"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 Lu-cien'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 brain and fueling the small jackhammers at work on the inside of his head. He had to have water. His
...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 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."