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By reflex L.J. and I came up off our chairs. I can’t say I couldn’t believe what had just happened, probably because I’d watched justice being meted out in Mississippi for too long. But still.
“I most strenuously object, Your Honor,” Jonah said in a loud voice.
A young colored woman in the gallery called out, “That ain’t justice!”
My father pointed his gavel at her. “Contempt of court. Ten days in jail and a dollar fine. Get her out of here!”
Two of Phineas’s deputies ran to do his bidding. Everyone heard the woman’s noisy protest as he dragged her down the stairs.
Meanwhile, my father’s attention was seemingly riveted by the sight of a fly trapped in the soft varnish of his bench.
The insect was hopelessly stuck, its wings buzzing. The judge closed his thumb and forefinger on the fly, plucked it up, and placed it in the center of his desk.
Bang! He brought his gavel down on that fly.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. Curtis,” he said. “Let me explain something to you. I would advise you to listen, and listen well. I am in charge of this courtroom. Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, sir,” Jonah replied.
“What did I say?” My father’s voice was deadly calm. “Repeat it for me, please.”
“You are in charge of this courtroom, Your Honor.”
“You’re damn right I am. Now, you may object to Counselor Lewis’s comments. He is your opponent; he represents the defense. But you may not ever—ever—object to something I have said. For any reason.”
The only sound in the courtroom was the ticking of the clock and the hum of the ceiling fans.
“Thank you, Mr. Curtis. And tell those two clowns you brought with you to sit themselves down, or I’ll have them removed from my courtroom.”
The trial of the new century—the proceedings known as the State of Mississippi v. Madden, North, and Stephens—was officially under way.
Chapter 100
THERE THEY SAT, three White Raiders facing a jury of their peers.
It was a true statement in every way. Once Judge Everett Corbett cut off all objections from our side, he quickly empaneled a jury of twelve middle-aged white men who looked just like the men they would be called upon to judge.
“We have a jury,” the judge announced, “and so we will proceed to trial. Is the prosecution prepared to begin in the morning?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Jonah said.
“And I’m sure the defense is ready.”
“Defense is certainly ready, Your Honor,” said Maxwell Hayes Lewis.
“Then without further ado—” my father began.
Jonah Curtis stood up and dared to interrupt him again.
“Your Honor, begging the court’s pardon, I feel compelled to state for the record that the prosecution has not seen a fair and representative jury selection here today.”
My father’s voice was dangerously soft. “All right. I have warned you, Mr. Curtis, and I will not warn you again. I am in charge of this trial. I am in charge of this courtroom. I have ruled that this jury is fit to serve.”
“But Your Honor—”
Suddenly my father rose up and bellowed, “And I will not warn you again! Try me, my friend! Just try me once more! Challenge my jurisdiction again, and I will declare a mistrial here and summarily dismiss all the charges. Which, I remind you, is within my power.”
My father turned on his heel and swept out of the room. I knew the drill: he would walk straight into his office and pull off his robe. His clothes would be damp with sweat. I pictured him settling into his swivel chair in that office lined with law books, oak filing cabinets, diplomas, and certificates of appreciation. On his desk he permitted himself one personal touch: the sad-beautiful honeymoon photograph of him and Mama, arm in arm on the boardwalk at Biloxi.
