“We got lawyers,” Ozzie fired back.

“I’ll sue every one of you redneck clowns.”

“And our lawyers are outta jail.”

“In federal court.”

“I love federal court.”

Sistrunk and Buckley were shoved outside and jostled into the rear seat of Ozzie’s big brown Ford. Dumas Lee and a cohort fired away with cameras.

“Let’s give ’em a parade,” Ozzie said to his men. “Lights, no sirens.”

Ozzie got behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away, ever so slowly. “You been in the backseat before, Rufus?”

Buckley refused to answer. He sat as low as possible directly behind the sheriff and peered out the window as they crept around the square. Three feet to his right, Booker Sistrunk sat awkwardly with his hands behind him and continued the mouthing: “You oughtta be ashamed of yourself, treating a brother like this.”

“The white guy’s gettin’ the same treatment,” Ozzie said.

“You’re violating my civil rights.”

“And you’re violatin’ mine with your mouth. Now shut up or I’ll lock you under the jail. We got a little basement down there. You seen it, Rufus?”

Again, Rufus chose not to respond.

They looped twice around the square, then zigzagged a few blocks with Ozzie in the lead and followed by the other cars. Ozzie was giving Dumas time to set up at the jail, and when they arrived, the reporter was snapping away. Sistrunk and Buckley were extracted from Ozzie’s car and led slowly along the front walkway and into the jail. They were treated like all fresh arrestees—photographed, fingerprinted, asked a hundred questions for the record, relieved of all belongings, and given a change of clothes.

Forty-five minutes after raising the ire of the Honorable Reuben V. Atlee, Booker Sistrunk and Rufus Buckley, in matching county jail overalls, faded orange with white stripes on the legs, sat on the edges of their metal beds and looked at the black-stained and dripping toilet they were expected to share. A jailer peeked through the bars of their narrow cell and asked, “Get you boys anything?”

“What time is lunch?” Rufus asked.

With Bost banished to the jury box while his cohorts were being processed, the hearing commenced and concluded with amazing speed. With no one present to argue for a change of venue or removal of the judge, those motions were denied. The motion to replace Jake with Rufus Buckley was rejected with hardly a word. Judge Atlee granted the motions for a trial by jury, and gave the parties ninety days to begin and complete discovery. He explained in clear language that the case had top priority with him and he would not allow it to drag on. He asked the attorneys to pull out their calendars and forced them to agree on a trial date of April 3, 1989, almost five months away.

He adjourned the hearing after thirty minutes and disappeared from the bench. The crowd stood and began buzzing while the lawyers huddled and tried to confirm what had just happened. Stillman Rush whispered to Jake, “I guess you’re lucky you’re not in jail.”

“Unbelievable,” Jake said. “You wanna go visit Buckley?”

“Maybe later.”

Kendrick Bost led Lettie and her people off to a corner where he tried to assure them things were going as planned. Most seemed skeptical. He and the bodyguard hurried away as soon as possible and darted across the courthouse lawn. They jumped into the black Rolls-Royce—the bodyguard was also the driver—and sped away to the jail. They were told by Ozzie that visitation had not been approved by the court. Bost cursed, left, and took off in the direction of Oxford, home of the nearest federal courthouse.

Dumas Lee cranked out a thousand words before lunch and faxed the story to a reporter he knew at the Memphis paper. He also wired plenty of photographs. Later in the day, he sent the same materials to the newspapers in Tupelo and Jackson.

19

The word was leaked from a legitimate source and it spread like wildfire through the courthouse and around the square. Come 9:00 a.m., Judge Atlee would reconvene and allow his prisoners the opportunity to apologize. The very notion of seeing Rufus Buckley and Booker Sistrunk dragged into court, hopefully in chains and rubber shower shoes and orange county overalls, was impossible to resist.

Their story had gained traction and was the source of enthusiastic gossip and speculation. For Buckley, it was an enormous humiliation. For Sistrunk, it was nothing but another chapter.

The Memphis morning paper ran every word of Dumas’s report on the front page of the Metro section, and accompanied it with a huge photo of the two handcuffed co-counsels leaving the courthouse the day before. The headline alone was worth it for Sistrunk: PROMINENT MEMPHIS LAWYER JAILED IN MISSISSIPPI. In addition to Dumas’s startlingly accurate story, there was a smaller one about the petition for habeas corpus relief filed by the Sistrunk & Bost firm in federal court in Oxford. A hearing was scheduled for 1:00 that afternoon.

Jake sat on his balcony overlooking the square, sipping coffee with Lucien and waiting for the patrol cars to arrive. Ozzie had promised to call with a heads-up.

Lucien, who hated early mornings and with good reason, looked surprisingly fresh and clear-eyed. He claimed he was drinking less and exercising more, and he was certainly working harder. Jake was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid him around his (their) office.

Lucien said, “I never thought I would see the day when Rufus Buckley was hauled away in handcuffs.”

“Beautiful, just beautiful, and still hard to believe,” Jake said. “I’m going to call Dumas and see if I can buy the photo of Buckley being led into the jail.”

“Please do, and make me a copy.”

“Eight-by-ten, framed. I could probably sell them.”

Roxy was forced to climb the stairs, enter Jake’s office, and walk to the balcony where she found her boss. She said, “That was Sheriff Walls. They’re on the way over.”

“Thanks.”

Jake and Lucien hurried across the street, and it was impossible to miss the fact that other law offices were being vacated as attorneys from around the square suddenly had urgent business in the courthouse. Poor Buckley had made so many enemies. The courtroom was far from packed, but quite a few of those enemies were milling about. It was blatantly obvious they were there for only one reason. A bailiff called things to order and Judge Atlee swept onto the bench. He nodded at a deputy and said, “Bring him in.” A side door opened and Buckley walked in, his wrists and ankles free. Except for the stubble and a bad hair day, he looked much the same as he had the day before. Judge Atlee had shown compassion and allowed him to change clothing. It would have been a bit too much of an embarrassment to parade him over in inmate’s attire. Given the coverage in the morning’s papers, Judge Atlee simply could not allow an officer of his court to be seen in such garb.

There was no sign of Sistrunk. The door closed and it became apparent he was not there to take part. “Over here, Mr. Buckley,” Judge Atlee said, pointing to a spot directly in front of the bench. Buckley complied and stood rather helplessly, quite alone, humiliated and defeated. He swallowed hard and looked up at the judge.

Judge Atlee shoved his microphone aside and said in a low voice, “I trust you survived the night in our fine jail.”

“I did.”

“And Sheriff Walls treated you well?”

“He did.”

“Did you and Mr. Sistrunk have a restful night together?”