"We've talked about that, Your Honor. And we'd like to leave, get a good night's rest, and try again tomorrow. We're not ready to quit."

"That's good to hear. I apologize for the distractions, but, again, there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry. You'll just have to do your best. Anything further?"

"No, sir."

"Very well. We'll stand adjourned until nine A.M. tomorrow."

Carl Lee pulled Jake's shoulder. "What does all this mean?"

"It means they're deadlocked. It could be six to six, or eleven to one against you, or eleven to one for acquittal. So , don't get excited."

Barry Acker cornered the bailiff and handed him a folded sheet of paper. It read:

Luann:

Pack the kids and go to your mother's. Don't tell anyone. Stay there until this thing is over. Just do as I say. Things are dangerous.

Barry

"Can you get this to my wife today? Our number is 881-0774."

"Sure," said the bailiff.

Tim Nunley, mechanic down at the Chevrolet place, former client of Jake Brigance, and Coffee Shop regular, sat on a couch in the cabin deep in the woods and drank a beer. He listened to his Klan brothers as they got drunk and cursed niggers. Occasionally, he cursed them too. He had noticed whispering for the past two nights now, and felt something was up. He listened carefully.

He stood to get another beer. Suddenly, they jumped him. Three of his comrades pinned him against the wall and pounded him with fists and feet. He was beaten badly, then gagged, bound, and dragged outside, across the gravel road, and into the field where he had been inducted as a member. A cross was lit as he was tied to a pole and stripped. A bullwhip lashed him until his shoulders, back, and legs were solid crimson.

Two dozen of his ex-brethren watched in mute horror as the pole and limp body were soaked with kerosene. The leader, the one with the bullwhip, stood next to him for an eternity. He pronounced the death sentence, then threw a match.

Mickey Mouse had been silenced.

They packed their robes and belongings, and left for home. Most would never return to Ford County.

Wednesday. For the first time in weeks Jake slept more than eight hours. He had fallen asleep on the couch in his office, and he awoke at five to the sounds of the military preparing for the worst. He was rested, but the nervous throbbing returned with the thought that this day would probably be the big day. He showered and shaved downstairs, and ripped open a new pack of Fruit of the Loom he had purchased at the drug store. He dressed himself in Stan Atcavage's finest navy all-season suit, which was an inch too short and a bit loose, but not a bad fit under the circumstances. He thought of the rubble on Adams Street, then Carla, and the knot in his stomach began to churn. He ran for the newspapers.

On the front pages of the Memphis, Jackson, and Tu-pelo papers were identical photos of Carl Lee standing on the small porch over the mob, holding his daughter and waving to his people. There was nothing about Jake's house. He was relieved, and suddenly hungry.

Dell hugged him like a lost child. She removed her apron and sat next to him in a corner booth. As the regulars arrived and saw him, they stopped by and patted him on the back. It was good to see him again. They had missed him, and they were for him. He looked gaunt, she said, so he ordered most of the menu.

"Say, Jake, are all those blacks gonna be back today?" asked Bert West.

"Probably," he said as he stabbed a chunk of pancakes.

"I heard they's plannin' to bring more folks this mornin'," said Andy Rennick. "Ever nigger radio station in north Mississippi is tellin' folks to come to Clanton."

Great, thought Jake. He added Tabasco to his scrambled eggs.

"Can the jury hear all that yellin'?" asked Bert.

"Sure they can," Jake answered. "That's why they're doing it. They're not deaf."

"That's gotta scare them."

Jake certainly hoped so.

"How's the family?" Dell asked quietly.

"Fine, I guess. I talked to Carla every night."

"She scared?"

"Terrified."

"What have they done to you lately?"

"Nothing since Sunday morning."

"Does Carla know?"

Jake chewed and shook his head.

"I didn't think so. You poor thing."

"I'll be okay. What's the talk in here?"

"We closed at lunch yesterday. There were so many blacks outside, and we were afraid of a riot. We'll watch it close this morning, and we may close again. Jake, what if there's a conviction?"

"It could get hairy."

He stayed for an hour and answered their questions. Strangers arrived, and Jake excused himself.

There was nothing to do but wait. He sat on the balcony, drank coffee, smoked a cigar, and watched the guardsmen. He thought of the clients he once had; of a quiet little Southern law office with a secretary and clients waiting to see him. Of docket calls and interviews at the jail. Of normal things, like a family, a home, and church on Sunday mornings. He was not meant for the big time.

The first church bus arrived at seven-thirty and was halted by the soldiers. The doors flew open and an endless stream of blacks with lawn chairs and food baskets headed for the front lawn. For an hour Jake blew smoke into the heavy air and watched with great satisfaction as the square filled beyond capacity with noisy yet peaceful protestors. The reverends were out in full force, directing their people and assuring Ozzie and the colonel they were nonviolent folk. Ozzie was convinced. The colonel was nervous. By nine, the streets were crammed with demonstrators. Someone spotted the Greyhound. "Here they come!" Agee screamed into the loudspeaker. The mob* pushed to the corner of Jackson and Quincy, where the soldiers, troopers, and deputies formed a mobile barricade around the bus and walked it through the crowd to the rear of the courthouse.

Eula Dell Yates cried openly. Clyde Sisco sat next to the window and held her hand. The others stared in fear as the

bus inched around the square. A heavily armed passageway was cleared from the bus to the courthouse, and Ozzie came aboard. The situation was under control, he assured them over the roar. Just follow him and walk as fast as possible.

The bailiff locked the door as they gathered around the coffeepot. Eula Dell sat by herself in the corner crying softly and flinching as each "Free Carl Lee!'" boomed from below.

"I don't care what we do," she said. "I really don't care, but I just can't take any more of this. I haven't seen my family in eight days, and now this madness. I didn't sleep any last night." She cried louder. "I think I'm close to a nervous breakdown. Let's just get outta here."

Clyde handed her a Kleenex and rubbed her shoulder.

Jo Ann Gates was a soft guilty who was ready to crack. "I didn't sleep either last night. I can't take another day like yesterday. I wanna go home to my kids."

Barry Acker stood by the window and thought of the riot that would follow a guilty verdict. There wouldn't be a building left downtown, including the courthouse. He doubted if anybody would protect the jurors in the aftermath of a wrong verdict. They probably wouldn't make it back to the bus. Thankfully, his wife and kids had fled to safety in Arkansas.

"I feel like a hostage," said Bernice Toole, a firm guilty. "That mob would storm the courthouse in a split second if we convict him. I feel intimidated."

Clyde handed her a box of Kleenexes.

"I don't care what we do," Eula Dell whined in desperation. "Let's just get outta here. I honestly don't care if we convict him or cut him loose, let's just do something. My nerves can't take it."

Wanda Womack stood at the end of the table and nervously cleared her throat. She asked for attention. "I have a proposal," she said slowly, "that just might settle this thing."

The crying stopped, and Barry Acker returned to his seat. She had their complete attention.

"I thought of something last night when I couldn't sleep, and I want you to consider it. It may be painful. It may cause you to search your heart and take a long look at your

soul. But I'll ask you to do it anyway. And if each of you will be honest with yourself, I think we can wrap this up before noon."

The only sounds came from the street below.

"Right now we are evenly divided, give or take a vote. We could tell Judge Noose that we are hopelessly deadlocked. He would declare a mistrial, and we would go home. Then in a few months this entire spectacle would be repeated. Mr. Hailey would be tried again in this same courtroom, with the same judge, but with a different jury, a jury drawn from this county, a jury of our friends, husbands, wives, and parents. The same kind of people who are now in this room. That jury will be confronted with the same issues before us now, and those people will not be any smarter than we are.

"The time to decide this case is now. It would be morally wrong to shirk our responsibilities and pass the buck to the next jury. Can we all agree on that?"

They silently agreed.

"Good. This is what I want you to do. I want you to pretend with me for a moment. I want you to use your imaginations. I want you to close your eyes and listen to nothing but my voice."

They obediently closed their eyes. Anything was worth a try.

Jake lay on the couch in his office and listened to Lucien tell stories about his prestigious father and grandfather, and their prestigious law firm, and all the people they screwed out of money and land.

"My inheritance was built by my promiscuous ancestors!" he yelled. "They screwed everybody they could!"

Harry Rex laughed uncontrollably. Jake had heard the stories before, but they were always funny, and different.

"What about Ethel's retarded son?" Jake asked.

"Don't talk that way about my brother," Lucien protested. "He's the brightest one in the family. Sure he's my brother. Dad hired her when she was seventeen, and believe it or not, she looked good back then. Ethel Twitry was the

hottest thing in Ford County. My dad couldn't keep his hands off her. Sickening to think about now, but it's true."

"It's disgusting," Jake said.

"She had a houseful of kids, and two of them looked just like me, especially the dunce. It was very embarrassing back then."