by John Grisham
“I did.” Lettie knew the question was coming and answered it without hesitation. There was no law or rule against such a loan, not on the receiving end anyway.
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
“Did he write you a check or was it in cash?”
“Cash, and we, Simeon and I, signed a promissory note.”
“Was this the only loan from Sistrunk?”
“No, there was a prior loan for $5,000.”
“Why did you borrow money from Mr. Sistrunk?”
“Because we needed the money. I lost my job, and with Simeon you never know.”
“Did you take the money and move into a larger house?”
“We did.”
“And how many people now live in that house?”
Lettie thought for a moment, and said, “Usually around eleven, but the number varies. Some come and go.”
Jake glared at Stillman as if to say, “Don’t even think about wanting all eleven names. Can we just move along?”
Stillman was tempted, but moved along. “How much are you paying in rent?”
“Seven hundred a month.”
“And you’re unemployed as of today?”
“Correct.”
“Where is your husband working right now?”
“He’s not.”
“Since Mr. Sistrunk is no longer your lawyer, how do you plan to repay him?”
“We’ll worry about that later.”
Roxy had sandwiches and chips ready for lunch, and they ate in the conference room where Lucien joined them. “How’d it go?” he asked.
“The usual first round of worthless questions,” Jake said. “Lettie was great but she’s already tired.”
Lettie said, “I can’t do this for another day and a half.”
“Modern discovery,” Lucien said in disgust.
“Tell us how it was back in the old days, Lucien,” Jake said.
“Well, back in the old days, and the old days were much better than all these new rules you got now-”
“I didn’t write them.”
“You weren’t required to divulge all of your witnesses and describe what they were going to say, no sir. It was trial by ambush. You get your witnesses, I’ll get mine, and we’ll show up at the courthouse and have us a trial. It made you a better lawyer too because you had to react on the fly. Nowadays, everything has to be fully disclosed and every witness has to be available for a deposition. Think of the time. Think of the expense. It was far better back then, I swear it was.”
“Why don’t you take a large bite of that sandwich?” Jake said. “Lettie needs to relax and no one can relax when you’re on your soapbox.”
Lucien took a small bite and asked, “What’d you think, Portia?”
She was nibbling on a chip. She laid it down and said, “It’s pretty cool, I mean, being in a room full of that many lawyers. Makes me feel important.”
“Don’t be too impressed,” Jake said. “Most of those guys couldn’t try a shoplifting case in city court.”
“I’ll bet Wade Lanier can,” Lettie said. “He’s smooth. I get the impression he knows what I’m gonna say before I say it.”
“He’s very good,” Jake admitted. “Believe me, Lettie, we will learn to despise him. He seems to be a nice guy now, but you won’t be able to stand the sight of him before this is over.”
The thought of a long fight seemed to deflate Lettie. Four hours into the initial skirmish, and she was already exhausted.
During lunch, two ladies from the clerk’s office assembled a small artificial Christmas tree and placed it at the far rear corner of the courtroom. From where Jake was sitting at the table, he had a clear, unobstructed view of the tree. At noon each Christmas Eve, most of the Circuit and Chancery Court clerks and judges, and a few handpicked lawyers, gathered back there for egg nog and gag gifts. It was a gathering Jake tried his best to avoid.
The tree, though, reminded him that Christmas was only days away, and the thought of shopping had not yet crossed his mind, at least not until then. As Wade Lanier plowed ahead in a voice so low and dry that it was practically a sedative, Jake caught his mind drifting away to the holidays. For the past two years, they had struggled to decorate their rental and bring it alive for the holidays. Hanna helped tremendously. Having a child around the house kept everyone’s spirits up.
Lanier moved into a sensitive area. Slowly, skillfully, he probed into Lettie’s duties around the house when Mr. Hubbard was sick with the chemo and radiation and confined to his bed. Lettie explained that a home-health-care agency sent nurses over to tend to him, but these women were not good, not considerate enough, and Mr. Hubbard was quite rude. She didn’t blame him. He ran them off and had fights with the agency. Eventually, Lettie took over his care. She cooked whatever he wanted, and fed him when he needed help. She helped him out of bed and to the bathroom, where he sometimes sat on the toilet for half an hour. He had accidents, and she cleaned his bed. On several occasions, he was forced to use a bedpan, and Lettie tended to him. No, it was not pleasant work and she was not trained in such ways, but she managed. He appreciated her kindness. He trusted her. Yes, on several occasions she bathed Mr. Hubbard in his bed. Yes, a complete bath, touching everywhere. He was so sick and hardly awake. Later, when they stopped the chemo and radiation for a while, he regained his strength and began moving around as soon as possible. He bounced back with an amazing determination. No, he never quit smoking.
Intimacy can kill our case, Jake had explained to Portia in blunt terms, which were then filtered through daughter to mother. If the jury believes Lettie got too close to Seth Hubbard, they’ll have no trouble finding she unduly influenced him.
Was Mr. Hubbard affectionate with her? Was he one to hug, peck on the cheek, pat on the rear end? Not in the least, Lettie said. Never. Her boss was a hard man who kept to himself. He had little patience with other people and needed few friends. He did not shake Lettie’s hand when she arrived for work in the morning, nor did he offer her even a semblance of an embrace when saying good-bye. She was his employee, nothing more: not a friend, nor confidante, nor anything else. He was polite and he thanked her when appropriate, but he was never a man of many words.
She knew nothing of his business, nor his social affairs. He never spoke of another woman and Lettie never saw one in his home. In fact, she could not remember a single incident when a friend or business acquaintance came to the house, not in the three years she worked there.
Perfect, Jake said to himself.
Bad lawyers tried to trick witnesses, or pin them down, or confuse them, all in an effort to win the deposition. Good lawyers preferred to win at trial, and used depositions as a means to gather information that could be used to set traps later. Great lawyers skipped depositions altogether, and orchestrated beautiful ambushes in front of the jury. Wade Lanier and Stillman Rush were good lawyers, and they spent the first day collecting data. During eight hours of direct examination, there was not the first cross word, not the first hint of disrespect for the witness.
Jake was impressed with his opponents. Later, in his office, he explained to Lettie and Portia that both Lanier and Rush were basically acting. They were presenting themselves as friendly guys who really liked Lettie and were just searching for the truth. They wanted Lettie to like them, to trust them, so that at the trial she might drop her guard. “They’re a couple of wolves,” he said. “At trial, they’ll go for your throat.”
Lettie, exhausted, asked, “Jake, I won’t be on the stand for no eight hours, will I?”
“You’ll be ready.”
She had her doubts.
Zack Zeitler led off the following morning with a series of probing questions about Mr. Hubbard’s last days. He struck pay dirt when he asked, “Did you see him on Saturday, October 1?”
Jake braced himself for what would follow. He had known it for several days, but there was no way to avoid it. The truth was the truth.
&nbs
p; “I did,” Lettie answered.
“I thought you said you never worked on Saturdays.”
“That’s right, but Mr. Hubbard asked me to come in that Saturday.”
“And why was that?”
“He wanted me to go to his office with him, to clean it. The regular guy was off sick and the place needed cleaning.” Around the table, Lettie’s response was far more effective than the morning coffee. Eyes opened, spines stiffened, rear ends inched to the edges of chairs, a couple of telling glances were exchanged.
Smelling blood, Zeitler pressed on cautiously. “What time did you arrive at Mr. Hubbard’s house?”
“Around nine that mornin’.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he wanted me to go with him to his office. So we got in the car and went to his office.”
“Which car?”
“His. The Cadillac.”
“Who drove?”
“I did. Mr. Hubbard asked me if I’d ever driven a new Cadillac. I said no. I had said somethin’ earlier about how nice the car was, and so he asked me if I wanted to drive it. At first I said no, but he handed me the keys. So I drove it over to the office. I was a nervous wreck.”
“You drove him over?” Zeitler repeated. Around the table all heads were low as the lawyers scribbled furiously, their minds spinning. In perhaps the most famous will contest in the history of the state, the beneficiary, who was not a blood relative, actually drove the dying person to the lawyer’s office to sign a will that cut out all family and left everything to the beneficiary, the driver. The Supreme Court invalidated the last will on the grounds of undue influence, and gave as a significant reason the fact that the “surprise beneficiary” had been so involved in the making of the new will. Since that court decision thirty years earlier, it was not unusual for a lawyer to ask “Who drove him over?” when an unexpected will was discovered.
“Yes,” she said. Jake watched the other eight lawyers as they reacted exactly as he anticipated. It was a gift to them, and a hurdle for him to clear.
Zeitler carefully arranged some notes, then said, “How long were you in his office?”
“I didn’t look at no clock, but I’d say a couple of hours.”
“Who else was there?”
“No one. He said they usually didn’t work on Saturdays, at least not in the office.”
“I see.” For the next hour, Zeitler probed through that Saturday morning. He asked Lettie to draw a diagram of the office building to establish where she cleaned and where Mr. Hubbard spent the time. She said he never left his office and the door was shut. No, she did not go in there, not even to clean. She did not know what he was working on or what he was doing in his office. He came and went with his everyday briefcase, but she had no idea what was in it. He appeared to be clearheaded, certainly able to drive if he’d wanted, and she knew little about his pain medications. Yes, he was frail and weak, but he had gone to the office every day that week. If anyone else saw them at the office, she was not aware of it. Yes, she drove the Cadillac back to Mr. Hubbard’s house, then she went home, arriving there around noon.
“And he never mentioned the fact that he was writing his last will?”
“Objection,” Jake said. “She’s already answered that twice.”
“Okay, yes, well, I just wanted to make sure.”
“It’s in the record.”
“Sure.” Having scored big, Zeitler was reluctant to move on. He established that Lettie drove the Cadillac on that day only; she rarely saw pill bottles or drugs around the house; she suspected he kept his meds in his briefcase; at times he was in severe pain; he never talked about suicide; she never witnessed bizarre behavior that would suggest he was under the influence of medications; he was not a drinker but occasionally kept a few beers in the refrigerator; and he kept a desk in his bedroom but almost never worked at home.
By noon Tuesday, Lettie was ready to quit. She had a long lunch in Jake’s office, again with Portia, then took a nap on a sofa.
Death by deposition continued on Wednesday as Jake took charge and quizzed Herschel Hubbard for several hours. The morning session dragged on with stultifying dullness, and it didn’t take long to establish that Herschel had accomplished little and taken few chances in his career. His divorce had been the most exciting event in his life. Such hot topics as his education, work experiences, businesses, former homes and apartments, relationships, friends, interests, hobbies, religious convictions, and political leanings were covered in depth and proved to be stunningly boring. Several of the attorneys nodded off. Portia, in her third day of real legal action, struggled to stay awake.
After lunch, the lawyers reluctantly returned to the courtroom for another session. Jake managed to liven things up a bit when he began trying to pin down how much time Herschel had spent with his father in the past several years. Herschel tried to give the impression he and the old man were close, but had trouble recalling specific visits. If they spoke so often on the phone, what might the phone records reveal? Jake asked. Any cards and letters from Seth? Herschel was sure he had them but he wasn’t so sure he could produce them. His lawyers had instructed him to be as vague as possible, and he succeeded beautifully.
On the subject of Lettie Lang, Herschel claimed to have been around her quite often, during his many visits to see his beloved father. In his opinion, Seth was quite fond of her. He admitted he never saw them touch in any way, but there was something in the way they looked at each other. What, exactly? Not sure, but just something between them. She was always listening, always in the shadows trying to eavesdrop. And as his father got sicker, he depended more and more on Lettie, and they grew closer. Jake asked if he was suggesting they were intimate. “Only Lettie knows that,” Herschel replied, implying, of course, the obvious.
Portia fumed as she glanced around the table. She assumed that every person there, except for Jake, believed her mother was sleeping with a withered and decaying old white man, and doing so to get his money. But Portia kept her head low, and, as a professional, maintained a poker face as she filled another page with notes that would never be reviewed.
Seven hours of probing were more than enough to establish Herschel Hubbard was a less than interesting person who’d had a strained and distant relationship with his father. He was still living with his mother, still reeling from a bad divorce, and, at the age of forty-six, barely surviving on the income from a student hangout. What Herschel desperately needed was an inheritance.
As did Ramona. Her deposition kicked off at 9:00 on Thursday morning, and by then the lawyers were cranky and fed up with the case. Spending five consecutive days in deposition was a rare event, though not unheard-of. During a break, Wade Lanier told a story of deposing a dozen consecutive witnesses over ten straight days in an oil spill case in New Orleans. The witnesses were from Venezuela, most did not speak English, and the interpreters were not that fluent. The lawyers partied hard every night, suffered through the depositions with awful hangovers, and two of them entered rehab when the ordeal was over.
No one had more stories than Wade Lanier. He was the senior lawyer and had spent thirty years in courtrooms. The more Jake watched and listened, the more he respected Lanier. He would be a formidable foe before the jury.
Ramona turned out to be as dull as her brother. From their depositions, it slowly became apparent that Seth Hubbard was a neglectful father who viewed his children as little more than nuisances. In hindsight, and with the money on the line, they tried valiantly to prop up the old guy and make them all seem like a close, happy family, but Seth simply could not be reinvented. Jake poked and prodded and trapped her here and there, but he did so with a smile and tried not to offend her. Since she and Herschel spent so little time with their father, their testimony would not be that crucial at trial. They were not around him in the days before his death; thus, they had nothing to offer on the subject of his mental capacity. They had no firsthand knowledge of his alleged closeness to Lett
ie.
And these were only preliminary depositions. Jake and the other lawyers knew that in all likelihood Lettie, Herschel, Ramona, and Ian Dafoe would be deposed again. When the facts became clearer and the issues more narrowly defined, the lawyers would have more questions.
23
Leaving the courthouse in a hurry late Thursday afternoon, Jake was grabbed by Stillman Rush, who asked if he had time for a quick drink. It was a strange offer because the two had nothing in common except the Hubbard case. Sure, he said, why not? Stillman had something important to talk about; otherwise he wouldn’t waste his time with a street lawyer like Jake.
They met in a bar in the basement of an old building just off the square, walking distance from the courthouse. It was already dark outside, and misting, a perfectly gloomy evening and a great time for a drink. Though Jake didn’t frequent bars, he’d been there before. It was a shadowy, damp place with dark corners and booths and gave the impression that semi-legitimate deals were going down. Bobby Carl Leach, the town’s most infamous shyster, owned a table next to the fireplace and was often seen there with politicians and bankers. Harry Rex Vonner was a regular.
Jake and Stillman got a booth, ordered draft beers, and began to unwind. After four straight days at the same table listening to endless and marginally useful testimony, they were almost numb with tedium. Stillman’s innate cockiness seemed to vanish and he was almost likable. When the waiter dropped off the beers, he leaned in low and said, “Here’s an idea, just me thinking with no authority from anyone else. But there’s a pile of money here, we all know that. Not sure how much right now, but-”
“Twenty-four million,” Jake interrupted. The lawyers would soon learn what was in the inventory, and there was no harm in revealing this to Stillman. Jake was just trying to keep it out of the newspapers.
Stillman paused, smiled, took a sip and shook his head. “Twenty-four million.”
