by John Grisham
Despite Seth Hubbard’s rather explicit command that no other lawyer in Ford County profit from his estate, Jake was determined to find a way to channel some fees to Harry Rex. Seth wanted his last-minute, handwritten will to survive all challenges, and whether he liked it or not, Harry Rex Vonner was crucial to the effort.
The phone on Jake’s desk started a muted ringing. He ignored it. Harry Rex said, “Why have ya’ll stopped answering the phones around here? I’ve called ten times this week and nobody answered.”
“Portia’s been in the courthouse. I’ve been busy. Lucien doesn’t answer the phone.”
“Think of all the car wrecks and divorces and shoplifting cases you’re missing. All the human misery out there trying like hell to get through.”
“I’d say we’re tied up right now.”
“Any word from Lucien?”
“Nothing this morning, but then it’s only six in Alaska. I doubt if he’s up and about yet.”
“He’s probably just now getting in. You’re an idiot, Jake, for sending Lucien on a road trip. Hell, he gets drunk between here and his house. Put him on the road, in airport lounges, hotel bars, you name it, and he’ll kill himself.”
“He’s cutting back. He plans to study for the bar and get reinstated.”
“Cutting back for that old goat means stopping at midnight.”
“When did you get so clean and sober, Harry Rex? You’ve been drinking Bud Light for breakfast.”
“I know how to pace myself. I’m a professional. Lucien’s just a drunk, that’s all.”
“Are you going to perfect those jury instructions or just sit here and bad-mouth Lucien all morning?”
Harry Rex stood and began lumbering away. “Later. You got a cold Bud Light?”
“No.” When he was gone, Jake opened the envelope and studied the check from the insurance company. On the one hand, he was sad because the check represented the end of their first home. Sure it went up in flames more than three years earlier, but the lawsuit against the insurance company gave Carla and him hope that it might be rebuilt. That was still possible, but unlikely. On the other hand, the check meant cash in the bank; not much by any means, but after paying off the two mortgages they would net close to $40,000. It wasn’t exactly unrestricted, but it did take some pressure off.
He called Carla and said a small celebration was in order. Find a babysitter.
Lucien sounded normal on the phone, though normal for him meant the usual scratchy voice and the pained delivery of a drunk trying to shake off cobwebs. He said their man Lonny Clark had a rough night; the infection would not subside; the doctors were more concerned than the day before; and, most important, he was not receiving visitors.
“What are your plans?” Jake asked.
“Hang around for a while, maybe take a road trip. You ever been out here, Jake? Pretty spectacular, with mountains on three sides and the Pacific right here at the door. The town’s not a big place and not that pretty, but, man, what scenery. I like it. I think I’ll get out and explore.”
“Do you think it’s him, Lucien?”
“I know less than I did when I left Clanton. Still a mystery. The cops don’t care who he is or what’s happening back there; they’ve got a drug ring to break up. I like it here, Jake. I might stay awhile. I’m in no hurry to get back. You don’t need me in that courtroom.”
Jake certainly agreed but said nothing.
Lucien continued, “It’s cool and there’s no humidity. Imagine that, Jake, a place with no humidity. I like it here. I’ll keep an eye on Lonny and chat with him when they let me.”
“Are you sober, Lucien?”
“I’m always sober in the morning. It’s ten at night when I run into trouble.”
“Keep in touch.”
“You got it, Jake. Don’t worry.”
They dropped off Hanna at Jake’s parents in Karaway and drove an hour to Oxford, where they drove through the Ole Miss campus and soaked in the sights and memories of another lifetime. It was a warm, clear spring day, and the students were out in shorts and bare feet. They slung Frisbees across The Grove, sneaked beer from coolers, and soaked up the sun as it was disappearing. Jake was thirty-five, Carla thirty-one, and their college days seemed so recent, yet so long ago.
A walk through campus always triggered a wave of nostalgia. And disbelief. Were they really in their thirties? It seemed like they were students just last month. Jake avoided walking near the law school-that nightmare was not distant enough. At dusk they drove to the Oxford square and parked by the courthouse. They browsed for an hour in the bookstore, had a coffee on the balcony upstairs, then went to dinner at the Downtown Grill, the most expensive restaurant within eighty miles. With money to burn, Jake ordered a bottle of Bordeaux-sixty bucks.
Returning, at almost midnight, they took their customary turns and slowly drove by the Hocutt House. Some of its lights were on, and the grand old place beckoned them. Parked in the driveway was Willie Traynor’s Spitfire with Tennessee plates. Still a bit loose from the wine, Jake said, “Let’s check on Willie.”
“No, Jake! It’s too late,” Carla protested.
“Come on. Willie won’t care.” He’d stopped the Saab and was shifting into reverse.
“Jake, this is so rude.”
“For anyone else, yes, but not for Willie. Plus he wants us to buy this place.” Jake parked behind the Spitfire.
“What if he has company?”
“Now he has more. Let’s go.”
Carla reluctantly got out. They paused for a second on the narrow sidewalk and took in the sweeping front porch. The air was rife with the fragrant aromas of tree peonies and irises. Pink and white azaleas burst forth from the flower beds.
“I say we buy it,” Jake said.
“We can’t afford it,” she replied.
“No, but the bank can.”
They stepped onto the porch, rang the bell, and heard Billie Holiday in the background. Willie eventually came to the door, in jeans and a T-shirt, and pulled it open with a big smile. “Well, well,” he said, “if it’s not the new owners.”
“We were just in the neighborhood and wanted a drink,” Jake said.
“I hope we’re not intruding,” Carla said, somewhat embarrassed.
“Not at all. Come in, come in,” Willie insisted as he waved them in. They went to the front parlor where he had a bottle of white wine on ice. It was almost empty, and he quickly grabbed another and uncorked it. As he did so he explained that he was in town to cover the trial. His latest venture was the launch of a monthly magazine devoted to southern culture, and its inaugural issue would have an in-depth story about Seth Hubbard and the fortune he’d left to his black housekeeper. Willie had not mentioned this before.
Jake was thrilled at the idea of some publicity outside Ford County. The Hailey trial had given him a dose of notoriety, and it was intoxicating. “Who’s on the cover?” he asked, joking.
“Probably not you,” Willie said as he handed over two glasses filled to the top. “Cheers.”
They talked about the trial for a moment or two, but all three were having other thoughts. Finally, Willie broke the ice by saying, “Here’s what I propose. Let’s shake hands tonight on the house, a verbal contract, just the three of us.”
“Verbal contracts for real estate are not enforceable,” Jake said.
“Don’t you just hate lawyers?” Willie said to Carla.
“Most of them.”
Willie said, “It’s enforceable if we say it’s enforceable. Let’s shake hands tonight on a secret deal, then after the trial we’ll find a real lawyer who can draft a proper contract. You guys go to the bank and line up a mortgage, and we’ll close in ninety days.”
Jake looked at Carla who looked right back. For a moment they froze, as if the idea was entirely new. In reality, they had discussed the Hocutt House until they were weary of it.
“What if we can’t qualify for a mortgage?” Carla asked.
“Do
n’t be ridiculous. Any bank in town will loan you the money.”
“I doubt it,” Jake said. “There are five in town and I’ve sued three of them.”
“Look, this place is a bargain at two fifty and the banks know it.”
“I thought it was two twenty-five,” Jake said, glancing at Carla.
Willie took a sip of his wine, smacked his lips with satisfaction, and said, “Well, yes, it was, briefly, but you didn’t take the bait at that price. Frankly, the house is worth at least $400,000. In Memphis-”
“We’ve had that conversation, Willie. This is not midtown Memphis.”
“No, it’s not, but two fifty is a more reasonable price. So, it’s two fifty.”
Jake said, “That’s a strange way to sell, Willie. If you don’t get your price, you keep raising it?”
“I’m not raising it again, Jake, unless some doctor comes along. It’s two fifty. That’s fair. You guys know it. Now let’s shake hands.”
Jake and Carla stared at each other for a moment, then she slowly reached over and shook Willie’s hand. “Atta girl,” Jake said. The deal was closed.
The only sound was the faint hum of a monitor, somewhere above and behind him. The only light was the red glow of digital numbers that recorded his vitals. His lower back was cramping and Lonny tried to shift slightly. An IV drip kept the clear but potent meds in his blood, and for the most part kept the pain away. In and out, in and out, he came and went, barely awake for a few moments, then dead again. He’d lost track of the days and hours. They had turned off his television and taken away his remote. The meds were so strong that not even the worrisome nurses could awaken him at all hours of the night, though they tried.
When awake, he could feel movement in the room-orderlies, housekeepers, doctors, lots of doctors. He occasionally heard them speak in low, grave voices, and Lonny had already decided he was dying. An infection he couldn’t pronounce or remember was now in control, and the doctors were struggling. In and out.
A stranger appeared without a sound and touched the guardrail. “Ancil,” he said in a low but strong voice. “Ancil, are you there?”
Lonny’s eyes opened wide at the sound of his name. It was an old man with long gray hair and a black T-shirt. It was the same face, back again. “Ancil, can you hear me?”
Lonny did not move a muscle.
“Your name’s not Lonny, we know that. It’s Ancil, Ancil Hubbard, brother of Seth. Ancil, what happened to Sylvester Rinds?”
Though terrified, Lonny remained frozen. He smelled whiskey and remembered it from the night before.
“What happened to Sylvester Rinds? You were eight years old, Ancil. What happened to Sylvester Rinds?”
Lonny closed his eyes and breathed deeply. For a second he was gone, then he jerked his hands and opened his eyes. The stranger was gone.
He called the nurse.
38
Before his wife died, Judge and Mrs. Atlee once went eight consecutive years without missing Sunday worship at the First Presbyterian Church. Fifty-two Sundays in a row, for eight years. A flu virus halted the streak. Then she passed on, and the judge lost some focus and actually missed once or twice a year. But not often. He was such a presence in the church that his absence was always noted. He wasn’t there the Sunday before the trial began, and when Jake realized it he allowed his mind to wander during the sermon. Could the old guy be sick? If so, might the trial be postponed? How would this affect his strategy? A dozen questions and no answers.
After church, Jake and his girls returned to the Hocutt House where Willie was preparing a brunch on the back porch. He insisted on hosting the new owners, claiming he wanted to meet Hanna and show her around. All top secret of course. Jake and Carla would have preferred to keep their daughter out of it for the moment, but they could hardly suppress their excitement. Hanna promised to keep this rather significant secret. After a tour, which included Hanna’s tentative selection of her new bedroom, they settled around a plank farm table on the porch and had French toast and scrambled eggs.
Willie moved the conversation away from the house and to the trial. Fluidly, he became a journalist again, probing and nibbling around the edges of sensitive material. Twice Carla shot warning glances at Jake, who realized what was happening. When Willie asked if they could expect any evidence that Seth Hubbard had been intimate with Lettie Lang, Jake politely said he couldn’t answer that question. The brunch became a little awkward as Jake grew quieter while his host kept chatting on about rumors he was chasing. Was it true Lettie had offered to split the money and settle the case? Jake replied firmly that he could not comment. There was so much gossip. When Willie pursued another question about “intimacy,” Carla said, “Please, Willie, there’s a seven-year-old present.”
“Yes, sorry.”
Hanna was not missing a word.
After an hour, Jake looked at his watch and said he had to get to the office. It would be a long afternoon and night. Willie poured some more coffee as they thanked him and placed their napkins on the table. It took fifteen minutes to gracefully say good-bye. As they drove away, Hanna stared at the house through the car’s rear window and said, “I like our new house. When can we move in?”
“Soon, honey,” Carla said.
“Where’s Mr. Willie going to live?”
“Oh, he has several houses,” Jake said. “Don’t worry about him.”
“He’s such a nice man.”
“Yes, he is,” Carla said.
Lucien followed the detective into the room where Lonny sat waiting expectantly with a stout nurse at his side, sentry-like. She was not smiling and seemed irritated by this intrusion. One of the doctors had reluctantly acceded to the request for a few questions. Lonny’s condition had improved overnight and he was feeling better, but his team was still protective. They didn’t like lawyers anyway.
“This is the guy I told you about, Lonny,” the detective said, without the slightest attempt at an introduction. Lucien, in his black suit, stood down by Lonny’s feet and offered a phony smile. “Mr. Clark, my name is Lucien Wilbanks, and I work for a lawyer in Clanton, Mississippi,” he said.
Lonny had seen the face before, hadn’t he? In the middle of the night, the face had appeared and disappeared like a ghost. “A pleasure,” Lonny said, as if still groggy, though his mind had not been this clear since before the blow to his skull.
Lucien said, “We’re involved in some litigation that makes it imperative that we locate a man named Ancil Hubbard. Mr. Hubbard was born in Ford County, Mississippi, on August 1, 1922. His father was Cleon Hubbard, his mother was Sarah Belle Hubbard, and he had one brother, Seth, who was five years older. We’ve been searching high and low for Ancil Hubbard, and it’s come to our attention that there’s a chance you might know him or perhaps your paths have crossed in recent years.”
Lonny said, “You’ve come all the way from Mississippi?”
“Sure, but it’s no big deal. We have airplanes down there too. And we’ve covered the continent looking for Ancil.”
“What kind of litigation?” Lonny asked, with the same disdain most people heap onto the unsavory subject.
“Some pretty complicated stuff. Seth Hubbard died suddenly about six months ago and he left behind a mess. A lot of business interests and not much in the way of estate planning. Our job as lawyers is to first try and round up the family, which in the case of the Hubbards is quite a task. We have reason to believe you might know something about Ancil Hubbard. Is this right?”
Lonny closed his eyes as a wave of pain rolled through his head. He reopened them, looked at the ceiling, and said softly, “That name doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”
As if he was either expecting this or not hearing it, Lucien went on, “Can you think of anyone in your past who might have known Ancil Hubbard, or mentioned his name? Help me here, Mr. Clark. Think back. It looks like you’ve moved around a lot, so you’ve known many people in many places. I know you got a sore head and all, but take you
r time, think real hard about this.”
Again, he said, “That name does not ring a bell.”
The nurse glared at Lucien and seemed ready to pounce. He did not acknowledge her presence. He carefully sat his battered leather briefcase on the foot of the bed so Lonny could see it. It probably contained something important. Lucien said, “Have you ever been to Mississippi, Mr. Clark?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“Well, hey, that’s a real surprise, because we thought you were born there. We’ve paid a lot of money to some high-priced investigators who’ve been tracking Ancil Hubbard. When your name popped up, they took off after you and found several Lonny Clarks. One of them was born in Mississippi sixty-six years ago. You are sixty-six years old, aren’t you, Mr. Clark?”
Lonny stared at him, overwhelmed and uncertain. Slowly, he said, “I am.”
“So what’s your connection to Ancil Hubbard?”
The nurse said, “He said he didn’t know him.”
Lucien snapped at her: “And I’m not talking to you! This is an important legal matter, a big case involving dozens of lawyers, several courts, and a pile of money, and if I need you to stick your nose into the middle of it, then I’ll let you know. Until then, please butt out.” Her cheeks blushed crimson as she gasped for breath.
Lonny despised that particular nurse and said to her, “Don’t speak for me, okay? I can take care of myself.” The nurse, completely chastised, took a step back from the bed. Lucien and Lonny, now joined in their contempt for the nurse, looked at each other carefully. Lonny said, “I’ll have to sleep on it. My memory is coming and going these days, and they got me so doped up, you know?”
“I’ll be happy to wait,” Lucien said. “It’s very important that we find Ancil Hubbard.” He pulled a business card from a pocket and handed it to Lonny. “This is my boss, Jake Brigance. You can call him and check me out. He’s the lead lawyer in the case.”
“And you’re a lawyer too?” Lonny asked.
