Sycamore Row (65 page)

“I’ll do that.”

Lucien paid for the coffee and they left through a side door. In an alley, they said good-bye. Lucien was headed for the airport; Ancil, the hotel. When he got there, the detective was waiting.

In a crowded courtroom that was silent, even stunned, Fritz Pickering told his story, every devastating detail. Lettie absorbed it in total defeat, her head bowed, her eyes on the floor, then her eyes closed in agony. She shook her head from time to time as if she disagreed, but no one in the courtroom believed her.

Lies, lies, lies.

Fritz produced a copy of his mother’s handwritten will. Jake objected to its admission into evidence on the grounds that there was no way to prove Irene Pickering’s handwriting, but Judge Atlee barely heard him. It became evidence. Wade Lanier asked his witness to read the fourth paragraph, the one giving $50,000 to Lettie Lang. He read it slowly and loudly. A couple of the jurors shook their heads in disbelief.

Wade Lanier hammered away. “So, Mr. Pickering, you and your sister sat Lettie Lang down at the kitchen table and showed her the will handwritten by your mother, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And if she testified earlier that she had never seen a will, then she was lying, correct?”

“I suppose.”

“Objection,” Jake said.

“Overruled,” His Honor snarled from the bench.

It was apparent, at least to Jake, that Judge Atlee was now the enemy. He viewed Lettie as a liar, and in his world there was no greater sin. Over the years he had jailed several litigants when they were caught red-handed telling lies, but always in divorce cases. A night in jail worked wonders in the search for veracity.

Lettie was in no danger of going to jail; that would be far more preferable. At that dreadful moment, with the jurors squirming nervously and glancing around, she was in danger of losing about $20 million, give or take, before taxes of course.

When a witness is telling the truth, and the truth hurts, a trial lawyer has no alternative but to attack the witness’s credibility. Jake sat stone-faced as if he expected Fritz to say what he was saying, but just under the skin he was desperately searching for a soft spot. What did Fritz have to gain by testifying? Why would he waste his time?

“Mr. Brigance,” Judge Atlee said when Lanier tendered the witness.

Jake stood quickly and faked as much confidence as possible. The first rule every trial lawyer learns is to never ask a question if you don’t know the answer. But when you’re staring at certain defeat, toss the rules. Shooting wildly from the hip, Jake said, “Mr. Pickering, how much are you being paid to testify here today?”

The bullet landed between his eyes. He actually flinched as his jaw dropped, and he shot a desperate look at Wade Lanier. Lanier shrugged and nodded. Go ahead, it’s no big deal.

Fritz said, “Seventy-five hundred dollars.”

“And who’s paying you?” Jake demanded.

“The check came from Mr. Lanier’s office.”

“And what’s the date on the check?”

“I don’t remember exactly, but I got it about a month ago.”

“So about a month ago you guys closed the deal. You agreed to come here and testify, and Mr. Lanier sent you the money, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Didn’t you in fact demand more than seventy-five hundred?” Jake asked, still shooting wildly with no idea what the facts were. But he had a hunch.

“Well, yes, I did ask for more.”

“You wanted at least ten thousand, didn’t you?”

“Something like that,” Fritz admitted and looked at Lanier again. Jake was reading his mind.

“And you told Mr. Lanier that you would not testify unless you got paid, right?”

“At the time, I wasn’t talking to Mr. Lanier. It was one of his investigators. I didn’t meet Mr. Lanier until earlier this morning.”

“Regardless, you were not going to testify for free, right?”

“That’s right.”

“When did you drive over from Shreveport?”

“Late yesterday afternoon.”

“And when are you leaving Clanton?”

“Just as soon as I can.”

“So, a quick trip, say twenty-four hours?”

“Something like that.”

“Seventy-five hundred bucks for twenty-four hours. You’re an expensive witness.”

“Is that a question?”

Jake was getting lucky but he knew it couldn’t last. He looked at his notes, chicken scratch he could not read, and changed course. “Mr. Pickering, didn’t Lettie Lang explain to you that she had nothing to do with the preparation of your mother’s will?”

Jake had no idea what Lettie had done; he had yet to discuss the incident with her. That would be an ugly conversation, probably during lunch.

“That’s what she said,” Fritz replied.

“And didn’t she try to explain that your mother never said a word to her about the will?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Where did you get this copy of the will?”

“I kept it.” Actually, it had arrived anonymously in the mail, but who would ever know the difference?

“Nothing further,” Jake said as he sat down.

Judge Atlee announced, “We’ll be in recess until one thirty.”

44

Jake and Harry Rex fled town. With Jake driving, they raced deep into the countryside, putting distance between themselves and the nightmare in the courtroom. They wouldn’t risk bumping into Lettie or Portia, or the other lawyers, or anyone, for that matter, who had just witnessed the bloodletting.

Harry Rex was the eternal contrarian. When a day in trial went smoothly, he could always be counted on to see nothing but negatives. A bad day, and he could be unbelievably optimistic about tomorrow. As Jake drove and seethed, he kept waiting for his foxhole buddy to pass along an observation that might lift his spirits, if only for a moment. What he got was: “You’d better come off your high horse and settle this son of a bitch.”

A mile passed before Jake responded. “What makes you think Wade Lanier would talk settlement now? He just won the case. That jury wouldn’t give Lettie Lang fifty bucks for a sack of groceries. You saw their faces.”

“You know the bad part, Jake?”

“It’s all bad. It’s worse than bad.”

“The bad part is that it makes you question everything about Lettie. I’ve never thought for a minute that she manipulated Seth Hubbard into redoing his will. She’s not that slick and he wasn’t that stupid. But now, all of a sudden, when you realize she’s done it before, you say, ‘Okay, could this be a pattern.’ ‘Could this old gal know more about will and estate law than we give her credit for?’ I don’t know, it just rattles you.”

“And why would she cover it up? Hell, I’ll bet she’s never told Portia,
never told anyone about getting caught at the Pickerings’. I guess I should’ve been smart enough to ask her six months ago—say, Lettie, have you talked anyone else into changing their wills and adding a nice provision for you?”

“Why didn’t you think of that?”

“Stupid I guess. I feel pretty stupid right now.”

Another mile passed, then another. Jake said, “You’re right. It makes you question everything. And if we feel this way, think about the jurors.”

“The jurors are gone, Jake, and you’ll never get ’em back. You’ve called your best witnesses, put on a near-perfect case, saved your star to go last, and she did a fine job, and then, in a matter of minutes, the case was totally destroyed by a surprise witness. You can forget this jury.”

Another mile passed. Jake said, “A surprise witness. Surely that’s grounds for a reversal.”

“Don’t bet on it. You can’t let it get that far, Jake. You gotta settle this case before it goes to the jury.”

“I’ll have to resign as the attorney.”

“Then so be it. You’ve made some money, now get out of the way. Think about Lettie for a moment.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I understand, but what if she walks out of that courtroom without a penny?”

“Maybe that’s what she deserves.”

They slid to a stop in the gravel parking lot of Bates Grocery. The red Saab was the only foreign car there; every other vehicle was a pickup truck, and not a one less than ten years old. They waited in line as Mrs. Bates patiently filled their plates with her vegetables and Mr. Bates collected $3.50 from each customer, sweet iced tea and corn bread included. The crowd was almost shoulder to shoulder and there were no empty chairs. “Over there,” Mr. Bates said, nodding, and Jake and Harry Rex sat at a small counter not too far from the massive gas stove that was covered with pots. They could talk, but carefully.

Not that it mattered. Not a single person having lunch knew a trial was under way in town, and they certainly didn’t know how badly the trial had turned against Jake. Perched on a stool and hunched over his plate, he sat forlornly and looked through the crowd.

“Hey, you gotta eat,” Harry Rex said.

“No appetite,” Jake said.

“Can I have your plate?”

“Maybe. I envy these people. They don’t have to go back into that courtroom.”

“Neither do I. You’re on your own, buddy. You’ve screwed up the case so bad it can never be rescued. I’m outta there.”

Jake pinched off a bite of corn bread and stuck it in his mouth. “Didn’t you go to school with Lester Chilcott?”

“I did. Biggest prick in law school. Nice enough guy when we started, but then he got a job with a big Jackson firm and, bam, just like that, he became a flaming asshole. I guess it happens. He’s not the first. Why?”

“Grab him this afternoon and whisper to him. See if they’ll talk settlement.”

“Okay. What kind of settlement?”

“I don’t know, but if they’ll come to the table, we’ll cut a deal. If I resign, I think Judge Atlee will take charge of the negotiations and make sure everyone gets something.”

“Now you’re talking. It’s worth a shot.”

Jake managed a bit of fried okra. Harry Rex was half-finished and eyeing Jake’s plate. He said, “Look, Jake, you played football, right?”

“I tried.”

“No, I remember when you were the quarterback for scrawny little Karaway, never had a winning season, as I recall. What was the worst ass-whipping you ever took on the field?”

“Ripley beat us fifty to nothing my junior year.”

“How bad was it at halftime?”

“Thirty-six to nothing.”

“And did you quit?”

“No, I was the quarterback.”

“Okay, you knew at halftime that you were not going to win, but you led the team back onto the field for the second half, and you kept playing. You didn’t quit then and you can’t quit now. A win looks pretty doubtful at this point, but you gotta drag your ass back onto the field. Right now you look thoroughly defeated, and the jury is watching every move you make. Eat your vegetables like a good boy, and let’s go.”

The jurors scattered for lunch and reconvened in the jury room at 1:15. In little pockets of whispered conversations, they talked about the case. They were surprised and confused. Surprised that the trial
had turned so abruptly against Lettie Lang. Before Fritz Pickering showed up, the evidence was mounting and it was becoming clear that Seth Hubbard was a man who did whatever he wanted, and knew exactly what he was doing. That changed suddenly, and Lettie was now viewed with great suspicion. Even the two black jurors, Michele Still and Barb Gaston, appeared to be jumping ship. The confusion was about what was next. Who would Jake put on the stand to undo the damage? Could it be undone? And if they, the jurors, rejected the handwritten will, what would happen to all that money? There were many unanswered questions.

There was so much chatter about the case that the foreman, Nevin Dark, felt compelled to remind them that His Honor frowned on what they were doing. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said politely, not wanting to offend. He was not, after all, their boss.

At 1:30, the bailiff entered the room, counted heads, and said, “Let’s go.” They followed him into the courtroom. When they were seated, all twelve looked at Lettie Lang, who was not looking up from her note-taking. Nor did her lawyer glance over at the jury box for one of his cute little smiles. Instead, he sat low in his chair, chewing on a pencil, trying to appear relaxed.

Judge Atlee said, “Mr. Lanier, you may call your next witness.”