by John Grisham
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Older guy, maybe even semiretired. He’s done nothing but probate work for a hundred years, really knows his stuff, and straight as an arrow. Old friend of mine. File a motion suggesting Quince and two others-you pick ’em-as the substitute executor, and I’ll appoint Quince. You’ll get along fine with him. As for you, you’re on board until the end. What’s your hourly rate?”
“I don’t have one, Judge. My clients work for ten bucks an hour if they’re lucky. They can’t afford to pay a lawyer a hundred.”
“I think one fifty is a fair rate in today’s market. You agree?”
“One fifty sounds fine, Judge.”
“Okay, you’re on the clock at one fifty an hour. I’m assuming you have the time.”
“Oh yes.”
“Good. Because this will eat up your life for the near future. Every sixty days or so, file a petition and ask for attorney’s fees. I’ll make sure you get paid.”
“Thanks, Judge.”
“There are a lot of rumors about the size of the estate. Any idea what’s true?”
“Russell Amburgh says it’s at least twenty million, with most of that in cash. Hidden out of state. Otherwise, everyone in Clanton would know exactly.”
“We’d better move fast to protect it. I’ll sign an order giving you the authority to take possession of Mr. Hubbard’s financial records. Once Quince Lundy is on board, you guys can start digging.”
“Yes sir.”
Judge Atlee took a long sip of coffee from a paper cup. He looked through a dirty window, seemed to gaze upon the courthouse lawn, and finally said, “I almost feel sorry for that poor woman. She’s lost all control, surrounded by people who smell money. She won’t have a dime when Sistrunk gets finished with her.”
“Assuming the jury finds in her favor.”
“Will you request a jury, Jake?”
“I don’t know yet. Should I?” The question was far out-of-bounds, but at the moment it didn’t seem so. Jake braced himself for the reprimand, but instead Judge Atlee managed a tight grin as he continued staring at nothing outside. “I’d rather have a jury, Jake. I don’t mind making tough decisions. That goes with the job. But, in a case like this, it’ll be nice to have twelve of our good and faithful citizens in the hot seat. I’d like that, for a change.” His grin became a smile.
“I don’t blame you. I’ll make the request.”
“You do that. And Jake, there are a lot of lawyers out there and few that I really trust. Don’t hesitate to stop by and say hello and drink coffee if something needs to be discussed. I’m sure you appreciate the significance of this case. There’s not much money around here, Jake, never has been. Now, suddenly, there’s a pot of gold, and a lot of people want some of it. You don’t. I don’t. But there are plenty of others. It’s important that you and I stay on the same page.”
Jake’s muscles relaxed for the first time in hours, and he breathed deeply. “I agree, Judge, and thanks.”
“I’ll see you around.”
13
Dumas Lee owned the front page of The Ford County Times on Wednesday, October 12. The hearing the day before was evidently the only news in the county. A bold headline announced, BATTLE LINES DRAWN OVER HUBBARD WILL, and Dumas kicked off the lead story in his finest tabloid fashion: “A courtroom full of expectant heirs and their eager lawyers squared off yesterday in front of Chancellor Reuben Atlee as the opening shots were fired in what promises to be an epic battle for the fortune of the late Seth Hubbard, who hung himself on October 2.”
A photographer had been busy. In the center of the front page was a large photo of Lettie Lang as she was walking into the courthouse, with both Booker Sistrunk and Kendrick Bost tugging at her as if she were an invalid. Under the photo, she was described as “Lettie Lang, age 47 of Box Hill, former housekeeper of Seth Hubbard and presumed beneficiary under his last, handwritten, and suspicious will, accompanied by her two lawyers from Memphis.” Next to it were two smaller, candid shots of Herschel and Ramona, also walking somewhere near the courthouse.
Jake read the paper at his desk early Wednesday morning. He sipped coffee, read every word twice looking for mistakes, and was surprised to see Dumas got his facts straight for a change. But he cussed him for using the word “suspicious.” Every registered voter in the county was a potential juror. The majority would either read the paper or hear someone talking about it, and out of the gate Dumas had declared the will to be suspicious. The scowling, smirking faces of the well-dressed intruders from Memphis didn’t help matters either. As Jake stared at the photo, he tried to imagine a jury of nine whites and three blacks trying to find sympathy for Lettie as $20 million hung in the balance. They would find little. After a week in the courtroom with Booker Sistrunk, they would see through his intentions and void the will. A jury might grow to dislike Herschel and Ramona, but at least they were white and weren’t being led by a shyster with the appeal of a TV preacher.
Jake reminded himself that they were, for the moment, on the same team, or at least the same side of the courtroom. He vowed to quit. If Judge Atlee allowed Sistrunk to stay in the game, Jake would withdraw and go look for an ambulance to chase. Anything would be better than a brutal trial in which he was destined to lose. He needed the fees but not the headaches.
There was a commotion downstairs, then footsteps. There was an unmistakable rhythm and clatter to the way Harry Rex climbed the old wooden stairs to Jake’s office. His steps were slow and heavy and each seemed determined to shatter boards. The stairwell shook. Roxy called after him, protesting. Badly overweight and pathetically out of shape, he was almost gasping when he kicked open Jake’s door and began with a friendly “Damn woman’s gone crazy.” He tossed a copy of the newspaper onto Jake’s desk.
“Morning Harry Rex,” Jake said as his friend collapsed in a chair and worked on his heavy breathing, each gasp a bit softer, each exhalation delaying cardiac arrest.
“She tryin’ to piss off everybody?” he asked.
“It sure looks that way. You want some coffee?”
“Got a Bud Light?”
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”
“So? I’m not goin’ to court today. On days off, I’m startin’ earlier.”
“Do you think you’re drinking too much?”
“Hell no. With my clients, I’m not drinkin’ enough. Neither are you.”
“I don’t keep beer in the office. Don’t keep it at home.”
“What a life.” Harry Rex suddenly reached forward, grabbed the newspaper, held it up, and pointed to the photo of Lettie. “Tell me something, Jake, what does the average white person in this county say when he sees this photo. You got a black housekeeper, who’s lookin’ all right, and she somehow got herself inserted into the old boy’s will, and now she’s hired these slick African lawyers from the big city to come down here and grab the money. How does this play over at the Coffee Shop?”
“I think you know.”
“Is she stupid?”
“No, but they got to her. Simeon has kinfolks in Memphis, and somehow a connection was made. She has no idea what she’s doing and she’s getting bad advice.”
“You’re on her side, Jake. Can’t you talk to her?” He tossed the paper back onto the desk.
“No. I thought I could, then she hired Sistrunk. I tried to speak to her in court yesterday, but they were guarding her too closely. Tried to speak to the Hubbard kids, too, but they weren’t too friendly.”
“You’re a popular man these days, Jake.”
“I didn’t feel too popular yesterday. But Judge Atlee likes me.”
“I heard he wasn’t too impressed with Sistrunk.”
“No, he wasn’t. The jury won’t be either.”
“So you’re askin’ for a jury?”
“Yes, His Honor wants one, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“I did not. You gotta figure out a way to get to her. Sistrunk’ll piss off everybody
in the state and she won’t get a dime.”
“Should she?”
“Hell yeah. It’s Seth’s money, if he wants to leave it to the Communist Party then it’s his business. He made it all by himself, he can damned sure give it away as he pleases. Wait till you deal with those two kids, a couple of sacks-a-shit if you ask me, and you’ll understand why Seth picked somebody else.”
“I thought you hated Seth.”
“I did ten years ago, but then I always hate the jerk on the other side. That’s what makes me so mean. I get over it eventually. Hate him or love him, he wrote a will before he died and the law has got to support that will, if in fact it’s valid.”
“Is it valid?”
“That’s up to the jury. And it’ll be attacked from every direction.”
“How would you attack the will?”
Harry Rex sat back and swung an ankle over a knee. “Been thinkin’ about that. First, I’d hire me some experts, some medical guys who’ll testify that Seth was drugged up with painkillers, that his body was ravaged by lung cancer and because of all the chemo and radiation and medications that he’d been hit with over the past year he couldn’t’ve been thinkin’ clearly. He was in horrible pain, and I’d hire me another expert to describe what pain can do to the thought process. Don’t know where these experts are, but, hell, you can hire an expert to say anything. Keep in mind, Jake, the average juror in this county barely finished high school. Not that sophisticated. Get a slick expert or a whole team of them and the jury can really get confused. Hell, I could make Seth Hubbard look like a slobbering idiot as he was stickin’ his head through that noose. Don’t you have to be crazy to hang yourself?”
“Can’t answer that.”
“Second. Seth had zipper problems, couldn’t keep his pants on. Don’t know if he ever crossed the color line, but maybe he did. If a white jury sniffs even the slightest suspicion that Seth was gettin’ somethin’ more than hot food and starched shirts from his housekeeper, then they’ll be quick to turn against Miss Lettie.”
“They can’t drag up a dead man’s sex life.”
“True, but they can nibble around the edges of Lettie’s. They can imply, infer, exaggerate, and use all manner of loose language. If she takes the witness stand, which she’s bound to do, she becomes fair game.”
“She has to testify.”
“Of course she does. And here’s the kicker, Jake. It really doesn’t matter what is said in court or who says it. The truth is that if Booker Sistrunk is in that courtroom rantin’ and showin’ his black ass in front of a white jury, then your chances are zero.”
“I’m not sure I care that much.”
“You have to care. It’s your job. It’s a big trial. And it’s a fat fee. You’re workin’ by the hour now, and gettin’ paid, and that’s rare in our world, Jake. If this thing goes to trial, then an appeal and so on, you’ll make a half-million bucks over the next three years. How many DUIs you gotta do to make that kinda money?”
“Hadn’t thought about the fee.”
“Well, every other ambulance chaser in town certainly has. It’ll be generous. A windfall for a street lawyer like you. But you need to win, Jake, and to win you gotta get rid of Sistrunk.”
“How?”
“I’m thinkin’ about that too. Just give me some time. Some damage has already been done with that damned picture in the paper, and you can bet Doofus’ll do it again next hearing. We gotta get Sistrunk bounced as soon as possible.”
To Jake, it was significant that Harry Rex was now using the word “we.” There was no one more loyal, no one he’d rather have in the foxhole. Nor was there another legal mind as cunning and devious. “Give me a day or two,” he said as he climbed to his feet. “I need a beer.”
An hour later, Jake was still at his desk when the Booker Sistrunk matter took a turn for the worse. “There’s a lawyer named Rufus Buckley on the phone,” Roxy announced through the intercom.
Jake took a deep breath and said, “Okay.” He stared at the blinking light and racked his brain for any idea as to why Buckley would be calling. They had not spoken since the trial of Carl Lee Hailey, and if their paths never again crossed both would have been content. A year earlier, during Buckley’s reelection, Jake had quietly supported his opponent, as had most of the lawyers in Clanton, if not the entire Twenty-Second Judicial District. Over a twelve-year career, Buckley had managed to alienate almost every lawyer in the five-county district. The payback was sweet, and now the former hard-charging DA with statewide ambitions was stuck at home in Smithfield, an hour down the road, where he was rumored to be puttering around a small office on Main Street doing wills and deeds and no-fault divorces.
“Hello Governor,” Jake said in a deliberate effort to resume hard feelings. Three years had not diminished his low regard for the man.
“Well, hello, Jake,” Buckley said politely. “I was hoping we could forgo the cheap shots.”
“Sorry, Rufus, didn’t mean anything by it.” But of course he did. At one point not too long ago a lot of people called him Governor. “What are you up to these days?”
“Just practicing law and taking it easy. I do more oil and gas than anything else.”
Sure you do. Buckley had spent most of his adult life trying to convince folks that his wife’s family’s natural gas leases were the source of immense wealth. They were not. The Buckleys lived far below their pretensions.
“That’s nice. What’s on your mind?”
“Just got off the phone with a Memphis lawyer named Booker Sistrunk. I believe you’ve met him. Seems to be a nice guy. Anyway, he’s associating me as Mississippi counsel in the Seth Hubbard case.”
“Why would he pick you, Rufus?” Jake asked impulsively as his shoulders sagged.
“Reputation, I guess.”
No, Sistrunk had done his homework and found the one lawyer in the entire state who hated Jake with a passion. Jake could only imagine the vile things Buckley had said about him.
“I’m not sure where you fit, Rufus.”
“We’re working on that. Booker wants you off the case to begin with so he can take over. He mentioned perhaps requesting a change of venue for the trial. He says Judge Atlee has an obvious bias against him, so he’ll ask the judge to step aside. These are just preliminary matters, Jake. As you know, Sistrunk is a high-powered litigator with plenty of resources. I suppose that’s why he wants me on his team.”
“Well, welcome aboard, Rufus. I doubt if Sistrunk told you the rest of the story, but he has already tried to get me kicked off. Didn’t work because Judge Atlee can read as well as anyone. The will specifically names me as the attorney for the estate. Atlee is not going to recuse himself, nor will he move the trial out of Clanton. You boys are pissing in the wind and pissing off every potential juror in the county. Pretty stupid, in my opinion, Rufus, and the stupidity is killing our chances.”
“We’ll see. You’re inexperienced, Jake, and you need to step aside. Oh sure, you’ve had a handful of nice verdicts in criminal cases, but this ain’t criminal, Jake. This is complicated, high-dollar civil litigation, and you’re already in over your head.”
Jake bit his tongue and reminded himself how much he despised the voice on the other end. Slowly, deliberately, he said, “You were a prosecutor, Rufus. When did you become an expert in civil litigation?”
“I’m a litigator. I live in the courtroom. In the past year I’ve tried nothing but civil cases. Plus, I’ve got Sistrunk at the table. He nailed the Memphis Police Department three times last year for more than a million dollars.”
“And they’re all on appeal. He hasn’t collected a dime.”
“But he will. The same way we’ll kick ass with the Hubbard matter.”
“What are you guys raking off the top, Rufus? Fifty percent?”
“Confidential, Jake. You know that.”
“It should be made public.”
“Don’t be envious, Jake.”
“Later, Rufus,”
Jake said and hung up.
He took a deep breath, jumped to his feet, and walked downstairs. “Back in a minute,” he said to Roxy as he passed her desk. It was 10:30 and the Coffee Shop was empty. Dell was drying forks at the counter when Jake walked in and sat on a stool nearby. “A time-out?” she asked.
“Yes. Decaf coffee please.” Jake often appeared at odd hours, and it was usually in an effort to get away from the office and the phone. She poured him a cup and eased closer, still drying the flatware.
“What do you know?” Jake asked as he stirred in sugar. With Dell, there was a fine line between what she knew and what she’d heard. Most of her customers thought she would repeat anything, but Jake knew better. After twenty-five years at the Coffee Shop, she had heard enough false rumors and outright lies to know how damaging they could be; so, in spite of her reputation, she was generally careful.
“Well,” she began slowly, “I don’t believe Lettie helped herself by bringing in those black lawyers from Memphis.” Jake nodded and took a sip. She went on, “Why did she do that, Jake? I thought you were her lawyer.” She spoke of Lettie as if she’d known her a lifetime, though they’d never met. This was not unusual now in Clanton.
“No, I’m not her lawyer. I’m the lawyer for the estate, for the will. She and I are on the same side, but she couldn’t hire me.”
“Does she need a lawyer?”
“No. My job is to protect the will and follow its wishes. I do my job, and she gets her money. There’s no reason for her to hire a lawyer.”
“Did you explain this to her?”
“I did, and I thought she understood it.”
“What happened? Why are they involved?”
Jake took another sip and reminded himself to be careful. The two often swapped inside information, but delicate matters were still off-limits. “I don’t know, but I suspect somebody in Memphis heard about the will. Word filtered up to Booker Sistrunk. He smelled money, so he made the drive down, pulled up in front of her house in his black Rolls-Royce, and swooped her away. He promised her the moon, and in return he gets a piece.”