Sycamore Row (19 page)

“I don’t have one, Judge. My clients work for ten bucks an hour if they’re lucky. They can’t afford to pay a lawyer a hundred.”

“I think one fifty is a fair rate in today’s market. You agree?”

“One fifty sounds fine, Judge.”

“Okay, you’re on the clock at one fifty an hour. I’m assuming you have the time.”

“Oh yes.”

“Good. Because this will eat up your life for the near future. Every sixty days or so, file a petition and ask for attorney’s fees. I’ll make sure you get paid.”

“Thanks, Judge.”

“There are a lot of rumors about the size of the estate. Any idea what’s true?”

“Russell Amburgh says it’s at least twenty million, with most of that in cash. Hidden out of state. Otherwise, everyone in Clanton would know exactly.”

“We’d better move fast to protect it. I’ll sign an order giving you the authority to take possession of Mr. Hubbard’s financial records. Once Quince Lundy is on board, you guys can start digging.”

“Yes sir.”

Judge Atlee took a long sip of coffee from a paper cup. He looked through a dirty window, seemed to gaze upon the courthouse lawn, and finally said, “I almost feel sorry for that poor woman. She’s lost all control, surrounded by people who smell money. She won’t have a dime when Sistrunk gets finished with her.”

“Assuming the jury finds in her favor.”

“Will you request a jury, Jake?”

“I don’t know yet. Should I?” The question was far out-of-bounds, but at the moment it didn’t seem so. Jake braced himself for the reprimand, but instead Judge Atlee managed a tight grin as he continued staring at nothing outside. “I’d rather have a jury, Jake. I don’t mind making tough decisions. That goes with the job. But, in a case like this, it’ll be nice to have twelve of our good and faithful citizens in the hot seat. I’d like that, for a change.” His grin became a smile.

“I don’t blame you. I’ll make the request.”

“You do that. And Jake, there are a lot of lawyers out there and few that I really trust. Don’t hesitate to stop by and say hello and drink coffee if something needs to be discussed. I’m sure you appreciate the significance of this case. There’s not much money around here, Jake, never has been. Now, suddenly, there’s a pot of gold, and a lot of people want some of it. You don’t. I don’t. But there are plenty of others. It’s important that you and I stay on the same page.”

Jake’s muscles relaxed for the first time in hours, and he breathed deeply. “I agree, Judge, and thanks.”

“I’ll see you around.”

13

Dumas Lee owned the front page of
The Ford County Times
on Wednesday, October 12. The hearing the day before was evidently the only news in the county. A bold headline announced,
BATTLE LINES DRAWN OVER HUBBARD WILL
, and Dumas kicked off the lead story in his finest tabloid fashion: “A courtroom full of expectant heirs and their eager lawyers squared off yesterday in front of Chancellor Reuben Atlee as the opening shots were fired in what promises to be an epic battle for the fortune of the late Seth Hubbard, who hung himself on October 2.”

A photographer had been busy. In the center of the front page was a large photo of Lettie Lang as she was walking into the courthouse, with both Booker Sistrunk and Kendrick Bost tugging at her as if she were an invalid. Under the photo, she was described as “Lettie Lang, age 47 of Box Hill, former housekeeper of Seth Hubbard and presumed beneficiary under his last, handwritten, and suspicious will, accompanied by her two lawyers from Memphis.” Next to it were two smaller, candid shots of Herschel and Ramona, also walking somewhere near the courthouse.

Jake read the paper at his desk early Wednesday morning. He sipped coffee, read every word twice looking for mistakes, and was surprised to see Dumas got his facts straight for a change. But he cussed him for using the word “suspicious.” Every registered voter in the county was a potential juror. The majority would either read the paper or hear someone talking about it, and out of the gate Dumas had declared the will to be suspicious. The scowling, smirking faces of the well-dressed intruders from Memphis didn’t help matters either. As Jake stared at the
photo, he tried to imagine a jury of nine whites and three blacks trying to find sympathy for Lettie as $20 million hung in the balance. They would find little. After a week in the courtroom with Booker Sistrunk, they would see through his intentions and void the will. A jury might grow to dislike Herschel and Ramona, but at least they were white and weren’t being led by a shyster with the appeal of a TV preacher.

Jake reminded himself that they were, for the moment, on the same team, or at least the same side of the courtroom. He vowed to quit. If Judge Atlee allowed Sistrunk to stay in the game, Jake would withdraw and go look for an ambulance to chase. Anything would be better than a brutal trial in which he was destined to lose. He needed the fees but not the headaches.

There was a commotion downstairs, then footsteps. There was an unmistakable rhythm and clatter to the way Harry Rex climbed the old wooden stairs to Jake’s office. His steps were slow and heavy and each seemed determined to shatter boards. The stairwell shook. Roxy called after him, protesting. Badly overweight and pathetically out of shape, he was almost gasping when he kicked open Jake’s door and began with a friendly “Damn woman’s gone crazy.” He tossed a copy of the newspaper onto Jake’s desk.

“Morning Harry Rex,” Jake said as his friend collapsed in a chair and worked on his heavy breathing, each gasp a bit softer, each exhalation delaying cardiac arrest.

“She tryin’ to piss off everybody?” he asked.

“It sure looks that way. You want some coffee?”

“Got a Bud Light?”

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”

“So? I’m not goin’ to court today. On days off, I’m startin’ earlier.”

“Do you think you’re drinking too much?”

“Hell no. With my clients, I’m not drinkin’ enough. Neither are you.”

“I don’t keep beer in the office. Don’t keep it at home.”

“What a life.” Harry Rex suddenly reached forward, grabbed the newspaper, held it up, and pointed to the photo of Lettie. “Tell me something, Jake, what does the average white person in this county say when he sees this photo. You got a black housekeeper, who’s lookin’ all right, and she somehow got herself inserted into the old boy’s will, and now she’s hired these slick African lawyers from the big city to come down here and grab the money. How does this play over at the Coffee Shop?”

“I think you know.”

“Is she stupid?”

“No, but they got to her. Simeon has kinfolks in Memphis, and somehow a connection was made. She has no idea what she’s doing and she’s getting bad advice.”

“You’re on her side, Jake. Can’t you talk to her?” He tossed the paper back onto the desk.

“No. I thought I could, then she hired Sistrunk. I tried to speak to her in court yesterday, but they were guarding her too closely. Tried to speak to the Hubbard kids, too, but they weren’t too friendly.”

“You’re a popular man these days, Jake.”

“I didn’t feel too popular yesterday. But Judge Atlee likes me.”

“I heard he wasn’t too impressed with Sistrunk.”

“No, he wasn’t. The jury won’t be either.”

“So you’re askin’ for a jury?”

“Yes, His Honor wants one, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

“I did not. You gotta figure out a way to get to her. Sistrunk’ll piss off everybody in the state and she won’t get a dime.”

“Should she?”

“Hell yeah. It’s Seth’s money, if he wants to leave it to the Communist Party then it’s his business. He made it all by himself, he can damned sure give it away as he pleases. Wait till you deal with those two kids, a couple of sacks-a-shit if you ask me, and you’ll understand why Seth picked somebody else.”

“I thought you hated Seth.”

“I did ten years ago, but then I always hate the jerk on the other side. That’s what makes me so mean. I get over it eventually. Hate him or love him, he wrote a will before he died and the law has got to support that will, if in fact it’s valid.”

“Is it valid?”

“That’s up to the jury. And it’ll be attacked from every direction.”

“How would you attack the will?”

Harry Rex sat back and swung an ankle over a knee. “Been thinkin’ about that. First, I’d hire me some experts, some medical guys who’ll testify that Seth was drugged up with painkillers, that his body was ravaged by lung cancer and because of all the chemo and radiation and medications that he’d been hit with over the past year he couldn’t’ve been thinkin’ clearly. He was in horrible pain, and I’d hire me another expert to describe what pain can do to the thought process. Don’t know where these experts are, but, hell, you can hire an expert to say
anything. Keep in mind, Jake, the average juror in this county barely finished high school. Not that sophisticated. Get a slick expert or a whole team of them and the jury can really get confused. Hell, I could make Seth Hubbard look like a slobbering idiot as he was stickin’ his head through that noose. Don’t you have to be crazy to hang yourself?”

“Can’t answer that.”

“Second. Seth had zipper problems, couldn’t keep his pants on. Don’t know if he ever crossed the color line, but maybe he did. If a white jury sniffs even the slightest suspicion that Seth was gettin’ somethin’ more than hot food and starched shirts from his housekeeper, then they’ll be quick to turn against Miss Lettie.”

“They can’t drag up a dead man’s sex life.”

“True, but they can nibble around the edges of Lettie’s. They can imply, infer, exaggerate, and use all manner of loose language. If she takes the witness stand, which she’s bound to do, she becomes fair game.”

“She has to testify.”

“Of course she does. And here’s the kicker, Jake. It really doesn’t matter what is said in court or who says it. The truth is that if Booker Sistrunk is in that courtroom rantin’ and showin’ his black ass in front of a white jury, then your chances are zero.”

“I’m not sure I care that much.”

“You have to care. It’s your job. It’s a big trial. And it’s a fat fee. You’re workin’ by the hour now, and gettin’ paid, and that’s rare in our world, Jake. If this thing goes to trial, then an appeal and so on, you’ll make a half-million bucks over the next three years. How many DUIs you gotta do to make that kinda money?”

“Hadn’t thought about the fee.”

“Well, every other ambulance chaser in town certainly has. It’ll be generous. A windfall for a street lawyer like you. But you need to win, Jake, and to win you gotta get rid of Sistrunk.”

“How?”

“I’m thinkin’ about that too. Just give me some time. Some damage has already been done with that damned picture in the paper, and you can bet Doofus’ll do it again next hearing. We gotta get Sistrunk bounced as soon as possible.”

To Jake, it was significant that Harry Rex was now using the word “we.” There was no one more loyal, no one he’d rather have in the foxhole. Nor was there another legal mind as cunning and devious. “Give me a day or two,” he said as he climbed to his feet. “I need a beer.”

An hour later, Jake was still at his desk when the Booker Sistrunk matter took a turn for the worse. “There’s a lawyer named Rufus Buckley on the phone,” Roxy announced through the intercom.

Jake took a deep breath and said, “Okay.” He stared at the blinking light and racked his brain for any idea as to why Buckley would be calling. They had not spoken since the trial of Carl Lee Hailey, and if their paths never again crossed both would have been content. A year earlier, during Buckley’s reelection, Jake had quietly supported his opponent, as had most of the lawyers in Clanton, if not the entire Twenty-Second Judicial District. Over a twelve-year career, Buckley had managed to alienate almost every lawyer in the five-county district. The payback was sweet, and now the former hard-charging DA with statewide ambitions was stuck at home in Smithfield, an hour down the road, where he was rumored to be puttering around a small office on Main Street doing wills and deeds and no-fault divorces.

“Hello Governor,” Jake said in a deliberate effort to resume hard feelings. Three years had not diminished his low regard for the man.

“Well, hello, Jake,” Buckley said politely. “I was hoping we could forgo the cheap shots.”

“Sorry, Rufus, didn’t mean anything by it.” But of course he did. At one point not too long ago a lot of people called him Governor. “What are you up to these days?”

“Just practicing law and taking it easy. I do more oil and gas than anything else.”

Sure you do. Buckley had spent most of his adult life trying to convince folks that his wife’s family’s natural gas leases were the source of immense wealth. They were not. The Buckleys lived far below their pretensions.

“That’s nice. What’s on your mind?”

“Just got off the phone with a Memphis lawyer named Booker Sistrunk. I believe you’ve met him. Seems to be a nice guy. Anyway, he’s associating me as Mississippi counsel in the Seth Hubbard case.”

“Why would he pick you, Rufus?” Jake asked impulsively as his shoulders sagged.

“Reputation, I guess.”