Alex Cross's Trial

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.

    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.