"The money's for you, Carl Lee. You and your family. Right now we think it could be better spent on your defense."
"And what if I don't want your lawyers? What happens to the twenty thousand?"
Jake chuckled. "Good question. What happens to the money if Mr. Hailey doesn't hire you, Mr. Reinfeld?"
"It's not my money," answered Reinfeld.
"Reverend Agee?" asked Jake.
The reverend had had enough. He grew defiant and belligerent. He pointed at Carl Lee. "Listen here, Carl Lee. We busted our butts to raise this money. Six thousand bucks
from the poor people of this county, people who didn't have it to give. We worked hard for this money, and it was given by poor people, your people, people on food stamps and welfare and Medicaid, people who couldn't afford to donate a dime. But they gave for one reason, and only one reason: they believe in you and what you did, and they want you to walk outta that courtroom a free man. Don't say you don't want the money."
"Don't preach to me," Carl Lee replied softly. "You say the poor folks of this county gave six thousand?"
"Right?"
"Where'd the rest of the money come from?"
"NAACP. Five thousand from Atlanta, five from Memphis, and five from national. And it's strictly for your defense fees."
"If I use Mr. Reinfeld here?"
"Right."
"And if I don't use him, the fifteen thousand disappears?"
"Right."
"What about the other six thousand?"
"Good question. We ain't discussed that yet. We thought you'd appreciate us for raisin' money and tryin' to help. We're offerin' the best lawyers and obviously you don't care."
The room was silent for an eternity as the preachers, the lawyers, and the sheriff waited for some message from the defendant. Carl Lee chewed on his lower lip and stared at the floor. Jake lit another cigar. He had been fired before, and he could handle it again.
"You gotta know right now?" Carl Lee asked finally.
"No," said Agee.
"Yes," said Reinfeld. "The trial is less than three weeks away, and we're two months behind already. My time is too valuable to wait on you, Mr. Hailey. Either you hire me now or forget it. I've got a plane to catch."
"Well, I'll tell you what you do, Mr. Reinfeld. You go and catch your plane and don't ever worry 'bout comin' back to Clanton on my behalf. I'll take my chances with my friend Jake."
The Ford County Klavern was founded at midnight, Thursday, July 11, in a small pasture next to a dirt road deep in a forest somewhere in the northern part of the county. The six inductees stood nervously before the huge burning cross and repeated strange words offered by a wizard. A dragon and two dozen white-robed Klansmen watched and chanted when appropriate. A guard with a gun stood quietly down the road, occasionally watching the ceremony but primarily watching for uninvited guests. There were none.
Precisely at midnight the six fell to their knees and closed their eyes as the white hoods were ceremoniously placed onto their heads. They were Klansmen now, these six. Freddie Cobb, brother of the deceased, Jerry Maples, Clifton Cobb, Ed Wilburn, Morris Lancaster, and Terrell Grist. The grand dragon hovered above each one and chanted the sacred vows of klanhood. The flames from the cross scorched the faces of the new members as they knelt and quietly suffocated under the heavy robes and hoods. Sweat dripped from their red faces as they prayed fervently for the dragon to shut up with his nonsense and finish the ceremony. When the chanting stopped, the new members rose and quickly retreated from the cross. They were embraced by their new brothers, who grabbed their shoulders firmly and pounded primal incantations onto their sweaty collarbones. The heavy hoods were removed, and the Klansmen, both new members and old, walked proudly from the pasture and into the rustic cabin across the dirt road. The same guard sat on the front steps as the whiskey was poured around the table and plans were made for the trial of Carl Lee Hailey.
Deputy Pirtle pulled the graveyard shift, ten to six, and had stopped for coffee and pie at Gurdy's all-night diner on the highway north of town when his radio blared out the news
that he was wanted at the jail. It was three minutes after midnight, Friday morning.
Pirtle left his pie and drove a mile south to the jail. "What's up?" he asked the dispatcher.
"We got a call a few minutes ago, anonymous, from someone lookin' for the sheriff. I explained that