She stepped to her right as Jake assumed the lectern. He glanced over at the Yawkey family and noticed that Ozzie and Prather were now standing near them, as if to say, “You want trouble, here it is.” Jake cleared his throat and said, “Carla and I thank the Parole Board for this opportunity to speak. I’ll be brief. Dennis Yawkey and his pathetic little band of thugs were successful in burning our home and seriously disrupting our lives, but they were not successful in harming us, as they had planned. Nor were they successful in achieving their bigger goal, which was to destroy the pursuit of justice. Because I represented Carl Lee Hailey, a black man who shot and killed the two white men who raped and tried to kill his daughter, they—Dennis Yawkey and his ilk and various known and unknown members of the Klan—tried repeatedly to intimidate and harm me, my family, my friends, even my employees. They failed miserably. Justice was served, fairly and wonderfully, when an all-white jury ruled in favor of my client. That jury also ruled against nasty little thugs like Dennis Yawkey and his notions of violent racism. That jury has spoken, loud and clear and forever. It would be a shame if this Parole Board gave Yawkey a slap on the wrist and sent him home. Frankly, he needs all the time here at Parchman you folks can possibly give him. Thank you.”

Yawkey was staring at him with a smirk, still victorious over the firebombing and wanting more. His cockiness was not missed by several members of the Parole Board. Jake returned the stare, then backed away and escorted Carla back to their seats.

“Sheriff Walls?” the chairman said, and Ozzie strutted to the lectern, his badge glistening over his coat pocket.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I’m Ozzie Walls, sheriff of Ford County, and I don’t want this boy back home causin’ trouble. Frankly, he should be in a federal pen servin’ a much longer sentence, but we don’t have time to get into that. I have an ongoin’ investigation into what happened three years ago, as does the FBI over in Oxford. We ain’t through, okay? And it would be a mistake to release him. In my opinion, he’ll just pick up where he left off. Thank you.”

Ozzie walked away, and walked as close to the Yawkey family as possible. He and Prather stood against the wall behind them, and when the next case was called, they eased out with a few other spectators. Jake and Carla met them outside the room and thanked them for making the trip. They had not expected the sheriff to appear. They chatted a few minutes before Ozzie and Deputy Prather left to check on an inmate who was headed back to Clanton.

Floyd Green found Jake and Carla and seemed somewhat agitated. “I think it’ll work,” he said. “Follow me, and you owe me one.” They left one building and entered another. Beside the office of an assistant warden, two armed guards stood by a door. A man with a short-sleeve shirt and clip-on tie said gruffly, “You got ten minutes.”

And a pleasure to meet you, Jake thought. One of the guards opened the door. “Wait here,” Jake said to Carla.

“I’ll stay with her,” Floyd Green said.

The room was tiny, windowless, more of a closet than an office. Handcuffed to a metal chair was Marvis Lang, age twenty-eight, wearing the standard prison whites with a faded blue stripe down each leg. He seemed quite relaxed, low in the chair, one leg crossed over the other. He had a bushy Afro and a goatee.

“Marvis, I’m Jake Brigance, a lawyer from Clanton,” Jake said as he slid the other chair close and sat down.

Marvis smiled politely and awkwardly offered his right hand, which was secured to the chair arm just like his left. They managed a firm handshake in spite of the restraints. Jake asked, “You remember your lawyer, Nick Norton?”

“Sort of. Been a while. I ain’t had much reason to talk to him.”

“I have a letter in my pocket signed by Nick giving me the authority to talk to you, if you want to see it.”

“I’ll talk. Let’s talk. What you wanna talk about?”

“Your mother, Lettie. Has she been to see you recently?”

“She was here last Sunday.”

“Did she tell you about her name being mentioned in the last will of a white man named Seth Hubbard?”

Marvis looked away for a second, then nodded slightly. “She did. Why you wanna know?”

“Because in that will Seth Hubbard named me as the attorney to handle his assets and property. He gave 90 percent of it to your mother and it’s my job to make sure she gets it. Follow?”

“So you’re a good guy?”

“Damned right. In fact, I’m the best guy in the entire fight right now, but your mother doesn’t think so. She’s hired some Memphis lawyers who are in the process of robbing her blind while they screw up the case.”

Marvis sat up straight, tried to raise both hands, and said, “Okay, I’m officially confused. Slow down and talk to me.”

Jake was still talking when someone knocked on the door. A guard stuck his head in and said, “Time’s up.”

“Just finishing,” Jake said as he politely shoved the door closed. He leaned even closer to Marvis and said, “I want you to call Nick Norton, collect, he’ll take the call, and he’ll verify what I’m saying. Right now every lawyer in Ford County will tell you the same thing—Lettie is making a terrible mistake.”

“And I’m supposed to fix things?”

“You can help. Talk to her. We, she and I, have a tough fight to begin with. She’s making it much worse.”

“Let me think about it.”

“You do that, Marvis. And call me anytime, collect.”

The guard was back.

17

The usual white-collar crowd gathered at the Tea Shoppe for breakfast and coffee, never tea, not at such an early hour. At one round table there was a lawyer, a banker, a merchant, and an insurance agent, and at another there was a select group of older, retired gentlemen. Retired, but not dull, slow, or quiet. It was called the Geezer Table. The conversation was picking up steam as it rolled through the feeble efforts of the Ole Miss football team—last Saturday’s loss to Tulane at homecoming was unforgivable—and the even feebler efforts down at Mississippi State. It was gaining momentum as the geezers finished trashing Dukakis, who’d just been thrashed by Bush, when the banker said, loudly, “Say, I heard that woman has rented the old Sappington place and is moving to town, with her horde, of course. They say she’s got kinfolks moving in by the carload and needs a bigger place.”

“The Sappington place?”

“You know, up north of town, off Martin Road, just down from the auction yard. Old farmhouse you can barely see from the road. They’ve been trying to sell it ever since Yank Sappington died, what, ten years ago?”

“At least. Seems like it’s been rented a few times.”

“But they’ve never rented to blacks before, have they?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I thought it was in pretty good shape.”

“It is. They painted it last year.”

This was considered for a moment and was the cause of great consternation. Even though the Sappington place was on the edge of town, it was in an area still considered white.

“Why would they rent to blacks?” asked one of the geezers.