by John Grisham
“Let’s worry about that later. Right now I need you down here.”
“Okay.”
“So we have a deal?”
“No. A thousand a month is too low for a secretary, receptionist, and paralegal all rolled into one.”
Jake threw up his hands and knew he was beaten. “Well, then, what do you have in mind?”
“Two thousand is more in line with the market.”
“What in hell do you know about the market?”
“Not much, but I know a thousand a month is too cheap.”
“Okay. Fifteen hundred a month for the first two months, then we’ll take a look.”
She lunged forward, gave him a quick and proper hug, and said, “Thanks, Jake.”
An hour later, Jake dealt with the second office personnel crisis of the morning. Lucien barged in with hardly a knock and fell into a chair. “Jake, son,” he began in a tone that meant trouble, “I’ve made a decision. For months, even years now I’ve been wrestling with the decision about whether to begin the reinstatement process, sort of start my comeback, you know?”
Jake, who was hard at work drafting a response to a motion filed by Stillman Rush, slowly put down his pen and managed to look thoughtfully at Lucien. The word “comeback” had not been used until that point, but in the past three months Lucien had managed to drop every other possible hint that he wanted to become a lawyer again. Though he feared it was coming, this news still put Jake on a tightrope. He didn’t want Lucien around, especially Lucien as a lawyer because Lucien as an untitled and unpaid adviser had already worn thin. Lucien as a lawyer meant Lucien, the Boss, and Jake wouldn’t last. But, Lucien the friend was the man who’d given Jake a job, an office, a career, and was as loyal as anyone.
“Why?” Jake asked.
“I miss it, Jake. I’m too young to sit on the porch. Will you support me?”
The only answer was yes, and Jake quickly said, “Of course, you know I will. But how?”
“Moral support, Jake, at first anyway. As you know, before I can be reinstated I have to pass the bar exam, no small feat for an old fart like me.”
“You’ve done it once before, you can do it again,” Jake said with requisite conviction. He seriously doubted if Lucien could, starting from scratch, grind through a six-month cram session, studying on his own while trying to lay off the sour mash.
“So, you’re on board?”
“On board how, Lucien? After you’re reinstated, what then? You want this office back? You want me around as the flunky? Do we go back to where we were eight, nine years ago?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out, Jake. I’m sure we can.”
Jake shrugged and said, “Yes, I’m on board, and I’ll help in any way.” And for the second time that morning, Jake lent his assistance to a budding lawyer in his office. Who could be next?
“Thanks.”
“While you’re here, a couple of housekeeping matters. Roxy quit and Portia is the interim secretary. She’s allergic to cigar smoke so please go outside. And keep your hands to yourself. She spent six years in the Army, knows hand-to-hand combat, plus karate, and she does not fancy the thought of a creepy old white man pawing at her. Touch her, and she’ll crack your teeth, then sue me for sexual harassment. Got it?”
“She said this? I swear I’ve done nothing.”
“It’s just a warning, Lucien, okay? Don’t touch her, don’t tell her dirty jokes or make suggestive comments, don’t even swear in her presence, and don’t drink or smoke around her. She thinks she’s a lawyer and wants to become one. Treat her like a professional.”
“I thought we were getting on just fine.”
“Perhaps, but I know you. Keep it straight and clean.”
“I’ll try.”
“Do more than try. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to work.”
Leaving, Lucien mumbled just loud enough for Jake to hear, “She does have a nice ass.”
“Drop it Lucien.”
On a typical Friday afternoon, it was almost impossible to find a judge in the courthouse or a lawyer in his office. The weekend began early as they all sneaked away in various modes. A lot of fish were caught. A lot of beer consumed. A lot of legal business got delayed until Monday. And on dreary Friday afternoons in January, lawyers and nonlawyers alike quietly closed their offices early and left the square.
Judge Atlee was on the front porch under a quilt when Jake arrived around 4:00. The wind was still and a cloud of pipe smoke hung over the front steps. A sign at the mailbox gave the name of the place as Maple Run. It was a stately old semi-mansion with Georgian columns and sagging shutters, another of the many hand-me-downs in Clanton and Ford County. The roof of the Hocutt House was visible two blocks over.
Reuben Atlee earned $80,000 a year as a judge and spent little of it on his estate. His wife had been dead for years, and from the flower beds and the sagging wicker porch furniture and the torn curtains hanging in the upstairs windows, it was obvious the place was missing the feminine touch it was not getting. He lived alone. His longtime maid was dead too and he had not bothered with a replacement. Jake saw him in church every Sunday morning and had noticed a general decline in his appearance as the years went by. His suits were not as clean. His shirts were not as starched. The knots in his neckties were not as crisp. He was often in need of a good haircut. It had become obvious that Judge Atlee left the house each morning without getting properly inspected.
He wasn’t much of a drinker but enjoyed a toddy most afternoons, especially Fridays. Without inquiring, he fixed Jake a generous whiskey sour and placed it on the wicker table between them. Doing business with the judge on his porch meant having a toddy. He kicked back in his favorite rocker, took a long soothing sip, and said, “Rumor has it Lucien’s hanging around your office these days.”
“It’s his office,” Jake said. They were gazing across the front lawn, brown and dismal in the dead of winter. Both wore their overcoats, and if the whiskey didn’t kick in soon Jake, quiltless, might request a move inside.
“What’s he up to?” Judge Atlee asked. He and Lucien went back many years, with many chapters in their history.
“I asked him to do some title work on Seth Hubbard’s property, and some research, just basic legal stuff like that.” Jake would never reveal what Lucien told him that morning, especially to Reuben Atlee. If word got out that Lucien Wilbanks was plotting a comeback, most judges in the area would resign.
“Keep him close,” Judge Atlee said, once again dispensing advice that had not been sought.
“He’s harmless,” Jake said.
“He’s never harmless.” He rattled the ice around, seemed oblivious to the temperature. “What’s the latest on the search for Ancil?”
Jake avoided his ice and tried to suck down some more bourbon. His teeth were starting to chatter. He replied, “Not much. Our guys found an ex-wife in Galveston who reluctantly admitted she married a man named Ancil Hubbard thirty-five years ago. They were married for three years, had two kids, then he skipped town. Owes a fortune in child support and alimony but she doesn’t care. It looks like he stopped using his real name fifteen years ago and went underground. We’re still digging.”
“And these are the guys from D.C.?”
“Yes sir, it’s a firm of ex-FBI types that specializes in finding missing persons. I don’t know how good they are but I do know they’re expensive. I have a bill we need to pay.”
“Keep pushing. In the court’s view, Ancil is not dead until we know he’s dead.”
“They’re combing death records in all fifty states and in a dozen foreign countries. It takes time.”
“How is discovery proceeding?”
“Rapidly. It’s a strange case, Judge, because every lawyer involved wants a trial as soon as possible. How many times have you seen that?”
“Perhaps never.”
“The case is a priority in every office, so there’s a lot of cooperation.”
“No one�
�s dragging feet?”
“Not a single lawyer. Last week we took eleven depositions in three days, all from members of the church who saw Mr. Hubbard the morning before he died. Nothing particularly interesting or unusual. The witnesses are in general agreement that he seemed like himself, nothing bizarre or strange. So far we have deposed five people who work in his headquarters and were with him the day before he wrote the will.”
“I’ve read those,” Judge Atlee said, sipping. Move along.
“Everyone is busy lining up the experts. I’ve found my handwriting guy and-”
“A handwriting expert? They will not stipulate that it is Seth Hubbard’s handwriting?”
“Not yet.”
“Is there any doubt?”
“No, not really.”
“Then bring it on for a hearing before the trial and I’ll take a look. Perhaps we can settle this issue. My goal is to streamline the issues and try the case as smoothly as possible.” Reuben Atlee wrote the book on “streamlining” a case. He hated wasting time as much as he loathed windy lawyers. Fresh out of law school, Jake had witnessed the mauling of an ill-prepared lawyer who was presenting a lame argument to Judge Atlee. When he repeated himself for the third time, the judge stopped him cold with “Do you think I’m stupid or deaf?” Stunned, and wisely avoiding a response, the lawyer could only look up in disbelief. Judge Atlee then said, “My hearing aids are working just fine and I’m not stupid. If you repeat yourself again, I’ll rule in favor of the other side. Now move along, sir.”
Are you stupid or deaf? It was a common question in Clanton legal circles.
The bourbon was finally warming things up and Jake told himself to slow down. One drink would be enough. Arriving home buzzed on Friday afternoon would not sit well with Carla. He said, “As expected, there will be a fair amount of medical testimony. Mr. Hubbard was in severe pain and taking a lot of meds. The other side will try to prove this affected his judgment, so-”
“I understand, Jake. How many medical experts will the jury listen to?”
“I’m not sure at this point.”
“How much medical testimony can a jury in this town understand? Out of twelve, we’ll have two college graduates at most, a couple of dropouts, and the rest will have high school diplomas.”
“Seth Hubbard was a dropout,” Jake said.
“True, and I’ll bet he was never asked to evaluate conflicting medical testimony. My point is, Jake, we must guard against overwhelming our jury with too much expert opinion.”
“I understand, and if I were on the other side I would call plenty of experts in an effort to plant doubt. Confuse the jurors, give them a reason to suspect Seth was not thinking clearly. Wouldn’t you, Judge?”
“Let’s not discuss trial strategy, Jake. I don’t like to be earwigged. It is against the rules, you know?” He said this with a smile but his point was well made.
There was a long, heavy pause in the conversation as they sipped their drinks and savored the quiet. Finally, the judge said, “You haven’t been paid in six weeks.”
“I brought the paperwork.”
“How many hours?”
“Two hundred and ten.”
“So, something north of thirty thousand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Sounds reasonable. I know you’re working very hard, Jake, and I’m happy to approve your fees. But I do have a slight concern, if you’ll allow me to meddle in your business.”
At this point, nothing Jake could say would stop the meddling. If the judge liked you, then he felt it necessary to offer unsolicited advice on a wide range of subjects. You were expected to consider yourself lucky to be so favored. “Go right ahead,” Jake said as he braced himself.
A rattle of the ice, another sip, then, “Now, and in the near future, you will be well paid for your work and no one will begrudge it. As you’ve said, this mess was caused by Seth Hubbard, and he knew it was coming. So be it. However, I doubt the wisdom of you giving the impression you’re suddenly in the money. Ms. Lang moved her family to town, into the Sappington house, which as we know is nothing special and has gone unsold for a reason, but nonetheless it’s not in Lowtown. It’s on our side of the tracks. There’s been grumbling about this. It looks bad. A lot of folks think she’s already tapped into the money, and there is resentment. Now there’s talk that you have your eye on the Hocutt House. Don’t ask how I know; it’s a small town. Such a move at this time would get a lot of attention, and none of it favorable.”
Jake was speechless. As he gazed at the highest gable of the Hocutt House in the distance, he tried in vain to think of who told whom and how the word leaked. Willie Traynor swore him to secrecy because he, Willie, did not want to be pestered by other buyers. Harry Rex was a confidant of both Jake and Willie, and though he loved to spread gossip maliciously, he would never rat out inside information like this. “We’re only dreaming, Judge,” Jake managed to say. “It’s out of my range and I’m still tied up in litigation. But thanks.”
Thanks for meddling once again, Judge. Though, as Jake breathed deeply and let the anger pass, he admitted to himself that he and Carla had had the same conversation. Such a conspicuous purchase would naturally lead many to suspect Jake was moving up at the expense of a dead man.
“Has the topic of a settlement been broached?” the judge asked.
“Yes, briefly,” Jake answered quickly, eager to move away from real estate.
“And?”
“It went nowhere. In his letter to me, Seth Hubbard was explicit in his instructions. I believe his exact words were, ‘Fight them, Mr. Brigance, to the bitter end. We must prevail.’ That doesn’t leave much room for settlement negotiations.”
“But Seth Hubbard is dead. This lawsuit he created is not. What will you tell Lettie Lang when, and if, the jury rules against her and she gets nothing?”
“Lettie Lang is not my client. The estate is, and it’s my job to enforce the terms of the will that created the estate.”
Judge Atlee nodded as if he agreed, but he did not say so.
27
Charley Pardue’s arrival benefited from fortunate timing. Simeon was gone again. Had he been around the house on that late Saturday morning, he and Charley would have locked horns immediately, and the fight would have been nasty.
As it was, though, Charley knocked on the door of the old Sappington place and found a houseful of women and children. The kids were eating cereal out of boxes and watching television, while the women loitered around a dirty kitchen drinking coffee and talking in bathrobes and pajamas. Phedra answered the door and managed to get him situated in the living room, then ran to the kitchen and gushed, “Momma, there’s a man here to see you, and he’s soooo fine!”
“Who is he?”
“Charley Pardue and he says he thinks he’s a cousin.”
“Never heard of no Charley Pardue,” Lettie said, suddenly on the defensive.
“Well, he’s here and he’s really cute.”
“Is he worth talkin’ to?”
“Oh yes.”
The women scrambled upstairs and changed quickly. Phedra sneaked out the back door and eased around to the front. Yellow Cadillac, late model, spotless, with Illinois plates. Charley himself was just as presentable. Dark suit, white shirt, silk tie, a diamond tie clasp, and at least two small, tasteful diamonds on his fingers. No wedding band. A gold chain on his right wrist and a serious watch on his left. He exuded big-city slickness, and Phedra knew he was from Chicago before he got through the front door. She insisted on sitting with her mother when Lettie came back down to meet him. Portia and Clarice would join them later. Cypress stayed in the kitchen.
Charley began by dropping a few names, none of which meant much. He said he was from Chicago, where he worked as an entrepreneur, whatever that meant. He had a wide, easy grin, a glib manner, and his eyes twinkled when he laughed. The women warmed up considerably. In the past four months, many people had come to see Lettie. Many of them, like Cha
rley, claimed blood kinship. Given the bareness of her family tree, it was easy to be cynical and to dismiss a lot of potential relatives. The truth was that Lettie had been unofficially adopted by Clyde and Cypress Tayber, after she had been abandoned more than once. She had no idea who her grandparents were. Portia had spent hours sifting through the sparse history of their ancestry, with little to show for her efforts. Charley rattled them when he said, “My maternal grandmother was a Rinds, and I think you are too, Lettie.”
He produced some paperwork, and they moved to a dining room table where they huddled over him. He unfolded a flowchart that, from a distance, more closely resembled a pile of scrub brush than a properly developed tree. Crooked lines ran in all directions, with notes wedged into the margins. Whatever it was, someone had spent hours trying to decipher it.
“My mother helped me with this,” Charley was saying. “Her mother was a Rinds.”
“Where did Pardue come from?” Portia asked.
“My dad’s side. They’re from Kansas City, settled in Chicago a long time ago. That’s where my parents met.” He was pointing at his chart with an ink pen. “It goes back to a man named Jeremiah Rinds, a slave who was born around 1841 near Holly Springs. He had five or six kids, one of whom was Solomon Rinds, and Solomon had at least six kids, one of whom was Marybelle Rinds, my grandmother. She gave birth to my mother, Effie Rinds, in 1920, who was born in this county. In 1930, Marybelle Rinds and her husband and some more Rinds took off for Chicago and never looked back.”
Portia said, “That’s the same year the property of Sylvester Rinds was transferred to the Hubbard family.” The others heard this but it meant little. Portia was not even sure of the connection; there were too many missing details.
“Don’t know about that,” Charley said. “But my mother remembers a cousin who she thinks was the only child of Sylvester Rinds. As best we can tell, this cousin was born around 1925. They lost touch after 1930 when the family scattered. But through the years there was the usual family gossip. This girl supposedly had a baby when she was real young, the daddy caught a train, and the family never knew what happened to the baby. My mother remembers her cousin’s name as Lois.”