A time to kill

On the sidewalk a line formed and faces squinted through the painted letters on the front windows. Claude was everywhere, taking orders, giving orders, cooking, counting money, shouting, swearing, greeting customers, and asking them to leave. On Friday, the customers were allotted twenty minutes after the food was served, then Claude asked and sometimes demanded that they pay and leave so he could sell more barbecue.

"Quit talkin' and eat!" he would yell.

"I've got ten more minutes, Claude."

"You got seven."

On Wednesday he fried catfish, and allowed thirty minutes because of the bones. The white folks avoided Claude's on Wednesday, and he knew why. It was the grease, a secret recipe grease handed down by his grandmother, he said. It

was heavy and sticky and wreaked havoc with the lower intestines of white people. It didn't faze the blacks, who piled in by the carloads every Wednesday.

Two foreigners sat near the cash register and watched Claude fearfully as he directed lunch. Probably reporters, thought Jake. Each time Claude drew nigh and glared, they obediently picked up and gnawed a rib. They had not experienced ribs before, and it was obvious to everyone they were from the North. They had wanted chef salads, but Claude cursed them, and told them to eat barbecue or leave. Then he announced to the crowd these silly fools wanted chef salads.

"Here's your food. Hurry up and eat it," he had demanded when he served them.

"No steak knives?" one had asked crisply.

Claude rolled his eyes and staggered away mumbling.

One noticed Jake, and, after staring for a few minutes, finally walked over and knelt by the table. "Aren't you Jake Brigarice, Mr. Hailey's attorney?"

"Yes, I am. Who are you?"

"I'm Roger McKittrick, with The New York Times."

"Nice to meet you," Jake said with a mile and a new attitude.

"I'm covering the Hailey case, and I'd like to talk with you sometime. As soon as possible, really."

"Sure. I'm not too busy this afternoon. It's Friday."

"I could do it late."

"How about four?"

"Fine," said McKittrick, who noticed Claude approaching from the kitchen. "I'll see you then."

"Okay, buddy," Claude yelled at McKittrick. "Time's up. Get your check and leave."

Jake and Atcavage finished in fifteen minutes, and waited for the verbal assault from Claude. They licked their fingers and mopped their faces and commented on the tenderness of the ribs.

"This case'll make you famous, won't it?" asked Atcavage.

"I hope. Evidently it won't make any money."

"Seriously, Jake, won't it help your practice?"

"If I win, I'll have more clients than I can handle. Sure

it'll help. I can pick and choose my cases, pick and choose my clients."

"Financially, what'll it mean?"

"I have no idea. There's no way to predict who or what it might attract. I'll have more cases to choose from, so that means more money. I could quit worrying about the overhead."

"Surely you don't worry about the overhead."

"Look, Stan, we're not all filthy rich. A law degree is not worth what it once was-too many of us. Fourteen in this little town. Competition is tough, even in Clanton-not enough good cases and too many lawyers. It's worse in the big towns, and the law schools graduate more and more, many of whom can't find jobs. I get ten kids a year knocking on my door looking for work. A big firm in Memphis laid off some lawyers a few months ago. Can you imagine? Just like a factory, they laid them off. I suppose they went down to the unemployment office and stood in line with the 'dozer operators. Lawyers now, not secretaries or truck drivers, but lawyers."

"Sorry I asked."

"Sure I worry about the overhead. It runs me four thousand a month, and I practice alone. That's fifty thousand a year before I clear a dime. Some months are good, others slow. They're all unpredictable. I wouldn't dare estimate what I'll gross next month. That's why this case is so important. There will never be another one like it. It's the biggest. I'll practice the rest of my life and never have another reporter from The New York Times stop me in a cafe and ask for an interview. If I win, I'll be the top dog in this part of the state. I can forget about the overhead."

"And if you lose?"

Jake paused and glanced around for Claude. "The publicity will be abundant regardless of the outcome. Win or lose, the case will help my practice. But a loss will really hurt. Every lawyer in the county is secretly hoping I blow it. They want him convicted. They're jealous, afraid I might get too big and take away their clients. Lawyers are extremely jealous."

"You too?"

"Sure. Take the Sullivan firm. I despise every lawyer in