to Chicago, get Lester, slip him some money, bring him home, and convince him to browbeat Carl Lee. He would assure Lester that Marsharfsky could not practice in Mississippi, and since he was a foreigner, the rednecks on the jury wouldn't believe him anyway. He would call Marsharfsky and curse him for chasing cases and threaten him with an ethics complaint the minute he stepped into Mississippi. He would get his black cronies to call Gwen and Ozzie and persuade them that the only lawyer with a dog's chance in hell of winning the case was Lucien Wilbanks. Finally, Carl Lee would knuckle under and send for Lucien.
That's exactly what Lucien would do. Talk about ethics.
"Why are you smiling?" Carla interrupted.
"Just thinking about how nice it is out here with you and Hanna. We don't do this enough."
"You're disappointed, aren't you?"
"Sure. There will never be another case like this one. Win it, and I'm the greatest lawyer in these parts. We would never have to worry about money again."
"And if you lost it?"
"It would still be a drawing card. But I can't lose what I don't have."
"Embarrassed?"
"A little. It's hard to accept. Every lawyer in the county is laughing about it, except maybe Harry Rex. But I'll get over it."
"What should I do with the scrapbook?"
"Save it. You might fill it up yet."
unc, nine reel long and tour feet wide, made to fit inconspicuously in the long bed of a pickup. Much larger crosses were used for the rituals, but the small ones worked better in the nocturnal raids into residential areas. They were not used often, or often enough according to their builders. In fact, it had been many years since one had been used in Ford County. The last one was planted in the yard of a nigger accused of raping a white woman.
Several hours before dawn on Monday morning, the cross was lifted quietly and quickly from the pickup and thrust into a ten-inch, freshly dug slot in the front yard of the quaint Victorian house on Adams Street. A small torch was thrown at the foot of the cross, and in seconds it was in flames. The pickup disappeared into the night and stopped at a pay phone at the edge of town, where a call was placed to the dispatcher.
Moments later, Deputy Marshall Prather turned down Adams and instantly saw the blazing cross in Jake's front yard. He turned into the driveway and parked behind the Saab. He punched the doorbell and stood on the porch watching the flames. It was almost three-thirty. He punched it again. Adams was dark and silent except for the glow of the cross and the snapping and crackling of the wood burning fifty feet away. Finally, Jake stumbled through the front door and froze, wild-eyed and stunned, next to the deputy. The two stood side by side on the porch, mesmerized not only by the burning cross, but by its purpose.
"Mornin", Jake," Prather finally said without looking from the fire.
"Who did it?" Jake asked with a scratchy, dry throat.
"Don't know. They didn't leave a name. Just called and told us about it."
"When did they call?"
"Fifteen minutes ago."
Jake ran his fingers through his hair in an effort to keep it from blowing wild in the soft breeze. "How long will it burn?" he asked, knowing Prather knew as little or even less than he about burning crosses.
"No tellin'. Probably soaked in kerosene. Smells like it anyway. Might burn for a couple of hours. You want me to call a fire truck?"
Chapter Eleven
Jake looked up and down the street. Every house was silent and dark.
"Naw. No need to wake everybody. Let it burn. It won't hurt anything, will it?"
"It's your yard."
Prather never moved; just stood there, hands in his pockets, his belly hanging over his belt. "Ain't had one of these in a long time around here. Last one I remember was in Karaway, nineteen-sixry-"
"Nineteen sixty-seven."
"You remember?"
"Yeah. I was in high school. We drove out and watched it burn."
"What was that nigger's name?"
"Robinson, something Robinson. Said he raped Velma Thayer."
"Did he?" asked Prather.
"The jury thought so. He's in Parchman chopping cotton for the rest of his life."
Prather seemed satisfied.
"Let me get Carla," Jake mumbled as he disappeared. He returned with his wife behind him.
"My God, Jake! Who did it?"
"Who knows."
"Is it the KKK?" she asked.
"Must be," answered the deputy. "I don't know anybody else who burns crosses, do you, Jake?"