Sycamore Row - John Grisham

“And put him in the same cell with his co-counsel,” Judge Atlee roared into the
microphone as Rufus stutter-stepped down the aisle, his desperate face searching for
friends.
When the door slammed, everyone gasped for what little oxygen was left in the room.
The lawyers began exchanging humorous glances, certain they had just witnessed
something they would never see again. Judge Atlee pretended to be taking notes while
everyone tried breathing. Finally, he looked up and said, “Now, Mr. Bost, do you have
anything to say?”
Mr. Bost did not. There was plenty on his mind, but given the current mood of the
court, he wisely shook his head no.
“Good. Now you have about thirty seconds to clear that table and move yourself right
over here to the jury box. Mr. Brigance, would you assume your proper position in my
courtroom?”
“Be glad to, Your Honor.”
“On second thought, let’s take a ten-minute recess.”
Ozzie Walls had a sense of humor. In the circular drive behind the courthouse there
were four fully decorated patrol cars, all heavily painted with words and numbers and
laden with antennas and lights. As he gathered his men around the two contemptuous
lawyers in the rear hallway, he made the quick decision that they should ride together.
“Put ’em in my car,” he ordered.
“I’ll sue you for this,” Sistrunk threatened for the tenth time.
“We got lawyers,” Ozzie fired back.
“I’ll sue every one of you redneck clowns.”
“And our lawyers are outta jail.”
“In federal court.”
“I love federal court.”
Sistrunk and Buckley were shoved outside and jostled into the rear seat of Ozzie’s big
brown Ford. Dumas Lee and a cohort fired away with cameras.
“Let’s give ’em a parade,” Ozzie said to his men. “Lights, no sirens.”
Ozzie got behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away, ever so slowly. “You
been in the backseat before, Rufus?”
Buckley refused to answer. He sat as low as possible directly behind the sheriff and
peered out the window as they crept around the square. Three feet to his right, Booker
Sistrunk sat awkwardly with his hands behind him and continued the mouthing: “You
oughtta be ashamed of yourself, treating a brother like this.”
“The white guy’s gettin’ the same treatment,” Ozzie said.
“You’re violating my civil rights.”
“And you’re violatin’ mine with your mouth. Now shut up or I’ll lock you under the
jail. We got a little basement down there. You seen it, Rufus?”
Again, Rufus chose not to respond.