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.