever. Not a single time. And not for any reason. If you lie to me, our business relationship will terminate instantly, and if you make me cross enough I will ruin you."
She poured him a glass of wine.
"There's no reason to lie to me. I already know everything worth knowing about your life. I know how much you make in a good month and a bad month. I know how much you spend. I know that you never really have enough money. I know that you owe £120,000 in both long-term and short-term debts, and that you always have to take risks and skim some money to make the loan payments. You wear expensive clothes and try to keep up appearances, but in reality you've gone to the dogs and haven't bought a new sports jacket in several months. But you did take an old jacket in to have the lining mended two weeks ago. You used to collect rare books but have been gradually selling them off. Last month you sold an early edition of Oliver Twist for £760."
She stopped talking and fixed him with her gaze. He swallowed hard.
"Last week you actually made a killing. A quite clever fraud perpetrated against that widow you represent. You ripped her off £6,000, which she'll probably never miss."
"How the hell do you know that?"
"I know that you were married, that you have two children in England who don't want to see you, and that you've taken the big leap since your divorce and now have primarily homosexual relationships. You're probably ashamed of that and avoid the gay clubs, and you avoid being seen in town with any of your male friends. You regularly cross the border into Spain to meet men."
MacMillan was shaken to the core. And he was suddenly terrified. He had no idea how she had come by all this information, but she knew enough to destroy him.
"And I'm only going to say this one time. I don't give a shit who you have sex with. It's none of my business. I want to know who you are, but I will never use what I know. I won't threaten you or blackmail you."
MacMillan was no fool. He was perfectly aware, of course, that her knowledge of all that information about him constituted a threat. She was in control. For a moment he had considered picking her up and throwing her over the edge of the terrace, but he restrained himself. He had never in his life been so scared.
"What do you want?" he managed to say.
"I want to have a partnership with you. You will bring to a close all the other business you're working on and will work exclusively for me. You will make more money from my company than you could ever dream of making any other way."
She explained what she required him to do, and how she wanted the arrangements to be made.
"I want to be invisible," she said. "And I want you to take care of my affairs. Everything has to be legitimate. Whatever money I make on my own will not have any connection to our business together."
"I understand."
"You have one week to phase out your other clients and put a stop to all your little schemes."
He also realized that he had been given an offer that would never come round again. He thought about it for sixty seconds and then accepted. He had only one question.
"How do you know that I won't swindle you?"
"Don't even think about it. You'd regret it for the rest of your miserable life."
He had no reason to cook the books. Salander had made him an offer that had the potential of such a silver lining that it would have been idiotic to risk it for bits of change on the side. As long as he was relatively discreet and did not get involved in any financial chicanery, his future would be assured.
Accordingly he had no thought of swindling Ms Salander.
So he went straight, or as straight as a burned-out lawyer could go who was administering an astronomical sum of stolen money.
Salander was simply not interested in the management of her finances. MacMillan's job was to invest her money and see to it that there were funds to cover the credit cards she used. She told him how she wanted her finances to be handled. His job was to make sure it was done.
A large part of the money had been invested in giltedged funds that would provide her with economic independence for the rest of her life, even if she chose to live it recklessly and dissolutely. It was from these funds that her credit card bills were paid.
The rest of the money he could play with and invest as he saw fit, provided that he did not invest in anything that might cause problems with the police in any way. She forbade him to engage in stupid petty crimes and cheap con games which - if he was unlucky - might prompt investigations which in turn could put her under scrutiny.
All that remained was to agree on how much he would make on the transactions.
"I'll pay you £500,000 as a retainer. With that you can pay off all your debts and have a good deal left over. After that you'll earn money for yourself. You will start a company with the two of us as partners. You get 20 per cent of all the profits generated. I want you to be rich enough that you won't be tempted to try it on, but not so rich that you won't make an effort."
He had started his new job on February 1 the year before. By the end of March he had paid off all his debts and stabilized his personal finances. Salander had insisted that he make cleaning up his own affairs a priority so that he would be solvent. In May he dissolved the partnership with his alcoholic colleague George Marks. He felt a twinge of conscience towards his former partner, but getting Marks mixed up in Salander's business was out of the question.
He discussed the matter with Salander when she returned to Gibraltar on another unheralded visit in early July and discovered that MacMillan was working out of his apartment instead of from the office he had previously occupied.
"My partner's an alcoholic and wouldn't be able to handle this. And he would be an enormous risk factor. At the same time, fifteen years ago he saved my life when he took me into his business."
She pondered this a while as she studied MacMillan's face.
"I see. You're a crook who's loyal. That could be a commendable quality. I suggest you set up a small account that he can play around with. See to it that he makes a couple of thousand a month so he gets by."
"Is that O.K. with you?"
She nodded and looked around his bachelor pad. He lived in a studio apartment with a kitchen nook on one of the alleys near the hospital. The only pleasant thing about the place was the view. On the other hand, it was a view that was hard to avoid in Gibraltar.
"You need an office and a nicer place to live," she said.
"I haven't had time," he said.
Then she went out and found an office for him, choosing a 130-square-metre place with a little balcony facing the sea in Buchanan House on Queensway Quay, which was definitely upmarket in Gibraltar. She hired an interior decorator to renovate and furnish it.
MacMillan recalled that while he had been busy shuffling papers, Salander had personally supervised the installation of an alarm system, computer equipment, and the safe that she had already rummaged through by the time he entered the office that morning.
"Am I in trouble?" he said.
She put down the folder with the correspondence she had been perusing.
"No, Jeremy. You're not in trouble."
"That's good," he said as he poured himself some coffee. "You have a way of popping up when I least expect it."
"I've been busy lately. I just wanted to get an update on what's been happening."
"I believe you were suspected of killing three people, you got shot in the head, and you were charged with a whole assortment of crimes. I was pretty worried for a while. I thought you were still in prison. Did you break out?"
"No. I was acquitted of all the charges and released. How much have you heard?"
He hesitated a moment. "Well, when I heard that you were in trouble, I hired a translation agency to comb the Swedish press and give me regular updates. I'm au fait with the details."
"If you're basing your knowledge on what you read in the papers, then you're not au fait at all. But I dare say you discovered a number of secrets about me."
He nodded.
"What's going to happen now?" he said.
She gave him a surprised look. "Nothing. We keep on exactly as before. Our relationship has nothing to do with my problems in Sweden. Tell me what's been happening since I've been away. Have you been doing alright?"
"I'm not drinking, if that's what you mean."
"No. Your private life doesn't concern me so long as it doesn't encroach on our business. I mean, am I richer or poorer than I was a year ago?"
He pulled out the visitor's chair and sat down. Somehow it did not matter to him that she was sitting in his chair.
"You turned over $2.4 billion to me. We put $200 million into personal funds for you. You gave me the rest to play with."
"And?"
"Your personal funds haven't grown by much more than the amount of interest. I could increase the profit if-"
"I'm not interested in increasing the profit."
"O.K. You've spent a negligible amount. The principal expenses have been the apartment I bought for you and the fund you started for that lawyer Palmgren. Otherwise you've just had normal expenses. The interest rate has been favourable. You're running about even."
"Good."
"The rest I invested. Last year we didn't make very much. I was a little rusty and spent the time learning the market again. We've had expenses. We didn't really start generating income until this year. Since the start of the year we've taken about 7 million. Dollars, that is."
"Of which 20 per cent goes to you."
"Of which 20 per cent goes to me."
"Are you satisfied with that?"
"I've made more than a million dollars in six months. Yes, I'm satisfied."
"You know... you shouldn't get too greedy. You can cut back on your hours when you're satisfied. Just make sure you spend a few hours on my affairs every so often."
"Ten million dollars," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"When I get ten million together I'll pack it in. It was good that you turned up in my life. We have a lot to discuss."
"Fire away."
He threw up his hands.
"This is so much money that it scares the shit out of me. I don't know how to handle it. I don't know the purpose of the company besides making more money. What's all the money going to be used for?"
"I don't know."
"Me neither. But money can become an end in itself. It's crazy. That's why I've decided to call it quits when I've earned ten million for myself. I don't want the responsibility any longer."
"Fair enough."
"But before I call it a day I want you to decide how this fortune is to be administered in the future. There has to be a purpose and guidelines and some kind of organization that can take over."
"Mmm."
"It's impossible to conduct business this way. I've divided up the sum into long-term fixed investments - real estate, securities and so forth. There's a complete list on the computer."
"I've read it."
"The other half I've put into speculation, but it's so much money to keep track of that I can't keep up. So I set up an investment company on Jersey. At present you have six employees in London. Two talented young brokers and some clerical staff."
"Yellow Ballroom Ltd? I was wondering what that could be."
"Our company. Here in Gibraltar I've hired a secretary and a promising young lawyer. They'll be here in half an hour, by the way."
"I know. Molly Flint, forty-one, and Brian Delaney, twenty-six."
"Do you want to meet them?"
"No. Is Brian your lover?"
"What? No." He looked shocked. "I don't mix-"
"Good."
"By the way, I'm not interested in young guys... inexperienced ones, I mean."
"No... you're more attracted to men with a tough attitude than to some snot-nosed kid. But it's still none of my business. But Jeremy..."
"Yes?"
"Be careful."
Salander had not planned to stay in Gibraltar for more than two weeks, just long enough, she thought, to get her bearings. But she suddenly discovered that she had no idea what she was going to do or where she should go. She stayed for three months. She checked her email once a day and replied promptly to messages from Giannini on the few occasions her lawyer got in touch. She did not tell her where she was. She did not answer any other email.
She still went to Harry's Bar, but now she came in only for a beer or two in the evenings. She spent large parts of her days at the Rock Hotel, either on her balcony or in bed. She got together with a thirty-year-old Royal Navy officer, but it was a one-night stand and all in all an uninteresting experience.
She was bored.
Early in October she had dinner with MacMillan. They had met up only a few times during her stay. It was dark and they drank a fruity white wine and discussed what they should use her billions for. And then he surprised her by asking what was upsetting her.
She studied his face for a long time and pondered the matter. Then she had, just as surprisingly, told him about her relationship with Miriam Wu, and how Mimmi had been beaten and almost killed. And she, Lisbeth, was to blame. Apart from one greeting sent by way of Giannini, Salander had not heard a word from Mimmi. And now she was in France.
MacMillan listened in silence.
"Are you in love with her?" he said at last.
Salander shook her head.
"No. I don't think I'm the type who falls in love. She was a friend. And we had good sex."
"Nobody can avoid falling in love," he said. "They might want to deny it, but friendship is probably the most common form of love."
She looked at him in astonishment.
"Will you get cross if I say something personal?"
"No."
"Go to Paris, for God's sake," he said.
She landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at 2.30 in the afternoon, took the airport bus to the Arc de Triomphe and spent two hours wandering around the nearby neighbourhoods trying to find a hotel room. She walked south towards the Seine and finally found a room at a small hotel, the Victor Hugo on rue Copernic.
She took a shower and called Miriam Wu. They met that evening at a bar near Notre Dame. Mimmi was dressed in a white shirt and jacket. She looked fabulous. Salander instantly felt shy. They kissed each other on the cheek.
"I'm sorry I haven't called, and that I didn't come to the trial," Mimmi said.
"That's O.K. The trial was behind closed doors anyway."
"I was in hospital for three weeks, and then it was chaos when I got home to Lundagatan. I couldn't sleep. I had nightmares about that bastard Niedermann. I called my mother and told her I wanted to come here, to Paris."
Salander said she understood.
"Forgive me," Mimmi said.
"Don't be such an idiot. I'm the one who's come here to ask you to forgive me."
"For what?"
"I wasn't thinking. It never occurred to me that I was putting you in such danger by turning over my old apartment to you. It was my fault that you were almost murdered. You'd have every right to hate me."
Mimmi looked shocked. "Lisbeth, I never even gave it a thought. It was Ronald Niedermann who tried to murder me, not you."
They sat in silence for a while.
"Alright," Salander said finally.
"Right," Mimmi said.
"I didn't follow you here because I'm in love with you," Salander said.
Mimmi nodded.
"We had great sex, but I'm not in love with you."
"Lisbeth, I think..."
"What I wanted to say was that I hope you... damn."
"What?"
"I don't have many friends..."
Mimmi nodded. "I'm going to be in Paris for a while. My studies at home were a mess so I signed up at the university here instead. I'll probably stay at least one academic year. After that I don't know. But I'm going to come back to Stockholm. I'm still paying the service charges on Lundagatan and I mean to keep the apartment. If that's O.K. with you."
"It's your apartment. Do what you want with it."
"Lisbeth, you're a very special person," Mimmi said. "I'd still like to be your friend."
They talked for two hours. Salander did not have any reason to hide her past from Miriam Wu. The Zalachenko business was familiar to everyone who had access to a Swedish newspaper, and Mimmi had followed the story with great interest. She gave Salander a detailed account of what had happened in Nykvarn the night Paolo Roberto saved her life.
Then they went back to Mimmi's student lodgings near the university.
EPILOGUE
INVENTORY OF ESTATE
Friday, 2.xii - Sunday, 18.xii
Giannini met Salander in the bar of the Södra theatre at 9.00. Salander was drinking beer and was already coming to the end of her second glass.
"Sorry I'm late," Giannini said, glancing at her watch. "I had to deal with another client."
"That's O.K.," said Lisbeth.
"What are you celebrating?"
"Nothing. I just feel like getting drunk."
Giannini looked at her sceptically and took a seat.
"Do you often feel that way?"
"I drank myself stupid after I was released, but I have no tendency to alcoholism. It just occurred to me that for the first time in my life I have a legal right to get drunk here in Sweden."
Giannini ordered a Campari.
"O.K. Do you want to drink alone," she said, "or would you like some company?"
"Preferably alone. But if you don't talk too much you can sit with me. I take it you don't feel like coming home with me and having sex."
"I beg your pardon?" Giannini said.
"No, I didn't think so. You're one of those insanely heterosexual people."
Giannini suddenly looked amused.
"That's the first time in my life that one of my clients has proposed sex."
"Are you interested?"
"No, not in the least, sorry. But thanks for the offer."
"So what was it you wanted, counsellor?"
"Two things. Either I quit as your lawyer here and now or you start answering your telephone when I call. We've already had this discussion, when you were released."
Salander looked at Giannini.
"I've been trying to get hold of you for a week. I've called, I've sent letters, I've emailed."
"I've been away."
"In fact you've been impossible to get hold of for most of the autumn. This just isn't working. I said I would represent you in all negotiations with the government. There are formalities that have to be taken care of. Papers to be signed. Questions to be answered. I have to be able to reach you, and I have no wish to be made to feel like an idiot because I don't know where the hell you are."
"I was away again for two weeks. I came home yesterday and called you as soon as I knew you were looking for me."
"That's not good enough. You have to keep me informed of where you are and get in touch at least once a week until all the issues about compensation and such are resolved."
"I don't give a shit about compensation. I just want the government to leave me alone."
"But the government isn't going to leave you alone, no matter how much you may want it to. Your acquittal has set in motion a long chain of consequences. It's not just about you. Teleborian is going to be charged for what he did to you. You're going to have to testify. Ekström is the subject of an investigation for dereliction of duty, and he may even be charged too if it turns out that he deliberately disregarded his duty at the behest of the Section."
Salander raised her eyebrows. For a moment she looked interested.
"I don't think it's going to come to an indictment. He was led up the garden path by the Section and in fact he had nothing to do with them. But as recently as last week a prosecutor initiated a preliminary investigation against the guardianship agency. It involves several reports being sent to the Parliamentary Ombudsman, as well as a report to the Ministry of Justice."
"I didn't report anyone."
"No. But it's obvious that there has been gross dereliction of duty. You're not the only person affected."
Salander shrugged. "This has nothing to do with me. But I promise to be in closer contact with you. These last two weeks have been an exception. I've been working."
Giannini did not look as though she believed her. "What are you working on?"
"Consulting."
"I see," she said. "The other thing is that the inventory of the estate is now ready."
"Inventory of what estate?"
"Your father's. The state's legal representative contacted me since nobody seemed to know how to get in touch with you. You and your sister are the sole heirs."
Salander looked at Giannini blankly. Then she caught the waitress's eye and pointed at her glass.
"I don't want any inheritance from my father. Do whatever the hell you want with it."
"Wrong. You can do what you want with the inheritance. My job is to see to it that you have the opportunity to do so."
"I don't want a single öre from that pig."
"Then give the money to Greenpeace or something."
"I don't give a shit about whales."
Giannini's voice suddenly softened. "Lisbeth, if you're going to be a legally responsible citizen, then you're going to have to start behaving like one. I don't give a damn what you do with your money. Just sign here that you received it, and then you can get drunk in peace."
Salander glanced at her and then looked down at the table. Annika assumed this was some kind of conciliatory gesture that perhaps corresponded to an apology in Salander's limited register of expressions.
"What kind of figures are we talking about?"
"They're not insignificant. Your father had about 300,000 kronor in shares. The property in Gosseberga would sell for around 1.5 million - there's a little woodland included. And there are three other properties."
"What sort of properties?"
"It seems that he invested a significant amount of money. There's nothing of enormous value, but he owns a small building in Udderalla with six apartments, and they bring in some income. But the property is not in good shape. He didn't bother with upkeep and the apartments have even been up before the rental board. You won't get rich, but you'd get a good price if you sold it. He also owns a summer cabin in Småland that's worth around 250,000 kronor. Plus he owns a dilapidated industrial site outside Norrtälje."
"Why in the world did he buy all this shit?"
"I have no idea. But the estate could bring in over four million kronor after taxes etc., but..."
"But what?"
"The inheritance has to be divided equally between you and your sister. The problem is that nobody knows where your sister is."
Salander looked at Giannini in silence.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Where is your sister?"
"I have no idea. I haven't seen her for ten years."
"Her file is classified, but I found out that she is listed as out of the country."
"I see," Salander said, showing little interest.
Giannini sighed in exasperation.
"I would suggest that we liquidate all the assets and deposit half the proceeds in the bank until your sister can be found. I can initiate the negotiations if you give me the go-ahead."
Salander shrugged. "I don't want anything to do with his money."
"I understand that. But the balance sheet still has to be sorted out. It's part of your responsibility as a citizen."
"Sell the crap, then. Put half in the bank and send the rest to whoever you like."
Giannini stared at her. She had understood that Salander had money stashed away, but she had not realized that her client was so well off that she could ignore an inheritance that might amount to a million kronor or more. What is more, she had no idea where Salander had got her money, or how much was involved. On the other hand she was keen to finalize the bureaucratic procedure.
"Lisbeth, please... could you read through the estate inventory and give me the green light so that we can get this matter resolved?"
Salander grumbled for a moment, but finally she acquiesced and stuffed the folder into her shoulder bag. She promised to read through it and send instructions as to what she wanted Giannini to do. Then she went back to her beer. Giannini kept her company for an hour, drinking mostly mineral water.
It was not until several days later, when Giannini telephoned to remind her about the estate inventory, that Salander took out the crumpled papers. She sat at the kitchen table, smoothed out the documents, and read through them.
The inventory covered several pages. There was a detailed list of all kinds of junk - the china in the kitchen cupboards in Gosseberga, clothing, cameras and other personal effects. Zalachenko had not left behind much of real value, and not one of the objects had the slightest sentimental value for Salander. She decided that her attitude had not changed since she met with Giannini at the theatre bar. Sell the crap and give the money away. Or something. She was positive that she did not want a single öre of her father's wealth, but she also was pretty sure that Zalachenko's real assets were hidden where no tax inspector would look for them.
Then she opened the title deeds for the property in Norrtälje.
It was an industrial site of three buildings totalling twenty thousand square metres in the vicinity of Skederid, between Norrtälje and Rimbo.
The estate assessor had apparently paid a cursory visit, and noted that it was an old brickworks that had been more or less empty and abandoned since it was shut down in the '60s, apart from a period in the '70s when it had been used to store timber. He noted that the buildings were in "extremely poor condition" and could not in all likelihood be renovated for any other activity. The term "poor condition" was also used to describe the "north building," which had in fact been destroyed by fire and collapsed. Some repairs, he wrote, had been made to the "main building".
What gave Salander a jolt was the site's history. Zalachenko had acquired the property for a song on 12 March, 1984, but the signatory on the purchase documents was Agneta Sofia Salander.
So Salander's mother had in fact been the owner of the property. Yet in 1987 her ownership had ceased. Zalachenko had bought her out for 2,000 kronor. After that the property had stood unused for fifteen years. The inventory showed that on 17 September, 2003, K.A.B. Import A.B. had hired the builders NorrBygg Inc. to do renovations which included repairs to the floor and roof, as well as improvements to the water and electrical systems. Repair work had gone on for two months, until the end of November, and then discontinued. NorrBygg had sent an invoice which had been paid.
Of all the assets in her father's estate, this was the only surprising entry. Salander was puzzled. Ownership of the industrial site made sense if her father had wanted to give the impression that K. A. B. Import was carrying on legitimate activities or owned certain assets. It also made sense that he had used her mother as a front in the purchase and had then for a pittance bought back the property.
But why in heaven's name would he spend almost 440,000 kronor to renovate a ramshackle building, which according to the assessor was still not being used for anything in 2005?
She could not understand it, but was not going to waste time wondering. She closed the folder and called Giannini.
"I've read the inventory. What I said still holds. Sell the shit and do whatever you like with the money. I want nothing from him."
"Very well. I'll see to it that half the revenue is deposited in an account for your sister, and I'll suggest some suitable recipients for the rest."
"Right," Salander said and hung up without further discussion.
She sat in her window seat, lit a cigarette, and looked out towards Saltsjön.
Salander spent the next week helping Armansky with an urgent matter. She had to help track down and identify a person suspected of being hired to kidnap a child in a custody battle resulting from a Swedish woman divorcing her Lebanese husband. Salander's job amounted to checking the email of the person who was presumed to have hired the kidnapper. Milton Security's role was discontinued when the parties reached a legal solution.
On December 18, the Sunday before Christmas, Salander woke at 6.00 and remembered that she had to buy a Christmas present for Palmgren. For a moment she wondered whether there was anyone else she should buy presents for - Giannini perhaps. She got up and took a shower in no particular hurry, and ate a breakfast of toast with cheese and marmalade and a coffee.
She had nothing special planned for the day and spent a while clearing papers and magazines from her desk. Then her gaze fell on the folder with the estate inventory. She opened it and reread the page about the title registration for the site in Norrtälje. She sighed. O.K. I have to find out what the hell he had going on there.
She put on warm clothes and boots. It was 8.30 when she drove her burgundy Honda out of the garage beneath Fiskargatan 9. It was icy cold but beautiful, sunshine and a pastel-blue sky. She took the road via Slussen and Klarabergsleden and wound her way on to the E18 going north,
heading for Norrtälje. She was in no hurry. At 10.00 she turned into an O.K. petrol station and shop a few miles outside Skederid to ask the way to the old brickworks. No sooner had she parked than she realized that she did not even need to ask.
She was on a hillside with a good view across the valley on the other side of the road. To the left towards Norrtälje she could see a paint warehouse, some sort of builder's yard, and another yard with bulldozers. To the right, at the edge of the industrial area, about four hundred metres from the road was a dismal brick building with a crumbling chimney-stack. The factory stood like a last outpost of the industrial area, somewhat isolated beyond a road and a narrow stream. She surveyed the building thoughtfully and asked herself what on earth had possessed her to drive all the way up to Norrtälje.
She turned and glanced at the O.K. station, where a long-distance truck and trailer with the emblem of the International Road Transport Union had just pulled in. She remembered that she was on the main road from the ferry terminal at Kapellskär, through which a good deal of the freight traffic between Sweden and the Baltic countries passed.
She started the car and drove out on to the road towards the old brickworks. She parked in the middle of the yard and got out. It was below freezing outside, and she put on a black knitted cap and leather gloves.
The main building was on two floors. On the ground floor all the windows had been boarded up with plywood, and she could see that on the floor above many of them had been broken. The factory was a much bigger building than she had imagined, and it was incredibly dilapidated. She could see no evidence of repairs. There was no trace of a living soul, but she saw that someone had discarded a used condom in the yard, and that graffiti artists had attacked part of the facade.
Why had Zalachenko owned this building?
She walked around the factory and found the ramshackle north building to the rear. She saw that the doors to the main building were locked. In frustration she studied a door at one end of the building. All the other doors had padlocks attached with iron bolts and galvanized security strips, but the lock on the gable end seemed weaker and was in fact attached only with rough spikes. Damn it, it's my building. She looked about and found a narrow iron pipe in a pile of rubbish. She used it to lever open the fastening of the padlock.
She entered a stairwell with a doorway on to the ground floor area. The boarded-up windows meant that it was pitch black inside, except for a few shafts of light seeping in at the edges of the boards. She stood still for several minutes until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She saw a sea of junk, wooden pallets, old machine parts and timber in a workshop that was forty-five metres long and about twenty metres wide, supported by massive pillars. The old brick ovens seemed to have been disassembled, and in their place were big pools of water and patches of mould on the floor. There was a stale, foul smell from all the debris. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
She turned back and went up the stairs. The top floor was dry and consisted of two similar rooms, each about twenty by twenty metres square, and at least eight metres high. There were tall, inaccessible windows close to the ceiling which provided no view but let in plenty of light. The upper floor, just like the workshop downstairs, was full of junk. There were dozens of one-metre-high
packing cases stacked on top of one another. She gripped one of them but could not move it. The text on the crate read: Machine parts 0-A77, with an apparently corresponding text in Russian underneath. She noticed an open goods lift halfway down one wall of the first room.
A machine warehouse of some sort, but that would hardly generate income so long as the machinery stood there rusting.
She went into the inner room and discovered that this was where the repair work must have been carried out. The room was again full of rubbish, boxes and old office furniture arranged in some sort of labyrinthine order. A section of the floor was exposed where new floor planks had been laid. Salander guessed that the renovation work had been stopped abruptly. Tools, a crosscut saw and a circular saw, a nail gun, a crowbar, an iron rod and tool boxes were still there. She frowned. Even if the work had been discontinued, the joiners should have collected up their tools. But this question too was answered when she held a screwdriver up to the light and saw that the writing on the handle was Russian. Zalachenko had imported the tools and probably the workers as well.
She switched on the circular saw and a green light went on. There was power. She turned it off.
At the far end of the room were three doors to smaller rooms, perhaps the old offices. She tried the handle of the door on the north side of the building. Locked. She went back to the tools and got a crowbar. It took her a while to break open the door.
It was pitch black inside the room and smelled musty. She ran her hand along the wall and found a switch that lit a bare bulb in the ceiling. Salander looked around in astonishment.
The furniture in the room consisted of three beds with soiled mattresses and another three mattresses on the floor. Filthy bedlinen was strewn around. To the right was a two-ring electric hob and some pots next to a rusty water tap. In a corner stood a tin bucket and a roll of toilet paper.
Somebody had lived here. Several people.
Then she saw that there was no handle on the inside of the door. She felt an ice-cold shiver run down her back.
There was a large linen cupboard at the far end of the room. She opened it and found two suitcases. Inside the one on top were some clothes. She rummaged through them and held up a dress with a Russian label. She found a handbag and emptied the contents on the floor. From among the cosmetics and other bits and pieces she retrieved a passport belonging to a young, dark-haired woman. It was a Russian passport, and she spelled out the name as Valentina.
Salander walked slowly from the room. She had a feeling of déjà vu. She had done the same kind of crime scene examination in a basement in Hedeby two and a half years earlier. Women's clothes. A prison. She stood there for a long time, thinking. It bothered her that the passport and clothes had been left behind. It did not feel right.
Then she went back to the assortment of tools and rummaged about until she found a powerful torch. She checked that there was life in the batteries and went downstairs into the larger workshop. The water from the puddles on the floor seeped into her boots.
The nauseating stench of rotting matter grew stronger the further into the workshop she went, and seemed to be worst when she was in the middle of the room. She stopped next to the foundations of one of the old brick furnaces, which was filled with water almost to the brim. She shone her torch on to the coal-black surface of the water but could not make anything out. The surface was partly covered by algae that had formed a green slime. Nearby she found a long steel rod which she stuck into the pool and stirred around. The water was only about fifty centimetres deep. Almost immediately the rod bumped into something. She manipulated it this way and that for several seconds before a body rose to the surface, face first, a grinning mask of death and decomposition. Breathing through her mouth, Salander looked at the face in the beam of the torch and saw that it was a woman, possibly the woman from the passport photograph. She knew nothing about the speed of decay in cold, stagnant water, but the body seemed to have been in the pool for a long time.
There was something moving on the surface of the water. Larvae of some sort.
She let the body sink back beneath the surface and poked around more with the rod. At the edge of the pool she came across something that might have been another body. She left it there and pulled out the rod, letting it fall to the floor as she stood thinking next to the pool.
Salander went back up the stairs. She used the crowbar to break open the middle door. The room was empty.
She went to the last door and slotted the crowbar in place, but before she began to force it, the door swung open a crack. It was not locked. She nudged it open with the crowbar and looked around.
The room was about thirty metres square. It had windows at a normal height with a view of the yard in front of the brickworks. She could see the O.K. petrol station on the hill. There was a bed, a table, and a sink with dishes. Then she saw a bag lying open on the floor. There were banknotes in it. In surprise she took two steps forward before she noticed that it was warm and saw an electric heater in the middle of the room. Then she saw that the red light was on on the coffee machine.
Someone was living here. She was not alone in the building.
She spun around and ran through the inner room, out of the doors and towards the exit in the outer workshop. She stopped five steps short of the stairwell when she saw that the exit had been closed and padlocked. She was locked in. Slowly she turned and looked around, but there was no-one.
"Hello, little sister," came a cheerful voice from somewhere to her right.
She turned to see Niedermann's vast form materialize from behind some packing crates.
In his hand was a large knife.
"I was hoping I'd have a chance to see you again," Niedermann said. "Everything happened so fast the last time."
Salander looked about her.
"Don't bother," Niedermann said. "It's just you and me, and there's no way out except through the locked door behind you."
Salander turned her eyes to her half-brother.
"How's the hand?" she said.
Niedermann was smiling at her. He raised his right hand and showed her. His little finger was missing.
"It got infected. I had to chop it off."
Niedermann could not feel pain. Salander had sliced his hand open with a spade at Gosseberga only seconds before Zalachenko had shot her in the head.
"I should have aimed for your skull," Salander said in a neutral tone. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you'd left the country months ago."
He smiled at her again.
If Niedermann had tried to answer Salander's question as to what he was doing in the dilapidated brickworks, he probably would not have been able to explain. He could not explain it to himself.
He had left Gosseberga with a feeling of liberation. He was counting on the fact that Zalachenko was dead and that he would take over the business. He knew he was an excellent organizer.
He had changed cars in Alingsås, put the terror-stricken dental nurse Anita Kaspersson in the boot, and driven towards Borås. He had no plan. He improvised as he went. He had not reflected on Kaspersson's fate. It made no difference to him whether she lived or died, and he assumed that he would be forced to do away with a bothersome witness. Somewhere on the outskirts of Borås it came to him that he could use her in a different way. He turned south and found a desolate forest outside Seglora. He tied her up in a barn and left her there. He reckoned that she would be able to work her way loose within a few hours and then lead the police south in their hunt for him. And if she did not manage to free herself, and starved or froze to death in the barn, it did not matter, it was no concern of his.
Then he drove back to Borås and from there east towards Stockholm. He had driven straight to Svavelsjö, but he avoided the clubhouse itself. It was a drag that Lundin was in prison. He went instead to the home of the club's sergeant-at-arms, Hans-Åke Waltari. He said he was looking for a place to hide, which Waltari sorted out by sending him to Göransson, the club's treasurer. But he had stayed there only a few hours.
Niedermann had, theoretically, no money worries. He had left behind almost 200,000 kronor in Gosseberga, but he had access to considerably larger sums that had been deposited abroad. His problem was that he was short of actual cash. Göransson was responsible for Svavelsjö M.C.'s finances, and it had not been difficult for Niedermann to persuade him to take him to the cabinet in
the barn where the cash was kept. Niedermann was in luck. He had been able to help himself to 800,000 kronor.
He seemed to remember that there had been a woman in the house too, but he had forgotten what he had done with her.
Göransson had also provided a car that the police were not yet looking for. Niedermann went north. He had a vague plan to make it on to one of the ferries at Kapellskär that would take him to Tallinn.
When he got to Kapellskär he sat in the car park for half an hour, studying the area. It was crawling with policemen.
He drove on aimlessly. He needed a place where he could lie low for a while. When he passed Norrtälje he remembered the old brickworks. He had not even thought about the place in more than a year, since the time when repairs had been under way. The brothers Harry and Atho Ranta were using the brickworks as a depot for goods moving to and from the Baltic ports, but they had both been out of the country for several weeks, ever since that journalist Svensson had started snooping around the whore trade. The brickworks would be empty.
He had driven Göransson's Saab into a shed behind the factory and gone inside. He had had to break open a door on the ground floor, and one of the first things he did was to create an emergency exit through a loose plywood board at one end of the ground floor. He later replaced the broken padlock. Then he had made himself at home in a cosy room on the upper floor.
A whole afternoon had passed before he heard the sounds coming through the walls. At first he thought these were his familiar phantoms. He sat alert and listened for almost an hour before he got up and went out to the workshop to listen more closely. At first he heard nothing, but he stood there patiently until he heard more scraping noises.
He found the key next to the sink.
Niedermann had seldom been as amazed as when he opened the door and found the two Russian whores. They were skin and bones. They seemed to have had no food for several weeks and had been living on tea and water since the last packet of rice had run out.
One of the girls was so exhausted that she could not get up from the bed. The other was in better shape. She spoke only Russian, but he knew enough of the language to understand that she was thanking God and him for saving them. She fell on her knees and threw her arms around his legs. He pushed her away, then left the room and locked the door behind him.
He had not known what to do with the whores. He heated up some soup from the cans he found in the kitchen and gave it to them while he thought. The weaker woman on the bed seemed to be getting some of her strength back. He spent the evening questioning them. It was a while before he understood that the two women were not whores at all, but students who had paid the Ranta brothers to get them into Sweden. They had been promised visas and work permits. They had come from Kapellskär in February and were taken straight to the warehouse, and there they were locked up.
Niedermann's face had darkened with anger. Those bastard Ranta brothers were collecting an income that they had not told Zalachenko about. Then they had completely forgotten about the women, or maybe had knowingly left them to their fate when they fled Sweden in such a hurry.
The question was: what was he supposed to do with them? He had no reason to harm them, and yet he could not really let them go, considering that they would probably lead the police to the brickworks. It was that simple. He could not send them back to Russia, because that would mean he would have to drive them down to Kapellskär. That seemed too difficult. The dark-haired woman, whose name was Valentina, had offered him sex if he helped them. He was not the least bit interested in having sex with the girls, but the offer had turned her into a whore too. All women were whores. It was that simple.
After three days he had tired of their incessant pleading, nagging and knocking on the wall. He could see no other way out. So he unlocked the door one last time and swiftly solved the problem. He asked Valentina to forgive him before he reached out and in one movement broke her neck between the second and third cervical vertebrae. Then he went over to the blonde girl on the bed whose name he did not know. She lay there passively, did not put up any resistance. He carried the bodies downstairs and put them in one of the flooded pits. At last he could feel some sort of peace.
Niedermann had not intended to stay long at the brickworks. He thought he would have to lie low only until the initial police manhunt had died down. He shaved his head and let his beard grow to half an inch, and that altered his appearance. He found a pair of overalls belonging to one of the workers from NorrBygg which were almost big enough to fit him. He put on a Becker's Paint baseball cap and stuffed a folding ruler into a leg pocket. At dusk he drove to the O.K. shop on the hill and bought supplies. He had all the cash he needed from Svavelsjö M. C. 's piggy bank. He looked like any workman stopping on his way home, and nobody seemed to pay him any attention. He shopped once or twice a week at the same time of day. At the O.K. shop they were always perfectly friendly to him.
From the very first day he had spent a considerable amount of time fending off the creatures that inhabited the building. They lived in the walls and came out at night. He could hear them wandering around the workshop.
He barricaded himself in his room. After several days he had had enough. He armed himself with a large knife which he had found in a kitchen drawer and went out to confront the monsters. It had to end.
All of a sudden he discovered that they were retreating. For the first time in his life he had been able to dominate his phantoms. They shrank back when he approached. He could see their deformed bodies and their tails slinking off behind the packing crates and cabinets. He howled at them. They fled.
Relieved, he went back to his warm room and sat up all night, waiting for them to return. They mounted a renewed attack at dawn and he faced them down once more. They fled.
He was teetering between panic and euphoria.
All of his life he had been haunted by these creatures in the dark, and for the very first time he felt that he was in control of the situation. He did nothing. He slept. He ate. He thought. It was peaceful.
The days turned to weeks and spring turned to summer. From his transistor radio and the evening papers he could tell that the hunt for the killer Ronald Niedermann was winding down. He read with interest the reports of the murder of Zalachenko. What a laugh. A psycho had put an end to Zalachenko. In July his interest was again aroused when he followed the reports of Salander's trial. He was appalled when she was acquitted and released. It did not feel right. She was free while he was forced to hide.
He bought the Millennium special issue at the O.K. shop and read all about Salander and Zalachenko and Niedermann. A journalist named Blomkvist had described Niedermann as a pathological murderer and a psychopath. He frowned.
Autumn came suddenly and still he had not made a move. When it got colder he bought an electric heater at the O.K. shop. He did not know what kept him from leaving the brickworks.
Occasionally some young people had driven into the yard and parked there, but no-one had disturbed him or tried to break into the building. In September a car drove up and a man in a blue windcheater had tried the doors and snooped around the property. Niedermann had watched him from the window on the upper floor. The man kept writing in his notebook. He had stayed for twenty minutes before he looked around one last time and got into his car and drove away. Niedermann breathed a sigh of relief. He had no idea who the man was or what business had brought him there, but he appeared to be doing a survey of the property. It did not occur to Niedermann that Zalachenko's death had prompted an inventory of his estate.
He thought a lot about Salander. He had never expected to see her again, but she fascinated and frightened him. He was not afraid of any living person. But his sister - his half-sister - had made a particular impression on him. No-one else had ever defeated him the way she had done. She had come back to life, even though he had buried her. She had come back and hunted him down. He dreamed about her every night. He would wake up in a cold sweat, and he recognized that she had replaced his usual phantoms.
In October he made a decision. He was not going to leave Sweden before he had found his sister and destroyed her. He did not have a plan, but at least his life now had a purpose. He did not know where she was or how he would trace her. He just sat in his room on the upper floor of the brickworks, staring out of the window, day after day, week after week.
Until one day a burgundy Honda parked outside the building and, to his complete astonishment, he saw Salander get out of the car. God is merciful, he thought. Salander would join the two women whose names he no longer remembered in the pool downstairs. His wait was over, and he could at last get on with his life.
Salander assessed the situation and saw that it was anything but under control. Her brain was working at high speed. Click, click, click. She still held the crowbar in her hand but she knew that it was a feeble weapon against a man who could not feel pain. She was locked inside an area of about a thousand square metres with a murderous robot from hell.
When Niedermann suddenly moved towards her she threw the crowbar at him. He dodged it easily. Salander moved fast. She stepped on to a pallet, swung herself up on to a packing crate and kept climbing, like a monkey, up two more crates. She stopped and looked down at Niedermann, now four metres below her. He was looking up at her and waiting.
"Come down," he said patiently. "You can't escape. The end is inevitable."
She wondered if he had a gun of some sort. Now that would be a problem.
He bent down and picked up a chair and threw it at her. She ducked.
Niedermann was getting annoyed. He put his foot on the pallet and started climbing up after her. She waited until he was almost at the top before she took a running start of two quick steps and jumped across an aisle to land on top of another crate. She swung down to the floor and grabbed the crowbar.
Niedermann was not actually clumsy, but he knew that he could not risk jumping from the stack of crates and perhaps breaking a bone in his foot. He had to climb down carefully and set his feet on the floor. He always had to move slowly and methodically, and he had spent a lifetime mastering his body. He had almost reached the floor when he heard footsteps behind him and turned just in time to block a blow from the crowbar with his shoulder. He lost his grip on the knife.
Salander dropped the crowbar just as she had delivered the blow. She did not have time to pick up the knife, but kicked it away from him along the pallets, dodging a backhand blow from his huge fist and retreating back up on to the packing crates on the other side of the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Niedermann reach for her. Quick as lightning she pulled up her feet. The crates stood in two rows, stacked up three high next to the centre aisle and two high along the outside. She swung down on to the two crates and braced herself, using all the strength in her legs and pushing her back against the crate next to her. It must have weighed two hundred kilos. She felt it begin to move and then tumble down towards the centre aisle.
Niedermann saw the crate coming and threw himself to one side. A corner of the crate struck him on the chest, but he seemed not to have been injured. He picked himself up. She was resisting. He started climbing up after her. His head was just appearing over the third crate when she kicked at him. Her boot struck him with full force in the forehead. He grunted and heaved himself up on top of the packing crates. Salander fled, leaping back to the crates on the other side of the aisle. She dropped over the edge and vanished immediately from his sight. He could hear her footsteps and caught a glimpse of her as she passed through the doorway to the inner workshop.
Salander took an appraising look around. Click. She knew that she did not have a chance. She could survive for as long as she could avoid Niedermann's enormous fists and keep her distance. But when she made a mistake - which would happen sooner or later - she was dead. She had to evade him. He would only have to grab hold of her once, and the fight would be over.
She needed a weapon.
A pistol. A sub-machine gun. A rocket-propelled grenade. A personnel mine.
Any bloody thing at all.
But there was nothing like that to hand.
She looked everywhere.
No weapons.
Only tools. Click. Her eyes fell on the circular saw, but he was hardly going to lie down on the saw bench. Click. Click. She saw an iron rod that could be used as a spear, but it was probably too heavy for her to handle effectively. Click. She glanced through the door and saw that Niedermann was down from the crates and no more than fifteen metres away. He was coming towards her again. She started to move away from the door. She had maybe five seconds left before Niedermann was upon her. She glanced one last time at the tools.
A weapon... or a hiding place.
Niedermann was in no hurry. He knew that there was no way out and that sooner or later he would catch his sister. But she was dangerous, no doubt about it. She was, after all, Zalachenko's daughter. And he did not want to be injured. It was better to let her run around and wear herself out.
He stopped in the doorway to the inner room and looked around at the jumble of tools, furniture and half-finished floorboards. She was nowhere to be seen.
"I know you're in here. And I'm going to find you."
Niedermann stood still and listened. All he could hear was his own breathing. She was hiding. He smiled. She was challenging him. Her visit had suddenly turned into a game between brother and sister.
Then he heard a clumsy rustling noise from somewhere in the centre of the room. He turned his head but at first could not tell where the sound was coming from. Then he smiled again. In the middle of the floor set slightly apart from the other debris stood a five-metre-long wooden workbench with a row of drawers and sliding cabinet doors beneath it.
He approached the workbench from the side and glanced behind it to make sure that she was not trying to fool him. Nothing there.
She was hiding inside the cabinet. So stupid.
He slid open the first door on the far left.
He instantly heard movement inside the cabinet, from the middle section. He took two quick steps and opened the middle door with a triumphant expression on his face.
Empty.
Then he heard a series of sharp cracks that sounded like pistol shots. The sound was so close that at first he could not tell where it was coming from. He turned to look. Then he felt a strange pressure against his left foot. He felt no pain, but he looked down at the floor just in time to see Salander's hand moving the nail gun over to his right foot.
She was underneath the cabinet.
He stood as if paralysed for the seconds it took her to put the mouth of the nail gun against his boot and fire another five seven-inch nails straight through his foot.
He tried to move.
It took him precious seconds to realize that his feet were nailed solidly to the newly laid plank floor. Salander's hand moved the nail gun back to his left foot. It sounded like an automatic weapon getting shots off in bursts. She managed to shoot in another four nails as reinforcement before he was able to react.
He reached down to grab her hand, but immediately lost his balance and regained it only by bracing himself against the workbench as he heard the nail gun being fired again and again, ka-blam, ka-blam, ka-blam. She was back to his right foot. He saw that she was firing the nails diagonally through his heel and into the floor.
Niedermann howled in sudden rage. He lunged again for Salander's hand.
From her position under the cabinet Salander saw his trouser leg slide up, a sign that he was trying to bend down. She let go of the nail gun. Niedermann saw her hand disappear quick as a lizard beneath the cabinet just before he reached her.
He reached for the nail gun, but the instant he touched it with the tips of his fingers she drew it under the cabinet.
The gap between the floor and the cabinet was about twenty centimetres. With all the strength he could muster he toppled the cabinet on to its back. Salander looked up at him with big eyes and an offended expression. She aimed the nail gun and fired it from a distance of fifty centimetres. The nail hit him in the middle of his shin.
The next instant she dropped the nail gun, rolled fast as lightning away from him and got to her feet beyond his reach. She backed up several feet and stopped.
Niedermann tried to move and again lost his balance, swaying backwards and forwards with his arms flailing. He steadied himself and bent down in rage.
This time he managed to grab hold of the nail gun. He pointed it at Salander and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. He looked in dismay at the nail gun and then at Salander again. She looked back at him blankly and held up the plug. In fury he threw the nail gun at her. She dodged to the side.
Then she plugged in the cord again and hauled in the nail gun.
He met Salander's expressionless eyes and was amazed. She had defeated him. She's supernatural. Instinctively he tried to pull one foot from the floor. She's a monster. He could lift his foot only a few millimetres before his boot hit the heads of the nails. They had been driven into his feet at different angles, and to free himself he would have to rip his feet to shreds. Even with his
almost superhuman strength he was unable to pull himself loose. For several seconds he swayed back and forth as if he were swimming. He saw a pool of blood slowly forming between his shoes.
Salander sat down on a stool and watched for signs that he might be able to tear his feet loose. Since he could not feel pain, it was a matter of whether he was strong enough to pull the heads of the nails straight through his feet. She sat stock still and observed his struggle for ten minutes. The whole time her eyes were frozen blank After a while she stood up and walked behind him and held the nail gun to his spine, just below the nape of his neck.
Salander was thinking hard. This man had transported, drugged, abused and sold women both retail and wholesale. He had murdered at least eight people, including a policeman in Gosseberga and a member of Svavelsjö M. C. and his wife. She had no idea how many other lives her half-brother might have on his account, if not his conscience, but thanks to him she had been hunted all over Sweden like a mad dog, suspected of three of the murders he had committed.
Her finger rested heavily on the trigger.
He had murdered the journalist Dag Svensson and his partner Mia Johansson.
With Zalachenko he had also murdered her and buried her in Gosseberga. And now he had resurfaced to murder her again.
You could get pretty angry with less provocation.
She saw no reason to let him live any longer. He hated her with a passion that she could not even fathom. What would happen if she turned him over to the police? A trial? A life sentence? When would he be granted parole? How soon would he escape? And now that her father was finally gone - how many years would she have to look over her shoulder, waiting for the day when her brother would suddenly turn up again? She felt the heft of the nail gun. She could end this thing once and for all.
Risk assessment.
She bit her lip.
Salander was afraid of no-one and nothing. She realized that she lacked the necessary imagination - and that was evidence enough that there was something wrong with her brain.
Niedermann hated her and she responded with an equally implacable hatred towards him. He joined the ranks of men like Magge Lundin and Martin Vanger and Zalachenko and dozens of other creeps who in her estimation had absolutely no claim to be among the living. If she could put them all on a desert island and set off an atomic bomb, then she would be satisfied.
But murder? Was it worth it? What would happen to her if she killed him? What were the odds that she would avoid discovery? What would she be ready to sacrifice for the satisfaction of firing the nail gun one last time?
She could claim self-defence... no, not with his feet nailed to the floorboards.
She suddenly thought of Harriet Fucking Vanger, who had also been tormented by her father and her brother. She recalled the exchange she had had with Mikael Bastard Blomkvist in which she cursed Harriet Vanger in the harshest possible terms. It was Harriet Vanger's fault that her brother Martin had been allowed to go on murdering women year after year.
"What would you do?" Blomkvist had said.
"I'd kill the fucker," she had said with a conviction that came from the depths of her cold soul.
And now she was standing in exactly the same position in which Harriet Vanger had found herself. How many more women would Niedermann kill if she let him go? She had the legal right of a citizen and was socially responsible for her actions. How many years of her life did she want to sacrifice? How many years had Harriet Vanger been willing to sacrifice?
Suddenly the nail gun felt too heavy for her to hold against his spine, even with both hands.
She lowered the weapon and felt as though she had come back to reality. She was aware of Niedermann muttering something incoherent. He was speaking German. He was talking about a devil that had come to get him.
She knew that he was not talking to her. He seemed to see somebody at the other end of the room. She turned her head and followed his gaze. There was nothing there. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
She turned on her heel, grabbed the iron rod, and went to the outer room to find her shoulder bag. As she bent to retrieve it she caught sight of the knife. She still had her gloves on, and she picked up the weapon.
She hesitated a moment and then placed it in full view in the centre aisle between the stacks of packing crates. With the iron rod she spent three minutes prising loose the padlock so that she could get outside.
She sat in her car and thought for a long time. Finally she flipped open her mobile. It took her two minutes to locate the number for Svavelsjö M. C.'s clubhouse.
"Yeah?"
"Nieminen," she said.
"Wait."
She waited for three minutes before Sonny Nieminen came to the telephone.
"Who's this?"
"None of your bloody business," Salander said in such a low voice that he could hardly make out the words. He could not even tell whether it was a man or a woman.
"Alright, so what do you want?"
"You want a tip about Niedermann?"
"Do I?"
"Don't give me shit. Want to know where he is or not?"
"I'm listening."
Salander gave him directions to the brickworks outside Norrtälje. She said that he would be there long enough for Nieminen to find him if he hurried.
She closed her mobile, started the car and drove up to the O.K. petrol station across the road. She parked so that she had a clear view of the brickworks.
She had to wait for more than two hours. It was just before 1.30 in the afternoon when she saw a van drive slowly past on the road below her. It stopped at the turning off the main road, stood there for five minutes, and then drove down to the brickworks. On this December day, twilight was setting in.
She opened the glove box and took out a pair of Minolta 16 × 50 binoculars and watched as the van parked. She identified Nieminen and Waltari with three men she did not recognize. New blood. They had to rebuild their operation.
When Nieminen and his pals had found the open door at the end of the building, she opened her mobile again. She composed a message and sent it to the police station in Norrtälje.
POLICE MURDERER R. NIEDERMANN IN OLD BRICKWORKS BY THE O.K. STATION OUTSIDE SKEDERID. ABOUT TO BE MURDERED BY S. NIEMINEN AND MEMBERS OF SVAVELSJÖ M. C. WOMEN DEAD IN PIT ON GROUND FLOOR.
She could not see any movement from the factory.
She bided her time.
As she waited she removed the S.I.M. card from her telephone and cut it up with some nail scissors. She rolled down the window and tossed out the pieces. Then she took a new S.I.M. card from her wallet and inserted it in her mobile. She was using a Comviq cash card, which was virtually impossible to track. She called Comviq and credited 500 kronor to the new card.
Eleven minutes after her message was sent, two police vans with their sirens off but with blue lights flashing drove at speed up to the factory from the direction of Norrtälje. They parked in the yard next to Nieminen's van. A minute later two squad cars arrived. The officers conferred and then moved together towards the brickworks. Salander raised her binoculars. She saw one of the policemen radio through the registration number of Nieminen's van. The officers stood around waiting. Salander watched as another team approached at high speed two minutes later.
Finally it was all over.
The story that had begun on the day she was born had ended at the brickworks.
She was free.
When the policemen officers took out assault rifles from their vehicles, put on Kevlar vests and started to fan out around the factory site, Salander went inside the shop and bought a coffee and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane. She ate standing at a counter in the café.
It was dark by the time she got back to her car. Just as she opened the door she heard two distant reports from what she assumed were handguns on the other side of the road. She saw several black figures, presumably policemen, pressed against the wall near the entrance at one end of the building. She heard sirens as another squad car approached from the direction of Uppsala. A few cars had stopped at the side of the road below her to watch the drama.
She started the Honda, turned on to the E18, and drove home.
It was 7.00 that evening when Salander, to her great annoyance, heard the doorbell ring. She was in the bath and the water was still steaming. There was really only one person who could be at her front door.
At first she thought she would ignore it, but at the third ring she sighed, got out of the bath, and wrapped a towel around her. With her lower lip pouting, she trailed water down the hall floor. She opened the door a crack.
"Hello," Blomkvist said.
She did not answer.
"Did you hear the evening news?"
She shook her head.
"I thought you might like to know that Ronald Niedermann is dead. He was murdered today in Norrtälje by a gang from Svavelsjö M. C."
"Really?" Salander said.
"I talked to the duty officer in Norrtälje. It seems to have been some sort of internal dispute. Apparently Niedermann had been tortured and slit open with a knife. They found a bag at the factory with several hundred thousand kronor."
"Jesus."
"The Svavelsjö mob was arrested, but they put up quite a fight. There was a shoot-out and the police had to send for a back-up team from Stockholm. The bikers surrendered at around 6.00."
"Is that so?"
"Your old friend Sonny Nieminen bit the dust. He went completely nuts and tried to shoot his way out."
"That's nice."
Blomkvist stood there in silence. They looked at each other through the crack in the door.
"Am I interrupting something?" he said.
She shrugged. "I was in the bath."
"I can see that. Do you want some company?"
She gave him an acid look.
"I didn't mean in the bath. I've brought some bagels," he said, holding up a bag. "And some espresso coffee. Since you own a Jura Impressa X7, you should at least learn how to use it."
She raised her eyebrows. She did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
"Just company?"
"Just company," he confirmed. "I'm a good friend who's visiting a good friend. If I'm welcome, that is."
She hesitated. For two years she had kept as far away from Mikael Blomkvist as she could. And yet he kept sticking to her life like gum on the sole of her shoe, either on the Net or in real life. On the Net it was O.K. There he was no more than electrons and words. In real life, standing on her doorstep, he was still fucking attractive. And he knew her secrets just as she knew all of his.
She looked at him for a moment and realized that she now had no feelings for him. At least not those kinds of feelings.
He had in fact been a good friend to her over the past year.
She trusted him. Maybe. It was troubling that one of the few people she trusted was a man she spent so much time avoiding.
Then she made up her mind. It was absurd to pretend that he did not exist. It no longer hurt her to see him.
She opened the door wide and let him into her life again.
The End
NOTES
Olof Palme was the leader of the Social Democratic Party and Prime Minister of Sweden at the time of his assassination on 28 February 1986. He was an outspoken politician, popular on the left and detested by the right. Two years after his death a petty criminal and drug addict was convicted of his murder, but later acquitted on appeal. Although a number of alternative theories as to who carried out the murder have since been proposed, to this day the crime remains unsolved.
Prompted by Olof Palme's assassination, Prime Minister Ingvar Carlsson called an investigation into the procedures of the Swedish security police (Säpo) in the autumn of 1987. Carl Lidbom, then Swedish ambassador to France, was given the task of leading the investigation. One of his old acquaintances, the publisher Ebbe Carlsson, firmly believed that the Kurdish organization PKK was involved in the murder and was given resources to start a private investigation. The Ebbe Carlsson affair exploded as a major political scandal in 1988, when it was revealed that the publisher had been secretly supported by the then Minister of Justice, Anna-Greta Leijon. She was subsequently forced to resign.
Informationsbyrån (IB) was a secret intelligence agency without official status within the Swedish armed forces. Its main purpose was to gather information about communists and other individuals who were perceived to be a threat to the nation. It was thought that these findings were passed on to key politicians at cabinet level, most likely the defence minister at the time, Sven Andersson, and Prime Minister Olof Palme. The exposure of the agency's operations by journalists Jan Guillou and Peter Bratt in the magazine Folket i Bild/Kulturfront in 1973 became known as the IB affair.
Carl Bildt was Prime Minister of Sweden between 1991 and 1994 and leader of the liberal conservative Moderate Party from 1986 to 1999.
Anna Lindh was a Swedish Social Democratic politician who served as foreign minister from 1998 until her assassination in 2003. She was considered by many as one of the leading candidates to succeed Göran Persson as leader of the Social Democrats and Prime Minister of Sweden. In the final weeks of her life she was intensely involved in the pro-euro campaign preceding the Swedish referendum on the euro.
Colonel Stig Wennerström of the Swedish air force was convicted of treason in 1964. During the '50s he was suspected of leaking air defence plans to the Soviets and in 1963 was informed upon by his maid, who had been recruited by Säpo. Initially sentenced to life imprisonment, his sentence was commuted to twenty years in 1973, of which he served only ten. He died in 2006. Not to be confused with Hans-Erik Wennerström, the crooked financier who appears in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and The Girl Who Played with Fire.
The Sjöbo debate - In the late '80s and early '90s there was an immigration crisis in Sweden. The number of asylum seekers increased, and the resulting unemployment and backlash from local government prompted the city of Sjöbo to hold a referendum 1998, where the population voted against accepting immigrants. The subsequent political debate led to a combined immigration and integration system in the Aliens Act of 1989.

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