"Evenin', Will," said Joe Frank as the ex-supervisor walked across the lawn and up the steps.

"Evenin', Joe Frank." They shook hands and relaxed on the porch.

"Gimme a chew," Tierce said.

"Sure. What brings you around here?"

"Just passin' by. Thought about Lela's iced tea and got real thirsty. Hadn't seen you folks in a while."

They sat and talked, chewed and spat, and drank iced tea until it was dark and time for the mosquitoes. The drought required most of their time and Joe Frank talked at

length of the dry spell and how it was the worst in ten years. Hadn't had a drop of rain since the third week of June. And if it didn't let up, he could forget the cotton crop. The beans might make it, but he was worried about the cotton.

"Say, Joe Frank, I hear you got one of those jury summons for the trial next week."

"Yeah, afraid so. Who told you?"

"I don't know. I just heard it around." tf

"I didn't know it was public knowledge."

"Well, I guess I must've heard it in Clanton today. I had business at the courthouse. That's where I heard it. It's that nigger's trial, you know."

"That's what I figured."

"How do you feel about that nigger shootin' them boys like he did?"

"I don't blame him," inserted Lela.

"Yeah, but you can't take the law into your own hands," explained Joe Frank to his wife. "That's what the court system is for."

"I'll tell you what bothers me," said Tierce, "is this insanity crap. They're gonna say the nigger was crazy and try to get him off by insanity. Like that nut who shot Reagan. It's a crooked way to get off. Plus it's a lie. That nigger planned to kill them boys, and just sat there and waited on them. It was cold-blooded murder."

"What if it was your daughter, Will?" asked Lela.

"I'd let the courts handle it. When we catch a rapist around here, especially a nigger, we generally lock him up. Parchman's full of rapists who'll never get out. This ain't New York or California or some crazy place where criminals go free. We've got a good system, and old Judge Noose hands down tough sentences. You gotta let the courts handle it. Our system won't survive if we allow people, especially niggers, to take the law into their own hands. That's what really scares me. Suppose this nigger gets off, walks out of the courthouse a free man. Everbody in the country will know it, and the niggers will go crazy. Evertime somebody crosses a nigger, he'll just kill him, then say he was insane, and try to get off. That's what's dangerous about this trial."

"You gotta keep the niggers under control," agreed Joe Frank.

"You better believe it. And if Hailey gets off, none of us will be safe. Ever nigger in this county'll carry a gun and just look for trouble."

"I hadn't really thought about that," admitted Joe Frank.

"I hope you do the right thing, Joe Frank. I just hope they put you in that jury box. We need some people with some sense."

"Wonder why they picked me?"

"I heard they fixed up a hundred and fifty summonses. They're expectin' about a hundred to show up."

"What're my chances of gettin' picked?"

"One in a hundred," said Lela.

"I feel better then. I really ain't got time to serve, what with my farmin' and all."

"We sure need you on that jury," said Tierce.

The conversation drifted to local politics and the new supervisor and what a sorry job he was doing with the roads. Darkness meant bedtime for the Perrymans. Tierce said good night and drove home. He sat at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee and reviewed the jury list. His friend Rufus would be proud. Six names had been circled on Will's list, and he had talked to all six. He put an okay by each name. They would be good jurors, people Rufus could count on to keep law and order in Ford County. A couple had been noncommittal at first, but their good and trusted friend Will Tierce had explained justice to them and they were now ready to convict.

Rufus would be real proud. And he had promised that young Jason Tierce, a nephew, would never be tried on those dope charges.

Jake picked at the greasy pork chops and butterbeans, and watched Ellen across the table do the same thing. Lucien sat at the head of the table, ignored his food, fondled his drink, and flipped through the jury list offering comments on every name he recognized. He was drunker than normal. Most of the names he didn't recognize, but he commented on them anyway. Ellen was amused and winked repeatedly at her boss.

He dropped the list, and knocked his fork off the table.

"Sallie!" he yelled.

"Do you know how many ACLU members are in Ford County?" he asked Ellen.

"At least eighty percent of the population," she said.

"One. Me. I was the first in history and evidently the last. These people are fools around here, Row Ark. They don't appreciate civil liberties. They're a bunch of right-wing knee-jerk conservative Republican fanatics, like our friend Jake here."

"That's not true. I eat at Claude's at least once a week," Jake said.

"So that makes you progressive?" asked Lucien.

"It makes me a radical."

"I still think you're a Republican."

"Look, Lucien, you can talk about my wife, or my mother, or my ancestors, but don't call me a Republican."

"You look like a Republican," said Ellen.

"Does he look like a Democrat?" Jake asked, pointing at Lucien.

"Of course. I knew he was a Democrat the moment I saw him."

"Then I'm a Republican."

"See! See!" yelled Lucien. He dropped his glass on the floor and it shattered.

"Sallie!"

"Row Ark, guess who was the third white man in Mississippi to join the NAACP?"

"Rufus Buckley," said Jake.

"Me. Lucien Wilbanks. Joined in 1967. White people thought I was crazy."

"Can you imagine," Jake said.

"Of course, black folks, or Negroes as we called them back then, thought I was crazy too. Hell, everybody thought I was crazy back then."

"Have they ever changed their minds?" Jake asked.

"Shut up, Republican. Row Ark, why don't you move to Clanton and we'll start us a law firm handling nothing but ACLU cases. Hell, bring your old man down from Boston and we'll make him a partner."

"Why don't you just go to Boston?" Jake asked.

"Why don't you just go to hell?"

"What will we call it?" asked Ellen.

"The nut house," said Jake.

"Wilbanks, Row and Ark. Attorneys at law."

"None of whom have licenses," said Jake.

Lucien's eyelids weighed several pounds each. His head nodded forward involuntarily. He slapped Sallie on the rear as she cleaned up his mess.

"That was a cheap shot, Jake," he said seriously.

"Row Ark," Jake said, imitating Lucien, "guess who was the last lawyer permanently disbarred by the Mississippi Supreme Court?"

Ellen gracefully smiled at both men and said nothing.

"Row Ark," Lucien said loudly, "guess who will be the next lawyer in this county to be evicted from his office?" He roared with laughter, screaming and shaking. Jake winked at her.

When he settled down, he asked, "What's this meeting tomorrow night?"

"I want to cover the jury list with you and a few others."

"Who?"

"Harry Rex, Stan Atcavage, maybe one other."

"Where?"

"Eight o'clock. My office. No alcohol."

"It's my office, and I'll bring a case of whiskey if I want to. My grandfather built the building, remember?"

"How could I forget."

"Row Ark, let's get drunk."

"No thanks, Lucien. I've enjoyed dinner, and the conversation, but I need to get back to Oxford."

They stood and left Lucien at the table. Jake declined the usual invitation to sit on the porch. Ellen left, and he went to his temporary room upstairs. He had promised Carla he would not sleep at home. He called her. She and Hanna were fine. Worried, but fine. He didn't mention Bud Twitty.

A convoy of converted school buses, each with an original paint job of white and red or green and black or a hundred other combinations and the name of a church emblazoned along the sides under the windows, rolled slowly around the Clanton square after lunch Wednesday. There were thirty-one in all, each packed tightly with elderly black people who waved paper fans and handkerchiefs in a futile effort to overcome the stifling heat. After three trips around the courthouse, the lead bus stopped by the post office and thirty-one doors flew open. The buses emptied in a frenzy. The people were directed to a gazebo on the courthouse lawn, where Reverend Ollie Agee was shouting orders and handing out blue and white FREE CARL LEE placards.

The side streets leading into the square became congested as cars from all directions inched toward the courthouse and finally parked when they could move no closer. Hundreds of blacks left their vehicles in the streets and walked solemnly toward the square. They mingled around the gazebo and waited for their placards, then wandered through the oaks and magnolias looking for shade and greeting friends. More church buses arrived and were unable to circle the square because of the traffic. They unloaded next to the Coffee Shop.

For the first time that year the temperature hit a hundred and promised to go higher. The sky produced no clouds for protection, and there were no winds or breezes to weaken the burning rays or to blow away the humidity. A man's shirt would soak and stick to his back in fifteen minutes under a shade tree; five minutes without shade. Some of the weaker old folks found refuge inside the courthouse.

The crowd continued to grow. It was predominantly elderly, but there were many younger, militant, angry-looking blacks who had missed the great civil rights marches and demonstrations of the sixties and now realized that this might be a rare opportunity to shout and protest and sing "We Shall Overcome," and in general celebrate being black

and oppressed in a white world. They meandered about waiting for someone to take charge. Finally, three students marched to the front steps of the courthouse, lifted their placards, and shouted, "Free Carl Lee. Free Carl Lee."