Jake was waiting in Ozzie’s office when they sneaked back into the jail. Ozzie and Moss Junior excused themselves, leaving the defendant with his lawyer.
“Where have y’all been?” Jake asked suspiciously.
“Went to the hospital to see Looney.”
“You what!”
“Nothin’ wrong, is it?”
“I wish you would check with me before you make any more visits.”
“What’s wrong with seein’ Looney?”
“Looney will be the star witness for the State when they attempt to send you to the gas chamber. That’s
all. He ain’t on our side, Carl Lee, and any talking you do with Looney should be with your attorney present. Understand?”
“Not really.”
“I can’t believe Ozzie would do that,” Jake mumbled.
“It was my idea,” Carl Lee admitted.
“Well, if you get any more ideas, please let me know about them. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You talked to Lester lately?”
“Yeah, him and Gwen came by today. Brought me goodies. Told me ’bout the banks.”
Jake planned to play hardball about his fee; no way he could represent Carl Lee for nine hundred dollars. The case would consume his practice for the next three months at least, and nine hundred would be less than minimum wage. It would not be fair to him or his family to work for nothing. Carl Lee would simply have to raise the money. There were plenty of relatives. Gwen had a big family. They would just have to sacrifice, maybe sell a few automobiles, maybe some land, but Jake would get his fee. If not, Carl Lee could find another lawyer.
“I’ll give you the deed to my place,” Carl Lee offered.
Jake melted. “I don’t want your place, Carl Lee. I want cash. Sixty-five hundred dollars.”
“Show me how, and I’ll do it. You the lawyer, you figure out a way. I’m with you.”
Jake was beat and he knew it. “I can’t do it for nine hundred dollars, Carl Lee. I can’t let this case bankrupt me. I’m a lawyer. I’m supposed to make money.”
“Jake, I’ll pay you the money. I promise. It may take a long time, but I’ll pay you. Trust me.”
Not if you’re on death row, thought Jake. He changed the subject. “You know the grand jury meets tomorrow, and it’ll take up your case.”
“So I go to court?”
“Naw, it means you’ll be indicted tomorrow. The courthouse will be full of people and reporters. Judge Noose will be here to open the May term of court. Buckley’ll be running around chasing cameras and blowing smoke. It’s a big day. Noose starts an armed robbery trial in the afternoon. If you’re indicted tomorrow, we’ll be in court Wednesday or Thursday for the arraignment.”
“The what?”
“The arraignment. In a capital murder case, the judge is required by law to read the indictment to you in open court in front of God and everybody. They’ll make a big deal out of it. We’ll enter a plea of not guilty, and Noose sets the trial date. We ask for a reasonable bond, and he says no. When I mention bond Buckley’ll scream and turn cartwheels. The more I think of him the more I hate him. He’ll be a large pain in the ass.”
“Why don’t I get a bond?”
“For capital murder, the judge does not have to set a bond. He can if he wants to, but most don’t. Even if Noose set a bond, you couldn’t pay it, so don’t worry about it. You’ll be in jail until trial.”
“I lost my job, you know.”
“When?”
“Gwen drove over Friday and got my paycheck. They told her. Nice, ain’t it. Work there eleven years, miss five days, and they fire me. Guess they think I ain’t comin’ back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Carl Lee. Real sorry.”
12
__________
T
he Honorable Omar Noose had not always been so honorable. Before he became the circuit judge for the Twenty-second Judicial District, he was a lawyer with meager talent and few clients, but he was a politician of formidable skills. Five terms in the Mississippi Legislature had corrupted him and taught him the art of political swindling and manipulation. Senator Noose prospered handsomely as chairman of the Senate Finance Committee, and few people in Van Buren County questioned how he and his family lived so affluently on his legislative salary of seven thousand dollars a year.
Like most members of the Mississippi Legislature, he ran for reelection one time too many, and in the summer of 1971 he was humiliated by an unknown opponent. A year later, Judge Loopus, his predecessor on the bench, died, and Noose persuaded his friends in the Legislature to persuade the governor to appoint him to serve the unexpired term. That’s how ex-State Senator Noose became Circuit Judge Noose. He was elected in 1975, and reelected in 1979 and 1983.
Repentant, reformed, and very humbled by his rapid descent from power, Judge Noose applied himself to the study of the law, and after a shaky start, grew to the job. It paid sixty thousand a year, so he could afford to be honest. Now, at sixty-three, he was a wise old judge, well respected by most lawyers and by the state Supreme Court, which seldom reversed his rulings. He was quiet but charming, patient but strict, and he had a huge monument of a nose that was very long and very pointed and served as a throne for his black-rimmed, octagon-shaped reading glasses, which he wore constantly but never used. His nose, plus his tall, gawky frame, plus his wild, untamed, dense gray hair, plus his squeaky voice, had given rise to his secret nickname, whispered among lawyers, of Ichabod. Ichabod Noose. The Honorable Ichabod Noose.
He assumed the bench, and the crowded courtroom stood as Ozzie mumbled incoherently a statutorily required paragraph to officially open the May term of the Ford County Circuit Court. A long, flowery prayer was offered by a local minister, and the congregation sat down. Prospective jurors filled one side of the courtroom. Criminals and other litigants, their families and friends, the press, and the curious filled the other side. Noose required every lawyer in the county to attend the opening of the term, and the members of the bar sat in the jury box, all decked out in full regalia, all looking important. Buckley and his assistant, D. R. Musgrove, sat at the prosecution’s table, splendidly representing the State. Jake sat by himself in a wooden chair in front of the railing. The clerks and court reporters stood behind the large red docket books on the workbench, and with everyone else watched intently as Ichabod situated himself in his chair upon the bench, straightened his robe, adjusted
his hideous reading glasses, and peered over them at the assemblage.
“Good morning,” he squeaked loudly. He pulled the microphone closer and cleared his throat. “It’s always nice to be in Ford County for the May term of court. I see most members of the bar found time to appear for the opening of court, and as usual, I will request Madam Clerk to note those absent attorneys so that I may personally contact them. I see a large number of potential jurors present, and I thank each of you for being here. I realize you had no choice, but your presence is vital to our judicial process. We will empanel a grand jury momentarily, and then we will select several trial juries to serve this week and next. I trust each member of the bar has a copy of the docket, and you will note it looks somewhat crowded. My calendar reveals at least two cases set for trial each day this week and next, but it’s my understanding most of the criminal cases set for trial will go off on negotiated plea bargains. Nonetheless, we have many cases to move, and I request the diligent cooperation of the bar. Once the new grand jury is empaneled and goes to work, and once the indictments start coming down, I will schedule arraignments and first appearances. Let’s quickly call the docket, criminal first, then civil; then the attorneys may be excused as we select a grand jury.
“State versus Warren Moke
. Armed robbery, set for trial this afternoon.”
Buckley rose slowly, purposefully. “The State of Mississippi is ready for trial, Your Honor,” he announced gloriously for the spectators.
“So’s the defense,” said Tyndale, the court-appointed lawyer.
“How long do you anticipate for trial?” asked the judge.
“Day and a half,” answered Buckley. Tyndale nodded in agreement.
“Good. We’ll select the trial jury this morning and start the trial at one P.M. today. State versus William Daal, forgery, six counts, set for tomorrow.”
“Your Honor,” answered D.R. Musgrove, “there will be a plea in that case.”
“Good.
State versus Roger Hornton
, grand larceny, two counts, set for tomorrow.”
Noose continued through the docket. Each case drew the same response. Buckley would stand and proclaim the State ready for trial, or Musgrove would quietly inform the court that a plea had been negotiated. The defense attorneys would stand and nod. Jake had no cases in the May term, and although he tried his best to look bored, he enjoyed the call of the docket because he could learn who had the cases and what the competition was doing. It was also a chance to look good before some of the local folks. Half the members of the Sullivan firm were present, and they too looked bored as they sat arrogantly together in the front row of the jury box. The older partners of the Sullivan firm would not dare make an appearance at docket call, and they would lie and tell Noose they were in trial in Federal Court over in Oxford or perhaps before the Supreme Court in Jackson. Dignity prevented their mingling with the ordinary members of the bar, so the firm’s younger lieutenants were sent to satisfy Noose and request that all the firm’s civil cases be continued, postponed, delayed, stalled, or acted upon in such a way that the firm could drag them on forever and continue to bill by the hour. Their clients were insurance companies who generally preferred not to go to trial and would pay by the hour for legal maneuvering designed solely to keep the cases
away from the juries. It would be cheaper and fairer to pay a reasonable settlement and avoid both litigation and the parasitic defense firms like Sullivan & O’Hare, but the insurance companies and their adjusters were too stupid and cheap, so street lawyers like Jake Brigance earned their livelihoods suing insurance companies and forcing them to pay more than what they would have paid had they dealt fairly from the beginning. Jake hated insurance companies, and he hated insurance defense attorneys, and he especially hated the Sullivan firm’s younger members, all of whom were his age, and all of whom would gladly cut his throat, their associates’ throats, their partners’ throats, anyone’s throat to make partner and earn two hundred thousand a year and skip docket calls.
Jake particularly hated Lotterhouse, or L. Winston Lotterhouse, as the letterhead proclaimed him, a little four-eyed wimp with a Harvard degree and a bad case of haughty self-importance who was next in line to make partner and thus had been especially indiscriminate with his throat cutting during the past year. He sat smugly between two other Sullivan associates and held seven files, each of which was being charged a hundred dollars per hour while he answered the docket call.
Noose began the civil docket.
“Collins versus Royal Consolidated General Mutual Insurance Company.”
Lotterhouse stood slowly. Seconds meant minutes. Minutes meant hours. Hours meant fees, retainers, bonuses, partnerships.
“Your Honor, sir, that case is set prime for a week from Wednesday.”
“I realize that,” Noose said.
“Yes, sir. Well, sir, I’m afraid I must ask for a
continuance. A conflict has developed in my trial calendar for that Wednesday, and I have a pretrial conference in Federal Court in Memphis that the judge has refused to continue. I regret this. I filed a motion this morning asking for a continuance.”
Gardner, the plaintiff’s attorney, was furious. “Your Honor, that case has been set prime for two months. It was set for trial in February, and Mr. Lotterhouse had a death in his wife’s family. It was set for trial last November, and an uncle died. It was set for trial last August, and there was another funeral. I guess we should be thankful that this time no one has died.”
There were pockets of light laughter in the courtroom. Lotterhouse blushed.
“Enough is enough, Your Honor,” Gardner continued. “Mr. Lotterhouse would prefer to postpone this trial forever. The case is ripe for trial, and my client is entitled to one. We strenuously oppose any motion for a continuance.”
Lotterhouse smiled at the judge and removed his glasses. “Your Honor, if I may respond—”
“No, you may not, Mr. Lotterhouse,” interrupted Noose. “No more continuances. The case is set for trial next Wednesday. There will be no more delays.”
Hallelujah, thought Jake. Noose was generally soft on the Sullivan firm. Jake smiled at Lotterhouse.
Two of Jake’s civil cases were continued to the August term. When Noose finished the civil docket, he dismissed the attorneys, and turned his attention to the pool of prospective jurors. He explained the role of the grand jury, its importance and procedure. He distinguished it from the trial juries, equally important but not as time consuming. He began asking questions, dozens of questions, most of them required by
law, all dealing with ability to serve as jurors, physical and moral fitness, exemptions, and age. A few were useless, but nonetheless required by some ancient statute. “Are any of you common gamblers or habitual drunkards?”
There were laughs but no volunteers. Those over sixty-five were automatically excused, at their option. Noose granted the usual exemptions for illnesses, emergencies, and hardships, but he excused only a few of the many who requested pardons for economic reasons. It was amusing to watch the jurors stand, one at a time, and meekly explain to the judge how a few days of jury duty would cause irreparable damage to the farm, or the body shop, or the pulpwood cutting. Noose took a hard line and delivered several lectures on civic responsibility to the flimsier excuses.
From the venire of ninety or so prospects, eighteen would be selected for the grand jury, and the rest would remain available for selection as trial jurors. When Noose completed his questioning, the clerk drew eighteen names from a box and laid them on the bench before His Honor, who began calling names. The jurors, one by one, rose and walked slowly toward the front of the courtroom, through the gate in the railing, and into the cushioned, swivel rocking seats in the jury box. There were fourteen such seats, twelve for the jurors and two for the alternates. When the box was filled, Noose called four more who joined their colleagues in wooden chairs placed in front of the jury box.