Such tactics might work in the racially charged atmosphere of the Memphis federal court system, but never in Ford County, not in front of Judge Reuben V. Atlee anyway. Jake had read and reread the motions filed by Sistrunk, and the more he read the more he became convinced that the big lawyer was causing irreparable damage to Lettie Lang. He showed copies to Lucien and Harry Rex, and both agreed. It was a boneheaded strategy, guaranteed to backfire and fail.
Two weeks into the case, and Jake was ready to walk away if Sistrunk stayed in the game. He filed a motion to exclude the motions filed by Sistrunk and Buckley, on the grounds that they had no standing in court. He was the attorney for the will proponents, not them. He planned to lean on Judge Atlee to put them in their place; otherwise, he would happily go home.
Russell Amburgh was discharged and disappeared from the matter. He was replaced by the Honorable Quince Lundy, a semiretired lawyer from Smithfield, and an old friend of Judge Atlee’s. Lundy had chosen the peaceful career of a tax adviser, thus avoiding the horrors of litigation. And as the substitute executor or administrator, as he was officially known, he would be expected to perform his tasks with little regard for the will contest. His job was to gather Mr. Hubbard’s assets, appraise them, protect them, and report to the court. He hauled the records from the Berring Lumber Company to Jake’s office in Clanton and stored them in a room downstairs next to the small library. He began making the one-hour commute and arrived promptly each morning at ten. Luckily, he and Roxy hit it off and there was no drama.
Drama, though, was brewing in a different part of the office. Lucien seemed to be acquiring the habit of stopping by each day, nosing around in the Hubbard matter, digging through the library, barging into Jake’s office, offering opinions and advice, and pestering Roxy, who couldn’t stand him. Lucien and Quince had mutual friends, and before long they were drinking pots of coffee and telling stories about colorful old judges who’d been dead for decades. Jake stayed upstairs with his door closed while little work was being done downstairs.
Lucien was also being seen in and around the courthouse, for the first time in many years. The humiliation of his disbarment had faded. He still felt like a pariah, but he was such a legend, for all the wrong reasons, that people wanted to say hello. Where you been? What’re you up to these days? He was often seen in the land records, digging through dusty old deed books late in the afternoon, like a detective searching for clues.
Late in October, Jake and Carla awoke at 5:00 on a Tuesday morning. They quickly showered, dressed, said good-bye to Jake’s mother, who was babysitting and sleeping on the sofa, and took off in the Saab. At Oxford, they zipped through a fast-food drive-in and got coffee and biscuits. An hour west of Oxford, the hills flattened into the Delta. They raced along highways that cut through fields white with late cotton. Giant, insect-like cotton pickers crept through the fields, devouring four rows at a time while trailers waited to collect their harvest. An old sign announced, “Parchman 5 Miles Ahead,” and before long the fencing of the prison came into view.
Jake had been there before. During his last semester as a law student, a professor of criminal procedure organized his annual field trip to the state’s infamous penitentiary. Jake and his classmates spent a few hours listening to administrators and gawking at death row inmates in the distance. The highlight had been a group interview with Jerry Ray Mason, a condemned killer whose case they’d studied and who was scheduled to make a final walk to the gas chamber in less than three months. Mason had stubbornly maintained his innocence, though there was no proof of this. He had arrogantly predicted the State would fail in its efforts, but he’d been proven wrong. On two occasions since law school, Jake made the drive to visit clients. At the moment, he had four at Parchman and three locked away in the federal system.
He and Carla parked near an administration building and went inside. They followed signs and found a hallway filled with people who looked as though they’d rather be elsewhere. Jake signed in and was given a document titled “Parole Hearings—Docket.” His man was number three on the list. Dennis Yawkey—10:00 a.m. Hoping to avoid the Yawkey family, Jake and Carla climbed the stairs to the second floor and eventually found the office of Floyd Green, a law school classmate now working for the state prison system. Jake had called ahead and was asking a favor. Floyd was trying to help. Jake produced a letter from Nick Norton, the Clanton lawyer who represented Marvis Lang, currently residing in Camp No. 29, maximum security. Floyd took the letter and said he would try to arrange a meeting.
The hearings began at 9:00 a.m. in a large, bare room with folding tables arranged in a square, and behind them dozens of folding chairs in haphazard rows. Along the front table, the chairman of the Parole Board and its four other members sat together. Five white men, all appointed by the Governor.
Jake and Carla entered with a stream of spectators and looked for seats. To his left, Jake caught a glimpse of Jim Yawkey, father of the inmate, but they did not make eye contact. He took Carla by the arm and they moved to the right, found seats, and waited. First on the docket was a man who’d served thirty-six years for a murder committed during a bank robbery. He was brought in and his handcuffs were removed. He quickly scanned the audience looking for family members. White, age about sixty, long neat hair, a nice-looking guy, and, as always, Jake marveled at how anyone could survive for so long in a brutal place like Parchman. His parole investigator went through a report that made him sound like a model prisoner. There were some questions from the Parole Board. The next speaker was the daughter of the bank teller who’d been murdered, and she began by saying this was the third time she had appeared before the Parole Board. The third time she’d been forced to relive the nightmare. Choking back her emotions, she poignantly described what it was like being a ten-year-old girl and learning that her mother had been blown away by a sawedoff shotgun at her place of employment. From there, it only got worse.
Though the Parole Board took the issue under advisement, parole for the killer seemed unlikely. He was led away after the thirty-minute hearing.
Next, a young black kid was brought in and his handcuffs removed. He was placed in the hot seat, and introduced to the board. He had served six years for carjacking and had been an exemplary prisoner, finishing high school, racking up college credits, and staying out of trouble. His parole investigator recommended release, as did his victim. There was an affidavit signed by the victim in which she urged the Parole Board to show mercy. She had not been injured during the crime, and over the years had corresponded with her carjacker.
While her affidavit was being read, Jake noticed others from the Yawkey clan inching along the walls on the far left. He’d found them to be harsh people, lower class, rednecks, with a fondness for violence. He had stared them down in open court on two occasions, and now here they were again. He despised them as much as he feared them.
Dennis Yawkey walked in with a cocky smile and began looking for his people. Jake had not seen him in twenty-seven months, and he preferred to never see him again. His investigator clicked off the relevant facts: In 1985, Dennis Yawkey pled guilty in Ford County to one count of conspiracy to commit arson. It was alleged that Yawkey and three other men conspired to burn the home of one Jake Brigance, in the town of Clanton. His three co-conspirators actually carried out the firebombing and were serving time in the federal prison system. One of them testified on behalf of the government; thus, the guilty pleas. The investigator had no recommendation as to whether Yawkey should be paroled, which, according to Floyd Green, meant that a release was unlikely.
Jake and Carla listened and fumed. Yawkey got off light only because Rufus Buckley botched the prosecution. If Buckley had stayed out of the way and allowed the Feds to handle it, Yawkey would have been sent away for at least ten years, like his buddies. Because of Buckley, here they were twenty-seven months later staring at parole for a little thug who’d been trying to impress the Klan. His sentence was five years. Barely halfway through, he was trying to get out.
As Jake and Carla walked hand in hand to the cheap lectern sitting on a folding table, Ozzie Walls and Marshall Prather made a noisy entry into the room. Jake nodded at them, then turned his attention to the Parole Board. He began by saying, “I know we only have a few minutes, so I’ll hurry along. I’m Jake Brigance, owner of the house that no longer exists, and this is my wife, Carla. Both of us would like to say a few words in opposition to this request for parole.” He stepped aside and Carla assumed the lectern. She unfolded a sheet of paper and tried to smile at the members of the Parole Board.
She glared at Dennis Yawkey, then cleared her throat. “My name is Carla Brigance. Some of you might remember the trial of Carl Lee Hailey in Clanton in July of 1985. My husband defended Carl Lee, a zealous defense that cost us dearly. We received anonymous phone calls; some were outright threats. Someone burned a cross in our front yard. There was even an attempt to kill my husband. A man with a bomb was caught trying to blow up our house while we were asleep—his trial is still pending while he pretends to be insane. At one point, I fled Clanton with our four-year-old daughter to stay with my parents. My husband carried a gun, still does, and several of his friends acted as bodyguards. Finally, when he was at the office one night, during the trial, these people”—and she pointed at Dennis Yawkey—“torched our house with a gasoline bomb. Dennis Yawkey might not have been there in person, but he was a member of the gang, he was one of the thugs. Too cowardly to show his face, always hiding in the night. It is hard to believe that we are here, only twenty-seven months later, watching as this criminal tries to free himself from prison.”
She took a deep breath and flipped a page. Beautiful women rarely appeared at parole hearings, which were 90 percent male anyway. Carla had their complete attention. She stiffened her back and continued: “Our home was built in the 1890s by a railroad man and his family. He died the first Christmas Eve in the house and his family owned it until it was finally abandoned twenty years ago. It was considered a historic home, though when we bought it there were holes in the floor and cracks in the roof. For three years, with every dime we could borrow, Jake and I poured our lives into that house. We would work all day and then paint until midnight. Our vacations were spent hanging wallpaper and staining floors. Jake bartered legal fees for plumbing work and landscaping and building supplies. His father added a guest room in the attic, and my father laid the brick on the rear patio. I could go on for hours, but time is scarce. Seven years ago, Jake and I brought our daughter home and put her in the nursery.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “Luckily, she was not in the nursery when our home was destroyed. I’ve often wondered if these men would have cared. I doubt it. They were determined to do as much damage to us as possible.” Another pause and Jake put a hand on her shoulder. She continued, “Three years after the fire, we still think of all the things we lost, including our dog. We’re still trying to replace things that can never be replaced, still trying to explain to our daughter what happened, and why. She’s too young to understand. Often, I think we’re still in a state of disbelief. And I find it hard to believe that we’re here today, forced to relive this nightmare, like all victims, I guess, but here to stare at the criminal who tried to destroy our lives, and to ask you to enforce his punishment. A five-year sentence for Dennis Yawkey was much too light, too easy. Please, make him serve all of it.”