Sycamore Row (32 page)

“You’ll have to ask Lucien,” Jake replied. He had not spent five minutes in the room in the last ten years.

“This is awesome,” she said.

“Not bad for an intern. The phone guy is coming today to get you plugged in. After that, you’ll be in business.”

They spent half an hour going over the rules: phone use, lunch breaks, office protocol, overtime, et cetera. Her first task was to read a dozen Mississippi cases involving will contests that were tried before juries. It was important that she learn the law and the lingo, and to understand how her mother’s case would be handled. Read the cases, then read them again. Take notes. Absorb the law and become well versed in it so conversations with Lettie would be more meaningful. Lettie would be by far the most crucial witness at the trial, and it was important to begin laying the groundwork for her testimony. The truth was paramount, but as every trial lawyer knew, there were various ways of telling the truth.

As soon as Jake turned his back, Lucien barged into her office and made himself at home. They had met the day before; introductions were not necessary. He rambled on about how wise it was to ditch the
Memphis lawyers and go with Jake, though in his opinion it would be a tough case to win. He remembered he’d represented one of her father’s cousins, a Lang, twenty years earlier in a criminal matter. Kept the boy out of prison. Great lawyering. That led to another story about a shooting that involved four men, none of them remotely related to Portia, as far as she could tell. By reputation, she knew Lucien, like everyone else, as the old drunk lawyer who’d been the first white person to join the local NAACP and who now lived with his maid in the big house on the hill. Part legend, part scoundrel, he was a man she never thought she would meet, and here he was chatting with her (in her office!) as if they were old friends. For a while, she listened respectfully, but after an hour began wondering how often these visits might occur.

While she listened, Jake was locked in his office with Quince Lundy, reviewing a filing that would be known as the First Inventory. After a month of digging, Lundy was convinced the First Inventory would greatly resemble the final one. There were no hidden assets. Seth Hubbard knew when and how he would die, and he made certain he left behind adequate records.

The real estate appraisals were complete. At the time of his death, Seth owned (1) his home and 200 acres around it, valued at $300,000; (2) 150 acres of timberland near Valdosta, Georgia, valued at $450,000; (3) 400 acres of timberland near Marshall, Texas, valued at $800,000; (4) a vacant bay-front lot north of Clearwater, Florida, valued at $100,000; (5) a cabin and 5 acres outside Boone, North Carolina, valued at $280,000; and (6) a fifth-floor condo on the beach at Destin, Florida, valued at $230,000.

The total appraised value of Seth’s real estate was $2,160,000. There were no mortgages.

A consulting firm from Atlanta valued the Berring Lumber Company at $400,000. Its report was attached to the inventory, along with the property appraisals.

Included also were statements listing the cash in the bank in Birmingham. Ticking along at 6 percent interest, the total was now $21,360,000 and change.

The small numbers were the most tedious. Quince Lundy listed as much of Seth’s personal property as he thought the court could stand,
beginning with his late-model vehicles ($35,000), and going all the way down to his wardrobe ($1,000).

The big number, though, was still astonishing. The First Inventory valued Seth’s entire estate at $24,020,000. The cash, of course, was a hard number. Everything else would be subject to the market, and it would take months or even years to sell it all.

The inventory was an inch thick. Jake did not want anyone else in the office to see it, so he ran two copies himself. He left early for lunch, drove to the school, and had a plate of cafeteria spaghetti with his wife and daughter. He tried to visit once a week, especially on Wednesdays when Hanna preferred to buy rather than bring her lunch. She loved the spaghetti, but even more, she loved having her father there.

After she’d left for the playground, the Brigances walked back to Carla’s classroom. The bell rang and class was set to resume.

“Off to see Judge Atlee,” Jake said with a grin. “The first payday.”

“Good luck,” she said with a quick kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you.” Jake hustled away, wanting to clear the hall before the throng of little people came swarming in.

Judge Atlee was at his desk, finishing a bowl of potato soup, when Jake was escorted in by the secretary. Contrary to his doctor’s orders, the judge was still smoking his pipe—he could not quit—and he loaded one up with Sir Walter Raleigh and struck a match. After thirty years of heavy pipe smoking, the entire office was tinged with a brownish residue. A permanent fog clung to the ceiling. A slightly cracked window offered some relief. The aroma, though, was rich and pleasant. Jake had always loved the place, with its rows of thick treatises and faded portraits of dead judges and Confederate generals. Nothing had changed in the twenty years Reuben Atlee had occupied this part of the courthouse, and Jake had the sense that little had changed in the past fifty years. The judge loved history and kept his favorite books in perfect order on custom-made shelves in one corner. The desk was covered with clutter, and Jake could swear that the same battered file had been sitting on the right front corner of it for the past decade.

They had first met at the Presbyterian church ten years earlier, when Jake and Carla arrived in Clanton. The judge ran the church in the same way he ran all the other aspects of his life, and he soon embraced the young lawyer. They became friends, though always at a professional level. Reuben Atlee was from the old school. He was a judge; Jake was just a lawyer. Boundaries must always be respected.
He had sternly corrected Jake in open court on two occasions, with everlasting impressions.

With the pipe stem screwed into the corner of his mouth, Judge Atlee retrieved his black suit jacket and put it on. Except when he was in court, under a robe, he wore nothing but black suits. The same black suit. No one knew if he owned twenty, or just one; they were identical. And he always wore navy-blue suspenders and white starched shirts, most with a collection of tiny cinder holes from airborne tobacco embers. He took his position at the end of the table as they talked about Lucien. When Jake finished unloading his briefcase, he handed over a copy of the inventory.

“Quince Lundy is very good,” Jake said. “I wouldn’t want him looking through my finances.”

“Probably wouldn’t take that long,” Judge Atlee observed wryly. To many he was a humorless man, but to those he liked he was occasionally a raging smart-ass.

“No. It wouldn’t.”

For a judge, he said little. Silently, and studiously, he went through the inventory, page by page as his tobacco burned out and he stopped puffing. Time was of no consequence because he controlled the clock. At the end, he removed his pipe, put it in an ashtray, and said, “Twenty-four million, huh?”

“That’s the grand total.”

“Let’s lock this up, okay, Jake? No one should see it, not now anyway. Prepare an order and I’ll seal this part of the file. God knows what would happen if the public knew this. It would be front-page news and probably attract even more lawyers. It’ll come out later, but for now let’s bury it.”

“I agree, Judge.”

“Any word from Sistrunk?”

“No sir, and I’ve got a good source now. In the spirit of full disclosure, I must tell you that I’ve hired a new intern. Portia Lang, Lettie’s oldest daughter. A bright girl who thinks she might want to be a lawyer.”

“Smart move, Jake, and I really like that girl.”

“So, no problems?”

“None. I’m not in charge of your office.”

“No conflicts of interest?”

“None that I can see.”

“Me neither. If Sistrunk shows up, or comes slinking around, we’ll
know it soon enough. Simeon is still AWOL, but I suspect he’ll come home eventually. He may be trouble but he’s not stupid. She’s still his wife.”

“He’ll be back. There’s something else, Jake. The will leaves 5 percent to a brother, Ancil Hubbard. That makes him an interested party. I’ve read your report and the affidavits and I understand we’re proceeding as if Ancil is dead. But that troubles me. Since we don’t know for certain, then we should not assume he is dead.”

“We’ve searched, Judge, but there are no clues anywhere.”

“True, but you’re not a pro, Jake. Here’s my idea. Five percent of this estate is over a million dollars. It seems prudent to me to take a smaller sum, say fifty thousand or so, and hire a high-powered detective agency to find him, or find out what happened to him. What do you think?”

In situations like this, Judge Atlee did not really care what you thought. The decision was made, and he was just trying to be polite.

“A great idea,” Jake said, something all judges like to hear.

“I’ll approve it. What about the other expenses?”

“Well, Judge, delighted you asked. I need to get paid.” Jake was handing over a summary of his time on the case. Judge Atlee studied it, frowned as if Jake were robbing the estate, then said, “One hundred and eighty hours. What rate did I approve?”

He knew exactly what he had approved. “One fifty per hour,” Jake said.

“So a total of, let’s see.” He was peering down his nose through the thick reading glasses perched on the tip, still frowning mightily as if he’d been insulted. “Twenty-seven thousand dollars?” His voice rose with fake incredulity.

“At least that much.”

“Seems a bit steep?”

“On the contrary, Judge. It’s a bargain.”

“It’s also a nice start to the holiday season.”

“Oh yes, that too.” Jake knew Atlee would approve his fees if his hours had been doubled.

“Approved. Other expenses?” He reached into his coat pocket and removed a tobacco pouch.

Jake slid over more paperwork. “Yes, Judge, quite a few. Quince Lundy needs to get paid. He’s showing 110 hours, at a hundred bucks per. And we need to pay the appraisers, the accountants, and the consulting firm. I have the documentation here, along with orders for you
to sign. May I suggest that we move some cash from the bank in Birmingham to the estate account here at First National?”

“How much?” he asked, striking a match and waving it over the bowl of tobacco.

“Not much, because I don’t like the idea of anybody at the bank seeing the money. It’s tucked away over in Birmingham, let’s leave it there as long as we can.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Judge Atlee said, something he often said when confronted with a good idea. He discharged a blast of thick smoke that engulfed the table.

“I’ve already prepared the order,” Jake said, shoving over even more paperwork and trying to ignore the smoke. Judge Atlee pulled the pipe from his teeth, a trail of smoke behind it. He began scribbling his name in his distinctive style, one that could never be deciphered but was recognizable nonetheless. He paused and looked at the order transferring the money. He said, “And with the stroke of my pen, I can move half a million bucks. Such power.”

“That’s more than I’ll net in the next ten years.”

“Not the way you’re billing. You must think you’re a big-firm lawyer.”

“I’d rather dig ditches, Judge.”

“So would I.” For a few silent moments he smoked and signed his name, alternating between puffing and scribbling. When the stack was finished, he said, “Let’s talk about next week. Is everything in order?”

“As far as I know. Lettie’s deposition is set for Monday and Tuesday. Herschel Hubbard is Wednesday, his sister Thursday, and Friday we’ll do Ian Dafoe. That’s a pretty grueling week. Five straight days of depositions.”

“And you’re using the main courtroom?”

“Yes sir. There’s no court, and I’ve asked Ozzie to give us an extra deputy to keep the doors closed. We’ll have plenty of room, which of course we’ll need.”

“And I’ll be right here in case there’s trouble. I do not want any witnesses in the room while another witness is being deposed.”

“That’s been made clear to all parties.”

“And I want them all on video.”

“It’s all arranged. Money is no object.”

Judge Atlee chewed on the pipe stem and was amused by something. “My oh my,” he mused. “What would Seth Hubbard think if
he could look in next Monday and see a roomful of hungry lawyers fighting over his money?”

“I’m sure he’d be sick, Judge, but it’s his own fault. He should’ve split things up, taken care of his kids and Lettie and anybody else he wanted, and we wouldn’t be here.”

“You think he was crazy?”

“No, not really.”

“Then why’d he do it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Sex?”

“Well, my new intern thinks not, and this girl has been around the world. It’s her mother, but she’s not naive.”

There was actually a prohibition against such a conversation. Among the many antiquated sections of the Mississippi Code, one of the more famous, at least among lawyers, was titled Earwigging the Chancellor Prohibited. In simple English, it prohibited a lawyer from discussing sensitive areas of a pending case with the presiding judge in the absence of the lawyer for the other side. The rule was routinely violated. Earwigging was common, especially in the chambers of Chancellor Reuben V. Atlee, but only with a few preferred and trusted lawyers.