________
Cobb and Willard awoke with throbbing heads and red, swollen eyes. Ozzie was yelling at them. They were in a small cell by themselves. Through the bars to the right was a cell where the state prisoners were held awaiting the trip to Parchman. A dozen blacks leaned through the bars and glared at the two white boys as they struggled to clear their eyes. To the left was a smaller cell, also full of blacks. Wake up, Ozzie yelled, and stay quiet, or he would integrate his jail.
________
Jake’s quiet time was from seven until Ethel arrived at eight-thirty. He was jealous with this time. He locked
the front door, ignored the phone, and refused to make appointments. He meticulously planned his day. By eight-thirty he would have enough work dictated to keep Ethel busy and quiet until noon. By nine he was either in court or seeing clients. He would not take calls until eleven, when he methodically returned the morning’s messages—all of them. He never delayed returning a phone call—another rule. Jake worked systematically and efficiently with little wasted time. These habits he had not learned from Lucien.
At eight-thirty Ethel made her usual noisy entrance downstairs. She made fresh coffee and opened the mail as she had every day for the past forty-one years. She was sixty-four and looked fifty. She was plump, but not fat, well kept, but not attractive. She chomped on a greasy sausage and biscuit brought from home and read Jake’s mail.
Jake heard voices. Ethel was talking to another woman. He checked his appointment book—none until ten.
“Good morning, Mr. Brigance,” Ethel announced through the intercom.
“Morning, Ethel.” She preferred to be called Mrs. Twitty. Lucien and everyone else called her that. But Jake had called her Ethel since he had fired her shortly after the disbarment.
“There’s a lady here to see you.”
“She doesn’t have an appointment.”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“Make one for tomorrow morning after ten-thirty. I’m busy now.”
“Yes, sir. But she says it’s urgent.”
“Who is it?” he snapped. It was always urgent when they dropped in unannounced, like dropping by
a funeral home or a Laundromat. Probably some urgent question about Uncle Luke’s will or the case set for trial in three months.
“A Mrs. Willard,” Ethel replied.
“First name?”
“Earnestine Willard. You don’t know her, but her son’s in jail.”
Jake saw his appointments on time, but drop-ins were another matter. Ethel either ran them off or made appointments for the next day or so. Mr. Brigance was very busy, she would explain, but he could work you in day after tomorrow. This impressed people.
“Tell her I’m not interested.”
“But she says she must find a lawyer. Her son has to be in court at one this afternoon.”
“Tell her to see Drew Jack Tyndale, the public defender. He’s good and he’s free.”
Ethel relayed the message. “But, Mr. Brigance, she wants to hire you. Someone told her you’re the best criminal lawyer in the county.” The amusement was obvious in Ethel’s voice.
“Tell her that’s true, but I’m not interested.”
________
Ozzie handcuffed Willard and led him down the hall to his office in the front section of the Ford County jail. He removed the handcuffs and seated him in a wooden chair in the center of the cramped room. Ozzie sat in the big chair across the desk and looked down at the defendant.
“Mr. Willard, this here is Lieutenant Griffin with the Mississippi Highway Patrol. Over here is Investigator Rady with my office, and this here is Deputy Looney and Deputy Prather, whom you met last night but I doubt if you remember it. I’m Sheriff Walls.”
Willard jerked his head fearfully to look at each one. He was surrounded. The door was shut. Two tape recorders sat side by side near the edge of the sheriff’s desk.
“We’d like to ask you some questions, okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before I start, I wanna make sure you understand your rights. First of all, you have the right to remain silent. Understand?”
“Uh huh.”
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but if you do, anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Understand?”
“Uh huh.”
“Can you read and write?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, then read this and sign it. It says you’ve been advised of your rights.”
Willard signed. Ozzie pushed the red button on one of the tape recorders.
“You understand this tape recorder is on?”
“Uh huh.”
“And it’s Wednesday, May 15, at eight forty-three in the mornin’.”
“If you say so.”
“What’s your full name?”
“James Louis Willard.”
“Nickname?”
“Pete. Pete Willard.”
“Address?”
“Route 6, Box 14, Lake Village, Mississippi.”
“What road?”
“Bethel Road.”
“Who do you live with?”
“My momma, Earnestine Willard. I’m divorced.”
“You know Billy Ray Cobb?”
Willard hesitated and noticed his feet. His boots were back in the cell. His white socks were dirty and did not hide his two big toes. Safe question, he thought.
“Yeah, I know him.”
“Was you with him yesterday?”
“Uh huh.”
“Where were y’all?”
“Down at the lake.”
“What time did you leave?”
“ ’Bout three.”
“What were you drivin’?”
“I wasn’t.”
“What were you ridin’ in?”
Hesitation. He studied his toes. “I don’t think I wanna talk no more.”
Ozzie pushed another button and the recorder stopped. He breathed deeply at Willard. “You ever been to Parchman?”
Willard shook his head.
“You know how many niggers at Parchman?”
Willard shook his head.
“ ’Bout five thousand. You know how many white boys are there?”
“No.”
“ ’Bout a thousand.”
Willard dropped his chin to his chest. Ozzie let him think for a minute, then winked at Lieutenant Griffin.
“You got any idea what those niggers will do to a white boy who raped a little black girl?”
No response.
“Lieutenant Griffin, tell Mr. Willard how white boys are treated at Parchman.”
Griffin walked to Ozzie’s desk and sat on the edge.
He looked down at Willard. “About five years ago a young white man in Helena County, over in the delta, raped a black girl. She was twelve. They were waiting on him when he got to Parchman. Knew he was coming. First night about thirty blacks tied him over a fifty-five-gallon drum and climbed on. The guards watched and laughed. There’s no sympathy for rapists. They got him every night for three months, and then killed him. They found him castrated, stuffed in the drum.”
Willard cringed, then threw his head back and breathed heavily toward the ceiling.
“Look, Pete,” Ozzie said, “we’re not after you. We want Cobb. I’ve been after that boy since he left Parchman. I want him real bad. You help us get Cobb and I’ll help you as much as I can. I ain’t promisin’ nothin’, but me and the D.A. work close together. You help me get Cobb, and I’ll help you with the D.A. Just tell us what happened.”
“I wanna lawyer,” Willard said.
Ozzie dropped his head and groaned. “What’s a lawyer gonna do, Pete? Get the niggers off of you? I’m tryin’ to help you and you’re bein’ a wiseass.”
“You need to listen to the sheriff, son. He’s trying to save your life,” Griffin said helpfully.
“There’s a good chance you could get off with just a few years here in this jail,” Rady said.
“It’s much safer than Parchman,” Prather said.
“Choice is yours, Pete,” Ozzie said. “You can die at Parchman or stay here. I’ll even consider makin’ you a trusty if you behave.”
Willard dropped his head and rubbed his temples. “Okay, okay.”
Ozzie punched the red button.
“Where’d you find the girl?”
“Some gravel road.”
“Which road?”
“I don’t know. I’s drunk.”
“Where’d you take her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just you and Cobb?”
“Yeah.”
“Who raped her?”
“We both did. Billy Ray went first.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t remember. I’s smokin’ weed and drinkin’.”
“Both of you raped her?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’d you dump her?”
“Don’t remember. I swear I don’t remember.”
Ozzie pushed another button. “We’ll type this up and get you to sign it.”
Willard shook his head. “Just don’t tell Billy Ray.”
“We won’t,” promised the sheriff.
4
__________
P
ercy Bullard fidgeted nervously in the leather chair behind the huge, battered oak desk in the judge’s chambers behind the courtroom, where a crowd had gathered to see about the rape. In the small room next door the lawyers gathered around the coffee machine and gossiped about the rape.
Bullard’s small black robe hung in a corner by the window that looked north over Washington Street. His size-six feet were wearing jogging shoes that barely touched the floor. He was a small, nervous type who worried about preliminary hearings and every other routine hearing. After thirteen years on the bench he had never learned to relax. Fortunately, he was not required to hear big cases; those were for the Circuit Court judge. Bullard was just a County Court judge, and he had reached his pinnacle.
Mr. Pate, the ancient courtroom deputy, knocked on the door.
“Come in!” Bullard demanded.
“Afternoon, Judge.”
“How many blacks out there?” Bullard asked abruptly.
“Half the courtroom.”
“That’s a hundred people! They don’t draw that much for a good murder trial. Whatta they want?”
Mr. Pate shook his head.
“They must think we’re trying these boys today.”
“I guess they’re just concerned,” Mr. Pate said softly.
“Concerned about what? I’m not turning them loose. It’s just a preliminary hearing.” He quieted and stared at the window. “Is the family out there?”
“I think so. I recognize a few of them, but I don’t know her parents.”
“How about security?”
“Sheriff’s got ever deputy and ever reserve close to the courtroom. We checked everbody at the door.”
“Find anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Where are the boys?”
“Sheriff’s got them. They’ll be here in a minute.”
The judge seemed satisfied. Mr. Pate laid a handwritten note on the desk.
“What is it?”
Mr. Pate inhaled deeply. “It’s a request from a TV crew from Memphis to film the hearing.”
“What!” Bullard’s face turned red and he rocked furiously in the swivel chair. “Cameras,” he yelled. “In my courtroom!” He ripped the note and threw the pieces in the direction of the trash can. “Where are they?”
“In the rotunda.”
“Order them out of the courthouse.”
Mr. Pate left quickly.
Carl Lee Hailey sat on the row next to the back.
Dozens of relatives and friends surrounded him in the rows of padded benches on the right side of the courtroom. The benches on the left side were empty. Deputies milled about, armed, apprehensive, keeping a nervous watch on the group of blacks, and especially on Carl Lee, who sat bent over, elbows on knees, staring blankly at the floor.
Jake looked out his window across the square to the rear of the courthouse, which faced south. It was 1:00 P.M. He had skipped lunch, as usual, and had no business across the street, but he did need some fresh air. He hadn’t left the building all day, and although he had no desire to hear the details of the rape, he hated to miss the hearing. There had to be a crowd in the courtroom because there were no empty parking spaces around the square. A handful of reporters and photographers waited anxiously near the rear of the courthouse by the wooden doors where Cobb and Willard would enter.
The jail was two blocks off the square on the south side, down the highway. Ozzie drove the car with Cobb and Willard in the back seat. With a squad car in front and one behind, the procession turned off Washington Street into the short driveway leading under the veranda of the courthouse. Six deputies escorted the defendants past the reporters, through the doors, and up the back stairs to the small room just outside the courtroom.
Jake grabbed his coat, ignored Ethel, and raced across the street. He ran up the back stairs, through a small hall outside the jury room, and entered the courtroom from a side door just as Mr. Pate led His Honor to the bench.
“All rise for the court,” Mr. Pate shouted. Everyone stood. Bullard stepped to the bench and sat down.
“Be seated,” he yelled. “Where are the defendants? Where? Bring them in then.”
Cobb and Willard were led, handcuffed, into the courtroom from the small holding room. They were unshaven, wrinkled, dirty, and looked confused. Willard stared at the large group of blacks while Cobb turned his back. Looney removed the handcuffs and seated them next to Drew Jack Tyndale, the public defender, at the long table where the defense sat. Next to it was a long table where the county prosecutor, Rocky Childers, sat taking notes and looking important.
Willard glanced over his shoulder and again checked on the blacks. On the front row just behind him sat his mother and Cobb’s mother, each with a deputy for protection. Willard felt safe with all the deputies. Cobb refused to turn around.
From the back row, eighty feet away, Carl Lee raised his head and looked at the backs of the two men who raped his daughter. They were mangy, bearded, dirty-looking strangers. He covered his face and bent over. The deputies stood behind him, backs against the wall, watching every move.
“Now listen,” Bullard began loudly. “This is just a preliminary hearing, not a trial. The purpose of a preliminary hearing is to determine if there is enough evidence that a crime has been committed to bind these defendants over to the grand jury. The defendants can even waive this hearing if they want to.”
Tyndale stood. “No sir, Your Honor, we wish to proceed with the hearing.”
“Very well. I have copies of affidavits sworn to by Sheriff Walls charging both defendants with rape of a female under the age of twelve, kidnapping, and aggravated
assault. Mr. Childers, you may call your first witness.”