Sycamore Row jb-2

by John Grisham

  “In the boondocks, all black. She’s married to a man named Simeon Lang, pretty much of a deadbeat who comes and goes, off and on the wagon.”

  “I’ve never met any Langs.”

  “You don’t want to meet this one. When he’s sober, I think he drives a truck and runs a bulldozer. I know he worked offshore once or twice. Unstable. Four or five kids, one boy in prison, I think there’s a girl in the Army. Lettie’s about forty-five, I’d guess. She’s a Tayber, and there aren’t many of them around. He’s a Lang, and the woods are full of Langs, unfortunately. I did not know she was workin’ for Seth Hubbard.”

  “Did you know Hubbard?”

  “Somewhat. He gave me $25,000 under the table, cash, for both of my campaigns; wanted nothin’ in return; in fact, he almost avoided me my first four years. I saw him last summer when I was up for reelection and he gave me another envelope.”

  “You took the cash?”

  “I don’t like your tone, Jake,” Ozzie said with a smile. “Yes, I took the cash because I wanted to win. Plus, my opponents were takin’ cash. Politics is a tough business around here.”

  “Fine with me. How much money did the old man have?”

  “Well, he says it’s substantial. Personally, I don’t know. It’s always been a mystery. The rumor has been that he lost everything in a bad divorce-Harry Rex cleaned him out-and because of that he’s kept his business buried under a rock.”

  “Smart man.”

  “He owns some land and has always dabbled in timber. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

  “What about his two adult children?”

  “I talked to Herschel Hubbard around five yesterday afternoon, broke the bad news. He lives in Memphis, but I didn’t get much information. He said he would call his sister, Ramona, and they would hustle on over. Seth left a sheet of paper with some instructions on how he wanted to be handled. Funeral tomorrow at 4:00 p.m., at church, then a burial.” Ozzie paused and reread the letter. “Seems kinda cruel, doesn’t it, Jake? Seth wants his family to suffer through a proper mourning before they know he’s screwed ’em in his will.”

  Jake chuckled and said, “Oh, I think it’s beautiful. You wanna go to the funeral?”

  “Only if you’ll go.”

  “You’re on.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the voices outside, to the ringing of the phones, and they both knew they had things to do. But there were so many questions, so much high drama just around the corner.

  “I wonder what those boys saw,” Jake said. “Seth and his brother.”

  Ozzie shook his head, no clue. He glanced at the will and said, “Ancil F. Hubbard. I can try and find him if you want; run his name through the network; see if he’s got a record anywhere.”

  “Do that. Thanks.”

  After another heavy pause, Ozzie said, “Jake, I have a lot on my plate this mornin’.”

  Jake jumped to his feet and said, “Me too. Thanks. I’ll call later.”

  4

  The drive from central Memphis to Ford County was only an hour, but for Herschel Hubbard it was always a lonesome journey that seemed to kill a day. It was an unwelcome excursion into his past, and for many reasons he made it only when necessary, which wasn’t very often. He’d left home at eighteen, kicking the dirt off his shoes and vowing to avoid the place whenever possible. He had been an innocent casualty in a war between his parents, and when they finally split he sided with his mother and fled the county, and his father. Twenty-eight years later, he found it difficult to believe the old man was finally dead.

  There had been efforts at reconciliation, usually at Herschel’s urging, and Seth, to his credit, had hung on for a while and tried to tolerate his son, and his grandkids. But a second wife and a second bad marriage had intervened and complicated matters. For the past decade, Seth had cared for nothing but his work. He called on most birthdays and sent a Christmas card once every five years, but that was the extent of his efforts at fatherhood. The more he worked the more he looked down on his son’s career, and this was a major cause of their tension.

  Herschel owned a college bar near the campus of Memphis State. As bars go, it was popular and busy. He paid his bills and hid some cash. Like father like son, he was still grappling with the aftershocks of his own nasty divorce, one won decidedly by his ex, who got the two kids and virtually all the money. For four years now, Herschel had been forced to live with his mother in an old, declining house in central Memphis, along with a bunch of cats and the occasional freeloading bum his mother took in. She, too, had been scarred by an unpleasant life with Seth, and was, as they say, off her rocker.

  He crossed the Ford County line and his mood grew even darker. He was driving a sports car, a little Datsun he’d bought secondhand primarily because his late father hated Japanese cars, hated all things Japanese, really. Seth had lost a cousin in World War II, at the hands of his Japanese captors, and relished wallowing in his well-earned bigotry.

  Herschel found a country station out of Clanton and shook his head at the DJ’s twangy and sophomoric comments. He had entered another world, one he left long ago and hoped to forget forever. He pitied all those friends who still lived in Ford County and would never leave. Two-thirds of his senior class at Clanton High were still in the area, working in factories and driving trucks and cutting pulpwood. His ten-year reunion had so saddened him he skipped the twenty-year.

  After the first divorce, Herschel’s mother fled the place and resettled in Memphis. After the second, Herschel’s stepmother fled the place and settled in Jackson. Seth hung on to the home, along with the land around it. For this reason, Herschel was forced to revisit the nightmare of his childhood when he went to see Seth, something he had done only once a year until the cancer arrived. The house was a one-story, ranch-style, redbrick structure set back from the county road and heavily shaded with thick oaks and elms. There was a long, open front lawn where Herschel had played as a child, but never with his father. They had never tossed a baseball or a football, never even set up a kids’ soccer goal, or played tackle football. As he turned in to the driveway, he looked at the wide lawn and was once again surprised at how small it now seemed. He parked behind another car, one he did not recognize, one with Ford County license plates, and for a moment stared at the house.

  He had always assumed he would not be bothered by his father’s death, though he had male friends who had warned him otherwise. You grow into an adult; you’re trained to control your emotions; you don’t hug your father because he is not the hugging type; you don’t send gifts or letters; and when he’s dead you know you can easily survive without him. A little sadness at the funeral, maybe a tear or two, but within days the ordeal is over and you’re back to your life, undamaged. And those male friends had kind things to say about their fathers. They had watched the old guys age and face death with little concern for the aftermath, and every one of them had been blindsided by grief.

  Herschel felt nothing; no sense of loss, no sadness at the closing of a chapter; no pity for a man so troubled he took his own life. He sat in his car and looked at the house and admitted to himself that he felt nothing for his father. Perhaps there was a trace of relief in that he was gone and his death meant one less complicating factor in Herschel’s life. Perhaps.

  He walked to the front door, which was opening as he approached. Lettie Lang was standing in the doorway, touching her eyes with a tissue. “Hello, Mr. Hubbard,” she said in a voice straining with emotion.

  “Hello Lettie,” he said, stopping on the rubber doormat lying on the concrete porch. Had he known her better he might have stepped forward for a quick hug or some gesture of shared sympathy, but he couldn’t force himself to do it. He had met her only three or four times, and never properly. She was a housekeeper, and a black one, and as such was expected to stay in the shadows when the family was around.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, backing away.

  “So am I,” Herschel said. He followed h
er inside, through the den, to the kitchen where she pointed to a coffeepot and said, “I just made this.”

  “Is that your car out there?” he asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Why did you park in the driveway? I thought you were supposed to park to the side over there, next to Dad’s pickup.”

  “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t thinkin’. I’ll go move it.”

  “No, forget it. Pour me some coffee, two sugars.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Where is Dad’s car, the Cadillac?”

  Lettie carefully poured the coffee into a cup. “The sheriff took it in. Supposed to bring it back today.”

  “Why’d they take the car?”

  “You’ll have to ask them.”

  Herschel pulled a chair from under the table, sat down, and cradled his cup. He took a sip, frowned, said, “How’d you find out about Dad?”

  Lettie leaned against a counter and folded her arms across her chest. He quickly scanned her from head to toe. She was wearing the same white cotton dress she always wore, knee-length, a bit tight around the waist where she carried a few pounds, and very tight across her ample chest.

  She did not miss the look; she never missed them. At forty-seven years of age and after five childbirths, Lettie Lang still managed to get some looks, but never from white men. She said, “Calvin called me last night, told me what happened, asked me to open up the house this mornin’ and wait for you all.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “No sir. Ain’t never had a key. The house was unlocked.”

  “Who’s Calvin?”

  “White man who works here on the property. Said Mr. Seth called him yesterday mornin’, told him to meet him down to the bridge at two o’clock. Sure enough, there he was.” She stopped her narrative long enough to dab her eyes with the tissue.

  Herschel took another sip. “The sheriff said Dad left a note and some instructions.”

  “I ain’t seen nothin’ like that, but Calvin saw it. Said Mr. Seth wrote he was takin’ his own life.” She began crying.

  Herschel listened for a while, and when she was quiet he asked, “How long have you worked here, Lettie?”

  She took a deep breath and wiped her cheeks. “I don’t know, ’bout three years. I started two days a week cleanin’, Monday and Wednesday, a few hours a day, didn’t take much because Mr. Seth lived alone, you know, and he was pretty neat, for a man. Then he asked me to cook for him, and I was happy to do it. More hours. I’d cook a buncha stuff and leave it on the stove or in the refrigerator. Then when he got sick he asked me to come in every mornin’ and take care of him. When the chemo was real bad, he’d stay in bed pretty much all day and night.”

  “I thought he was paying a nurse.”

  Lettie knew how little Mr. Herschel and Mrs. Dafoe had seen of their father during his illness. Lettie knew everything; they knew almost nothing. However, she would be respectful, as always.

  “Yes sir, he did for a while, then he got to where he didn’t like them. They were always changin’ nurses and you didn’t know who might show up.”

  “So, you’ve been working here full-time for how long?”

  “About a year.”

  “How much did Dad pay you?”

  “Five dollars an hour.”

  “Five! That seems kinda high for domestic help, doesn’t it? I mean, well, I live in Memphis, a big city, and my mother pays her housekeeper four and a half an hour.”

  Lettie just nodded because she had no response. She could have added that Mr. Seth paid her in cash, and often added a little extra, and had loaned her $5,000 when her son got in trouble and went to prison. That loan had been forgiven only four days earlier. There was nothing in writing.

  Herschel sipped his coffee in disapproval. Lettie stared at the floor. Out in the driveway, two car doors slammed.

  Ramona Hubbard Dafoe was crying before she cleared the front door. She embraced her older brother on the porch, and he, to his credit, managed to seem sufficiently moved: eyes tightly closed, lips pooched, forehead furrowed. A man in real misery. Ramona wailed in what seemed to be authentic pain, though Herschel had his doubts.

  Ramona moved on and was soon hugging Lettie, as if the two were the natural-born children of the same kind and loving father. Herschel, meanwhile, was still on the porch and greeting Ramona’s husband, a man he loathed and the loathing was mutual. Ian Dafoe was a preppy from a family of bankers down in Jackson, the capital, the largest city, home to at least half the assholes in Mississippi. The banks were long gone (belly-up) but Ian would forever cling to the airs of a privileged boy, even though he had married lower, and even though he was now hustling to make a buck like everyone else.

  As they shook hands politely, Herschel glanced over his shoulder to check out their vehicle. No surprise. A shiny, seemingly new white Mercedes sedan, the latest in a line of same. Thanks to Ramona’s drinking and loose tongue, Herschel knew that dear Ian leased his cars for thirty-six months and turned them in early. The payments caused a bind on their finances, but that didn’t matter. It was far more important for Mr. and Mrs. Dafoe to be seen around north Jackson in a proper vehicle.

  They eventually gathered in the den and found seats. Lettie served them coffee and colas, then dutifully slipped into the shadows, into the open door of a bedroom just down the hall, a spot she often occupied when she listened to Mr. Seth on the phone in the den. From there, she could hear everything. Ramona cried some more and went on about how unbelievable everything was. The men just listened, agreeing, occasionally uttering a syllable or two. They were soon interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Two ladies from the church arrived with a cake and a casserole, and they were not to be denied. Lettie hustled around and took the food to the kitchen, and the ladies, without the benefit of an invitation, plopped down in the den and commenced trolling for gossip. They had seen their brother Seth just yesterday at church, and he had looked so good. They knew about the lung cancer and all, but, heavens, he seemed to have conquered it.

  Herschel and the Dafoes offered nothing. Lettie listened from the shadows.

  The church ladies were about to burst with all manner of inquiries: “How’d he do it?” and “Did he leave a note?” and “Who gets the money?” and “Any chance of foul play?” But, it was painfully clear such nosiness would not be well received. After twenty minutes of near silence, they lost interest and began their good-byes.

  Five minutes after they left, the doorbell rang again. The driveway was being watched. The three cars were attracting attention.

  “Get that, Lettie,” Herschel yelled from the den. “We’re hiding in the kitchen.”

  It was the neighbor across the road with a lemon cake. Lettie thanked her and explained that Mr. Seth’s children were indeed there but “not taking company.” The neighbor loitered for a while on the porch, desperate to get inside and stick her nose into the family’s drama, but Lettie politely blocked the door. After she finally left, Lettie took the cake to the kitchen where it sat untouched on the counter.

  At the kitchen table, it didn’t take long to get down to business. “Have you seen the will?” Ramona asked, her eyes remarkably clear now and glowing with intrigue and suspicion.

  “No,” Herschel said. “Have you?”

  “No. I was here a couple of months ago-”

  “It was July,” Ian interrupted.

  “Okay, July, and I tried to talk to Daddy about his will. He said some lawyers in Tupelo had written it and that we would be properly taken care of, but that was all. Did you ever talk to him about it?”

  “No,” Herschel admitted. “It just didn’t feel right, you know? The old guy was dying of cancer and I’m asking about his will? I couldn’t do it.”

  Lettie was lurking in the hallway, in the shadows, catching every word.

  “What about his assets?” Ian asked, in cold blood. He had good reason to be curious since most of his own assets were so heavily mortgaged. His company built low-end
shopping centers and strip malls, every deal loaded with debt. He worked frantically to stay one step ahead of his lenders, but they were always howling.

  Herschel glared at his brother-in-law, the leech, but kept his cool. All three suspected trouble with Seth’s estate, so there was no sense in rushing things. They would be at war soon enough. Herschel shrugged and said, “Don’t know. He was very secretive, as you’ve seen. This house, the two hundred acres around it, the lumber yard up the road, but I don’t know about his loans and such. We never talked business.”

  “You never talked about anything,” Ramona shot across the table, then immediately took it back. “I’m sorry, Herschel. Please.”

  But such a cheap shot from a sibling can never be left alone. Herschel sneered and said, “Didn’t realize you and the old man were so close.”

  Ian quickly changed the subject with, “Does he have an office here, or a place he kept his personal papers? Come on. Why can’t we look around here? There’s bound to be bank statements and land deeds and contracts, hell, I’ll bet there’s even a copy of the will, right here in the house.”

  “Lettie should know,” Ramona said.

  “Let’s not involve her,” Herschel said. “Did you know he was paying her five bucks an hour, full-time?”

  “Five bucks?” Ian repeated. “What are we paying Berneice?”

  “Three fifty,” Ramona said. “For twenty hours.”

  “We’re paying four and a half in Memphis,” Herschel reported proudly, as if he and not his mother wrote the checks.

  “Why would an old tightwad like Seth pay so much for a housekeeper?” Ramona mused, knowing there was no answer.

  “She’d better enjoy it,” Herschel said. “Her days are numbered.”

  “So we’re firing her?” Ramona asked.

  “Immediately. We have no choice. You wanna keep forking over that kinda money? Look, Sis, here’s the plan. We get through the funeral, tell Lettie to get things in order, then cut her loose and lock up the house. We’ll put it on the market next week and hope for the best. There’s no reason for her to hang around, at five bucks an hour.”