A Time to Kill (59 page)

“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?” Buckley 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 × 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 restroom. Jake closed and locked the restroom 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 Sheriff’s 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.