by John Grisham
“We’ll see. Let’s have the first round of negotiations. I’ll act as poor as possible.”
Chapter 45
In the stifling heat of August, Liza’s little room was unbearable. There was no window to catch a breeze, nothing to break the suffocating humidity but a flimsy box fan Joel had brought her the summer before. After a few minutes, they were both sweating and decided to go hunt for shade. She was walking well these days; her condition had improved, at least physically. She had gained a few pounds, though still ate little. At times the Thorazine gave her an appetite. It certainly calmed her and she didn’t fidget nonstop and pull at her hair as before. She cut her hair short and washed it more often, and she had ditched the pale and permanently stained hospital gowns for the simple cotton dresses Stella sent. A milestone had been reached a month earlier when Stella brought in three tubes of lipstick, and Liza was thrilled. Now each visitor was greeted with a bright red smile.
Dr. Hilsabeck continued to say that he was pleased with her progress, but Joel had lost hope that his mother would ever recover enough to leave. After three years in the institution, it had become her home. Yes, she had improved, but then she’d had so far to climb.
They left the building and walked to the pond, where they sat on a picnic table under the shade of an oak. The heat was brutal and the air was too thick to stir, so it hung in one place with no hint of a breeze. Unlike most visits, Joel looked forward to this one because he had so much to talk about. In vivid detail, he recounted their travels to New York, London, Scotland, and Paris.
Liza listened with a pretty smile, one that broke his heart because it was the best she could ever hope for. His mother was not coming home, and home was a subject he could not discuss.
* * *
—
He found a dirty room in a cheap tourist motel near the beach in Biloxi and went looking for Mary Ann Malouf, who was no longer engaged to the guy in Washington. In the past year she had seen a lot of Joel, primarily because he simply would not go away. At Ole Miss, they had sneaked around for late dinners. They had taken two road trips to Memphis, where they would not be seen. He had pressed her to ditch the guy in D.C. and hook up with a real man.
During the summer she was working a few hours a week in a dress store on Main Street, and when he walked through the door she was pleasantly surprised. He hung around long enough to get harsh looks from her boss, then left. They met for a soda after hours and discussed meeting her family. He insisted on it. She was hesitant. Her parents approved of her fiancé and would not understand a new suitor hanging around.
Feeling a bit stiff-armed, Joel bummed around the coast for a few days, trying to avoid both the return home and anything resembling meaningful employment. He knocked on the doors of several law firms, landed two quick interviews but no job offer. The longer he stayed the more he liked Biloxi, with its ethnic blend, cafés offering all manner of fresh seafood, lounges that somehow served alcohol without getting busted, boats rocking in the harbors, and the laid-back atmosphere usually found along the ocean. And the longer he chased Mary Ann Malouf, the more determined he was to catch her.
* * *
—
Burch Dunlap spent the month of August in Montana away from the heat. Evidently, the vacation served him well. He returned to the office after Labor Day filled with energy and determined to make more money. His nearest target was the Banning case.
In chancery court, still and always the unquestioned domain of Chancellor Abbott Rumbold, he filed a lawsuit seeking a judicial foreclosure of the Banning land. He had no choice but to file in Ford County. The law was clear. Indeed, the law was so clear Burch was curious to see how the old judge could manipulate it to favor the Bannings.
A week later he sat down in his conference room to welcome his friend John Wilbanks, who was coming to Tupelo to open settlement negotiations. Or, as Dunlap had confided to his ever-present confidant, Errol McLeish, to beg for mercy.
And there would be none.
John was served coffee and offered a seat on one side of the handsome table. Across from him sat Dunlap, and to his right was McLeish, a man John had quickly learned to despise.
Dunlap lit a cigar and after some small talk said, “You have the money, John. Why don’t you tell us what you have in mind?”
“Of course. Obviously, my clients would like to keep the family land. They are also tired of payin’ me.”
“You’ve done a lot of work that wasn’t necessary,” Dunlap said almost rudely. “We’ve been worried about your fees, frankly. That money comes out of the estate.”
“Look, Burch, why don’t you worry about your fees and I’ll worry about mine. Fair enough?”
Reprimanded, Burch laughed loudly as if his pal had really nailed a great punch line. “Fair enough. Go on.”
“There’s not a lot of cash in the estate, so whatever we offer you to settle has to come from money that will be borrowed against the house and land.”
“How much, John?”
“It’s a question of how much income the farm can produce each year in order to service the mortgage. This year is a disaster. As you know, it’s a risky business. My family has been farming cotton for decades, and I often wonder if it’s really worth it.”
“Your family’s done well, John.”
“In some endeavors, yes. The Bannings think they can borrow fifty thousand against their property and survive the mortgage. That’s the best they can do.”
Dunlap offered a sappy smile as if he’d really enjoyed round one, and said, “Come on, John, they own twelve hundred acres free and clear and a thousand of it is rich farmland. Their home is one of the finest in the county. They have half a dozen outbuildings, fine structures all, plus the farm equipment, and livestock, and how many Negroes?”
“Please, Burch, they don’t own those people.”
“For all practical purposes they do. Fifty is really lowball, John. I thought we agreed to meet for a serious discussion.”
“Well, you can’t be serious if you include the land owned by Florry Banning. That’s half of it, and she’s not involved in the litigation. She’s completely unaffected by all of this.”
“Not so fast, John. Pete Banning farmed his sister’s property just like he farmed his and gave her half the profits. Both sections came from the same source—their parents, and their grandparents, and so on.”
“This is absurd, Burch. Florry had nothing to do with the killing of Dexter Bell and you know it. To imply that her land is in play is ridiculous. If you think otherwise, then try and foreclose on it.”
“We can’t foreclose on anything as long as you keep old Rumbold in your hip pocket.”
John smiled and said, “He’s a brilliant jurist. One of the best.”
“Maybe, but down in Jackson the Supremes are not so impressed. Fifty thousand ain’t flyin’, John.”
“I’ve put a figure on the table. Now it’s your turn.”
McLeish said coldly, “At least a hundred thousand. Frankly, Jackie deserves more because we need to pay Mr. Dunlap.”
Mr. Dunlap said, “One twenty, John. I have this case on a contingency, and I’ve won it fair and square. I’ve done a heck of a job for my client, and I don’t want my fees to come out of her settlement.”
“You’ve done a superb job, Burch, no question about it. But your numbers are far above anything we can afford. No bank will lend more than $75,000 for Pete’s land and the house. Florry’s land is off-limits.”
“Are you offering $75,000?” Dunlap asked.
“Not yet, but would you take $75,000 if it were on the table?”
McLeish shook his head and said, “No.”
Both lawyers were good negotiators, and it was obvious who held the upper hand. When swimming against the tide, John knew it was often beneficial to muddy the waters. He said, “Look, Burch, the kids
would really like to save the house, the only home they’ve ever known. You know about their mother and her troubles. There’s the chance that Liza may come home one day, and it’s crucial that she has her place. Can we discuss separating it and the buildings from the farmland? I’m working on a plat that would carve out only four acres that includes the house, the gardens and barns and such, and your client would take the rest.”
“The deed for the farm, minus the four acres?” Dunlap asked.
“Something like that. I’m just exploring alternatives here.”
“How much are they willing to pay for the four acres?”
“The house is appraised at thirty thousand, which is definitely on the high side. These are two fine kids who are trying to hang on to something.”
“How are they going to service a mortgage on the home?”
“Good question. We’ll figure it out. Florry might help them.”
The biggest obstacle to this proposal was one that would not be mentioned. Jackie Bell wanted the house. In fact, she wanted the house far more than she wanted the land. Her boyfriend fancied himself a gentleman farmer and was already counting his money, but Jackie just wanted a beautiful home.
McLeish shook his head and said, “No way. Those four acres are worth almost as much as the farmland. We can’t do it.” He spoke with the air of a man who was entitled to his rewards, in this case the treasured soil of some of the finest people John Wilbanks had ever known. He despised McLeish for his arrogance and his sense of entitlement.
John said, “Well, it looks as though we have nothing left to discuss.”
* * *
—
In late September, on back-to-back days, the U.S. Supreme Court laid waste to a batch of frivolous requests for hearings. On one day it hammered home the final nail in the coffin in the Banning appeal of the verdict in federal court, and on the very next day it brushed aside the Banning appeal from the Mississippi reversal of Rumbold’s ruling.
The path was now clear for a hearing on the petition by Dunlap for a judicial foreclosure; rather, the path should have been unobstructed. Standing in the way was His Honor himself, and old Rumbold was getting creakier by the month. Dunlap bellowed and screamed and demanded a timely day in court. Rumbold, almost deaf, heard nothing.
And then he died. On October 9, 1949, Abbott Rumbold succumbed to old age and passed at eighty-one. He died peacefully in his sleep, or as the colored folks preferred to say, he “woke up dead.” With thirty-seven years of service, he was the ranking chancellor in the state. Joel drove from Ole Miss and attended his funeral at First Baptist with John and Russell Wilbanks.
The service was a tribute to a man who lived a long, happy, and productive life. There were few tears, a lot of humor, and the warm feeling that one of God’s saints had simply gone home.
Joel’s next burial would be far different.
Chapter 46
To escape the monotony, and to ease some of the healthier patients into normalcy, the doctors and administrators at Whitfield arranged weekly visits to the Paramount Theatre on East Capitol Street in downtown Jackson. For each matinee, an unmarked bus stopped on a side street a block from the theater and twenty or so patients got off. They were accompanied by orderlies and nurses, and once off the bus they worked hard to appear as if they had simply arrived like everyone else. They wore street clothes and blended in with the crowd. An untrained eye would never suspect that they were being treated for all manner of serious mental illnesses.
Liza loved the movies and volunteered at every opportunity. She worked on her hair, put on makeup, layered on the lipstick, and wore one of the dresses Stella had sent.
The Paramount was showing Adam’s Rib, a comedy with Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn, and the lobby was busy by 1:00 p.m. The head nurse bought their tickets and guided them to two rows of seats. On Liza’s left was an older lady named Beverly, an acquaintance who’d been institutionalized for years, and to her right was Karen, a sad young woman who usually slept during the shows.
Fifteen minutes into the movie, Liza whispered to Beverly that she needed to visit the ladies’ room. She eased to the aisle, whispered the same thing to a nurse, and left the auditorium. Then she left the theater.
She walked two blocks along East Capitol to Mill Street and entered the Illinois Central Station, where she purchased a second-class ticket for the 1:50 train to Memphis. Her hand was shaking as she took the ticket, and she needed to sit down. The station was practically empty and she found an empty seat far away from anyone else. She breathed deeply, composed herself, and from a small pocket pulled out a folded sheet of paper. It was a list of “What To Do Next,” one she had been putting together for weeks. She feared she would easily become overwhelmed and need guidance. She read it, refolded it, and returned it to her pocket. She left the station, walked one block along Mill Street to a department store, and purchased a cheap handbag, an even cheaper straw hat, and a magazine. She stuffed her remaining cash, a small bottle of pills, and one tube of lipstick into the purse, and hurried back to the station. As she waited there she reviewed her list again, smiled at herself for the success so far, and watched the entrance in case anyone from the hospital appeared. They did not.
The nurse enjoyed the comedy so much she forgot about Liza and her trip to the ladies’ room. When she finally remembered, she immediately left to go look. Finding nothing, she corralled two orderlies and they began searching the theater, which was almost full. In the lobby, no one remembered seeing a slim lady in a yellow dress leave after the movie started. They continued searching but soon ran out of places to look. The two orderlies began roaming the streets of downtown Jackson, and one finally strolled through the train station. By then, Liza was an hour north of town, sitting alone by a window, clutching her list, staring blankly at the passing countryside, and struggling with the rush of sights and sounds from the real world. She had been locked up for three and a half years.
The police were called and Dr. Hilsabeck was notified. Everyone was alarmed, but not panicked. Liza was not deemed a threat to anyone else, and she was stable enough to take care of herself, for a few hours anyway. Dr. Hilsabeck did not want to alarm the family, nor did he want his staff to appear incompetent, so he delayed calling either Joel, Florry, or Sheriff Nix Gridley.
Liza had purchased her ticket with cash and there was no record of who the passengers were. However, a ticket clerk remembered a lady who fit Liza’s description and said she was headed north, to Memphis. This was around 3:00 p.m. The movie was over and the bus had to return to Whitfield.
When the train arrived in Batesville, its sixth stop, at 4:15, Liza decided to get off. She assumed someone was looking for her, and she suspected they might be watching the trains and buses. Outside the station were two taxis, both old prewar sedans that appeared even more unreliable than the two drivers who were leaning on a bumper. She asked the first one if he would take her to Clanton, an hour and a half away. She offered $10, but he was worried about his tires. The second one said he would do it for $15. His tires looked even worse, but she didn’t have many options.
As she got into the rear seat, her driver said, “No luggage?”
“No. I’m traveling light.”
He got behind the wheel and they drove away from the station. He glanced into the mirror and said, “Mighty pretty dress you got on.”
Liza lifted her purse and said, “I carry a Colt pistol whenever I travel, and I know how to use it. Anything funny, and you’ll be sorry.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Outside town, he found the nerve to speak again. “Anything on the radio, ma’am?”
“Sure, whatever you like.”
He turned on the radio, fiddled with the dial, and found a country station out of Memphis.
* * *
—
It was after dark when Hilsabeck finally made contact with Joel. He explain
ed what had happened and admitted they were searching in vain. Joel was stunned to think that his mother was loose and doing something that she had obviously planned. He was petrified by fear and uncertain where to go. Should he drive to Jackson and help with the search? Or Memphis, where she was believed to be going? Or Clanton? Or just sit and wait? He called Stella and assured her things would be fine. He needed to call Florry, but decided to wait. Her phone was still on a rural party line with a dozen others, and the eavesdroppers would go berserk with the news that Liza Banning had escaped from Whitfield.
For an hour, Joel paced around his apartment, uncertain, waiting for the call that his mother had been found and was fine. He called the sheriff’s department in Clanton but no one answered. He figured old Tick Poley was in a deep sleep. A total jailbreak could be under way and Tick wouldn’t know it.
He finally reached Nix Gridley at home, on his private line, and told him about Liza’s latest. Nix offered his sympathies and said he would drive out and tell Florry.
* * *
—
When the taxi left the highway and pulled onto the long drive to the Banning estate, Liza told the driver to stop. She paid him $15, thanked him, and got out. When he disappeared down the dark and deserted road, she began walking slowly in the pitch blackness, barely able to see the gravel drive in front of her. There was not a single light on in the house, the barns, any of the outbuildings. In the distance, a dim glow emanated from a window in the small house where Nineva and Amos had lived forever. As she felt her way along the gravel, the outline of the house settled into view. She crossed the front lawn, then the porch, and rattled the doorknob. It was locked, which was unusual in the country. No one locked their doors.
She wanted to inspect the flower beds and shrubs, to see how much had changed in three and a half years, but there was no light, no moon on a cloudy night. She walked to the side and saw Pete’s truck parked exactly where he’d left it. She knew that Joel had assumed ownership of the Pontiac. In the backyard, she inched her way through the dead grass. A breeze kicked in from the west and she shivered and rubbed her arms. The rear door to the kitchen was unlocked. She entered her home and stood in the kitchen, stopped cold by an aroma that was so thick and familiar it overwhelmed her: a mix of cigarette smoke and coffee, bacon grease, fruity pies and cakes, thick beef and venison stews that Nineva simmered on the stove for days, steam from the canning of stewed tomatoes and a dozen vegetables, wet leather from Pete’s boots in a corner, the sweet soapy smell of Nineva herself. Liza was staggered by the dense fragrances and leaned on a counter.