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.
Percy 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?"
"Sheriffs got ever deputy and ever reserve close to the courtroom. We checked everbody at the door."
"Find anything?"
"No, sir."
"Where are the boys?"
"Sheriffs 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