Текст книги "Sycamore Row"
Автор книги: John Grisham
Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
For reasons no one would ever understand, Rufus Buckley felt compelled to say something. He stood in the deathly silent courtroom and said, “Your Honor, if it please the court, I must say this puts us at a distinct disadvantage.”
Judge Atlee looked at one of the remaining deputies, pointed at Buckley, and said, “Take him too.”
“What?” Buckley gasped.
“I find you in contempt, Mr. Buckley. Please take him away.”
“But why, Your Honor?”
“Because you are contemptuous, along with presumptuous, disrespectful, arrogant, and a lot of other things. Leave!”
They slapped the handcuffs on Rufus, who had turned pale and wild-eyed. He, Rufus Buckley, former district attorney and symbol of the highest standards of law abidance, morality, and ethical conduct, was being hauled away like a common criminal. Jake fought the urge to applaud.
“And put him in the same cell with his co-counsel,” Judge Atlee roared into the microphone as Rufus stutter-stepped down the aisle, his desperate face searching for friends.
When the door slammed, everyone gasped for what little oxygen was left in the room. The lawyers began exchanging humorous glances, certain they had just witnessed something they would never see again. Judge Atlee pretended to be taking notes while everyone tried breathing. Finally, he looked up and said, “Now, Mr. Bost, do you have anything to say?”
Mr. Bost did not. There was plenty on his mind, but given the current mood of the court, he wisely shook his head no.
“Good. Now you have about thirty seconds to clear that table and move yourself right over here to the jury box. Mr. Brigance, would you assume your proper position in my courtroom?”
“Be glad to, Your Honor.”
“On second thought, let’s take a ten-minute recess.”
Ozzie Walls had a sense of humor. In the circular drive behind the courthouse there were four fully decorated patrol cars, all heavily painted with words and numbers and laden with antennas and lights. As he gathered his men around the two contemptuous lawyers in the rear hallway, he made the quick decision that they should ride together. “Put ’em in my car,” he ordered.
“I’ll sue you for this,” Sistrunk threatened for the tenth time.
“We got lawyers,” Ozzie fired back.
“I’ll sue every one of you redneck clowns.”
“And our lawyers are outta jail.”
“In federal court.”
“I love federal court.”
Sistrunk and Buckley were shoved outside and jostled into the rear seat of Ozzie’s big brown Ford. Dumas Lee and a cohort fired away with cameras.
“Let’s give ’em a parade,” Ozzie said to his men. “Lights, no sirens.”
Ozzie got behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away, ever so slowly. “You been in the backseat before, Rufus?”
Buckley refused to answer. He sat as low as possible directly behind the sheriff and peered out the window as they crept around the square. Three feet to his right, Booker Sistrunk sat awkwardly with his hands behind him and continued the mouthing: “You oughtta be ashamed of yourself, treating a brother like this.”
“The white guy’s gettin’ the same treatment,” Ozzie said.
“You’re violating my civil rights.”
“And you’re violatin’ mine with your mouth. Now shut up or I’ll lock you under the jail. We got a little basement down there. You seen it, Rufus?”
Again, Rufus chose not to respond.
They looped twice around the square, then zigzagged a few blocks with Ozzie in the lead and followed by the other cars. Ozzie was giving Dumas time to set up at the jail, and when they arrived, the reporter was snapping away. Sistrunk and Buckley were extracted from Ozzie’s car and led slowly along the front walkway and into the jail. They were treated like all fresh arrestees—photographed, fingerprinted, asked a hundred questions for the record, relieved of all belongings, and given a change of clothes.
Forty-five minutes after raising the ire of the Honorable Reuben V. Atlee, Booker Sistrunk and Rufus Buckley, in matching county jail overalls, faded orange with white stripes on the legs, sat on the edges of their metal beds and looked at the black-stained and dripping toilet they were expected to share. A jailer peeked through the bars of their narrow cell and asked, “Get you boys anything?”
“What time is lunch?” Rufus asked.
With Bost banished to the jury box while his cohorts were being processed, the hearing commenced and concluded with amazing speed. With no one present to argue for a change of venue or removal of the judge, those motions were denied. The motion to replace Jake with Rufus Buckley was rejected with hardly a word. Judge Atlee granted the motions for a trial by jury, and gave the parties ninety days to begin and complete discovery. He explained in clear language that the case had top priority with him and he would not allow it to drag on. He asked the attorneys to pull out their calendars and forced them to agree on a trial date of April 3, 1989, almost five months away.
He adjourned the hearing after thirty minutes and disappeared from the bench. The crowd stood and began buzzing while the lawyers huddled and tried to confirm what had just happened. Stillman Rush whispered to Jake, “I guess you’re lucky you’re not in jail.”
“Unbelievable,” Jake said. “You wanna go visit Buckley?”
“Maybe later.”
Kendrick Bost led Lettie and her people off to a corner where he tried to assure them things were going as planned. Most seemed skeptical. He and the bodyguard hurried away as soon as possible and darted across the courthouse lawn. They jumped into the black Rolls-Royce—the bodyguard was also the driver—and sped away to the jail. They were told by Ozzie that visitation had not been approved by the court. Bost cursed, left, and took off in the direction of Oxford, home of the nearest federal courthouse.
Dumas Lee cranked out a thousand words before lunch and faxed the story to a reporter he knew at the Memphis paper. He also wired plenty of photographs. Later in the day, he sent the same materials to the newspapers in Tupelo and Jackson.
19
The word was leaked from a legitimate source and it spread like wildfire through the courthouse and around the square. Come 9:00 a.m., Judge Atlee would reconvene and allow his prisoners the opportunity to apologize. The very notion of seeing Rufus Buckley and Booker Sistrunk dragged into court, hopefully in chains and rubber shower shoes and orange county overalls, was impossible to resist.
Their story had gained traction and was the source of enthusiastic gossip and speculation. For Buckley, it was an enormous humiliation. For Sistrunk, it was nothing but another chapter.
The Memphis morning paper ran every word of Dumas’s report on the front page of the Metro section, and accompanied it with a huge photo of the two handcuffed co-counsels leaving the courthouse the day before. The headline alone was worth it for Sistrunk: PROMINENT MEMPHIS LAWYER JAILED IN MISSISSIPPI. In addition to Dumas’s startlingly accurate story, there was a smaller one about the petition for habeas corpus relief filed by the Sistrunk & Bost firm in federal court in Oxford. A hearing was scheduled for 1:00 that afternoon.
Jake sat on his balcony overlooking the square, sipping coffee with Lucien and waiting for the patrol cars to arrive. Ozzie had promised to call with a heads-up.
Lucien, who hated early mornings and with good reason, looked surprisingly fresh and clear-eyed. He claimed he was drinking less and exercising more, and he was certainly working harder. Jake was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid him around his (their) office.
Lucien said, “I never thought I would see the day when Rufus Buckley was hauled away in handcuffs.”
“Beautiful, just beautiful, and still hard to believe,” Jake said. “I’m going to call Dumas and see if I can buy the photo of Buckley being led into the jail.”
“Please do, and make me a copy.”
“Eight-by-ten, framed. I could probably sell them.”
Roxy was forced to climb the stairs, enter Jake’s office, and walk to the balcony where she found her boss. She said, “That was Sheriff Walls. They’re on the way over.”
“Thanks.”
Jake and Lucien hurried across the street, and it was impossible to miss the fact that other law offices were being vacated as attorneys from around the square suddenly had urgent business in the courthouse. Poor Buckley had made so many enemies. The courtroom was far from packed, but quite a few of those enemies were milling about. It was blatantly obvious they were there for only one reason. A bailiff called things to order and Judge Atlee swept onto the bench. He nodded at a deputy and said, “Bring him in.” A side door opened and Buckley walked in, his wrists and ankles free. Except for the stubble and a bad hair day, he looked much the same as he had the day before. Judge Atlee had shown compassion and allowed him to change clothing. It would have been a bit too much of an embarrassment to parade him over in inmate’s attire. Given the coverage in the morning’s papers, Judge Atlee simply could not allow an officer of his court to be seen in such garb.
There was no sign of Sistrunk. The door closed and it became apparent he was not there to take part. “Over here, Mr. Buckley,” Judge Atlee said, pointing to a spot directly in front of the bench. Buckley complied and stood rather helplessly, quite alone, humiliated and defeated. He swallowed hard and looked up at the judge.
Judge Atlee shoved his microphone aside and said in a low voice, “I trust you survived the night in our fine jail.”
“I did.”
“And Sheriff Walls treated you well?”
“He did.”
“Did you and Mr. Sistrunk have a restful night together?”
“I wouldn’t call it restful, Your Honor, but we got through it.”
“Can’t help but notice that you’re here alone. Any word from Mr. Sistrunk?”
“Oh yes, he has a lot to say, Your Honor, but I’m not authorized to repeat any of it. I don’t think it would help his cause.”
“I’m sure of that. I don’t like being called names, Mr. Buckley, especially a name as harsh as ‘racist.’ It’s one of Mr. Sistrunk’s favorite words. I authorize you, as his co-counsel, to explain this to him and promise that if he ever calls me that again he, and you, will be barred from my courtroom.”
Buckley nodded and said, “I’ll be happy to pass that along, Judge.”
Jake and Lucien were seated four rows from the back, on a long mahogany bench that hadn’t been moved in decades. At the far end, a young black woman eased into view and took a seat. She was in her mid-twenties, attractive, vaguely familiar. She looked around quickly as if uncertain as to whether it was permissible to be there. She looked at Jake and he smiled. It’s okay. The courtroom is open to the public.
Judge Atlee said, “Thank you. Now the purpose of this little hearing this morning is to review matters and hopefully get you released from my order of contempt. I found you in contempt, Mr. Buckley, you and your co-counsel, because of what I considered a flagrant disrespect for my courtroom, and thus me. I admit I became angry, and I try to avoid making decisions when I’m emotional. I have learned over the years that those are always bad decisions. I do not regret what I did yesterday and I would take the same actions again today. Having said that, I would offer you the chance to respond.”
A deal had already been brokered by Ozzie. A simple acknowledgment, a simple apology, and the contempt orders would be lifted. Buckley had quickly agreed; Sistrunk was defiant.
Buckley shifted weight and looked at his feet. He said, “Yes, well, Your Honor, I realize we were out of line yesterday. We were presumptuous and disrespectful, and for that I apologize. It will not happen again.”
“Very well. The contempt order is hereby nullified.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Buckley said meekly, his shoulders sagging with relief.
“Now, Mr. Buckley, I’ve set a trial date for April 3. There is a lot of work to be done, a lot of meetings when you lawyers get together, and I suppose quite a few more hearings in this courtroom. We cannot have a brawl or a circus every time we’re in the same room. Things are very tense. We all acknowledge there’s a lot at stake. And so my question for you is this: How do you see your role in this case, you and your Memphis co-counsel?”
Suddenly a free man, and given the chance to speak, Rufus Buckley cleared his throat and seized the moment with confidence. “Well, Your Honor, we will be here to protect the rights of our client, Ms. Lettie Lang and—”
“I get that. I’m talking about the trial, Mr. Buckley. It seems to me that there’s simply not enough room for Mr. Brigance, the lead attorney for the proponents of the will, and all the lawyers representing the beneficiary. It’s just too crowded, know what I mean?”
“Well, not really, Your Honor.”
“Okay, I’ll be blunt. A person who wishes to contest a will has the right to hire a lawyer and file a petition,” he said as he waved an arm at the lawyers on the other side. “That lawyer is then involved in the case from start to finish. On the other hand, the proponents of the will are represented by the attorney for the estate. In this case, it’s Mr. Brigance. The individual beneficiaries sort of ride his coattails.”
“Oh, I disagree, Your Honor, we—”
“Hold on. What I’m saying, Mr. Buckley, with all due respect, is that I’m not sure you’re really needed. Maybe you are, but you’ll have to convince me later. We have plenty of time. Just think about it, okay?”
“Well, Judge, I think—”
Judge Atlee showed him his palms and said, “That’s enough. I’ll not argue this. Maybe another day.”
For an instant, Buckley seemed ready for an argument, then quickly remembered why he was there. No sense irritating the judge again. “Sure, Judge, and thank you.”
“You’re free to go.”
Jake glanced at the young woman again. Tight jeans, a red sweater, well-worn yellow running shoes, short hair and stylish glasses. She appeared lean and fit and did not look like the typical twenty-five-year-old black woman in Ford County. She glanced at him and smiled.
Thirty minutes later, she was standing before Roxy’s desk, politely inquiring as to whether she might have a few minutes with Mr. Brigance. Name please? Portia Lang, daughter of Lettie. Mr. Brigance was very busy, but Roxy knew this might be important. She made her wait ten minutes, then found a gap in his schedule.
Jake welcomed her into his office. He offered coffee but she declined. They sat in a corner, Jake in an ancient leather chair and Portia on the sofa, as if she were there for therapy. She could not help but gaze around the big room and admire its handsome furnishings and organized clutter. She admitted that it was her first visit to a lawyer’s office. “If you’re lucky it’ll be your last,” he said and got a laugh. She was nervous and at first reluctant to say much. Her presence could be crucial, and Jake worked to make her feel welcome.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said.
“I know you’re busy.”
“I have plenty of time, and your mother’s case is the most important one in this office.”
She smiled, a nervous grin. She sat on her hands, the yellow running shoes twitching. Slowly, she began to talk. She was twenty-four, the oldest daughter, and had just left the Army after six years. She had been in Germany when she got the news that her mother had been mentioned in Mr. Hubbard’s will, though that had nothing to do with her discharge. Six years was enough. She was tired of the military and ready for civilian life. She had been a good student at Clanton High, but with her father’s sketchy work history there was no money for college. (She frowned when she talked about Simeon.) Eager to leave home, and Ford County, she joined the Army and traveled the world. She had been back now for almost a week, though she had no plans to stay in the area. She had enough credits for three years of college, wanted to finish, and she was dreaming of law school. In Germany, she had worked in the JAG Corps as a clerk and watched court-martial proceedings.
She was staying with her parents and family, who, by the way, had moved to town. They were renting the old Sappington place, she said with a trace of pride. “I know,” Jake said. “It’s a small town. Word travels fast.” Anyway, she doubted she would stay there much longer because the house, though much larger, was a circus with relatives coming and going and people sleeping everywhere.
Jake listened intently, waiting on an opening, certain it would come. Occasionally, he asked a question about her life, but she needed little prompting. She was warming up nicely and chattering away. Six years in the military had erased the drawl and twang and sloppy grammatical habits. Her diction was perfect, and not just by accident. She’d learned German and French in Europe and worked as a translator. Now she was studying Spanish.
Out of habit, he wanted to take notes, but that seemed rude.
She had gone to Parchman last weekend, to see Marvis, and he had told her about Jake’s visit. She talked about him for a long time and occasionally wiped a tear. He was her big brother, had always been her hero, and it was such a waste. If Simeon had been a better father, Marvis would not have gone bad. Yes, he told Portia to tell their momma to stick with Jake, said he’d talked to his lawyer, Nick Norton, who said those Memphis lawyers would screw it all up.
“Why were you in court this morning?” Jake asked.
“I was in court yesterday, Mr. Brigance.”
“Please call me Jake.”
“Okay. Jake. I saw that fiasco yesterday, and I came back this morning to look through the court file in the clerk’s office. That’s when I heard the rumor that they were bringing the lawyers over from jail.”
“Your family’s lawyers.”
“Right.” She took a deep breath and spoke much slower. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Is it okay if we talk about the case?”
“Of course. Technically, we’re on the same side. It doesn’t feel that way, but for now we’re allies.”
“Okay.” Another deep breath. “I have to talk to someone, okay? Look, Jake, I was not here during the Hailey trial, but I heard all about it. I came home that Christmas and there was a lot of talk about the trial and Clanton and the Klan and National Guard and all that, and I sort of felt bad for missing the fun. But your name is well known in our parts. My mother told me a few days ago that she felt like she could trust you. That’s not easy for black folks, Jake, especially in a situation like this.”
“We’ve never seen a situation like this.”
“You know what I mean. With all this money being thrown around, well, we just sort of naturally expect to get the short end.”
“I think I understand.”
“So, when we got home yesterday, there was another fight. A big one, between Momma and Dad with a few other unwanted opinions thrown in. You see, I don’t know everything that happened before I came home, but evidently they’ve been fighting over some pretty serious stuff. I think my dad accused her of sleeping with Mr. Hubbard.” Her eyes watered quickly and she stopped to wipe them. “My mother is not a whore, Jake, she is a great woman who raised five kids practically alone. It hurts to know that so many people around here think she somehow screwed her way into that old man’s will. I’ll never believe it. Never. But my father is another story. They’ve been at war for twenty years and when I was in high school I begged her to leave him. He criticizes everything she does and now he’s criticizing her for something she didn’t do. I told him to shut it up.” Jake handed her a tissue, but the tears were gone. She said, “Thanks. Anyway, on one hand he accuses her of sleeping with Mr. Hubbard, and on the other hand he’s secretly happy she did, if she did, because it might pay off. She can’t win. So, after we got home yesterday from court, my momma tore into him about the Memphis lawyers.”
“So he hired them?”
“Yes, he’s a big shot now, and he has to protect his asset—my momma. He’s convinced the white folks around here will conspire to invalidate the will and keep the money. It will all come down to race, so why not hire the biggest race baiter in these parts? And here we are. And there he is, sitting over there in jail.”
“What do you think about that?”
“Sistrunk? He wants to be in jail right now. Got his picture in the paper with a nice headline. Another black man wrongfully jailed by the racists in Mississippi. It’s perfect for him. He could not have scripted it any better.”
Jake nodded and smiled. This woman could see around corners.
“I agree,” he said. “It was all an act. By Sistrunk, at least. I can assure you Rufus Buckley had no plans to go to jail.”
“How did we end up with these clowns?” she asked.
“I was planning to ask you the same question.”
“Well, from what I gather, my dad went to Memphis and met with Sistrunk, who, no surprise, smelled a big payday. So he hustled down here to Ford County, put on his show, and my mother fell for it. She really likes you, Jake, and she trusts you, but Sistrunk convinced her no white people can be trusted in this case. For some reason, he brought in Buckley.”
“If those guys stay in the case, we’re going to lose. Can you imagine them before a jury?”
“No, I cannot, and that’s what the fight was all about. My momma and I argued that we’re screwing up the case right now. Simeon, always the expert, argued that Sistrunk will take the case to federal court and win it there.”
“There’s no way, Portia. There’s no federal question here.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“How much is Sistrunk getting?”
“Half. And the only reason I know this is because it spilled out during the fight. My momma said giving half of her share to Sistrunk was ridiculous. My dad said, ‘Well, half of nothing is nothing.’ ”
“Have they borrowed money from Sistrunk?”
“You don’t mind asking questions, do you?”
Jake smiled and shrugged, said, “It will all come out eventually, believe me.”
“Yes, there was a loan. I don’t know how much.”
Jake took a sip of cold coffee as both pondered the next question. “This is serious business, Portia. There’s a fortune at stake, and our side is losing right now.”
She smiled and said, “A fortune? When word got out that this poor black woman in rural Mississippi was about to inherit twenty million, the lawyers went crazy. Had one call from Chicago, making all kinds of promises. Sistrunk was on board by then and he fought them back, but they’re still calling. White lawyers, black lawyers, everybody’s got a better deal.”
“You don’t need them.”
“Are you sure?”
“My job is to enforce the provisions of Mr. Hubbard’s last will, plain and simple. That will is under attack from his family, and that’s where the fight should be. When we go to trial, I want her to be sitting right there, at my table, with Mr. Quince Lundy, the administrator of the estate. He’s white and I’m white, and between us will be Lettie, looking pretty and happy. This is about money, Portia, but it’s also about race. We don’t need a courtroom that’s black on one side and white on the other. I’ll take the case all the way to the jury, and—”
“And you’ll win?”
“Only an idiot lawyer predicts what a jury might do. But I’ll swear that my chances of winning the case are far greater than Booker Sistrunk’s. Plus, I’m not getting a cut of Lettie’s inheritance.”
“How do you get paid?”
“You don’t mind asking questions, do you?”
“Sorry. There’s just so much I don’t know.”
“I’m working by the hour and my fees come from the estate. All reasonable and court approved.”
She nodded as if she heard this all the time. She coughed and said, “My mouth is dry. Do you have a soft drink or something?”
“Sure. Follow me.” They went downstairs to the small kitchen where Jake found a diet soda. To impress her, he took her into the small conference room and showed her where Quince Lundy was currently doing his work and digging through the Hubbard records. Lundy had not yet arrived for the day. “How much of the money is in cash?” she asked timidly, as if she might be out-of-bounds. She stared at the boxes of records as if they were filled with cash.
“Most of it.”
She admired the shelves packed with thick law books and treatises, few of which had been touched in years. “You have a nice office here, Jake,” she said.
“It’s a hand-me-down. It belongs to a man named Lucien Wilbanks.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Most people have. Have a seat.”
She eased into a thick, leather chair at the long table as Jake closed the door. Roxy, of course, was nearby and on full radar alert.
Jake sat across from her and said, “So, tell me, Portia, how do you get rid of Sistrunk?”
In the best military tradition, she instantly blurted, “Keep his big ass in jail.”
Jake laughed and said, “That’s only temporary. Your mother has to fire him. Your father doesn’t matter; he’s not a party.”
“But they owe him money.”
“They can pay him later. If she’ll listen to me, I’ll walk her through it. But, first, she has to tell Sistrunk he’s fired. And Buckley too. In writing. I’ll draft a letter if she’ll sign it.”
“Give me some time, okay?”
“There’s not much time. The longer Sistrunk hangs around the more damage he does. He’s a publicity hound and loves the attention. Unfortunately, he’s getting the attention of all the white people in Ford County. Those will be our jurors, Portia.”
“An all-white jury?”
“No, but at least eight or nine of the twelve.”
“Wasn’t the Hailey jury all white?”
“Indeed it was, and it seemed to grow whiter each day. But that was a different trial.”
She took a sip from the can and looked again at the rows of important books covering the walls. “It must be pretty cool being a lawyer,” she said in awe.
“Cool” was not an adjective Jake would use. He was forced to admit to himself that it had been a long time since he viewed his profession as something other than tedious. The Hailey trial had been a great triumph, but for all the hard labor, harassment, physical threats, and raw emotions, he had been paid $900. For that, he’d lost his home and almost his family.
“It has its moments,” he said.
“Tell me, Jake, are there any black female lawyers in Clanton?”
“No.”
“How many black lawyers are there?”
“Two.”
“Where’s the nearest black woman with her own law office?”
“There’s one over in Tupelo.”
“Do you know her? I’d like to meet her.”
“I’ll be happy to make the phone call. Her name is Barbara McNatt, a nice lady. She was a year ahead of me in law school. Does primarily family law but also mixes it up with the cops and prosecutors. She’s a good lawyer.”
“That’d be great, Jake.”
She took another sip as they waited through an uncomfortable gap in the conversation. Jake knew where he wanted to go but couldn’t be in a hurry. “You mentioned law school,” he said, and this grabbed her attention. They talked about it at length, with Jake careful not to make his description as dreadful as the three-year ordeal itself. Occasionally, like all lawyers, Jake was asked by students if he would recommend the law as a profession. He had never found an honest way to say no, though he had many reservations. There were too many lawyers and not enough good jobs. They were packed along Main Streets in countless small towns, and they were stacked on top of each other in the tall buildings downtown. Still, at least half of all Americans who need legal help can’t afford it, so more lawyers are needed. Not more corporate lawyers or insurance lawyers, and certainly not more small-town street lawyers like himself. He had a hunch that if Portia Lang became a lawyer, she would do it the right way. She would help her people.
Quince Lundy arrived and broke up the conversation. Jake introduced Portia to him, and then walked her to the front door. Outside, under the terrace, he invited her to supper.
The hearing on Kendrick Bost’s petition for habeas corpus relief was held on the second floor of the federal courthouse in Oxford, as scheduled at 1:00 that afternoon. By then, the Honorable Booker F. Sistrunk had been wearing the county-jail coveralls for over twenty-four hours. He was not present at the hearing, nor was his presence expected.
A U.S. magistrate presided and did so with little interest. There was no precedent, at least not in the Fifth Circuit, for a federal court to get involved in a contempt ruling in state court. The magistrate asked repeatedly for some authority, from anywhere in the nation, but there was none.
Bost was permitted to rant and pant for half an hour, but said almost nothing of substance. His ill-grounded claim was that Mr. Sistrunk was the victim of some vague plot by the authorities in Ford County to remove him from the will contest, and so on. What was not said was the obvious: Sistrunk expected to be released simply because he was black and felt mistreated by a white judge.
The petition was denied. Bost immediately prepared an appeal to the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans. He and Buckley had also filed an appeal challenging the contempt order to the Mississippi Supreme Court.
Meanwhile, Mr. Sistrunk played checkers with his new cell mate, a hot-check artist.
The maternal side of Carla’s family claimed some German roots, and for this reason she studied German in high school and for four years at Ole Miss. Clanton rarely provided the opportunity to practice the language, so she was delighted to welcome Portia to their modest rental home, even though Jake forgot to tell her about his invitation until almost 5:00 p.m. “Relax,” he’d said. “She’s a nice girl who might play a crucial role, plus she’s probably never been invited to a white person’s house for dinner.” As they had this discussion, a bit tense at first, they finally realized and admitted that they had never invited a black person to dinner.
Their guest arrived promptly at 6:30, and she brought a bottle of wine, one with a cork. Though Jake had stressed that the evening was “as casual as possible,” Portia had changed and was wearing a long, loose, cotton dress. She greeted Carla in German, but quickly switched to English. She apologized for the bottle of wine—a cheap red from California—and they had a good laugh over the paltry selections in the local liquor stores. Jake explained that all wine and booze in the state were in fact purchased by the State, then doled out to privately owned liquor stores. This led to a lively discussion about the ridiculous liquor laws in Mississippi, where in some towns you can buy 180-proof rum but not a single can of beer.
