fifty, tried to look forty with hair dye and makeup, but could easily pass for early sixties.
"How old was your son at the time of his death?"
"Twenty-three."
"When did you last see him alive?"
"Just a few seconds before he was kilt."
"Where did you see him?"
"Here in this courtroom."
"Where was he killed?"
"Downstairs."
"Did you hear the shots that killed your son?"
She began to cry. "Yes, sir."
"Where did you last see him?"
"At the funeral home."
"And what was his condition?"
"He was dead."
"Nothing further," Buckley announced.
"Cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?"
She was a harmless witness, called to establish that the victim was indeed dead, and to evoke a little sympathy. Nothing could be gained by cross-examination, and normally she would have been left alone. But Jake saw an opportunity he couldn't pass. He saw a chance to set the tone for the trial, to wake Noose and Buckley and the jury; to just get everyone aroused. She was not really that pitiful; she was faking some. Buckley had probably instructed her to cry if possible.
"Just a few questions," Jake said as he walked behind Buckley and Musgrove to the podium. The D.A. was immediately suspicious.
"Mrs. Cobb, is it true that your son was convicted of selling marijuana?"
"Objection!" Buckley roared, springing to his feet. "The criminal record of the victim is inadmissible!"
"Sustained!"
"Thank you, Your Honor," Jake said properly, as if Noose had done him a favor.
She wiped her eyes and cried harder.
"You say your son was twenty-three when he died?"
"Yes."
"In his twenty-three years, how many other children am he rape?"
"Objection! Objection!" yelled Buckley, waving his arms and looking desperately at Noose, who was yelling, "Sustained! Sustained! You're out of order, Mr. Brigance! You're out of order!"
Mrs. Cobb burst into tears and bawled uncontrollably as the shouting erupted. She managed to keep the microphone in her face, and her wailing and carrying on resounded through the stunned courtroom.
"He should be admonished, Your Honor!" Buckley demanded, his face and eyes glowing with violent anger and his neck a deep purple.
"I'll withdraw the question," Jake replied loudly as he returned to his seat.
"Cheap shot, Brigance," Musgrove mumbled.
"Please admonish him," Buckley begged, "and instruct the jury to disregard."
"Any redirect?" asked Noose.
"No," answered Buckley as he dashed to the witness stand with a handkerchief to rescue Mrs. Cobb, who had buried her head in her hands and was sobbing and shaking violently.
"You are excused, Mrs. Cobb," Noose said. "Bailiff, please assist the witness."
The bailiff lifted her by the arm, with Buckley's assistance, and led her down from the witness stand, in front of the jury box, through the railing, down the center aisle. She shrieked and whined every step of the way, and her noises increased as she neared the back door until she was roaring at full throttle when she made her exit.
Noose glared at Jake until she was gone and the courtroom was quiet again. Then he turned to the jury and said: "Please disregard the last question by Mr. Brigance."
"What'd you do that for?" Carl Lee whispered to his lawyer.
"I'll explain later."
"The State calls Earnestine Willard," Buckley announced in a quieter tone and with much more hesitation.
Mrs. Willard was brought from the witness room above the courtroom. She was sworn and seated.
"You are Earnestine Willard?" asked Buckley.
"Yes, sir," she said in a fragile voice. Life had been rough on her too, but she had a certain dignity that made her more pitiful and believable than Mrs. Cobb. The clothes were inexpensive, but clean and neatly pressed. The hair was minus the cheap black dye that Mrs. Cobb relied on so heavily. The face was minus the layers of makeup. When she began crying, she cried to herself.
"And where do you live?"
"Out from Lake Village."
"Pete Willard was your son?"
"Yes, sir."
"When did you last see him alive?"
"Right here in this room, just before he was killed."
"Did you hear the gunfire that killed him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did you last see him?"
"At the funeral home."
"And what was his condition?"
"He was dead," she said, wiping tears with a Kleenex.
"I'm very sorry," Buckley offered. "No further questions," he added, eyeing Jake carefully.
"Any cross-examination?" Noose asked, also eyeing Jake suspiciously.
"Just a couple," Jake said.
"Mrs. Willard, I'm Jake Brigance." He stood behind the podium and looked at her without compassion.
She nodded.
"How old was your son when he died?"
"Twenty-seven."
Buckley pushed his chair from the table and sat on its edge, ready to spring. Noose removed his glasses and leaned forward. Carl Lee lowered his head.
"During his twenty-seven years, how many other children did he rape?"
Buckley bolted upright. "Objection! Objection! Objection!"
"Sustained! Sustained! Sustained!"
The yelling frightened Mrs. Willard, and she cried louder.
"Admonish him, Judge! He must be admonished!"
"I'll withdraw the question," Jake said on his way back to his seat.
Buckley pleaded with his hands. "But that's not good enough, Judge! He must be admonished!"
"Let's go into chambers," Noose ordered. He excused the witness and recessed until one.
Harry Rex was waiting on the balcony of Jake's office with sandwiches and a pitcher of margaritas. Jake declined and drank grapefruit juice. Ellen wanted just one, a small one she said to calm her nerves. For the third day, lunch had been prepared by Dell and personally delivered to Jake's office. Compliments of the Coffee Shop.
They ate and relaxed on the balcony and watched the carnival around the courthouse. What happened in chambers? Harry Rex demanded. Jake nibbled on a Reuben. He said he wanted to talk about something other than the trial.
"What happened in chambers, dammit?"
"Cardinals are three games out, did you know that, Row Ark?"
"I thought it was four."
"What happened in chambers!"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"Okay. I've got to go use the rest room. I'll tell you when I get back." Jake left.
"Row Ark, what happened in chambers?"
"Not much. Noose rode Jake pretty good, but no permanent damage. Buckley wanted blood, and Jake said he was sure, some was forthcoming if Buckley's face got any redder. Buckley ranted and screamed and condemned Jake for intentionally inflaming the jury, as he called it. Jake just smiled at him and said he was sorry, Governor. Every time he would say governor, Buckley would scream at Noose, 'He's calling me governor, Judge, do something.' And Noose would say, 'Please, gentlemen, I expect you to act like professionals.' And Jake would say, 'Thank you, Your Honor.' Then he would wait a few minutes and call him governor again."
"Why did he make those two old ladies cry?"
"It was a brilliant move, Harry Rex. He showed the jury, Noose, Buckley, everybody, that it's his courtroom and he's not afraid of a damned person in it. He drew first blood. He's got Buckley so jumpy right now he'll never relax. Noose respects him because he's not intimidated by His Honor. The jurors were shocked, but he woke them up and told them in a not so subtle way that this is war. A brilliant move."
"Yeah, I thought so myself."
"It didn't hurt us. Those women were asking for sympathy, but Jake reminded the jury of what their sweet little boys did before they died."
"The scumbags."
"If there's any resentment by the jury, they'll forget by the time the last witness testifies."
"Jake's pretty smooth, ain't he?"
"He's good. Very good. He's the best I've seen for his age."
"Wait till his closing argument. I've heard a couple. He could get sympathy out of a drill sergeant."
Jake returned and poured a small margarita. Just a very small one, for his nerves. Harry Rex drank like a sailor.
Ozzie was the first State witness after lunch. Buckley produced large, multicolored plats of the first and second floors of the courthouse, and together they traced the precise, last movements of Cobb and Willard.
Then Buckley produced a set of ten 16 x 24 color photographs of Cobb and Willard lying freshly dead on the stairs. They were gruesome. Jake had seen lots of pictures of dead bodies, and although none were particularly pleasant given their nature, some weren't so bad. In one of his cases, the victim had been shot in the heart with a .357 and simply fell over dead on his porch. He was a large, muscular old man, and the bullet never found its way out of the body. So there was no blood, just a small hole in his overalls, and then a small sealed hole in his chest. He looked as though he could have fallen asleep and slumped over, or passed out drunk on the porch, like Lucien. It was not a spectacular scene, and Buckley had not been proud of those photo-
graphs. They had not been enlarged. He had just handed the small Polaroids to the jury and looked disgusted because they were so clean.
But most murder pictures were grisly and sickening, with blood splashed on walls and ceilings, and parts of bodies blown free and scattered everywhere. Those were always enlarged by the D.A. and entered into evidence with great fanfare, then waved around the courtroom by Buckley as he and the witness described the scenes in the pictures. Finally, with the jurors fidgeting with curiosity, Buckley would politely ask the judge for permission to show the photographs to the jury, and the judge would always consent. Then Buck-ley and everybody else would watch their faces intently as they were shocked, horrified, and occasionally nauseated. Jake had actually seen two jurors vomit when handed photos of a badly slashed corpse.