He’d lost his license to practice nine years earlier, and, according
to the terms of his disbarment, he could now apply for reinstatement. He’d dropped that bomb on Jake a couple of times to gauge his response, but got nothing. Nothing visible anyway, but just under the surface Jake was mortified at the thought of reacquiring a senior partner who owned the building and was impossible to work with, or under. If Lucien became a lawyer again, and moved back in his office, Jake’s current one, and started suing everyone who crossed him and defending pedophiles and rapists and capital murderers, Jake wouldn’t last six months.
“How are you, Lucien?” Jake said as he climbed the steps.
Sober, clear-eyed, and feeling fresh, Lucien replied, “I’m fine, Jake. Always a pleasure to see you.”
“You offered lunch. Have I ever said no to lunch?” Weather permitting, they ate at least twice a month on the porch.
“Not that I recall,” Lucien said, standing in his bare feet and offering a hand. They shook heartily, did the quick shoulder-pat thing that men do when they really don’t want to hug one another, and took their seats in aging white wicker chairs that had not been moved more than six inches since Jake’s first visit a decade earlier.
Sallie eventually appeared and said hi to Jake. He said iced tea would be fine and she strolled away, never in a hurry. She had been hired as a housekeeper, then promoted to a nurse to care for Lucien when he threw a bender and checked out for two weeks. At some point, she moved in, and for a while the gossip rippled through Clanton. It died soon enough, though, because nothing Lucien Wilbanks could do would really shock anyone.
Sallie brought the iced tea and poured more lemonade. When she was gone, Jake said, “On the wagon?”
“No, never. Just taking a break. I’d like to live for twenty more years, Jake, and I worry about my liver. I don’t want to die and I don’t want to give up Jack Daniel’s, so I’m in a constant quandary. I worry about this all the time, and the worry and stress and pressure eventually become too much and can only be alleviated by the Jack.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“Are you drinking?”
“Not really. An occasional beer, but we don’t keep it around the house. Carla frowns on it, you know.”
“My second wife frowned on it too and she didn’t last a year. But, then, she didn’t look like Carla.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Don’t mention it. Sallie’s cooking vegetables if that’s okay.”
“Delicious.”
There was an unwritten checklist of topics they always covered and usually in an order that was so predictable Jake often suspected that Lucien had notes tucked away somewhere. The family—Carla and Hanna; the office and the current secretary and any profitable cases that had popped up since the last visit; the lawsuit against the insurance company; the investigation into the Klan; the latest on Mack Stafford, the attorney who had disappeared and taken his clients’ money; gossip about other lawyers, and judges; college football; and, of course, the weather.
They moved to a small table at the other end of the porch where Sallie was arranging lunch—butter beans, squash, stewed tomatoes, and corn bread. They filled their plates, and she disappeared again.
After a few bites, in total silence, Jake asked, “Did you ever know Seth Hubbard?”
“I saw it in the paper this morning. Quite sad. I met him once or twice fifteen years ago, some trifling legal matter. Never sued him, though, so I’ll always regret that. He might’ve had some assets. I tried to sue everyone with assets, which, as you know, is a pretty damned small class around here. Why?”
“I have a hypothetical for you.”
“Can’t it wait? I’m eating.”
“No, listen. You have some assets, no wife, no kids, some distant relatives, and you have a lovely black housekeeper who gives appearances of being something a little more than just a housekeeper.”
“This sounds like meddling. Where are we going?”
“If you wrote a new will today, who might get your assets?”
“Damned sure wouldn’t be you.”
“No surprise, and I can assure you you’re not mentioned in my will either.”
“No loss. By the way, you haven’t paid last month’s rent.”
“Check’s in the mail. Can you answer my question?”
“No. I don’t like your question.”
“Come on. Play along. Humor me. If you wrote a new will right now, who would get everything?”
Lucien shoved corn bread into his mouth and chewed slowly. He glanced around to make sure Sallie wasn’t listening. Finally, he said, “None of your business. Why?”
Jake reached into his coat pocket and whipped out some papers.
“Get a load of this. The last will and testament of Seth Hubbard, written last Saturday in thoughtful consideration of what he was about to do on Sunday. The original arrived in my office mailbox on Monday.”
Lucien adjusted his reading glasses, sipped some lemonade, and read Seth’s will. As he flipped to the second page, his face relaxed considerably and he began to smile. He was nodding along with old Seth by the time he finished. “I like it,” he said, lowering it and grinning at Jake. “I’m assuming Lettie is the black housekeeper.”
“Correct. I met her yesterday for the first time. Name ring a bell?”
Lucien thought for a moment as he held the will and forgot about lunch. “I don’t recall any Taybers, perhaps a Lang or two. Box Hill is a strange part of the county and I never spent any time up there.” He read it again as Jake continued eating.
“What’s he worth?” Lucien asked as he refolded the sheets of paper and handed them back to Jake.
“Twenty million, give or take,” Jake said nonchalantly, as if that was the typical estate in Ford County. “He did well in furniture and timber.”
“Evidently.”
“Now it’s all in cash, for the most part.”
Lucien began laughing. “Just what this town needs,” he said as he shook. “A brand-new black millionaire with more money than anyone else.”
“She doesn’t have it yet,” Jake said, enjoying the levity. “I just met with some lawyers from the Rush firm and they basically promised a war.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you fight over that kind of money?”
“Sure. I’d fight over a lot less.”
“So would I.”
“Did you ever handle a nasty will contest?”
“Oh, so that’s where we’re going. You need some free legal advice from a disbarred lawyer.”
“These cases are pretty rare.”
Lucien worked a mouthful and scratched his beard. He shook his head and said, “No, nothing. Look, the Wilbanks family has fought over its land and stocks and deposits for a hundred years; everything has been fought over, bitterly at times. There have been fistfights, divorces, suicides, duels, threats of murder, you name it and a Wilbanks has done it. But, we’ve always managed to keep it out of the courts.”
Sallie appeared and topped off their glasses. They ate in silence for
a few minutes. Lucien was staring at the front lawn, his eyes glowing, his mind racing. “Fascinating, isn’t it, Jake?”
“It is indeed.”
“And either side can demand a trial by jury, right?”
“Yes, the law has not been changed. And, the request for a jury trial must be made before any hearing, so it must be dealt with soon. That’s what I want you to ponder, Lucien. That’s the big issue of the day. Do I play it before a jury, or do I trust Judge Atlee with the decision?”
“What if Atlee recuses himself?”
“He won’t because this case will be too much fun. The largest estate he’ll ever see, a packed courtroom, high drama, and, if there’s a jury, then Atlee gets to preside over the circus while hiding behind its verdict.”
“You may be right.”
“The question is, Can you trust a Ford County jury? Three blacks, four at the most.”
“The Hailey jury was all white as I recall.”
“This is not Carl Lee Hailey, Lucien. Far from it. That was all about race. This is all about money.”
“Everything is about race in Mississippi, Jake, don’t ever forget that. A simple black woman on the verge of inheriting what might be the largest fortune this county has ever seen, and the decision rests with a jury that’s predominantly white. It’s race and money, Jake, a rare combination around here.”
“So you wouldn’t risk a jury?”
“I didn’t say that. Allow me to consider this for a spell, okay? My valuable advice, though still free to you, often needs proper reflection.”
“Fair enough.”
“I might stop by this afternoon. I’m looking for an old book that might be in the attic.”
“You own the place,” Jake said, shoving away his plate.
“And you’re late with the rent.”
“Sue me.”
“I’d love to but you’re broke. You’re living in a rental house and your car has almost as many miles as mine.”
“I guess I should’ve gone into the furniture business.”
“Anything but the law. I like this case, Jake. I might want to work on it.”
“Sure, Lucien,” Jake managed to say without hesitation. “Stop by
late this afternoon and we’ll chat.” He stood and dropped his napkin on the table.
“No coffee?”
“No, I need to run. Thanks for lunch and pass along my regards to Sallie.”
11
A nosy paralegal sniffing through old land records down the hall heard the gossip as it drifted over from a watercooler, and went to make copies of the latest will to be filed for probate in Ford County. Back at the office, he showed it to his bosses, made even more copies, and began faxing here and there. His bosses faxed it too, and by noon Wednesday copies of Seth’s two-page will were popping up all over the county. The “perish in pain” wish was a favorite touch, but speculation about the deceased’s net worth soon dominated the discussion.
As soon as Herschel left his father’s home, he called his lawyer in Memphis to pass along the wonderful news that he would soon be inheriting “several” million dollars. Of particular concern was his ex-wife—he was still bleeding from the divorce—and he was curious if she could make a claim. No she could not, his lawyer assured him. The lawyer called a lawyer friend down in Tupelo for no reason other than to spread rumors, and in doing so managed to include the bit about Seth Hubbard having a net worth “in excess of $20 million.” The lawyer in Tupelo called some friends. The size of the estate began to grow.
As soon as Ian Dafoe got on the Natchez Trace Parkway and headed south, he set his cruise control on fifty and settled in for the pleasant drive. Traffic was light; the sun was up; the leaves were beginning to change and some were dropping in the breeze. Though his wife, as always, was complicating his life, he had reason to smile. He had managed to defuse the divorce talk, at least for the moment. She was hungover and she had just buried her father and her nerves were shot anyway, and even on a good day Ramona dealt poorly with adversity.
He could pacify her, bring her around, kiss her ass enough to gloss over their problems, and set about the task of managing their new wealth. Together. He was certain he could handle this.
She was lying across the rear seat, on her back with a forearm over her eyes, trying to sleep it off. She had stopped talking and her breathing was heavy. He turned around often to make sure she was out of it, then he carefully reached for his new car phone and called the office. Speaking as softly as possible, he offered only the minimum to Rodney, his partner: “The old boy’s gone … estate’s somewhere north of twenty mill … furniture and lumber … pretty amazing … had no idea … just saw the will … 40 percent, after taxes … not bad … about a year … not kidding … more later.”
Ian drove on, smiling at the foliage and dreaming of a better life. Even if they got a divorce, he’d still get a piece of her inheritance, right? He thought about calling his lawyer, but wisely decided to wait. The phone rang suddenly, startling him and waking up Ramona. “Hello,” he said.
On the other end, a stiff male voice said, “Yes, hello, Ian, Stillman Rush here, hope I didn’t disturb. We’re on our way back to Tupelo.”
“Not at all. We’re on the Trace with a couple of hours to go. Nothing to do but talk.”
“Yes, well, look, there’s been a slight complication, so I’ll just go ahead and get right to the point.” His voice had a nervous tinge to it, and Ian knew immediately that something was wrong. Ramona sat up in the rear seat and rubbed her swollen eyes.
Stillman went on: “We didn’t get the chance to open Mr. Hubbard’s estate after we saw you this morning because another will has already been presented. Seems as though a lawyer in Clanton hustled over to the courthouse late yesterday afternoon and filed a handwritten will that Mr. Hubbard purportedly wrote last Saturday, the day before he died. Handwritten wills are still valid, if they meet certain criteria. This will is just awful. It leaves nothing to the family—Ramona and Herschel are specifically cut out—and instead gives 90 percent of the estate to Lettie Lang, the housekeeper.”
“Lettie!” Ian managed to gasp as he veered across the center line. He caught himself and yanked the wheel.
“What is it?” Ramona snarled from the backseat.
“Yes, Lettie Lang,” Stillman repeated. “I guess he was quite fond of her.”
“This is ridiculous!” Ian said sharply, his voice already several
octaves higher, his eyes glaring wildly into the rearview mirror. “Ninety percent? Did you say 90 percent?”
“I did, yes. I have a copy of the will and it clearly says 90 percent.”
“Handwritten? Is it a forgery?”
“We don’t know at this point. Everything is preliminary.”
“Well, obviously, Stillman, this can’t stand up, can it?”
“Of course not. We met with the attorney who probated the will, and he’s not going to withdraw it. So we’ve agreed to meet with the judge soon and work things out.”
“Work things out? What does that mean?”
“Well, we’ll ask the judge to toss out this handwritten will and probate the legitimate one we looked at this morning. If for some reason he says no, then we’ll go to court and fight over which will should stand.”
“When do we go to court?” Ian asked belligerently, but there was also a noticeable layer of desperation in his voice, as if he could feel the fortune beginning to slide.