Читаем A time to kill полностью

"He's a crook," Leroy said. "He's a big-shot crook who'll sell you out. He don't care about you or your case. He just wants the publicity. He hasn't touched your case all week. Jake knows, he checked in the courthouse this afternoon. Not a sign of Mr. Big Shot. He's too busy to leave Memphis and check on you. He's got too many other crooked clients in Memphis, includin' your friend Mr. Bruster."

"You're crazy, Leroy."

"Okay, I'm crazy. Wait and see who pleads insaneness. Wait and see how hard he works on your case."

"What makes you such an expert?"

"You asked me and I'm tellin' you."

Carl Lee walked to the door and grabbed the bars, gripping them tightly with his huge hands. The cell had shrunk in three weeks, and the smaller it became the harder it was for him to think, to reason, to plan, to react. He could not concentrate in jail. He knew only what was told to him and had no one to trust. Gwen was irrational. Ozzie was noncommittal. Lester was in Chicago. There was no other person he trusted except Jake, and for some reason he had found a

new lawyer. Money, that was the reason. Nineteen hundred dollars cash, paid by the biggest pimp and dope dealer in Memphis, whose lawyer specialized in defending pimps and dope dealers, and all kinds of cutthroats and hoodlums. Did Marsharfsky represent decent people? What would the jury think when they watched Carl Lee sit at the defense table next to Marsharfsky? He was guilty, of course. Why else would he hire a famous, big-city crook like Marsharfsky?

"You know what them rednecks on the jury'H say when they see Marsharfsky?" Leroy asked.

"What?"

"They're gonna think this poor nigger is guilty, and he's sold his soul to hire the biggest crook in Memphis to tell us he ain't guilty."

Carl Lee mumbled something through the bars.

"They're gonna fry you, Carl Lee."

Moss Junior Tatum was on duty at six-thirty Saturday morning when the phone rang in Ozzie's office. It was the sheriff.

"What're you doing awake?" asked Moss.

"I'm not sure I'm awake," answered the sheriff. "Listen, Moss, do you remember an old black preacher named Street, Reverend Isaiah Street?"

"Not really."

"Yeah you do. He preached for fifty years at Springdale Church, north of town. First member of the NAACP in Ford County. He taught all the blacks around here how to march and boycott back in the sixties."

"Yeah, now I remember. Didn't the Klan catch him once?"

"Yeah, they beat him and burned his house, but nothin' serious. Summer of '65."

"I thought he died a few years back."

"Naw, he's been half dead for ten years, but he still moves a little. He called me at five-thirty and talked for an hour. Reminded me of all the political favors I owe him."

"What's he want?"

"He'll be there at seven to see Carl Lee. Why, I don't know. But treat him nice. Put them in my office and let them talk. I'll be in later."

ouic, oneriii.

In his heyday in the sixties, the Reverend Isaiah Street had been the moving force behind civil rights activity in Ford County. He walked with Martin Luther King in Memphis and Montgomery. He organized marches and protests in Clanton and Karaway and other towns in north Mississippi. In the summer of '64 he greeted students from the North and coordinated their efforts to register black voters. Some had lived in his home that memorable summer, and they still visited him from time to time. He was no radical. He was quiet, compassionate, intelligent, and had earned the respect of all blacks and most whites. His was a calm, cool voice in the midst of hatred and controversy. He unofficially officiated the great public school desegregation in '69, and Ford County saw little trouble.

A stroke in '75 deadened the right side of his body but left his mind untouched. Now, at seventy-eight, he walked by himself, slowly and with a cane. Proud, dignified, erect as possible. He was ushered into the sheriffs office and seated. He,declined coffee, and Moss Junior left to get the defendant.

"You awake, Carl Lee?" he whispered loudly, not wanting to wake the other prisoners, who would begin screaming for breakfast, medicine, lawyers, bondsmen, and girlfriends.

Carl Lee sat up immediately. "Yeah, I didn't sleep much."

"You have a visitor. Come on." Moss quietly unlocked the cell.

Carl Lee had met the reverend years earlier when he addressed the last senior class at East High, the black school. Desegregation followed, and East became the junior high. He had not seen the reverend since the stroke.

"Carl Lee, do you know Reverend Isaiah Street?" Moss asked properly.

"Yes, we met years ago."

"Good, I'll close the door and let y'all talk."

"How are you, sir?" Carl Lee asked. They sat next to each other on the couch.

"Finej my son, and you?"

"As good as possible."

"I've been in jail too, you know. Years ago. It's a terri-

ble place, but I guess it's necessary. How are they treating you?"

"Fine, just fine. Ozzie lets me do as I please."

"Yes, Ozzie. We're very proud of him, aren't we?"