by John Grisham
Seth’s cruel plan was to withhold knowledge of his last will until after the funeral. In his letter to Jake, his exact words were: “Do not mention my last will and testament until after the funeral. I want my family to be forced to go through all the rituals of mourning before they realize they get nothing. Watch them fake it-they’re very good at it. They have no love for me.” As the service dragged on, it became apparent that there was little faking going on. What was left of his family didn’t care enough to even fake it. What a sad way to go, thought Jake.
At Seth’s instructions, there were no eulogies. No one spoke but the pastor, though it was easy to get the impression there might be no volunteers if they opened up the mike. The pastor finished with a marathon of a prayer, one obviously designed to burn some clock. Twenty-five minutes after he started, he dismissed them with the invitation to walk next door to the cemetery for the interment. Outside, Jake managed to dodge Stillman Rush and the lawyers. Instead, he bumped into the nearest man in a business suit and said, “Excuse me, but I’m looking for a Russell Amburgh.”
The man politely pointed and said, “Right there.”
Russell Amburgh was standing ten feet away, lighting a cigarette, and he heard Jake’s inquiry. The two shook hands grimly and gave their names. Jake said, “Could I have a moment alone?”
Mr. Amburgh half shrugged and said softly, “Sure, what’s up?”
The crowd was drifting slowly in the general direction of the cemetery. Jake had no plans to watch the burial; he was on another mission. When he and Amburgh were far enough away not to be heard, he said, “I’m a lawyer in Clanton, never met Mr. Hubbard, but I received a letter from him yesterday. A letter, along with his last will and testament in which he names you as his executor. It is imperative that we talk as soon as possible.”
Amburgh stopped cold and jammed the cigarette into a corner of his mouth. He glared at Jake, then glanced around to make sure they were alone. “What kinda will?” he said, exhaling smoke.
“Handwritten, last Saturday. He was clearly contemplating his death.”
“Then he was probably out of his mind,” Amburgh said, sneering, the first rattle of a saber in the coming war.
Jake had not expected this. “We’ll see. I guess that will be determined later.”
“I was a lawyer once, Mr. Brigance, a long time ago before I found honest work. I know the game.”
Jake kicked a rock and looked around. The first mourners were nearing the front entrance of the cemetery. “Can we talk?”
“What’s in the will?”
“I can’t tell you now but I can tell you tomorrow.”
Amburgh cocked his head back and glared down along his nose. “How much do you know about Seth’s business?”
“Let’s say nothing. In his will he writes that you have a good knowledge of his assets and liabilities.”
Another draw, another sneer. “There are no liabilities, Mr. Brigance. Only assets, and plenty.”
“Please, let’s meet and have a chat. All secrets are about to be revealed, Mr. Amburgh, I just need to know where it’s going. Under the terms of his will, you’re the executor and I’m the lawyer for the estate.”
“That doesn’t sound right. Seth hated the lawyers in Clanton.”
“Yes, he made that very clear. If we can meet in the morning, I’ll be happy to show you a copy of his will and shed some light.”
Amburgh started walking again and Jake tagged along, for a few steps anyway. As they approached the cemetery, Ozzie was waiting by the gate. Amburgh stopped again and said, “I live in Temple. There’s a café on Highway 52, west of town. Meet me there at 7:30 in the morning.”
“Okay. What’s the name of the café?”
“The Café.”
“Got it.”
Amburgh disappeared without another word. Jake looked at Ozzie, shook his head in disbelief, then pointed to the parking lot. Both of them eased away from the cemetery. They’d had enough of Seth Hubbard for one day. Their farewell was complete.
Twenty minutes later, at exactly 4:55 p.m., Jake jogged into the offices of the Chancery Court clerk and smiled at Sara. “Where you been?” she snapped, waiting.
“It’s not even five o’clock,” he shot back as he zipped open his briefcase.
“Yes, but we stop working at four, on Tuesdays anyway. Five on Monday. Three on Wednesday and Thursday. On Friday you’re lucky if we show up.” The woman talked nonstop and had a quick tongue. After twenty years of daily give-and-take with a bunch of lawyers, she had honed her retorts and one-liners.
Jake laid the papers on the counter in front of her and said, “I need to open the estate of Mr. Seth Hubbard.”
“Testate or intestate?”
“Oh, he has a will, more than one. That’s where the fun’s coming from.”
“Didn’t he just kill himself?”
“You know damned well he just killed himself because you work in this courthouse where rumors fly and gossip is created and nothing is secret.”
“I’m offended,” she said, stamping the petition. She flipped a few pages, smiled and said, “Ooh, nice, a handwritten will. A boon to the legal profession.”
“You got it.”
“Who gets everything?”
“My lips are sealed.” As Jake bantered he pulled more papers from his briefcase.
“Well, Mr. Brigance, your lips may be sealed but this court file certainly is not.” She stamped something dramatically and said, “It is now officially a public record, under the laws of this great state, unless of course you have a written motion requesting the file to be sealed.”
“I do not.”
“Oh good, so we can talk about all the dirt. There is some dirt, right?”
“Don’t know. I’m still digging. Look, Sara, I need a favor.”
“Anything you want, baby.”
“This is a race to the courthouse and I’ve just won. Sometime soon, perhaps tomorrow, I expect two or three pompous-ass lawyers in dark suits to show up and hand over their version of a petition to open Mr. Hubbard’s estate. More than likely they’ll be from Tupelo. There’s another will, you see.”
“I love it.”
“So do I. Anyway, you’re not required to inform them they’ve just finished second, but it might be fun to watch their faces. Whatta you think?”
“I can’t wait.”
“Great, show them the court file, have a laugh, then call me with a full report. But please, bury this until tomorrow.”
“You got it, Jake. This could be fun.”
“Well, if things unfold the way I expect, this case could keep us amused for the next year.”
As soon as he left, Sara read the handwritten will that was attached to Jake’s petition. She summoned the other clerks to her desk where they read it too. A black lady from Clanton said she’d never heard of Lettie Lang. No one seemed to know Seth Hubbard. They chatted awhile, but it was now after 5:00 p.m. and everyone had places to go. The file was put in its place, the lights were turned off, and the clerks quickly forgot things related to work. They would resume their speculation the following day and get to the bottom of the matter.
Had the petition and will been filed during the morning, the entire courthouse would have been buzzing by noon; the entire town by late afternoon. Now, though, the gossip would have to wait, but not for long.
Simeon Lang was drinking but he was not drunk, a distinction that was often blurred but generally understood by his family. Drinking meant behavior that was somewhat controlled and not threatening. It meant he was slowly sipping beer with glassy eyes and a thick tongue. Being drunk meant harrowing times with people running from the house and hiding in the trees. And, to his credit, he was often cold sober, the preferred state, even for Simeon.
After three weeks on the road, hauling loads of scrap iron throughout the Deep South, he had returned with a paycheck intact, tired and clear-eyed. He offered no explanation of where he had been; he never did. He tried to appe
ar content, even domesticated, but after a few hours of bumping into other people, and of listening to Cypress, and of deflecting the rejections of his wife, he ate a sandwich and moved outdoors with his beer, to a spot under a tree beside the house where he could sit in peace and watch the occasional car go by.
Returning was always a struggle. Out there, on the open road, he would dream for hours of a new life somewhere, always a better life alone and unbothered. He’d been tempted a thousand times to keep driving, to drop his freight at its destination and never slow down. His father left them when he was a kid, left a pregnant wife and four children and was never heard from. For days Simeon and his older brother sat on the porch, hiding tears, waiting. As he grew, he hated his father, still did, but now he too was feeling the urge to run away. His kids were much older; they would survive.
On the road he often asked himself why he felt the pull of home. He hated living in a cramped rental house with his mother-in-law, two rotten grandkids he didn’t ask for, and a wife who nagged him for more out of life. Lettie had threatened divorce a hundred times in the past twenty years, and to him it was a miracle they were together. You wanna split, then let’s have a split, he said as he took a sip. But he’d said that a hundred times too.
It was almost dark when she stepped out of the house onto the rear patio and slowly made her way across the grass to his tree. He sat in one of two mismatched lawn chairs, his feet propped on an old milk crate, his beer cooler next to him. He offered her the other chair but she declined.
“How long you home?” she asked softly as she stared at the road, like him.
“I just got home and you’re ready for me to leave.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Simeon. Just curious, that’s all.”
He wasn’t about to answer the question so he took another sip. They were rarely alone together, and when they were they couldn’t remember how to talk. A car passed slowly on the county road and they watched it as though fascinated. Finally, she said, “I’m probably gonna lose my job tomorrow. I told you Mr. Hubbard killed himself, and his family don’t want me around past tomorrow.”
Simeon had mixed feelings about this. It made him feel superior because once again he would be the principal breadwinner, the head of the house. He despised the way Lettie took on airs when she was earning more than he was. He resented her bitching and chirping when he was out of work. Even though she was only a housekeeper, she could get arrogant when acting like a white man trusted her so thoroughly. But, the family needed the money, and losing her wages would inevitably lead to trouble.
He struggled to say “I’m sorry.”
There was another long, silent gap. They could hear voices and noise from inside the house. “Any word from Marvis?” he asked.
She dropped her head and said, “No, it’s been two weeks and no letter.”
“Did you write him?”
“I write him every week, Simeon, you know that. When’s the last time you wrote him?”
Simeon seethed but held his fire. He was proud of himself for coming home sober, and he wouldn’t ruin it with a fight. Marvis Lang, age twenty-eight, two years in the pen with at least ten to go. Drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon.
A car approached and slowed, then slowed some more as if the driver wasn’t sure. It moved a few feet, then turned in to their driveway. There was enough sunlight left to reveal it to be an odd make, definitely foreign, and red in color. The engine was turned off and a young white man got out, alone. He was wearing a white shirt with a loosened tie. He carried nothing, and after walking a few feet seemed uncertain of where he was.
“Over here,” Simeon called out, and the young man stiffened as if scared. He had not seen them under the tree. He proceeded cautiously across the small front yard. “Looking for Ms. Lettie Lang,” he said loud enough for them to hear.
“I’m over here,” she said as he came into view. He walked to within ten feet and said, “Hello, my name is Jake Brigance. I’m a lawyer in Clanton and I need to speak to Lettie Lang.”
“You were at the funeral today,” she said.
“I was, yes.”
Simeon reluctantly climbed to his feet and the three exchanged awkward handshakes. Simeon offered him a beer, then returned to his seat. Jake declined the beer, though he would have enjoyed one. He was, after all, there on business.
Lettie said, without being edgy, “I’m sure you’re not just passin’ through our little corner of the world.”
“No, no I’m not.”
“Brigance,” Simeon said, sipping. “Didn’t you represent Carl Lee Hailey?”
Aw, the old icebreaker, at least with black folks. “I did,” Jake said modestly.
“I thought so. Good job. Great job.”
“Thanks. Look, I’m actually here on business, and, well, I need to speak with Lettie here in private. No offense or anything, but I have to tell her something confidential.”
“What is it?” she asked, confused.
“Why is it private?” Simeon asked.
“Because the law says it is,” Jake replied, fudging a bit. The law had nothing to do with this situation. In fact, as he muddled through this encounter he began to realize that his big news perhaps wasn’t so confidential after all. There was no doubt Lettie would tell her husband everything before Jake pulled out of the driveway. The last will and testament of Seth Hubbard was now a public record and would be scrutinized by every lawyer in town within twenty-four hours. Where was the privacy, the confidentiality?
Simeon angrily tossed a beer can against the tree, sending a line of foam across the trunk. He bolted to his feet, growling, “All right, all right,” as he kicked the milk crate. He reached into the cooler, grabbed another beer, and stomped away, mumbling and cursing under his breath. The shadows consumed him as he moved deeper into the trees, no doubt watching and listening.
Lettie, almost whispering, said, “Very sorry about that, Mr. Brigance.”
“No problem. Look, Ms. Lang, there is a very important matter we need to discuss as soon as possible, preferably tomorrow in my office. It’s about Mr. Hubbard and his last will and testament.”
Lettie bit her bottom lip as she stared wild-eyed at Jake. Tell me more.
Jake continued: “The day before he died, he made a new will, one that he dropped in the mail so I would receive it after his death. It appears to be a valid will, but I’m sure it will be contested by his family.”
“Am I in his will?”
“You certainly are. In fact, he left a sizable portion of his estate to you.”
“Oh God.”
“Yes. He wants me to be the lawyer for his estate, and I’m sure that will be contested too. That’s why we need to talk.”
Her right hand covered her mouth as she mumbled, “Oh my Lord.”
Jake looked at the house where the light from its windows cut through the darkness. A shadow moved beyond it, probably Simeon circling around. Jake had the sudden desire to hop in the old Saab and cut a trail quickly back to civilization.
She asked, nodding, “Should I tell him?”
“That’s up to you. I would have included him but I’ve heard stories about his drinking. Didn’t know what shape he’s in right now. But, to be honest, Ms. Lang, he’s your husband and he should come with you tomorrow. That is, if he’s in good shape.”
“He’ll be in good shape, I promise.”
Jake handed her a business card and said, “Anytime tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in my office waiting.”
“We’ll be there, Mr. Brigance. And thank you for comin’ here.”
“It’s very important, Ms. Lang, and I felt like I needed to meet you. We could be in for a long, hard fight together.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I know. I’ll explain it tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brigance.”
“Good night.”
7
After a quick, late supper of grilled cheese and tomato soup, Jak
e and Carla cleared the table and cleaned the dishes (there was no dishwasher), and eventually settled in the den, which began where the kitchen left off, some six feet away from the dining table. Three years (plus) in tight living quarters required a constant reassessment of priorities and attitudes, along with a vigilance against edginess. Hanna helped tremendously. Small children care little for the material things that so impress adults; as long as both parents are doting, little else matters. Carla helped her with spelling and Jake read her stories, and as they tag-teamed through the evening they also caught up with the daily papers and the cable news. At 8:00 p.m. on the dot, Carla gave her a bath, and thirty minutes later Hanna was tucked snugly into bed by both parents.
Alone at last and wrapped together under a quilt on the rickety sofa, Carla said, “Okay, what’s up?”
Jake, flipping through a sports magazine, replied, “What do you mean ‘What’s up?’ ”
“Don’t play dumb. Something’s up. A new case maybe? A new client who can pay a decent fee, or perhaps even a huge fee that might rescue us from poverty? Please.”
Jake flung the quilt onto the floor and jumped to his feet. “Well, as a matter of fact, my dear, there’s a good chance we’ve just stiff-armed poverty.”
“I knew it. I can always tell when you sign up a good car wreck. You get twitchy.”
“It’s not a car wreck.” Jake was thumbing through his briefcase. He pulled out a file and handed her some papers. “It’s a suicide.”
“Oh that.”
“Yes, that. Last night I told you about the unfortunate demise of Mr. Seth Hubbard, but what I didn’t tell you was that before he died he did a quickie will, mailed it to my office, and designated me as the lawyer for his estate. I probated it late this afternoon. It’s now public record, so I can talk about it.”
“And this is the guy you never met?”
“Correct.”
“A guy you never met but you went to his funeral this afternoon?”
“You got it.”
“Why did he pick you?”