Sycamore Row (25 page)

Though the Parole Board took the issue under advisement, parole for the killer seemed unlikely. He was led away after the thirty-minute hearing.

Next, a young black kid was brought in and his handcuffs removed. He was placed in the hot seat, and introduced to the board. He had served six years for carjacking and had been an exemplary prisoner, finishing high school, racking up college credits, and staying out of trouble. His parole investigator recommended release, as did his victim. There was an affidavit signed by the victim in which she urged the Parole Board to show mercy. She had not been injured during the crime, and over the years had corresponded with her carjacker.

While her affidavit was being read, Jake noticed others from the Yawkey clan inching along the walls on the far left. He’d found them to be harsh people, lower class, rednecks, with a fondness for violence. He had stared them down in open court on two occasions, and now here they were again. He despised them as much as he feared them.

Dennis Yawkey walked in with a cocky smile and began looking for his people. Jake had not seen him in twenty-seven months, and he preferred to never see him again. His investigator clicked off the relevant facts: In 1985, Dennis Yawkey pled guilty in Ford County to one count of conspiracy to commit arson. It was alleged that Yawkey and three other men conspired to burn the home of one Jake Brigance, in the town of Clanton. His three co-conspirators actually carried out the firebombing and were serving time in the federal prison system. One of them testified on behalf of the government; thus, the guilty pleas. The investigator had no recommendation as to whether Yawkey should be paroled, which, according to Floyd Green, meant that a release was unlikely.

Jake and Carla listened and fumed. Yawkey got off light only because Rufus Buckley botched the prosecution. If Buckley had stayed out of the way and allowed the Feds to handle it, Yawkey would have been sent away for at least ten years, like his buddies. Because of Buckley, here they were twenty-seven months later staring at parole for a little thug who’d been trying to impress the Klan. His sentence was five years. Barely halfway through, he was trying to get out.

As Jake and Carla walked hand in hand to the cheap lectern sitting on a folding table, Ozzie Walls and Marshall Prather made a noisy entry into the room. Jake nodded at them, then turned his attention to the Parole Board. He began by saying, “I know we only have a few minutes, so I’ll hurry along. I’m Jake Brigance, owner of the house that no longer exists, and this is my wife, Carla. Both of us would like to say a few words in opposition to this request for parole.” He stepped aside and Carla assumed the lectern. She unfolded a sheet of paper and tried to smile at the members of the Parole Board.

She glared at Dennis Yawkey, then cleared her throat. “My name is Carla Brigance. Some of you might remember the trial of Carl Lee Hailey in Clanton in July of 1985. My husband defended Carl Lee, a zealous defense that cost us dearly. We received anonymous phone calls; some were outright threats. Someone burned a cross in our front yard. There was even an attempt to kill my husband. A man with a bomb was caught trying to blow up our house while we were asleep—his trial is still pending while he pretends to be insane. At one point, I fled Clanton with our four-year-old daughter to stay with my parents. My husband carried a gun, still does, and several of his friends acted as bodyguards. Finally, when he was at the office one night, during the trial, these people”—and she pointed at Dennis Yawkey—“torched our house with a gasoline bomb. Dennis Yawkey might not have been there in person, but he was a member of the gang, he was one of the thugs. Too cowardly to show his face, always hiding in the night. It is hard to believe that we are here, only twenty-seven months later, watching as this criminal tries to free himself from prison.”

She took a deep breath and flipped a page. Beautiful women rarely appeared at parole hearings, which were 90 percent male anyway. Carla had their complete attention. She stiffened her back and continued: “Our home was built in the 1890s by a railroad man and his family. He died the first Christmas Eve in the house and his family owned it until it was finally abandoned twenty years ago. It was considered a historic home, though when we bought it there were holes in the floor and cracks in the roof. For three years, with every dime we could borrow, Jake and I poured our lives into that house. We would work all day and then paint until midnight. Our vacations were spent hanging wallpaper and staining floors. Jake bartered legal fees for plumbing work and landscaping and building supplies. His father added a guest room in the attic, and my father laid the brick on the rear patio. I could
go on for hours, but time is scarce. Seven years ago, Jake and I brought our daughter home and put her in the nursery.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “Luckily, she was not in the nursery when our home was destroyed. I’ve often wondered if these men would have cared. I doubt it. They were determined to do as much damage to us as possible.” Another pause and Jake put a hand on her shoulder. She continued, “Three years after the fire, we still think of all the things we lost, including our dog. We’re still trying to replace things that can never be replaced, still trying to explain to our daughter what happened, and why. She’s too young to understand. Often, I think we’re still in a state of disbelief. And I find it hard to believe that we’re here today, forced to relive this nightmare, like all victims, I guess, but here to stare at the criminal who tried to destroy our lives, and to ask you to enforce his punishment. A five-year sentence for Dennis Yawkey was much too light, too easy. Please, make him serve all of it.”

She stepped to her right as Jake assumed the lectern. He glanced over at the Yawkey family and noticed that Ozzie and Prather were now standing near them, as if to say, “You want trouble, here it is.” Jake cleared his throat and said, “Carla and I thank the Parole Board for this opportunity to speak. I’ll be brief. Dennis Yawkey and his pathetic little band of thugs were successful in burning our home and seriously disrupting our lives, but they were not successful in harming us, as they had planned. Nor were they successful in achieving their bigger goal, which was to destroy the pursuit of justice. Because I represented Carl Lee Hailey, a black man who shot and killed the two white men who raped and tried to kill his daughter, they—Dennis Yawkey and his ilk and various known and unknown members of the Klan—tried repeatedly to intimidate and harm me, my family, my friends, even my employees. They failed miserably. Justice was served, fairly and wonderfully, when an all-white jury ruled in favor of my client. That jury also ruled against nasty little thugs like Dennis Yawkey and his notions of violent racism. That jury has spoken, loud and clear and forever. It would be a shame if this Parole Board gave Yawkey a slap on the wrist and sent him home. Frankly, he needs all the time here at Parchman you folks can possibly give him. Thank you.”

Yawkey was staring at him with a smirk, still victorious over the firebombing and wanting more. His cockiness was not missed by several members of the Parole Board. Jake returned the stare, then backed away and escorted Carla back to their seats.

“Sheriff Walls?” the chairman said, and Ozzie strutted to the lectern, his badge glistening over his coat pocket.

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I’m Ozzie Walls, sheriff of Ford County, and I don’t want this boy back home causin’ trouble. Frankly, he should be in a federal pen servin’ a much longer sentence, but we don’t have time to get into that. I have an ongoin’ investigation into what happened three years ago, as does the FBI over in Oxford. We ain’t through, okay? And it would be a mistake to release him. In my opinion, he’ll just pick up where he left off. Thank you.”

Ozzie walked away, and walked as close to the Yawkey family as possible. He and Prather stood against the wall behind them, and when the next case was called, they eased out with a few other spectators. Jake and Carla met them outside the room and thanked them for making the trip. They had not expected the sheriff to appear. They chatted a few minutes before Ozzie and Deputy Prather left to check on an inmate who was headed back to Clanton.

Floyd Green found Jake and Carla and seemed somewhat agitated. “I think it’ll work,” he said. “Follow me, and you owe me one.” They left one building and entered another. Beside the office of an assistant warden, two armed guards stood by a door. A man with a short-sleeve shirt and clip-on tie said gruffly, “You got ten minutes.”

And a pleasure to meet you, Jake thought. One of the guards opened the door. “Wait here,” Jake said to Carla.

“I’ll stay with her,” Floyd Green said.

The room was tiny, windowless, more of a closet than an office. Handcuffed to a metal chair was Marvis Lang, age twenty-eight, wearing the standard prison whites with a faded blue stripe down each leg. He seemed quite relaxed, low in the chair, one leg crossed over the other. He had a bushy Afro and a goatee.

“Marvis, I’m Jake Brigance, a lawyer from Clanton,” Jake said as he slid the other chair close and sat down.

Marvis smiled politely and awkwardly offered his right hand, which was secured to the chair arm just like his left. They managed a firm handshake in spite of the restraints. Jake asked, “You remember your lawyer, Nick Norton?”

“Sort of. Been a while. I ain’t had much reason to talk to him.”

“I have a letter in my pocket signed by Nick giving me the authority to talk to you, if you want to see it.”

“I’ll talk. Let’s talk. What you wanna talk about?”

“Your mother, Lettie. Has she been to see you recently?”

“She was here last Sunday.”

“Did she tell you about her name being mentioned in the last will of a white man named Seth Hubbard?”

Marvis looked away for a second, then nodded slightly. “She did. Why you wanna know?”

“Because in that will Seth Hubbard named me as the attorney to handle his assets and property. He gave 90 percent of it to your mother and it’s my job to make sure she gets it. Follow?”

“So you’re a good guy?”

“Damned right. In fact, I’m the best guy in the entire fight right now, but your mother doesn’t think so. She’s hired some Memphis lawyers who are in the process of robbing her blind while they screw up the case.”

Marvis sat up straight, tried to raise both hands, and said, “Okay, I’m officially confused. Slow down and talk to me.”

Jake was still talking when someone knocked on the door. A guard stuck his head in and said, “Time’s up.”

“Just finishing,” Jake said as he politely shoved the door closed. He leaned even closer to Marvis and said, “I want you to call Nick Norton, collect, he’ll take the call, and he’ll verify what I’m saying. Right now every lawyer in Ford County will tell you the same thing—Lettie is making a terrible mistake.”

“And I’m supposed to fix things?”

“You can help. Talk to her. We, she and I, have a tough fight to begin with. She’s making it much worse.”

“Let me think about it.”

“You do that, Marvis. And call me anytime, collect.”

The guard was back.

17

The usual white-collar crowd gathered at the Tea Shoppe for breakfast and coffee, never tea, not at such an early hour. At one round table there was a lawyer, a banker, a merchant, and an insurance agent, and at another there was a select group of older, retired gentlemen. Retired, but not dull, slow, or quiet. It was called the Geezer Table. The conversation was picking up steam as it rolled through the feeble efforts of the Ole Miss football team—last Saturday’s loss to Tulane at homecoming was unforgivable—and the even feebler efforts down at Mississippi State. It was gaining momentum as the geezers finished trashing Dukakis, who’d just been thrashed by Bush, when the banker said, loudly, “Say, I heard that woman has rented the old Sappington place and is moving to town, with her horde, of course. They say she’s got kinfolks moving in by the carload and needs a bigger place.”

“The Sappington place?”

“You know, up north of town, off Martin Road, just down from the auction yard. Old farmhouse you can barely see from the road. They’ve been trying to sell it ever since Yank Sappington died, what, ten years ago?”

“At least. Seems like it’s been rented a few times.”

“But they’ve never rented to blacks before, have they?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I thought it was in pretty good shape.”

“It is. They painted it last year.”

This was considered for a moment and was the cause of great consternation. Even though the Sappington place was on the edge of town, it was in an area still considered white.

“Why would they rent to blacks?” asked one of the geezers.

“Money. None of the Sappingtons live here anymore, so why should they care? If they can’t sell it, might as well rent it. The money’s green regardless of who sends it over.” As soon as the banker said this, he waited for it to be challenged. His bank was notorious for avoiding black customers.

A realtor walked in, took his seat at the white-collar table, and was immediately hit with “We were just talking about that woman renting the Sappington place. Any truth to it?”

“Damned right,” he replied smugly. He took pride in hearing the hot gossip first, or at least appearing to. “They moved in yesterday, from what I hear. Seven hundred dollars a month.”

“How many carloads?”

“Don’t know. Wasn’t there and don’t plan on dropping by. I just hope it don’t affect the property values in the neighborhood.”

“What neighborhood?” asked one of the geezers. “Down the road is the auction barn that’s smelled like cow dung since I was a kid. Across the road is Luther Selby’s scrap yard. What kinda neighborhood you talking about?”

“You know, the housing market,” the realtor fought back. “If we get these folks moving into the wrong areas, then property values will go down all over town. It could be bad for all of us.”

“He’s right about that,” the banker chimed in.

The merchant said, “She ain’t working, right? And her husband is a deadbeat. So how does she afford $700 a month in rent?”