Evidently, it was enough. Carl Lee Hailey was as sane as any man when he killed those boys.

Moving forward, Rufus remembered the pandemonium in the courtroom as the Hailey family and all their friends went crazy. Talk about insanity! Seconds later, the mob surrounding the courthouse exploded when a kid yelled to them, “Not guilty! Not guilty!”

At the bar, Rufus managed to collect himself and his thoughts. He had work to do and little time to prepare for it. Like every courtroom, between the bar, or railing, and the judge’s bench there were two large tables. They were identical but radically different. The table on the right was the home of the prosecutor in a criminal case—his old turf—or the plaintiff in a civil case. This table was close to the jury box so that during a trial he, Rufus, always felt nearer to his people. Ten feet away, the other table was the home of the defense, both in criminal and civil cases. In the opinions of most lawyers who spent their careers in courtrooms, seating was important. It conveyed power, or lack thereof. It allowed certain lawyers or litigants to be seen more, or less, by the jurors, who were always watching. On occasion it could set the stage for a David and Goliath struggle as a solitary lawyer and his crippled client faced a throng of corporate suits, or a beaten-down defendant faced the power of the State. Seating was important to comely female lawyers with short skirts and a jury box filled with men, and it was equally important to drugstore cowboys with pointed-toe boots.

As a prosecutor, Rufus never worried about seating because it was never an issue. Will contests, though, were rare, and he and Mr. Sistrunk had made a decision. If possible, they would commandeer the table used by the prosecution and plaintiff, the one closest to the jury, and assert themselves as the true voice of the proponents of the will. Jake Brigance would probably throw punches, but bring it on. It was time to establish proper roles, and since their client was the beneficiary of the quite valid last will and testament of Seth Hubbard, they would stake their claim.

Personally, privately, Rufus wasn’t so sure about this strategy. He was well versed in the legend of the Honorable Reuben V. Atlee, who, like most old, seasoned, and often cranky Chancellors in Mississippi, ruled with an iron fist and was often skeptical of outsiders. Sistrunk, though, was itching for a fight and calling the shots. Regardless of what happened, it would be exciting and he, Rufus, would be in the middle of it.

He quickly rearranged the chairs around the table on the right, leaving three and moving the rest off to one side. He unpacked a thick briefcase and scattered papers and pads all over the table, as if he’d been there for hours with a full day of labor ahead of him. He spoke to Mr. Pate, a courtroom deputy, as he filled pitchers with ice water. Once upon a time he and Mr. Pate would have chatted about the weather, but Rufus was no longer interested in rainfall.

Dumas Lee entered quietly and, recognizing Buckley, went straight for him. He had a camera around his neck and a notepad ready for a quote, but when he asked, “Say, Mr. Buckley, what brings you here?” he was ignored.

“I understand you’re local counsel for Lettie Lang, right?”

“No comment,” Rufus said as he carefully arranged some files, humming.

Things have really changed, Dumas thought. The old Rufus would break his neck to talk to a reporter, and no one stood between Rufus and a camera.

Dumas drifted away and said something to Mr. Pate, who said, “Get that camera outta here.” So Dumas left and went outside where he and a colleague waited hopefully for the possible sighting of a black Rolls-Royce.

Wade Lanier arrived with his associate, Lester Chilcott. They nodded at Buckley, who was too busy to speak, and were amused by his takeover of the plaintiff’s table. They, too, went about the urgent task of unpacking heavy briefcases and preparing for battle. Minutes later, Stillman Rush and Sam Larkin appeared at the bar and said hello to their semi-colleagues. They were on the same side of the courtroom, and would press many of the same arguments, but at this early stage of the conflict they were not yet ready to trust each other. Spectators drifted in and the courtroom buzzed with the low rumble of anxious greetings and gossip. Several uniformed deputies milled about, cracking jokes and saying hello to the visitors. Ian and Ramona and their kids arrived in a pack and sat on the far left, behind their lawyers and as far away as possible from those on the other side. Nosy lawyers loitered about the bench as if they had business before the court. They laughed with the clerks. Drama finally arrived when Booker Sistrunk and his entourage crowded through the door and clogged the aisle and swept into the courtroom as if it had been reserved for them. Arm in arm with Lettie, he led his crowd down the aisle, scowling at everyone else, daring anyone to speak, and, as always, looking for conflict. He parked her on the front row, with Simeon and the kids next to her, and he positioned a thick-necked young black man in a black suit with a black shirt and tie at guard in front of her, as if either assassins or admirers might rush from nowhere. Around Lettie there were various cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews, neighbors, along with assorted well-wishers.

Buckley watched this parade and could barely suppress his suspicion. For twelve years he had faced juries in this part of the world. He could pick them, read them, predict them, talk to them and lead them, for the most part, and he knew in an instant that Booker Sistrunk and his Big & Black & Bad routine would not fly in this courtroom. Seriously, a bodyguard? Lettie was a lousy actress. She had been coached to appear somber, even sad, in mourning, as if her dear departed friend was gone and had left her a rightful inheritance that the greedy white folks now wanted. She tried to look mistreated, abused.

Sistrunk and his partner, Kendrick Bost, walked through the bar and exchanged solemn greetings with their co-counsel, Mr. Buckley. They added to his pile of debris on the coveted table while they totally ignored the lawyers on the other side. The audience grew as the clock approached 8:45.

Jake entered from a side door and immediately noticed his place had already been taken. He shook hands with Wade Lanier, Stillman Rush, and the other lawyers for the contestants. “Looks like we have a bit of a problem,” he said to Stillman, nodding at Buckley and the lawyers from Memphis. “Good luck,” Stillman said.

Jake made the snap decision to avoid a confrontation. He eased out of the courtroom and worked his way back to the judge’s chambers. Herschel Hubbard arrived with his two children and some friends. They sat near Ian and Ramona. As the clock approached 9:00, the courtroom settled down. It was almost perfectly segregated—blacks on one side, whites on the other. Lucien, of course, sat on the black side, back in the rear.

Jake returned and stood alone near a door next to the jury box. He spoke to no one, but instead managed to flip nonchalantly through a document. At 9:05, Mr. Pate barked, “All rise for the court,” and Judge Atlee made his entrance, his old faded black robe trailing behind him. He took his place, said, “Please be seated,” then looked around the courtroom. He looked and looked, frowned and frowned, but said nothing. He glanced at Jake, glared at Buckley and Sistrunk and Bost, and then picked up a sheet of paper. He called the roll of lawyers; all were present and accounted for, a total of ten.

He pulled his microphone even closer and said, “First a bit of housekeeping. Mr. Buckley, you have filed a notice of entry into this matter as local counsel for the Memphis firm of Sistrunk & Bost, is that correct?”