Sycamore Row (62 page)

Jake’s purpose in putting the doctor on the stand was twofold. First, he wanted to establish the fact that Seth was almost dead from lung cancer. Therefore, hopefully, the act of suicide might not seem so drastic and unreasonable. Jake planned to argue later that Seth was indeed thinking clearly in his last days, regardless of how he chose to die. The pain was unbearable, the end was near, he simply sped things along. Second, Jake wanted to confront head-on the issue of the side effects of Demerol. Lanier had some heavyweight testimony lined up, an expert who would say the powerful narcotic, taken in the quantities prescribed, seriously impaired Seth’s judgment.

An odd fact in the case was that the last prescription was never found. Seth had purchased it at a pharmacy in Tupelo six days before he died, then he apparently disposed of it; thus, there was no proof of how much or how little he’d actually consumed. At his specific instructions, he was buried without an autopsy. Months earlier, Wade Lanier had suggested, off the record, that the body be exhumed for toxicity tests. Judge Atlee said no; again, off the record. The level of opiates in Seth’s blood on Sunday when he died was not automatically relevant to the level the day before when he wrote his will. Judge Atlee seemed to be particularly offended by the notion of digging up a person after he had been properly laid to rest.

Jake was pleased with his direct examination of Dr. Talbert. They clearly established that Seth tried to avoid taking Demerol, and that there was simply no way to prove how much was in his system when he made his last will.

Wade Lanier managed to get the doctor to admit that a patient taking up to six to eight doses a day of Demerol, at a hundred milligrams each, should not consider making important decisions, especially ones dealing with large sums of money. Such a patient should be somewhere resting comfortably and quietly—no driving, no physical activity, no crucial decision making.

After the doctor was excused, Jake called Arlene Trotter, Seth’s longtime secretary and office manager. She would be his last witness before Lettie, and since they were approaching 5:00 p.m., Jake made the decision to save Lettie for early Wednesday morning. He had spoken to Arlene many times since Seth’s death and was nervous about putting her on the stand. He really had no choice. If he didn’t call her, Wade Lanier certainly would. She had been deposed in early February
and had been evasive, in Jake’s opinion. After four hours, he strongly believed she had been coached by Lanier or someone working for him. Nonetheless, she spent more time with Seth the last week of his life than anyone else, and her testimony was crucial.

She appeared terrified as she swore to tell the truth and settled into the seat. She glanced at the jurors, who were watching closely. Jake asked the preliminary questions, the ones with easy and obvious answers, and she seemed to settle down. He established that from Monday through Friday of the week before he died, Seth arrived at his office each morning around nine, which was later than usual. He was generally upbeat and in good spirits until noon, when he took a long nap on the sofa in his office. He wasn’t eating, though Arlene kept offering snacks and sandwiches. He kept smoking—he was never able to stop. As always, he kept his door closed, so Arlene wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. However, he stayed busy that week trying to sell three tracts of timberland in South Carolina. He was on the phone a lot, which was not unusual. At least once an hour, he left the building and went for a stroll around the premises. He stopped and talked to some of his employees. He flirted with Kamila, the girl at the front desk. Arlene knew he was in great pain because at times he couldn’t hide it, though he never, ever admitted this. He let it slip once that he was taking Demerol, though she never saw the bottle of pills.

No, he was not glassy-eyed. He did not slur his speech. At times he was fatigued, and he napped often. Usually, he left around three or four.

Jake was able to paint the picture of a man still in charge, the boss at work as if all was well. For five consecutive days before he wrote a new will, Seth Hubbard was at the office, on the phone, tending to his business.

Wade Lanier began his cross-examination with “Let’s talk about this timberland in South Carolina, Ms. Trotter. Did Seth Hubbard sell these three tracts of land?”

“Yes sir, he did.”

“And when?”

“On that Friday morning.”

“The Friday morning before he wrote his will on Saturday, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Did he sign any sort of contract?”

“He did. It was faxed to my desk and I took it to him. He signed it, and I faxed it back to the attorneys in Spartanburg.”

Lanier picked up a document and said, “Your Honor, I have here Exhibit C-5, which has already been stipulated to and admitted.”

Judge Atlee said, “Proceed.”

Lanier handed the document to Arlene and said, “Could you please identify that?”

“Yes sir. It’s the contract Seth signed on Friday morning, selling the three tracts of land in South Carolina.”

“And how much was Seth to receive?”

“A total of $810,000.”

“Eight ten. Now, Ms. Trotter, how much did Seth pay for this timberland?”

She paused for a moment, glanced nervously at the jurors, and said, “You have the paperwork, Mr. Lanier.”

“Of course.” Lanier produced three more exhibits, all of which had been marked and admitted beforehand. There were no surprises here; Jake and Lanier had haggled over the exhibits and documents for weeks. Judge Atlee had long since ruled them admissible.

Arlene slowly reviewed the exhibits as the courtroom waited. Finally, she said, “Mr. Hubbard purchased this land in 1985 and paid a total of one point one million.”

Lanier scribbled this down as if it were new. Peering over his reading glasses, with his eyebrows arched in disbelief, he said, “A loss of $300,000!”

“Apparently so.”

“And this was only twenty-four hours before he made his handwritten will?”

Jake was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation on the part of the witness. Counsel can save it for his closing argument.”

“Sustained.”

Lanier ignored the commotion and zeroed in on the witness. “Any idea, Ms. Trotter, why Seth would do such a bad deal?”

Jake rose again. “Objection, Your Honor. More speculation.”

“Sustained.”

“Was he thinking clearly, Ms. Trotter?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

Lanier paused and flipped a page of notes. “Now, Ms. Trotter, who was in charge of cleaning the office building where you and Seth worked?”

“A man named Monk.”

“Okay, tell us about Monk.”

“He’s a longtime employee at the lumber yard, sort of a general helper who does all sorts of odd jobs, mainly cleaning. He also paints, fixes everything, even washed Mr. Hubbard’s vehicles.”

“How often does Monk clean the offices?”

“Every Monday and Thursday morning, from nine until eleven, without fail, for many years now.”

“Did he clean the offices on Thursday, September 29, of last year?”

“He did.”

“Has Lettie Lang ever cleaned the offices?”

“Not to my knowledge. There was no need for her to do so. Monk was in charge of that. I’ve never seen Ms. Lang until today.”

Throughout the day, Myron Pankey moved around the courtroom. His job was to watch the jury constantly, but to do so without being obvious required a number of tricks. Different seats, different vantage points, a change in sports coats, shielding his face behind a larger person sitting in front of him, the use of various eyeglasses. He spent his career in courtrooms, listening to witnesses and watching jurors react to them. In his learned opinion, Jake had done a steady job of laying out his case. Nothing fancy, nothing memorable, but no blunders either. The majority of the jurors liked him and believed that he was searching for the truth. Three apparently did not. Frank Doley, Number Twelve, was firmly in their corner and would never vote to give all that money to a black housekeeper. Pankey did not know the tragic story of Doley’s niece, but he could tell from the opening statements the man distrusted Jake and did not like Lettie. Number Ten, Debbie Lacker, a fifty-year-old white woman, and quite rural, had shot several hard looks at Lettie throughout the day, little messages that Myron never missed. Number Four, Fay Pollan, another fifty-year-old white woman, had actually nodded in agreement when Dr. Talbert testified that a person on Demerol should not make important decisions.

As the first day of testimony came to a close, Pankey called it a draw. Two fine lawyers had performed well and the jurors had not missed a word.

With Ancil unable to talk, Lucien spent the day in a rented car touring glaciers and fjords in the mountains around Juneau. He was
tempted to leave, to hustle back to Clanton for the trial, but he was also quite taken with the beauty of Alaska, and the cool air and near-perfect climate. It was already heating up in Mississippi, with longer days and stickier air. As he ate lunch at a hillside café, the Gastineau Channel stretched magnificently below him, he made the decision to leave tomorrow, Wednesday.

At some point, and soon, Jake would inform Judge Atlee that Ancil Hubbard had been located, and verified, though the verification was shaky because the subject might change his mind at any moment and adopt another alias. Lucien doubted this, though, because Ancil was thinking about the money. Such a revelation would not affect the trial. Wade Lanier was right: Ancil had nothing to say about his brother’s will or testamentary capacity. So Lucien would leave him to his own problems. He suspected Ancil might serve a few months in prison. If he got lucky and found a good lawyer, he might walk entirely. Lucien was convinced the search and seizure of the cocaine was a clear violation of the Fourth Amendment. Suppress the search, eliminate the cocaine, and Ancil would be free again. If Jake won the trial, Ancil might one day make his long-deferred return to Ford County and claim his share of the estate.

If Jake lost, Ancil would disappear into the night, never to be found again.

After dark, Lucien went to the hotel bar and said good evening to Bo Buck, the bartender, who was now a close friend. Bo Buck had once been a judge in Nevada before things conspired to wreck his life, and he and Lucien enjoyed swapping stories. They talked for a moment as Lucien waited on his first Jack and Coke. He took it to a table and sat down, alone and loving the solitude. Just a man and his sour mash. A minute later, Ancil Hubbard materialized from nowhere and sat across the table.

“Evening Lucien,” he said casually.

Startled, Lucien stared at him for a few seconds to make sure. He was wearing a baseball cap, a sweatshirt, and jeans. That morning he’d been unconscious in a hospital bed with tubes running everywhere.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Lucien said.

“I got tired of the hospital, so I walked out. I guess I’m a fugitive, but that’s nothing new. I kinda like being on the run.”

“What about your head, and the infection?”

“My head’s sore, though not nearly as sore as they thought. Remember, Lucien, I was scheduled to go from the hospital to the jail, a transfer
I preferred not to make. Let’s just say I wasn’t nearly as unconscious as they thought. The infection is under control.” He pulled out a bottle of pills. “When I left I took my antibiotics. I’ll be all right.”

“How’d you leave?”

“Walked out. They rolled me downstairs for a scan. I went to the restroom. They thought I couldn’t walk, so I ran down some steps, found the basement, found a locker room, changed clothes. Came out through the service ramp. Cops were swarming last time I checked. I was drinking coffee across the street.”

“This is a small town, Ancil. You can’t hide for long.”

“What do you know about hiding? I have some friends.”

“You want something to drink?”

“No, but I’d love a burger and fries.”