A time to kill

Willard jerked his head fearfully to look at each one. He was surrounded. The door was shut. Two tape recorders sat side by side near the edge of the sheriffs desk.

"We'd like to ask you some questions, okay?"

"I don't know."

"Before I start, I wanna make sure you understand your rights. First of all, you have the right to remain silent. Understand?"

"Uh huh."

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but if you do, anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Understand?"

"Uh huh."

"Can you read and write?"

"Yeah."

"Good, then read this and sign it. It says you've been advised of your rights."

Willard signed. Ozzie pushed the red button on one of the tape recorders.

"You understand this tape recorder is on?"

"Uh huh."

"And it's Wednesday, May 15, at eight forty-three in the mornin'."

"If you say so."

"What's your full name?"

"James Louis Willard."

"Nickname?"

"Pete. Pete Willard."

"Address?"

"Route 6, Box 14, Lake Village, Mississippi."

"What road?"

"Bethel Road."

"Who do you live with?"

"My momma, Earnestine Willard. I'm divorced."

"You know Billy Ray Cobb?"

Willard hesitated and noticed his feet. His boots were

back in the cell. His white socks were dirty and did not hide his two big toes. Safe question, he thought.

"Yeah, I know him."

"Was you with him yesterday?"

"Uh huh."

"Where were y'all?"

"Down at the lake."

"What time did you leave?"

" 'Bout three."

"What were you drivin'?"

"I wasn't."

"What were you ridin' in?"

Hesitation. He studied his toes. "I don't think I wanna talk no more."

Ozzie pushed another button and the recorder stopped. He breathed deeply at Willard. "You ever been to Parchman?"

Willard shook his head.

"You know how many niggers at Parchman?"

Willard shook his head.

" 'Bout five thousand. You know how many white boys are there?"

"No."

" 'Bout a thousand."

Willard dropped his chin to his chest. Ozzie let him think for a minute, then winked at Lieutenant Griffin.

"You got any idea what those niggers will do to a white boy who raped a little black girl?"

No response.

"Lieutenant Griffin, tell Mr. Willard how white boys are treated at Parchman."

Griffin walked to Ozzie's desk and sat on the edge. He looked down at Willard. "About five years ago a young white man in Helena County, over in the delta, raped a black girl. She was twelve. They were waiting on him when he got to Parchman. Knew he was coming. First night about thirty blacks tied him over a fifty-five-gallon drum and climbed on. The guards watched and laughed. There's no sympathy for rapists. They got him every night for three months, and then killed him. They found him castrated, stuffed in the drum."

Willard cringed, then threw his head back and breathed heavily toward the ceiling.

"Look, Pete," Ozzie said, "we're not after you. We want Cobb. I've been after that boy since he left Parchman. I want him real bad. You help us get Cobb and I'll help you as much as I can. I ain't promisin' nothin', but me and the D.A. work close together. You help me get Cobb, and I'll help you with the D.A. Just tell us what happened."

"I wanna lawyer," Willard said.

Ozzie dropped his head and groaned. "What's a lawyer gonna do, Pete? Get the niggers off of you? I'm tryin' to help you and you're bein' a wiseass."

"You need to listen to the sheriff, son. He's trying to save your life," Griffin said helpfully.

"There's a good chance you could get off with just a few years here in this jail," Rady said.

"It's much safer than Parchman," Prather said.

"Choice is yours, Pete," Ozzie said. "You can die at Parchman or stay here. I'll even consider makin' you a trusty if you behave."

Willard dropped his head and rubbed his temples. "Okay, okay."

Ozzie punched the red button.

"Where'd you find the girl?"

"Some gravel road."

"Which road?"

"I don't know. I's drunk."

"Where'd you take her?"

"I don't know."

"Just you and Cobb?" . "Yeah."

"Who raped her?"

"We both did. Billy Ray went first."

"How many times?"

"I don't remember. I's smokin' weed and drinkin'."

"Both of you raped her?"

"Yeah."

"Where'd you dump her?"

"Don't remember. I swear I don't remember."

Ozzie pushed another button. "We'll type this up and get you to sign it."

Willard shook his head. "Just don't tell Billy Ray." "We won't," promised the sheriff.

Percy Bullard fidgeted nervously in the leather chair behind the huge, battered oak desk in the judge's chambers behind the courtroom, where a crowd had gathered to see about the rape. In the small room next door the lawyers gathered around the coffee machine and gossiped about the rape.

Bullard's small black robe hung in a corner by the window that looked north over Washington Street. His size-six feet were wearing jogging shoes that barely touched the floor. He was a small, nervous type who worried about preliminary hearings and every other routine hearing. After thirteen years on the bench he had never learned to relax. Fortunately, he was not required to hear big cases; those were for the Circuit Court judge. Bullard was just a County Court judge, and he had reached his pinnacle.