Sycamore Row jb-2

by John Grisham

  “And you’re not a lawyer, Mr. Sheriff. But thanks for the legal advice anyway. It’ll be forgotten by the time I get back to my cell.”

  Ozzie rocked back and flung his feet upon his desk, his cowboy boots impressive with a new shine. He gazed at the ceiling, frustrated, and said, “You’re makin’ it easy for the white folks to hate Lettie Lang, you know that, Booker?”

  “She’s black. They hated her long before I came to town.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve been elected twice by the white folks in this county. Most of them are good people. They’ll give Lettie a fair shake, or at least they would have until you showed up. Now it’s black versus white and we don’t have the votes. You’re an idiot, you know that, Booker? I don’t know what kinda law you do up in Memphis, but it ain’t workin’ down here.”

  “Thanks for the coffee and doughnuts. Can I go now?”

  “Please go.”

  Sistrunk stood and walked to the door, where he stopped and said, “By the way, I’m not sure your jail complies with federal law.”

  “Sue me.”

  “A lot of violations.”

  “It might get worse.”

  Portia was back before noon. She waited and chatted with Roxy while Jake finished a long phone call, then she went up the stairs. Her eyes were red, her hands shook, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. They managed some small talk about the dinner the night before. Finally, Jake asked, bluntly, “What’s going on?”

  She closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead and began talking. “We were up all night, one big nasty fight. Simeon was drinking, not bad, but enough to get himself riled up. Momma and I said that Sistrunk had to go. He, of course, didn’t like that, and so we fought. A houseful of people, and we’re fighting like a bunch of idiots. He finally left and we haven’t seen him since. That’s the bad news. The good news is that my mother will sign whatever it takes to get rid of the Memphis lawyers.”

  Jake walked to his desk, picked up a sheet of paper, and handed it to her. “It just says that she fires him. That’s all. If she signs it, then we’re in business.”

  “What about Simeon?”

  “He can hire all the lawyers he wants, but he’s not named in the will; therefore, he’s not an interested party. Judge Atlee will not recognize him, nor his lawyers. Simeon’s game is over. This is between Lettie and the Hubbard family. Will she sign it?”

  Portia stood and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Outside in the car.”

  “Please ask her to come in.”

  “She doesn’t want to. She’s afraid you’re upset with her.”

  Jake couldn’t believe it. “Come on, Portia. I’ll make some coffee and we’ll have a chat. Go get your mother.”

  Sistrunk was reading and resting comfortably on his lower bunk, a stack of motions and briefs balanced on his stomach, his cellie sitting nearby with his nose stuck in a paperback. Metal clanged, the door unlatched, Ozzie appeared from nowhere and said, “Let’s go Booker.” He handed him his suit, shirt, and tie, all on one hanger. His shoes and socks were in a paper grocery bag.

  They sneaked out a rear door where Ozzie’s car was parked. A minute later they stopped behind the courthouse and hustled inside. The halls were empty and no one suspected anything. On the third floor they entered Judge Atlee’s cramped outer room. His court reporter doubled as his secretary. She pointed to another door and said, “They’re waiting.”

  “What’s going on?” Sistrunk mumbled for at least the fourth time. Ozzie did not reply. He pushed open the door. Judge Atlee sat at the end of a long table, in his standard black suit, minus the robe. To his right sat Jake, Lettie, and Portia. He motioned to his left and said, “Gentlemen, please have a seat.” They did, with Ozzie sitting as far away from the action as possible.

  Sistrunk glared across the table at Jake and Lettie. It was difficult for him to hold his tongue, but he managed to do so. His habit was to shoot first and ask questions later, but common sense told him to take it easy, hold his fire, and try not to anger the judge. Portia, in particular, seemed ready to pounce on him. Lettie studied her hands while Jake scratched on a legal pad.

  “Please review this,” Judge Atlee said to Sistrunk as he slid over a single sheet of paper. “You’ve been fired.”

  Sistrunk read the one short paragraph, then looked at Lettie and said, “Did you sign this?”

  “I did.”

  “Under duress?”

  “Absolutely not,” Portia said boldly. “She has made the decision to terminate your services. It’s right there in black and white. Do you understand?”

  “Where’s Simeon?”

  “Gone,” Lettie said. “Don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “I still represent him,” Sistrunk said.

  “He’s not an interested party,” Judge Atlee said. “Thus, he will not be allowed to take part, nor will you.” He picked up another sheet of paper and passed it over. “This is an order I just signed lifting the contempt citation. Since you are no longer involved in this matter, Mr. Sistrunk, you are free to go.” It was more of a command than an observation.

  Sistrunk looked angrily at Lettie and said, “I’m allowed to be paid for my time and expenses, plus there is the matter of the loans. When can I expect the money?”

  “In due course,” Jake said.

  “I want it now.”

  “Well, you’re not getting it now.”

  “Then I’ll sue.”

  “Fine. I’ll defend.”

  “And I’ll preside,” Judge Atlee said. “I’ll give you a trial date in about four years.”

  Portia could not suppress a chuckle. Ozzie said, “Judge, are we finished? If so, I need to drive Mr. Sistrunk back to Memphis. Seems he’s stranded down here. Plus, he and I have a few things to discuss.”

  “You’ll hear from me again. This is not the last word,” Sistrunk growled at Lettie.

  “I’m sure of that,” Jake said.

  “Take him away,” Judge Atlee said. “Preferably to the state line.”

  The meeting was adjourned.

  21

  The Law Offices of Jake Brigance had never used an intern. Other lawyers around the square occasionally allowed them in; they were usually local college kids who were considering law school and looking for something to stick on a résumé. In theory, they were good sources of either free or cheap labor, but Jake had heard more bad stories than good. He had never been tempted, until Portia Lang came along. She was bright, bored, unemployed, and talking about law school. She was also the most sensible person now residing in the old Sappington house, and her mother trusted her implicitly. And, obviously, her mother was still on track to become the richest black woman in the state, though Jake saw formidable hurdles ahead.

  He hired Portia for $50 a week and gave her an office upstairs, away from the distractions of Roxy, Quince Lundy, and especially Lucien, who by Thanksgiving was showing up every day and warming up to his old habits. It was, after all, his office, and if he wanted to smoke a cigar and fog up everybody’s space, then so be it. If he wanted to walk around the reception area with a late-afternoon bourbon and harass Roxy with dirty jokes, then so be it. If he wanted to pester Quince Lundy with questions about Seth Hubbard’s assets, then who could stop him?

  Jake was spending more and more time refereeing among his expanding staff. Two months earlier he and Roxy had existed quietly in a rather dull but productive manner. Now, there was tension, sometimes conflict, but also a lot of laughs and teamwork. Overall, Jake was enjoying the noise, though he was terrified Lucien was serious about returning to the practice. On the one hand, he loved Lucien and treasured his advice and insights. On the other, he knew any new arrangement wouldn’t last. Jake’s trump card was a key provision in Mississippi law that required a disbarred lawyer to take the bar exam before being reinstated. Lucien was sixty-three years old, and from around 5:00 p.m. each day, and sometimes earli
er, until late in the night, he was under the influence of Jack Daniel’s. There was no way such an old drunk could study and pass the bar exam.

  Portia arrived for her first day of work at five minutes before 9:00, her appointed hour. She had timidly asked Jake about the office dress code. He had quietly explained that he had no idea what interns wore, but he guessed things were casual. If they were going to court, she might want to step it up a little, but he really didn’t care. He was expecting jeans and running shoes, but instead Portia presented herself in an attractive blouse, skirt, and heels. The woman was ready for work, and within minutes Jake had the impression she was already thinking of herself as a lawyer. He showed her to her office, one of three empty ones upstairs. It had not been used in many years, not since the old Wilbanks firm was in its glory. Portia was wide-eyed as she took in the fine wooden desk and handsome but dusty furnishings. “Who was the last lawyer here?” she asked, looking at a faded portrait of an ancient Wilbanks.

  “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 anyw
ay. 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.