"Yes, sir. Describe what you saw."

"You could hear the bullets bouncin' off the walls and hittin' everywhere. It was the loudest gun I ever heard and seemed like he kept shootin' forever. The boys just twisted and thrashed about, screamin' and squealin'. They were handcuffed, you know."

"Yes, sir. What happened to you?"

"Like I said, I never made it past the landing. I think

one of the bullets ricocheted off the wall and caught me in the leg. I was tryin' to get back up the steps when I felt my leg burn."

"And what happened to your leg?"

"They cut it off," Looney answered matter-of-factly, as if an amputation happened monthly. "Just below the knee."

"Did you get a good look at the man with the gun?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you identify him for the jury?"

"Yes, sir. It's Mr. Hailey, the man sittin' over there."

That answer would have been a logical place to end Looney's testimony. He was brief, to the point, sympathetic and positive of the identification. The jury had listened to every word so far. But Buckley and Musgrove retrieved the large diagrams of the courthouse and arranged them before the jury so that Looney could limp around for a while. Under Buckley's direction, he retraced everybody's exact movements just before the killings.

Jake rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. Noose cleaned and recleaned his glasses. The jurors fidgeted.

"Any cross-examination, Mr. Brigance?" Noose asked at last.

"Just a few questions," Jake said as Musgrove cleared the debris from the courtroom.

"Officer Looney, who was Carl Lee looking at when he was shooting?"

"Them boys, as far as I could tell."

"Did he ever look at you?"

"Well, now, I didn't spend a lotta time tryin' to make eye contact with him. In fact, I was movin' in the other direction."

"So he didn't aim at you?"

"Oh, no, sir. He just aimed at those boys. Hit them too."

"What did he do when he was shooting?"

"He just screamed and laughed like he was crazy. It was the weirdest thing I ever heard, like he was some kinda madman or something. And you know, what I'll always remember is that with all the noise, the gun firin', the bullets

whistlin', the boys screamin' as they got hit, over all the noise I could hear him laughin' that crazy laugh."

The answer was so perfect Jake had to fight off a smile. He and Looney had worked on it a hundred times, and it was a thing of beauty. Every word was perfect. Jake busily flipped through his legal pad and glanced at the jurors. They all stared at Looney, enthralled by his answer. Jake scribbled something, anything, nothing, just to kill a few more seconds before the most important questions of the trial.

"Now, Deputy Looney, Carl Lee Hailey shot you in the leg."

"Yes, sir, he did."

"Do you think it was intentional?"

"Oh, no, sir. It was an accident."

"Do you want to see him punished for shooting you?" • "No, sir. I have no ill will toward the man. He did what I would've done."

Buckley dropped his pen and slumped in his chair. He looked sadly at his star witness.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean I don't blame him for what he did. Those boys raped his little girl. I gotta little girl. Somebody rapes her and he's a dead dog. I'll blow him away, just like Carl Lee did. We oughtta give him a trophy."

"Do you want the jury to convict Carl Lee?"

Buckley jumped and roared, "Objection! Objection! Improper question!"

"No!" Looney yelled. "I don't want him convicted. He's a hero. He-"

"Don't answer, Mr. Looney!" Noose said loudly. "Don't answer!"

"Objection! Objection!" Buckley continued, on his tiptoes.

"He's a hero! Turn him loose!" Looney yelled at Buck-ley.

"Order! Order!" Noose banged his gavel.

Buckley was silent. Looney was silent. Jake walked to his chair and said, "I'll withdraw the question."

"Please disregard," Noose instructed the jury.

Looney smiled at the jury and limped from the courtroom.

"Call your next witness," Noose said, removing nis glasses.

Buckley rose slowly and with a great effort at drama, said, "Your Honor, the State rests."

"Good," Noose replied, looking at Jake. "I assume you have a motion or two, Mr. Brigance."

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Very well, we'll take those up in chambers."

Noose excused his jury with the same parting instructions and adjourned until nine Friday.

Jake awoke in the darkness with a slight hangover, a headache due to fatigue and Coors, and the distant but unmistakable sound of his doorbell ringing continually as if held firmly in place by a large and determined thumb. He opened the front door in his nightshirt and tried to focus on the two figures standing on the porch. Ozzie and Nesbit, it was finally determined.

"Can I help you?" he asked as he opened the door. They followed him into the den.

"They're gonna kill you today," Ozzie said.

Jake sat on the couch and massaged his temples. "Maybe they'll succeed."

"Jake, this is serious. They plan to kill you."

"Who?"

"The Klan."

"Mickey Mouse?"

"Yeah. He called yesterday and said something was up. He called back two hours ago and said you're the lucky man. Today is the big day. Time for some excitement. They bury Stump Sisson this morning in Loydsville, and it's time for the eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth routine."

"Why me? Why don't they kill Buckley or Noose or someone more deserving?"

"We didn't get a chance to talk about that."

"What method of execution?" Jake asked, suddenly feeling awkward sitting there in his nightshirt.

"He didn't say."

"Does he know?"

"He ain't much on details. He just said they'd try to do it sometime today."

"So what am I supposed to do? Surrender?"

"What time you goin' to the office?"

"What time is it?"

"Almost five."

"As soon as I can shower and dress."

"We'll wait."

At five-thirty, they rushed him into his office and locked

the door. At eight, a platoon of soldiers gathered on the sidewalk under the balcony and waited for the target. Harry Rex and Ellen watched from the second floor of the courthouse. Jake squeezed between Ozzie and Nesbit, and the three of them crouched in the center tight formation. Off they went across Washington Street in the direction of the courthouse. The vultures sniffed something and surrounded the entourage.

The abandoned feed mill sat near the abandoned railroad tracks halfway down the tallest hill in Clanton, two blocks north and east of the square. Beside it was a neglected asphalt and gravel street that ran downhill and intersected Cedar Street, after which it became much smoother and wider and continued downward until finally it terminated and merged into Quincy Street, the eastern boundary of the Clanton square.

From his position inside an abandoned silo, the marksman had a clear but distant view of the rear of the courthouse. He crouched in the darkness and aimed through a small opening, confident no one in the world could see him. The whiskey helped the confidence, and the aim, which he practiced a thousand times from seven-thirty until eight, when he noticed activity around the nigger's lawyer's office.

A comrade waited in a pickup hidden in a run-down warehouse next to the silo. The engine was running and the driver chain-smoked Lucky Strikes, waiting anxiously to hear the clapping sounds from the deer rifle.

As the armored mass stepped its way across Washington, the marksman panicked. Through the scope he could barely see the head of the nigger's lawyer as it bobbed and weaved awkwardly among the sea of green, which was surrounded and chased by a dozen reporters. Go ahead, the whiskey said, create some excitement. He timed the bobbing and weaving as best he could, and pulled the trigger as the target approached the rear door of the courthouse.

The rifle shot was clear and unmistakable.

Half the soldiers hit the ground rolling and the other half grabbed Jake and threw him violently under the veranda/A guardsman screamed in anguish. The reporters and

TV people crouched and stumbled to the ground, but valiantly kept the cameras rolling to record the carnage. The soldier clutched his throat and screamed again. Another shot. Then another.

"He's hit!" someone yelled. The soldiers scrambled on all fours across the driveway to the fallen one. Jake escaped through the doors to the safety of the courthouse. He fell onto the floor of the rear entrance and buried his head in his hands. Ozzie stood next to him, watching the soldiers through the door.

The gunman dropped from the silo, threw his gun behind the back seat, and disappeared with his comrade into the countryside. They had a funeral to attend in south Mississippi.

"He's hit in the throat!" someone screamed as his buddies waded around the reporters. They lifted him and dragged him to a jeep.

"Who got hit?" Jake asked without removing his palms from his eyes.

"One of the guardsmen," Ozzie said. "You okay?"

"I guess," he answered as he clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the floor. "Where's my briefcase?"

"It's out there on the driveway. We'll get it in a min-* ute." Ozzie removed his radio from his belt and barked orders to the dispatcher, something about all men to the courthouse.

When it was apparent the shooting was over, Ozzie joined the mass of soldiers outside. Nesbit stood next to Jake. "You okay?" he asked.

The colonel rounded the corner, yelling and swearing. "What the hell happened?" he demanded. "I heard some shots."

"Mackenvale got hit."

"Where is he?" the colonel said. -

"Off to the hospital," a sergeant replied, pointing at a jeep flying away in the distance.

"How bad is he?"

"Looked pretty bad. Got him in the throat."

"Throat! Why did they move him?"

No one answered.

"Did anybody see anything?" the colonel demanded.