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A minute later, after they climbed back into the Fiat, Jack turned to his father. “One question, Daddy.”
“Thought you’d have a lot mor’n that after all we just heard. Didn’t expect a murder with Miss Jessup’s kin. And Madison Heights? Holy Lord. The poorest man there is worth a hundred ’a me.”
“I meant a question aimed squarely at you.”
Frank looked over at his son and said, “Fire away.”
“How does Miss Jessup know you like rye whisky in your iced tea?”
Now his father studied his watch. “Best get on, boy. Sounds like this Jerome needs himself one helluva lawyer.”
As Jack drove he said, “I’ve never handled a murder case before. It’s the ultimate challenge for a criminal defense attorney.”
“Colored man accused of killin’ rich white folks in Freeman County? I’d say that will be some challenge, all right. Some might say impossible.”
“You don’t think I’m up to it?”
“You are a damn good lawyer, Jacky. Now you don’t know this, but I got off work and went to see you in court a few times. You got a nice style, handle yourself real good, seemed to me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were there?”
“Figured you’d get all tongue-tied with your old man in the crowd.”
A suddenly panicked Jack looked at his father. “We need to call Miss Jessup. I can stop at a pay phone. You have her number? Or maybe she’s in the phone book.”
“You see any phone lines strung on her street? And why you need to talk to her?”
“She didn’t tell me Jerome’s last name. I’ll need that to get in to see him.”
His father gaped. “How many colored men named Jerome you reckon they got in a cell for killin’ two white people in Madison Heights last Friday? If it’s more’n one I’ll give up my damn smokes.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Now, just calm down and let’s go do this.”
“You’re coming?”
“Hell yes I am.”
“Why?”
“’Cause it looks to me like you need somebody with you. And your momma will likely still be up.”
CHAPTER 8
JACK AND HIS FATHER PULLED up to the Freeman County jail, which had been built nearly a century before; there had been no notable improvements since that time. The walls were brick, tall and thick and topped by rolls of studded barbed wire, with guard towers set at the corners, where grim, uniformed riflemen perched with orders to shoot dead any prisoner trying to escape.
The far smaller building next door was the jail for women. There were no riflemen on the walls there. Jack knew the thinking was no woman would try to escape. But if they did, the sharpshooters at the men’s prison could easily pick them off.
A guard leaned toward the Fiat’s window and shined his light in the car. “What’s your business here?” he asked.
“I’m a lawyer here to see a client,” said Jack.
“Visiting hours over a long time ago.”
“I’m not a visitor. I’m a lawyer. And the accused has a right to see his lawyer at any time of the day or night.”
Jack knew this was not a hard-and-fast rule, but his voice was firm and his eyes held steady on the man’s now-wavering gaze. He added, “And denying the right to counsel can damage the prosecution’s case. You want to be responsible for that?”
