"You know, Harry Rex, I wish I'd never heard of Carl Lee Hailey."

"I think it's too late, Jake."

Sallie answered the door and told Jake she was sorry about the house. Lucien was upstairs in his study, working and sober. He pointed to a chair and instructed Jake to sit down. Legal pads littered his desk.

"I've spent all afternoon working on a closing argument," he said, waving at the mess before him. "Your only hope of saving Hailey is with a spellbinding performance on final summation. I mean, we're talking about the greatest closing argument in the history of jurisprudence. That's what it'll take."

"And I assume you've created such a masterpiece."' "As a matter of fact, I have. It's much better than anything you could come up with. And I assumed-correctly- that you would spend your Sunday afternoon mourning the loss of your home and drowning your sorrows with Coors. I knew you would have nothing prepared. So I've done it for you."

"I wish I could stay as sober as you, Lucien."

"I was a better lawyer drunk than you are sober."

"At least I'm a lawyer."

Lucien tossed a legal pad at Jake. "There it is. A compilation of my greatest closing arguments. Lucien Wilbanks at his best, all rolled into one for you and your client. I suggest you memorize it and use it word for word. It's that good. Don't try to modify it, or improvise. You'll just screw it up."

"I'll think about it. I've done this before, remember?"

"You'd never know it."

"Dammit, Lucien! Get off my back!"

"Take it easy, Jake. Let's have a drink. Sallie! Sallie!"

Jake threw the masterpiece on the couch and walked to the window overlooking the backyard. Sallie ran up the stairs. Lucien ordered whiskey and beer.

"Were you up all night?" Lucien asked.

"No. I slept from eleven to twelve."

"You look terrible. You need a good night's rest."

"I feel terrible, and sleep will not help. Nothing will help, except the end of this trial. I don't understand, Lucien. I don't understand how everything has gone so wrong. Surely to God we're entitled to a little good luck. The case should not even be tried in Clanton. We were dealt the worst possible jury-a jury that's been tampered with. But I can't prove it. Our star witness was completely destroyed. The defendant made a lousy witness. And the jury does not trust me. I don't know what else could go wrong."

"You can still win the case, Jake. It'll take a miracle, but those things happen sometimes. I've snatched victory from the jaws of defeat many times with an effective closing argument. Zero in on one or two jurors. Play to them. Talk to them. Remember, it just takes one to hang the jury."

"Should I make them cry?"

"If you can. It's not that easy. But I believe in tears in the jury box. It's very effective."

Sallie brought the drinks, and they followed her downstairs to the porch. After dark, she fed them sandwiches and fried potatoes. At ten, Jake excused himself and went to his room. He called Carla and talked for an hour. There was no mention of the house. His stomach cramped when he heard

her voice and realized that one day very soon he would be forced to tell her that the house, her house, no longer existed. He hung up and prayed she didn't read about it in the newspaper.

Clanton returned to normal Monday morning as the barricades were put in place around the square and the ranks of the soldiers swelled to preserve the public peace. They loitered about in loose formation, watching as the Kluxers returned to their appointed ground on one side, and the black protestors on the other. The day of rest brought renewed energy to both groups, and by eight-thirty they were in full chorus. The collapse of Dr. Bass had been big news, and the Kluxers smelled victory. Plus they had scored a direct hit on Adams Street. They appeared to be louder than normal.

At nine, Noose summoned the attorneys to chambers. "Just wanted to make sure you were all alive and well." He grinned at Jake.

"Why don't you kiss my ass, Judge?" Jake said under his breath, but loud enough to be heard. The prosecutors froze. Mr. Pate cleared his throat.

Noose cocked his head sideways as if hard of hearing. "What did you say, Mr. Brigance?"

"I said, 'Why don't we get started, Judge?'"

"Yes, that's what I thought you said. How's your clerk, Ms. Roark?"

"She'll be fine."

"Was it the Klan?"

"Yes, Judge. The same Klan that tried to kill me. Same Klan that lit up the county with crosses and who knows what else for our jury panel. Same Klan that's probably intimidated most of those jurors sitting out there. Yes, sir, it's the same Klan."

Noose ripped off his glasses. "Can you substantiate that?"

"You mean, do I have written, signed, notarized confessions from the Klansmen? No, sir. They're most uncooperative."

"If you can't prove it, Mr. Brigance, then leave it alone."

"Yes, Your Honor."

Jake left chambers and slammed the door. Seconds later Mr. Pate called the place to order and everyone rose. Noose welcomed his jury back and promised the ordeal was almost over. No one smiled at him. It had been a lonely weekend at the Temple Inn.

"Does the State have any rebuttal?" he asked Buckley.

"One witness, Your Honor."

Dr. Rodeheaver was fetched from the witness room. He carefully situated himself in the witness chair and nodded warmly at the jury. He looked like a psychiatrist. Dark suit, no boots.

Buckley assumed the podium and smiled at the jury. "You are Dr. Wilbert Rodeheaver?" he thundered, looking at the jury as if to say, "Now you'll meet a real psychiatrist."

"Yes, sir."

Buckley asked questions, a million questions, about his educational and professional background. Rodeheaver was confident, relaxed, prepared, and accustomed to the witness chair. He talked at great length about his broad educational training, his vast experience as a practicing physician, and more recently, the enormous magnitude of his job as head of staff at the state mental hospital. Buckley asked him if he had written any articles in his field. He said yes, and for thirty minutes they discussed the writings of this very learned man. He had received research grants from the federal government and from various states. He was a member of all the organizations Bass belonged to, and a few more. He had been certified by every association remotely touching the study of the human mind. He was polished, and sober.

Buckley tendered him as an expert, and Jake had no questions.

Buckley continued. "Dr. Rodeheaver, when did you first examine Carl Lee Hailey?"

The expert checked his notes. "June 19."

"Where did the examination take place?"

"In my office at Whitfield."

"How long did you examine him?"

"Couple of hours."

"What was the' purpose of this examination?"

"To try and determine his mental condition at that time and also at the time he killed Mr. Cobb and Mr. Willard."

"Did you obtain his medical history?"

"Most of the information was taken by an associate at the hospital. I reviewed it with Mr. Hailey."

"What did the history reveal?"

"Nothing remarkable. He talked a lot about Vietnam, but nothing remarkable."

"Did he talk freely about Vietnam?"

"Oh yes. He wanted to talk about it. It was almost like he had been told to discuss it as much as possible."

"What else did you discuss at the first examination?"

"We covered a wide variety of topics. His childhood, family, education, various jobs, just about everything."

"Did he discuss the rape of his daughter?"

"Yes, in great detail. It was painful for him to talk about it, the sam as it would have been for me had it been my daughter."

"Did he discuss with you the events leading up to the shootings of Cobb and Willard?"

"Yes, we talked about that for quite a while. I tried to ascertain the degree of knowledge and understanding he had about those events."

"What did he tell you?"

"Initially, not much. But with time, he opened up and explained how he inspected "the courthouse three days before the shooting and picked a good place to attack."

"What about the shootings?"

"He never told me much about the actual killings. Said he didn't remember much, but I suspect otherwise."

Jake sprang to his feet. "Objection! The witness can only testify as to what he actually knows. He cannot speculate."

"Sustained. Please continue, Mr. Buckley."

"What else did you observe concerning his mood, attitude, and manner of speech?"

Rodeheaver crossed his legs and rocked gently. He lowered his eyebrows in deep thought. "Initially, he was distrustful of me and had difficulty looking me in the eye. He gave short answers to my questions. He was very resentful of the fact that he was guarded and sometimes handcuffed while at our facility. He questioned the padded walls. But after a while, he opened up and talked freely about most

everything. He flatly refused to answer a few questions, but other than that I would say he was fairly cooperative."

"When and where did you examine him again?"

"The next day, same place."

"What was his mood and attitude?"

"About the same as the day before. Cool at first, but he opened up eventually. He discussed basically the same topics as the day before."

"How long did this examination last?"

"Approximately four hours."

Buckley reviewed something on a legal pad, then whispered to Musgrove. "Now, Dr. Rodeheaver, as a result of your examinations of Mr. Hailey on June 19 and 20, were you able to arrive at a medical diagnosis of the defendant's psychiatric condition on those dates?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what is that diagnosis?"

"On June 19 and 20, Mr. Hailey appeared to be of sound mind. Perfectly normal, I would say."

"Thank you. Based on your examinations, were you able to arrive at a diagnosis of Mr. Hailey's mental condition on the day he shot Billy Ray Cobb and Pete Willard?"

"Yes."