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He brought the gavel down with a thunderous bang.
“There will be order!” he commanded. “There will be silence! There will be justice!”
Chapter 98
NOW TO PICK A JURY.
That summer had been one of the hottest on record. It seemed to me that God had saved up all the excess heat and humidity in the world and brought it down upon Eudora today. It was already so hot in the courtroom that the hand fans were flapping like a flock of restless birds.
Judge Corbett had evidently taken measures to spruce up the courtroom for the national press, who were allowed inside between sessions to gather scraps of news. He had ordered all the spectator benches and tables and chairs sanded and revarnished, and indeed they all gleamed as if brand-new. But the new varnish turned soft and sticky in the heat and gave off fumes that set heads spinning. I breathed the sweetish, medicinal smell; the seat of my trousers stuck to my chair.
This was going to be a very long day.
I saw at once that Judge Corbett still ran an efficient courtroom. It took only ten minutes for the first three candidates to be interviewed, approved, and seated in the jury box: three middle-aged white men.
Jonah made little fuss over any of them. I assumed he was saving his objections for an occasion when they might prove persuasive.
It didn’t take long.
The clerk read a name from the list: “Patton William Taylor.”
Chapter 99
FROM THE FRONT ROW rose a mousy little man commonly known as Patsy-Boy Taylor. I knew him as a helper of Lyman Tripp, the undertaker in whose wagon I had ridden to the Klan meeting at Scully’s barn.
I scribbled a note and passed it to Jonah.
Taylor served time in La. State Prison for assault of Negro girl. Believe he broke her leg.
Jonah scanned the note, nodding. It was his turn to question the prospective juror first.
“Good morning, Mr. Taylor,” he said. “Tell me, sir, have you ever been to Louisiana?”
“Once or twice,” said Patsy-Boy.
“How about the town of Angola? Ever been there?”
The man frowned. “I reckon I have.”
“And how long was your most recent stay in Angola, Mr. Taylor?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Perhaps I can help refresh your memory, sir,” Jonah said. “Mr. Taylor, did you recently finish a five-month term in the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola?”
“I might’ve,” said Taylor. “I can’t quite remember.”
“Your Honor, if it please the court, could you direct Mr. Taylor to answer my question?”
The ice in my father’s water pitcher had melted away, but there was plenty of it in his voice. “He did answer, Mr. Curtis,” he said. “He said that he couldn’t quite remember.”
“Your Honor, with all due respect, I don’t believe—”
“Your beliefs are of no interest to me, Mr. Curtis,” my father said. He turned to the defense table. “Mr. Lewis, do you have any objection to this gentleman sitting on this jury?”
“None whatsoever, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Taylor will be sworn in to serve,” my father said. The gavel came down.
