Harvard Law & Merigold, MS

“Jook” is a word for “Negro pleasure house”, often a “bawdy house” where black workers “dance, drink and gamble”.

                                                            -Zora Neale Hurston

“Juke” - Gullah, meaning “disorderly” or “wicked”

Ely was sitting on his couch at the Cuckoo’s Nest, playing Call of Duty, and had just put a new log in the wood burning stove when Roach walked in with a tallboy.

“What’s up man, what you doin’?”

“Nothing.”

 “Let’s go over to Crawdads and see if they got some girls.”

Ely was pissed anyway because some ten year old kid from Rhode Island had been whipping his ass for the past hour, so he threw his headset on the coffee table, picked up his .45 laying right next to it (“cause they don’t make a .46”) and shoved it down the front of his Levis.  Grabbed a new pack of cigarettes and downed the last of his beer.

Followed Roach out of the heavy warehouse door that served as the entrance to the Nest, and as they passed Ely’s 2500 Super Duty, he reached in, laid the gun on the console, and rummaged around the empty boxes of Marlboro 72s, dried up pouched of Levi Garrett, and empty Nabs packs until he found his Zippo.

Crawdads was across the street.  Gravel parking lot with dirty brand new pick up trucks.  Only Fords and Chevys.  Farmers.  SUVs for the females with stickers of the private academies their kids attended on the backs, vanity plates on the fronts supporting the crop their husbands or their daddys grew.

A lawn sprinkler sat on top of the building, run during the summer, fanning right to left, keeping the tin roof cool.  But no need now in the middle of deer season.  The smell of grilled red meat filled the air, and slapped them in the face when they walked inside.  Manager politely saying hello, though he had asked Ely before not to come back.  Fuck him. 

Walk down a couple of narrow halls, and then the room opened up to the bar and dance floor.  Neon signs for Miller and Bud.  Skinny white boys in Columbia shirts and Polo hats with the wrap-around hair bartending just because they were Pikes and making mixed drinks to their best guess.  Calling the drinks stupid names like “Delta Martini” and “Merigold Mint Julep” and “Mississippi Mud Slide”.  Women in their mid 30’s and early 40’s, tight jeans and tops made to hide their bellies but enhance their boobs, mad cause their husbands are at hunting camp and won’t have sex with them anymore and looking for greener grass that would be nice to their kids.  Men in Mossy Oak hats and four-day growth and muddy boots hunting for a version of what their wife used to look like so they could take her back to hunting camp and justify why he wasn’t ever killing anything.

Back 40 was the band.  Coupled with the occasional yell and drunken request for “Free Bird”, it was a typical Thursday night.

There were three girls sitting off at a table to the right by a stuffed loggerhead turtle.  One black, one white, and one half black with a little Jap off in her or something.  Ely wasn’t real sure, even the next day.  But she was the hottest one out of all of them, which pissed the mid-30s & 40s former beauty queens.  Coupled with their short hair, lack of makeup, and the fact that no men were talking to them despite their relative attractiveness, one could tell these three weren’t southern women.

Southern women carry themselves a certain way.  They do not chase men.  They are taught that by their mothers and grandmothers.  Instead, they attract men.  A proper southern woman, if she just looks at him right, can pull a man from a group of friends, through clouds of blue smoke, over two tables and maybe even cause him to spill his beer.  This has happened more times than I care to acknowledge.

They are queens of flattery, both to men and to each other.  They can say things that sometimes take you two or three minutes (or up until the next day) to figure out the meaning of.  At that point you decide whether it was genuine or doublespeak.  Flattery is a sacredly held art form, developed in a southern woman’s early years at debutante balls and cotillions and pilgrimages and given its final touches during the four (or five) years of sorority life. 

Southern women flirt, and do it quietly and well.  They touch you lightly on your shoulder, laugh at your jokes while locking eyes just for a moment then look away and intentionally give you the impression that you are the most interesting man in the world.  And you walk away feeling that you are.

Southern women sit whenever they can.  They do not stand up to talk to you.  When they must walk, they walk with their shoulders back and their chin up, exposing their throat, eyes just a little above the horizon.  They do this not just to establish dominance among other men and women but also often to prominently display whatever shiny thing they likely have around their neck which keeps us lesser creatures in check, and slightly envious.  

They wrap a napkin around the label of their bottled light beer, if that’s what they choose to drink. They don’t stand when they smoke, and they can make a cigarette look delicious, even though it is not.   

They don’t discuss politics or religion, but not because they can’t.  And when you talk about the War, they get quiet. 

Though a lot of attributes of southern women have been lost through the generations, such as cooking or sewing or other assorted antiquated attributes…propriety in public is not one of them.

And when a southern woman turns the lights off, so is her propriety. 

But it is proper not to discuss it. 

Ely played it cool as he always did.  Walked to the bar, took his cigarettes out of his front pocket, lit one and ordered a Bud Light.  Nodded to the bartender in a plume of blue smoke, knowing that he used to beat his ass and chase him through the mud with his own truck back during hell week when he was a Pike.  Nothing needed to be said.  The fraternal feeling was already there.  Ely got his beer for free.  Roach, however, being from New York and therefore not as coached in the cat and mouse game of meeting women, couldn’t help himself and immediately tromped his way over to the three foreigners.  After about ten minutes, and ordering them shots he couldn’t afford, he motioned for Ely to come join them.

They girls were from Harvard Law.  Brittney (black), Aeriel (white) and Natasha (the one that was half black half something).  The girls were working in Clarksdale, as part of the Innocence Project.  Proud of it too, as if all we did around here was throw them in jail for being B.I.P.  Or as if the prosecutors had some racist agenda or were trying to get their numbers up.  Hell, they couldn’t understand that we were lucky to even get a conviction here in the Delta with some of our jury pools and outstanding police work.  But as the night wore on, and the cheap beer and shots flowed, the topics of conversation went from serious to sundry things, and finally the girls let on that they wanted to go to Monkey’s.

Every tourist wants to go to Monkey’s. Every one.  Ever since it appeared in the March 2, 2007 edition of the New York Times, we’ve had all kinds down here.  One night, I was sitting in there a few summers ago…hot…steamy…a blues band rocking at full blast, the place kept flipping the circuit breaker due to the window units running at big snowflake.  Finally, Mr. Monkey announced in the pitch black we could either have air or turn the band down, and the whole place yelled fuck that and we sweated on.  That’s the kind of place it was.

The same night, a charter bus pulled up from North Carolina containing giggling little white girls and half the Wake Forest basketball team.  They were doing a two week tour on poverty in the south for some class that was supposed to make a difference, and they were driving from New Orleans to Chicago, basically stopping along the way just to look at poor people.  So they stopped in to take a look at us.  I stayed in the corner and sipped my beer, and they didn’t speak to me, as if I was some white oppressor monitoring my flock.  The basketball guys just shot pool, thanking god they didn’t grow up around here.  And after about an hour of the white girls taking party pics with random old black and broken field hands, clutching their just purchased 32 oz beers, I, while slightly blinded by the flashes, realized why orangutans throw their own shit back at you when you are at the zoo.

But now it was Thursday night, and therefore Family Night, so it was a good time to head out there.  Ely, Roach, and Harvard Law loaded up in Ely’s truck, parked back in front of the Nest, and they swung by One Stop to get a twelve pack. 

HotRod was standing out front by the “No Loitering” sign, with his M&M’s jacket on and skull cap, smoking a Newport and  being everybody’s “partna” just trying to “hold a dolla” when he recognized Ely walking in and asked him what’s going on.

“Whattup Sly?”

“Shit, nothing to it.  Got some girls in the truck.  We about to go to Monkey’s.  They wanna get naked.”

“Fo real?”

“Yeah, fo real.  You ought to slide past there.  Maybe get you a little something something.”

“They down to give it up?”

“Yeah, they with me, ain’t they?”

“Aight then.  Cool cool.  I’ll be out that way.”

The girls had stayed in the truck. Who was that? Aw just a guy who used to work on my daddy’s farm, and we used to pay his wages in cornmeal.  They got wide eyed and quiet.  Ely’s daddy built custom cabinets.  Ely worked with him too.  Always had.  They never had no farm.  And his daddy never spent any money.  Hence the “My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter” sticker on the back window of the 2500.  The girls had thought he was Church of Christ or something.

The glass packs roared south down Hwy 61 and turned right by the Pemble Farms sign.  Then they cut left and hit gravel, spinnin and spraying and winding down next to the bayou where the cypress knees stuck out of the icy water.  Monkey’s was right there on the left, under the orange sodium light.  It was cold, and no one was outside, despite the hoopties and occasional Cadillac clogging up the limited parking.  The music was spilling out of the cracks and patches of the clapboard building.  Ely pulled up in the field next to it, and went ahead and put the truck in 4H so they could get out when it was time to go.

They walked up to the front, girls wide-eyed.  Ely held the door open for them, his lone stretch on being a southern gentleman, but Harvard Law collectively motioned for him to go in first.  They could hold the door themselves.  It slapped behind them.

Monkeys was dark and the ceiling low, toy monkeys hanging everywhere.  Posters for beer commercials, old blues concerts, and Elvis.  The DJ was spinning Bobby Bland, there wasn’t a live band tonight.  But the girls were into it anyway.  Everyone went up to the counter which separates the juke joint from his bedroom, and Mr. Monkey was leaned over the front of the bar in his red and white suit with matching hat, whiskey glass by his hand and cheroot  pinched in the side of his mouth.  He smiled, recognizing Ely as “good people”, asked them what they wanted.  Couple of 32oz Bud Lights. 

They sat in an old airplane seat off to the side, and just watched.  Skinny old black men in caps and hats with feathers out the top and collars that were in style thirty years ago.  Large black women who knew they looked good, gyrating and grinding both on the dance floor and at the tables.  It didn’t matter. 

Music pumping, vibrating, mouths moving but hearing no speech, smiles, gold and silver flashing, grease running down cheeks and across foreheads, sweat, bodies, stink.  One got down on all fours on the dance floor, drawing attention from Harvard Law, while two men took turns sliding their bodies back and forth behind her.  Black fat looking better than white fat.  Cold on the outside, hot on the inside, steam rising from the roof into the orange night light.  Ely smoked in the dark, the ember periodically showing a flash of his face.  Grinning.

HotRod slid in the side door to avoid the five dollar cover, brushed his waves forward one last time, winked at the airplane seat, and strutted onto the dance floor to take his turn.

Uptown Bennie Brown's

It was my birthday, so Kemp told me we were going to eat at Uptown Bennie Brown’s over in Jonestown, a few miles outside of Clarksdale.  Makes Clarksdale look…well…developed.  Fifty-two percent of the population is below the poverty line.  The per capita annual income for the town was $8,528.00 in 2000.  Sheriff’s deputies don’t go alone at night.  No white people live there.  I don’t know if they ever did.  But Kemp said it was worth the fifteen minute drive to eat at Uptown’s.  Claimed I’d have the best fried pork chop I’d ever eaten.  So we went. 

            For the majority of Mississippi’s history, there were certain places where black folks couldn’t go.  Everyone knows that.  We learn it in school.  We’re reminded every February.  And there were some places I guess that were considered in-between, that is, blacks were allowed to be there, so long as a white person was at least present or accompanying them somehow.  Kind of like a chaperone or someone who could vouch for them or something. The unspoken “don’t worry, he’s not going to steal anything or hurt you.  He’s with me." But even then, the poor guy would get looks, like “What the hell does this black guy think he’s doing here?”  And people would make him feel as unwelcome as possible, so he would never want to come back, and the separate worlds would remain.  Still happens to this day. 

Well, Jonestown is the same way in reverse.  Kemp and I didn’t go without our chaperones, Chilean and Samson. Two of Kemp’s co-workers, nice guys, funny as hell, and, most importantly, they had the requisite blackness for us to enter Jonestown.  Yep, requisite blackness.  Street credit if you will. Chilean and Samson understood the rule.  We never talked about why.  

Since I started in the DA’s office I had heard about Jonestown, specifically not to pick a juror from there because they were always going to side with the defendant, who in this circuit court district was almost always black, or, more often than not, jurors from Jonestown were related somehow to the defendant we were trying.  Extended relationships which I didn’t understand.  Extended relationships they never revealed upon voir dire questioning.  Stereotype or not, it’s just one of those considerations you have to make. Even my DA, who was a black female, would tell me that.

But I had never been to the town itself.  Kemp said his co-worker, Fred, one of the few Jewish guys left in Clarksdale, found the place awhile back because he and a buddy were out dove hunting one afternoon and had run out of beer. Despite the seriousness of the no-beer situation, and balancing safety issues, Fred elected not to get on the highway but rather amble on in to Jonestown to get another case.  Uptown Bennie’s was the only place that sold beer and food.  Fred tried the food, liked it, and the hospitality was great.

This general store is the first thing you see in downtown, paint faded on the west side by years of the summer Delta sun beating on it.  Has an old mural of what purports to be the Jonestown skyline, paint flecking off in leaded confetti.  According to the mural, there were several skyscrapers in Jonestown.  Clearly I had missed its heyday.

 We pulled up to the side in Kemp’s F-250, nose out so we couldn’t get blocked in or needed to scat ass.  Just in case.  Hell, Chilean and Samson recommended it.  Newest truck on the lot by far.  As the dust settled around us and I got out, a man with no legs zipped on past in his powerchair, orange flag coming out of the top.  He didn’t look at us.  Just kept on pimpin by.

To my left, the lone Jonestown police officer had what appeared to be a ten year old kid pinned up against his patrol car zeroed in on him with a can of pepper spray.  I mean, getting in his face and really hollering at him.  I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I knew I wanted no part of it.  What was going on? Drugs? Burglary? Bennie told me later the kid had been skipping school. 

            We walked up on the sagging front porch, my leather boots resonating on the wood planks.  Clomp.  A broken old fellah man eyed us suspiciously as he leaned up against the side of the boarded-up building next door, then he spit on the ground.  I just nodded, grabbed for Bennie’s screen door, and walked in. 

“Alright now.”

“Alright.”

Bennie’s was busting at the seams with absolutely everything, from watermelons to school uniforms to imitation cologne and pirated CDs.  The seating area was the back where the food was served.  Like a Wal-Mart in the Congo.  Bennie greeted us with a big smile, wiping his hands on a dishrag.  Chilean was the first to speak.

            “Hey now Mr. Bennie.  What you know good?”

            “Man, ever thang’s workin.  Who you got with you today?”

Kemp explained to me later that he always ask that question, because he’s got some illegal video poker upstairs that makes this place happening on Friday and Saturday nights.  Knowing the routine, Chilean just passed me off as on of their co-workers.  I don’t know if I would have gotten served otherwise.

“Ya’ll got any pork chops?

            “Fried about a half hour ago.”

            “Gimme one of them, some greens and some mac and cheese pleasesir.”

            “You want a side of cornbread?  Got butter beans in the back.”

            “Cornbread be fine.  No beans though. Got any peach cobbler today?”

            “Not today.”

            “Alright then.  That’d be fine.”

And Uptown went through the routine with each of us, all us wanting cornbread, none so big on the butterbeans.

            He slapped the food in a styrofoam go plate, with the pork chop taking up the top end and the greens and mac taking up the other side.  Dine in only in a take out box.  I had to carry it face open with both hands.  I went and got an RC out of the cooler next to the sweating High Life tall-boys. 

            When you’re a minority in a place like this, which for some reason gives you the feeling of invitation only, you’ve got to be conscious of how you sit.  You can’t sit segregated, you’ll look like you’re uppity or uncomfortable or flat don’t like black people.  So I sat with Chilean and Kemp sat with Samford.  The booths there in the dining area had been taken out of an old Pizza Inn or somewhere like that, maybe a McDonalds from back in the 1980’s – with burnt orange plastic seats bolted down to a metal frame which was supposed to be bolted to a concrete floor.  Uptown had oiled wood planks, with no bolts.  You had to be careful not to lean too hard one way or your food would slide clear on to the floor.

            The Louisiana hot sauce was passed around.  I doused my pork chop and dug in, grease running down the back of my hand making my fingers shiny.  No napkins.  Plastic forks.

            “Morning gentlemen!”

            I had my back to the door, which I generally try not to do anywhere since I was a prosecutor in this county.  Hell, last week I’d prosecuted an armed robber from here.  But with the somewhat authoritative voice, I thought the police had come in there after spraying down the ten year old.  So I turned.  A fellah had walked in, in a wife beater with suspenders and a sweat encrusted old bowler hat covering his jerry curls running down the back of his neck.  Not wanting to stare, or even look him in the eye, I looked down at my food but kept track of his feet.  He came in, skin so dark that when he smiled his head looked like a black dot with a strip of white-out splashed across the front of his face. Big as you please, but you could tell Bennie, up there by the cash register wiping his hands on his stained apron, wasn’t going to give him the same greeting he gave us. 

            “Hey Smurf.  How bout it?”

            “Aw doing good.  It’s all good.  Hey Miss Inez, howyoudoin?”

            And he reached forward to shake her hand, and when she held hers out, he grabbed it and kissed the top of it.  Like a chivalrous gentlemen from times of old.  She snatched it back.

            “Don’t be comin in here ‘Miss Inezing’ me! What you want Smurf?”

            “I just gettin’ one of these cold beers.  Ain’t nothing to it.”

White out smile again.

            “Yeah, well you better get one and be on your way.”

            “Aight I’m going I’m going”

            So he reached in and got a High Life, and he paid with quarters.  I looked down at my foot again as he strutted back past.  Miss Inez was hot.

            “Damn black ass think he can come in here and kiss me on the hand.  I’m gonna slap that stupid ass smile off his face one of these days.  Beat him down to the white meat.”

            “Stay cool Sha Baby.  He was just playin.”

            “Playin hell.  He was meddlin.”

            “Well, just let him go on and be.”

We didn’t say a thing except to compliment the foot.  Finished up, crunched up all the Styrofoam and threw it in the trash, thanked Bennie, no we don’t need any sunglasses or mosquito spray, and we hit the front door.

            “You boys are welcome back anytime.”

            He didn’t specify who he was talking to.

            “Appreciate it Mr. Benny.  We’ll holler at you later.  Good as usual.”

Stepped out on to the front porch, tried to avoid Smurf sitting down the other end, swinging his feet off the front, with his big ass smile, and asking if he could hold a dollar, and we went to the truck and headed back to the pavement.

In the side view mirror, a little orange flag poked out of the top of our dust trail.

Death Qualified

There were seventy of them left, and they had been in the courtroom for nine hours.  Judge Higginbotham, still distant and commanding despite the many hours spent with his electorate, began bringing them in to the courtroom – groups of fourteen - for final qualification.  Higginbotham was a large man, imposing from the bench, his black robe falling over the sides of his chair when he sat down.  The first group of fourteen sat in the audience, nervous, fidgeting, some not daring to look up as the prosecutor, defense attorney, staff, and defendant stared them down.  Trying to read their faces.  Trying to look into their eyes and souls to see if they were strong enough to do what was asked of them, one way or the other. The judge leaned forward, clicked on his microphone at the front of the bench, and spoke.

            “Now ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is the portion of the trial where I will determine whether you are qualified to serve on the penalty phase of this capital case.  You have heard the allegations.  Fred Flowers is charged with kidnapping, felony child abuse, and capital murder.  You have shown the court that you are capable of voting guilty if the evidence proves that guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.  Now we must determine whether you are competent to serve as jurors in the penalty phase.  I will ask you two questions.  Your answers to these two questions will determine whether you can serve.”

            The fat lady on the second row to the left shifted.  The chair creaked under her.

"As I stated to you earlier in the proceedings, it may be necessary for you to make a determination in regard to the imposition of the death penalty or some other penalty. Remember, any penalty you consider should be done as if it is absolute and will be carried out in this case. Your conscientious, religious, or other objections to the death penalty are not grounds for you to be excused as a juror. Do you understand these statements?"

            The jury silently affirmed.

"Are any of you religiously, morally, or otherwise against the imposition of the death penalty?"

            A young white girl in glasses raised her hand.  By her accent, flannel shirt, barely visible neck tattoo, sitting front row and center in a predominantly African American jury pool, she wasn’t from around here.   Paleface proudly affirmed to the judge and the rest of the members on the jury panel that she was so against the death penalty.  Probably one of those hipsters from the Midwest following the Mississippi Blues Trail and working off some white guilt. 

I hate hipsters.   

            “Mr. Prosecutor, do you have any questions for this witness?”

            “None, your Honor.”

            “Mr. Walls?”

            “Yes, your Honor, a few.  Now ‘mam,….”

            Walls leaned over the podium, paused for a minute in his very genteel way of commanding attention and setting the mood, and kindly looked into her green eyes.

            “I am not going to ask you specifically why you are opposed to one of the potential sentences my client may get if he is convicted.  That’s your decision.  But I am going to ask you what it is based on.  Are you basing your decision on religion?”

            “Yes.  My religion tells me that I shall not kill.”

            My religion.  As if she had her own special hipster brand.

            “I understand that.  I understand…. But do you also understand that religion, and I am assuming that you are a Christian….?”

“Yes.”

“I am too.”  He straightened his back and his smile widened.  Walls looked at the entire panel at this point, affirming to them that they were all members of the same club.

“….religion teaches us many things.  Ms….Schable, do you read the good book?”

“Yes.”  She was breaking a bit.

“The Bible teaches us that we must follow the laws of man.  Are you familiar with 1 Peter 2:13 where he states ‘submit yourself to every ordinance of man’?  Or Romans 13:1-2 which tell us to be in subjection to the superior authorities even as we are to God’?  Are you familiar with that?”

“Sure.”  But unconvincing.

“So are you telling me that, as a Christian and a reader of the good book, you can follow the laws of man?”

“Of course.”

“You can do that for me and for my client, Fred Flowers?”

“Yes.”  She looked at Fred sitting there at the defense table, a cloth draped over the front so the pool couldn’t see his shackles chained to a steel bolt in the floor. 

He grinned.

“Do you understand that one of the laws man created for the State of Mississippi is to at least consider the imposition of death in a murder case like this?

“Yes. I understand that.”

“Therefore, are you telling the court that you can follow the laws of the State of Mississippi?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, you will follow the law, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you pledge to do so throughout this trial?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”  He turned to the judge. Walls never asked her if she could consider the death penalty.  He didn’t have to.  He had his magic words.  The best attorneys knew when to stop before the dreaded one-question-too-many.

“May we approach the bench?”

“You may.”  The prosecutor and Walls huddled in at the front of the bench, and the judge clicked off his mic.

“Your Honor, we ask that she remain on the jury and not be stricken for cause.”

“Judge we object.  The first thing out of that girl’s mouth was that she could not vote for the death penalty.  And if she can’t vote for it, she can’t serve.”

“Counsel, while that is true, Mr. Walls, through more detailed questioning made it clear for the record that she said she could follow the law in this case.  And when a juror says he or she can follow the law, I have no reason to strike them off my panel.  This juror remains.”

That was how Walls did it.  The white girl with glasses, prospective juror number 93, was back on.  There were several others who swore that they had religious or moral or convictions otherwise that would not allow them to vote to kill someone.  Some proud about it, some rather meek yet outspoken.  Four little black grandmas, two nurses from the hospital, one young white man.  Walls walked through each systematically, surgically, with that grandfatherly smile and pleasant demeanor, convincing each one, whether through scripture or logic, that they could follow the law.  That is, to say that they could vote to kill someone, when less than a minute earlier there was no way.  

But this eventually begged the next question.

"To those of you who are not against the death penalty, are there any of you who are in favor of the death penalty in every case where a murder has been committed?"

            One lone white male, surrounded by black faces, raised his hand.  Late fifties, thinning but well-kept gray hair, oxford button-down and pressed kakis.  Possibly a farmer.

            “Well, I think that in general, if you kill someone, you should be killed too.”

             My boss’s eyes shimmered for a split second.  After the Judge gave a nod, the DA let into him.

            “Now sir, are you telling this Court that you would have to vote for the death penalty?

            “Well, no.”

            “It’s not automatic in your mind, right”

            “No, nothing is automatic.”

            “That’s right.  In fact, you will make sure this man gets a fair trial, wouldn’t you.”

            “Of course.”

            “You’re duty bound under the law to do that, aren’t you?”

            “Yes.”

            “And if you determine that he is guilty, and I’m not sayin’ he his, but if you find it so, then you can also consider both penalties, that is, life in prison or death, am I right?”

            “Yessir.”

            “Good.  Then you can follow the law, right?”

            And that is how the other side worked.  The magic words.  Each attorney worked the crowd, reeling every juror back into the middle when one would actually let known his or her beliefs for or against. 

            The death qualification lasted three more hours.  And bit by bit, the women and minorities were stricken from the jury for cause, as they tended to be against the death penalty, despite efforts by Walls to rehabilitate them…to get them to say otherwise.  And since they could not vote for death, they could not serve.  They were clearly not qualified.

At 10:02 pm on November 11, in the Circuit Court of Coahoma County, Fred Flowers had a jury of his peers.  Eight white males, two black females, one farmer, and one hipster.

Larry Lamb, Sr.

Was sitting in the new courtroom.  9:00 am and I had 15 sentencings.  The Judge was late, and orange jumpsuits cluttered the other side of the courtroom, with one broken down old bailiff as the only protection between me and them.  Violent ones with tattoos and big muscles.  The stamp “Coahoma County Jail” faded across their backs.  I was pissed that my date with my little fourth year med student didn’t go well this past weekend.  Worst. Date. Ever.  She passed out at the bar within the first hour, and someone’s husband had to take her home.  I ended up curbing the rims of my Audi on the pockmarked streets of downtown Jackson after some Caprice Classic pulled out in front of me.  I looked out the window to avoid the stares of the jumpsuits.  It was raining outside.

           

            The first couple of sentencings were for statutory rape.  First was a 19 year old with a 13 year old.  The second was 16 with 11.  Both were consentual.  Both got 20 years and registry as sex offenders.  The mommas were falling out in the aisle, doing the African wail.  One threw up in the courtroom.  The other said she was going to kill the DA.  Hey, don’t fuck children.  I just sat there, so pissed about my rims.  I don’t think it can be buffed out.  I needed to give Hankins Body Shop a call.

“Court calls State v. Larry Lamb Sr.”

An old white man with a cane stepped forward.  I got the next file off the stack, and walked up to the bench.

“You Larry Lamb, Sr.?”

“Yessir.”

“”You understand you have pled guilty to the sale of Dilaudid and are now standing for sentencing?”

“Yessir.”

“To the State, have you reviewed the pre-sentence investigation report?”

“Yes, Your Honor.  It is proper in all respects.”

I quickly flipped to the back of the report.

“I would like the Court to note Mr. Lamb’s four prior felony convictions, all here in Coahoma County.  Specifically, Your Honor, I would like the Court to note a conviction in ’74 for burglary, ’77 for Burglary, ’92 for Felon in Possession of a Firearm, and ’00 for three counts of Uttering Forgery.  I ask the Court to take these into consideration prior to sentencing.”

I really didn’t care.  The old bastard could barely even lean on his cane.  The jail didn’t want him, so we had just released him without bond.  You don’t want one to die on your in there.  Gets messy.  I’m surprised he showed back up.

“I see, Mr. Lamb, that you have some military service.”

“Yes, Your Honor.  I served in Vietnam.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Well, Your Honor, I was in the Navy, and in 1963 I was deployed to Vietnam on the U.S.S. Kearsarg out of Long Beach, California as a field assistant for the medics.”

“What did you do during the war?”

“Oh, lots of things….I helped set up field hospitals, transported the wounded out of the jungle and base camps.  Helped stitch up guys, administer CPR, set up IV’s, just basically help out the doctors.”

“And you received an honorable discharge in 1969?”

“Yes sir.”

“What did you do after the war?”

“Well, I first got addicted to painkillers when I was over there.  Then I started breaking into people’s houses to get them, passing bad checks, manufacturing checks, just whatever I had to do to get some drugs.  I got caught a few times. I know, Your Honor.  I accept responsibility for my actions.  I served some time in the ‘70’s.  In 1980, enrolled in the Texas School of Medicine, but I only made it two years.  Went back to doing drugs.”

“And after that?”

“I came back to Clarksdale.  Started drawing disability for some of the chemicals I was exposed to during the war.  I don’t know what they were.  Had a wife, and my son, Larry Jr.  But they’re gone.  Doctors told me a few months ago that I had cancer in my spine, and they can’t do nothing about it.  Said I’ll be on bed rest in six months.  I’ve got about a year.”

His voice quivered at that point.  The Judge looked down. 

“But I’ll accept whatever sentence you give me, Judge.”

“Let’s take a brief recess.  Counsel, I want to see you in my chambers.”

I put my silver fountain pen in my jacket pocket, and followed the public defender into a side room.  The Judge sat down and unzipped his robe.  Put his elbows on the table.

“Alright Mike, what do you want to do with this guy?”

“Well, Judge, he is a dealer.”

“He sold one pill.”

“It’s a sale charge Judge.  He sold within 1500 feet of a school. That’s an enhancement. He can’t get drug court and non-adjudication.  Barred by the statute.”

“I know that.  David, your thoughts?”

Wilbert Tisdell was a gold-toothed reverend lawyer.  Had a Cadillac and thousand dollar suits.  Was absolute hell in front of a jury, at least in this jurisdiction.  He could play that Uncle Remus routine so well.  Oh please don’t throw me in the briar patch, Brier Fox!  Before you knew it, you had your ass whipped.  I really enjoyed working with him.

“Well, Judge, he’s not a threat.  Like Mike said, it’s one pill.  I just ask, Your Honor, that he get a lot of probation.”

“DA object to that?  You don’t want him to die in my prison, do you?”

“No sir.”

“Good.  That’s what we’ll do.”

And we walked back out in the courtroom.  Everyone always stares at us, trying to tell from facial expression what kind of deal was reached.  I looked at Lamb’s white shoes.

“Why were you selling these pills, Lamb?”

“Well, the VA had given them to me, and I don’t get enough from disability to live on.  Not even enough to pay my rent.  So I’d sell one or two on the side to cover bills.”

“Alright.”

The Judge slowly leaned back in his overstuffed chair and put his glasses on the desk, as he always did before changing lives.

“The Court sentences you to time served plus ten years of post release supervision in the custody and control of the Mississippi Department of Corrections.  Five of those years of post release supervision will be supervised.  Five will not.  You are to report to your probation officer every month.  The terms and conditions of your post-release supervision are as follows.  You will commit no further offense against the State of Mississippi.  You will avoid people and places of disreputable character.  You will never again have in your custody any firearm or other deadly weapon as outlined by federal and state statutes.  You will report to your probation officer when directed.  You will waive extradition from any other state to this state.  I am not going to demand that you stay in the State of Mississippi in case you have to go out of state for medical treatment.  I order that you pay court costs and the costs of indigent defense.  You are fined $1,000 to be paid to the Circuit Clerk of Coahoma County.  Mr. Carr, can you think of anything else?”

“There is a crime lab fee of $150.00, Judge.”

The Judge looked over and half glared at me.  I just shrugged.

“You are further ordered to pay a crime lab fee of $150.00 for the cost of analysis of the substance.  Anything further for this defendant?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“No, Your Honor.”

“The Court is in recess on this issue.  Good luck, Mr. Lamb.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

And Larry Lamb slowly clicked his way out of the courtroom and into the rain.