by John Grisham
“I’m sure the church will take it,” Jake said.
“It kinda leaves us high and dry, Your Honor,” said Zack Zeitler, the attorney for Herschel’s children.
“Same here,” said Joe Bradley Hunt, the attorney for Ramona’s kids.
“Of course,” Judge Atlee said. “But it’s safe to assume the children will get no small benefit from such a settlement. Their parents get a windfall; surely it will trickle down. Perhaps, you could stipulate that a portion be held in trust for the kids. Just an idea.”
“Perhaps,” Zeitler said, cutting his eyes around at the other attorneys as if his throat was in danger.
“Interesting,” Wade Lanier mumbled. “I think my folks would consider it.”
“Same here,” said Stillman Rush.
His Honor chewed on his battered pipe stem and looked at Jake, who at the moment was stewing because of the ambush. He had not been forewarned of this impromptu settlement conference, and he certainly had no clue that his old pal was planning to throw some numbers on the table. Judge Atlee said, “Jake?”
Jake said, “You all have copies of the letter Seth Hubbard wrote to me when he mailed along his last will and testament. His instructions to me are rather explicit. His wishes and desires regarding his two adult children could not be clearer. I suggest you all read the letter again, and the will. I represent the estate, and I have my marching orders. My job is to uphold Mr. Hubbard’s will and see to it that his children get nothing. I have no choice. I will not be a part of any compromise or settlement.”
“Should you discuss this with your client?” Stillman said.
“My client is the estate, which is represented by Mr. Quince Lundy, the administrator.”
“I’m talking about Lettie Lang.”
“And I don’t represent Lettie Lang. We have the same interests-the validation of the handwritten will-but I’m not her lawyer. I’ve made that clear to everyone, especially to her. As an interested party she has the right to hire a lawyer, which she tried once but he wound up in jail.”
“I kinda miss ol’ Booker,” Wade Lanier said, and again got a few laughs.
Jake pressed on. “My point is that I’m not her lawyer.”
Stillman said, “Sure, Jake, technically, but right now you have more influence with her than anyone else. Hell, her daughter is your paralegal, or secretary, or whatever.”
“I have quite a staff.”
Wade Lanier said, “You can’t tell us, Jake, that if you went to Lettie and told her she could walk away with over three million bucks in two months, hell, two weeks, she wouldn’t grab the deal and run.”
“I don’t know what she would do. She’s a proud woman who feels scorned by the community. She wants her day in court.”
“Three million bucks might ease some of the scorn,” Lanier said.
“Perhaps, but I will not be a part of a compromise. If the court wishes, I will resign as the attorney for the estate, but as long as I’m here I’m not authorized to settle.”
Judge Atlee relit his pipe with a match and blew some more smoke. He leaned forward on his elbows and said, “Gentlemen, I think he’s right. If this will is proven to be valid, that is, if the jury believes Mr. Hubbard was of sound mind and not unduly influenced, then we have no choice but to follow the terms of the will. It is explicit. The adult children get nothing.”
Maybe, Wade Lanier thought to himself, but you don’t know what I know. You haven’t seen the Irene Pickering will. You don’t know that Ms. Lettie Lang has a history of worming her way into the private matters of her employers. And when the jury hears and sees this, the adult children of Seth Hubbard will do quite well.
Jake’s principled defense of his dead client’s last will, as well as his somewhat cocky belief that the trial should be held in Clanton, in his courtroom, was severely shaken by a tragedy that occurred later that night in an ice storm near the town of Lake Village, in the southern part of Ford County. Two brothers, Kyle and Bo Roston, were driving home after a high school basketball game. Kyle was Clanton High’s senior point guard. Bo was a sophomore substitute. An eyewitness in a car behind them said the driver, Kyle, was proceeding with caution, not in a hurry, and handling the road conditions with skill. Another vehicle topped a hill at a high rate of speed and began sliding. The witness watched in horror as a crash became inevitable. He estimated Kyle was driving about forty miles per hour; the other vehicle, an old pickup, much faster than that. The head-on collision sent the Rostons’ small Toyota flipping through the air and into a ditch. The pickup spun wildly into a field as debris littered the road. The witness was able to stop in time and give assistance.
Kyle died at the scene. Bo was extracted by rescue personnel and taken to the hospital in Clanton where he immediately went into surgery. The trauma to his head was severe and he was barely alive. The other driver was also hospitalized but his injuries were not serious. His blood alcohol content was twice the legal limit. A deputy was parked outside his room.
The other driver was Simeon Lang.
Ozzie called Jake just after midnight and awakened him from a deep sleep. Fifteen minutes later, Ozzie stopped in front of the house and Jake hustled outside and into the sheriff’s car. The ice was worse and the streets were slick, and as they crept through town Ozzie gave an update. The second boy was still in surgery but things looked grim. As far as Ozzie could tell at that point, Simeon had not been drinking in a local honky-tonk. According to Lettie, who was already at the hospital, he had not been home in over a week. She thought he was returning from a long haul, though he was not carrying cash or a paycheck. He had a broken nose but was otherwise unhurt.
“The drunks always walk away from their wrecks,” Ozzie said.
They found Lettie and Portia hiding at the end of a long hallway, not far from Simeon’s room. Both were crying, distraught, almost inconsolable. Jake sat with them while Ozzie left to check on other matters. After a few minutes with little conversation, Lettie walked away to find a restroom. As soon as she was gone, Portia said, “Ten years ago I was fourteen and in the ninth grade, and I begged her to leave him. He was hitting her back then. I saw it. I said, ‘Please Momma, let’s get away from him, go somewhere else.’ I think maybe she tried but she’s always been afraid of him. Now look what he’s done. What’ll happen to him, Jake?” She raked tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Barely above a whisper, Jake said, “Nothing good. Assuming everything is his fault, and that he was drunk, he’s looking at vehicular homicide. One count, as of now.”
“What’s it carry?”
“Five to twenty-five. The judge has a lot of discretion.”
“And he can’t get out of it?”
“No. I see no way.”
“Hallelujah. He’ll finally be gone for a long time.” She cupped both hands over her mouth and nose and sobbed harder. “Those poor boys,” she kept saying.
The crowd continued to grow around the waiting area on the hospital’s main wing. Ozzie spoke to Jeff and Evelyn Roston, the parents, who were too stunned to say much. He talked to one of the boys’ uncles and explained that Simeon Lang was in custody and would be moved to the jail within hours. Yes, he was drunk, still is. I’m very sorry.
“You better get him outta here,” the uncle said, nodding to a group of men nearby. Angry, distraught men, rural types raised around guns and rifles and upset enough to do something drastic. Others joined them. The Rostons grew soybeans and chickens and were active in their country church. They had many relatives and friends, and they had never voted for Ozzie.
Every deputy on the payroll was at the hospital by 2:00 a.m. At three, they sneaked Simeon out of the hospital and took him to jail. Ozzie informed the uncle.
Lettie and Portia used the same side door and left the hospital. Jake accompanied them to their car. He returned to the main wing, avoided the waiting area, and found Ozzie chatting with two of his men. Dumas Lee approached them, camera around his neck, and they immedia
tely went silent.
Dumas said, “Say, Jake, you got a minute?”
Jake hesitated, looked at Ozzie, who said, “No comment whatsoever,” then asked Dumas, “What’s on your mind?”
“Just a couple of questions.”
They walked away, side by side, down a long corridor. Dumas asked, “Can you confirm it’s Simeon Lang?”
It was senseless to deny it, so Jake said, “Yes.”
“And you’re his lawyer?”
“I am not.”
“Okay, but he’s had a drunk driving charge pending in city court for four months. Your name’s on the docket as his lawyer.”
Careful, Jake warned himself. He breathed deeply and felt a thick knot in his stomach. “I did that as a favor,” he said.
“I don’t care why you did it. Your name’s on the docket as his lawyer.”
“I’m not his lawyer, okay? Never have been. I can’t represent the estate of Seth Hubbard and also represent Simeon Lang, the husband of one of the beneficiaries.”
“Then why did you show up in court on October 19 to request a postponement of his drunk driving case?”
“It was a favor. I’m not his lawyer, okay Dumas?”
“Why has the case been postponed for four months?”
“I’m not the judge.”
“I’ll talk to him later,” Dumas fired back.
“You do that. No further comment.” Jake abruptly turned around and walked away. Dumas followed and kept talking, saying, “Look, Jake, you’d better talk to me because this is gonna look bad.”
Jake turned around again and they squared off in the center of the corridor. Jake caught himself, took a deep breath, and said, “Don’t draw any conclusions, Dumas. I haven’t touched the DUI case in four months because I’m not his lawyer. If you will recall, at the time he was represented by those clowns from Memphis. Not by me. So please be careful here.”
Dumas was scribbling furiously. Jake wanted to punch him. Everything was suddenly forgotten by screams from the other end of the building.
Bo Roston was pronounced dead at 4:15 a.m.
29
Jake and Carla sat at the kitchen table and waited for the coffee to brew. It was not yet 5:00 a.m. on Wednesday, February 22, a day that would undoubtedly be one of the saddest and darkest in the county’s history. Two teenagers-bright kids, strong students, athletes, church members, popular boys from a good family-slaughtered on an icy road by a drunk. The horrible news was spreading by the minute. The cafés would be packed as the early risers hurried in for the latest word. The churches would open for prayer. Clanton High School would be the worst place to be. Those poor kids.
Carla poured coffee and they spoke softly, in hushed tones so Hanna wouldn’t be awakened. Jake was saying, “I never opened a file. Ozzie called me on Monday, told me Simeon was arrested on Saturday morning and was due in court on Wednesday. When he sobered up, Ozzie drove him home and along the way told him to get rid of the Memphis lawyers. I thanked Ozzie and we agreed to meet later. He called back and asked if I would show up in court Wednesday to get the case continued. Ozzie thought he could use the DUI to pressure Simeon to get in line. I went to court that Wednesday, did the paperwork, asked for a continuance, got one, and forgot about it, for the most part. At the time, Simeon was still represented by Booker Sistrunk, and I told Simeon in court that I would not help him with the DUI. I didn’t like the guy; in fact, I despised him.”
“Did you see a conflict?” Carla asked.
“I thought about it. In fact, I even mentioned it to Ozzie. The truth was, there was no conflict. I’m the attorney for the estate. Simeon is not an interested party in the estate. His wife is, but he’s not.”
“That’s not real clear, Jake.”
“No, it’s not, and I should not have gotten involved. It was a huge mistake. I didn’t trust my instincts.”
“But no one can blame you for Simeon’s drunk driving.”
“Sure they can. If the case had been handled properly, he would have been convicted before now and his license pulled. He would not have been driving last night, in theory anyway. The truth is half the blacks and rednecks in this county do not have valid licenses.”
“It’s only four months, Jake. These cases drag on for longer, don’t they?”
“Sometimes.”
“What was that guy’s name, the roofer? You did a DUI for his son and the case lasted a year.”
“Chuck Bennett, but I didn’t want the boy in jail until they finished with our roof.”
“My point is that these cases can drag on.”
“Sure, but there’s always finger-pointing after a tragedy, the blame game. And since I’m in the Lang camp, I’ll get my share. It’s always easy to blame the lawyers. Ozzie’ll get hammered, too. He’ll be seen as the black sheriff trying to protect one of his own, and now two white kids are dead. It could be brutal.”
“Maybe not, Jake.”
“I’m not optimistic.”
“How will it affect the will contest?”
Jake slowly sipped his coffee and stared through a window into the blackness of his backyard. Softly, he said, “It’s devastating. Simeon Lang will be the most reviled person in this county for months to come. He’ll have his day in court, then get sent away to prison. Over time, he’ll be forgotten by most folks. But our trial is only six weeks away. The Lang name is toxic. Imagine trying to pick a jury with that baggage.” He took another sip, then rubbed his eyes. “Lettie has no choice but to file for divorce, and quickly. She has to cut all ties to Simeon.”
“Will she?”
“Why not? He’ll spend the next twenty or thirty years in Parchman, where he belongs.”
“I’m sure the Rostons will be pleased with that.”
“Those poor people.”
“Are you seeing her today, Lettie?”
“I’m sure I will. I’ll call Harry Rex first thing this morning and try to arrange a meeting. He’ll know what to do.”
“Will this make the Times?”
“No, the Times will be on the street in an hour. I’m sure Dumas will give it the entire front page next week, with photos of the wrecked vehicles, as much gore as possible. And he’d love to grind me up too.”
“What’s the worst he can say about you, Jake?”
“Well, first, he can label me as Simeon’s lawyer. Then he can slant and twist and imply that I’ve somehow stalled the October DUI case, and that if I had not done so, then Simeon’s driver’s license would have been yanked by the court and he wouldn’t be driving. Thus, the Roston boys wouldn’t be dead.”
“He can’t do that. That’s assuming far too much.”
“He can and he will.”
“Then talk to him. Damage control here, Jake. Today is Wednesday, so the funerals will probably be over the weekend. Wait until Monday, and file the divorce. What do you call that restraining thing?”
“TRO-temporary restraining order.”
“That’s it. Get the judge to sign one of those so Simeon can’t get near Lettie. Sure he’s in jail, but if she wants a TRO it makes her look good. A clean break, she’s running from the guy. In the meantime, talk to Dumas and make sure he gets the facts straight. Do some research and show him that some DUI cases drag on for more than four months. You never opened a file and you certainly weren’t paid a dime. See if you can convince Ozzie to take some heat. If I recall correctly, he got about 70 percent of the vote the last time he ran. He’s bulletproof. Plus, he wants Lettie to win the will contest. If you’re getting hit with baggage, get Ozzie to shoulder some. He can handle it.”
Jake was nodding along, even smiling. Go girl!
She said, “Look, dear, right now you’re shell-shocked and you’re scared. Shake it off. You’ve done nothing wrong, so don’t get blamed for anything. Control the damage, then control the spin.”
“Can I hire you? My office needs some help.”
“You can’t afford me. I’m a schoolteacher.”
; Hanna was coughing. Carla went to check on her.
The real damage control began about an hour later when Jake stormed into the Coffee Shop, ready to convince one and all that he was not the lawyer for Simeon Lang and never had been. So many rumors began there, over eggs and bacon. In the shower, Jake decided to go straight to the source.
Marshall Prather was there in uniform behind a stack of pancakes, waiting, it seemed. He’d been up all night too and looked as bleary-eyed as Jake. During the lull that was caused by Jake’s entry, Marshall said, “Hey Jake, saw you at the hospital a few hours ago.” This was a deliberate effort to start the spin because Ozzie was also controlling damage.
“Yeah, just awful,” Jake said somberly. At full volume he asked, “Did ya’ll take Lang to jail?”
“Yep. He’s still sobering up.”
“You his lawyer, Jake?” asked Ken Nugent from three tables over. Nugent drove the Pepsi truck and spent his days hauling cases of beverages into country stores. Dell had once said, in his absence, that no one spread more gossip than Nugent.
“Never have been,” Jake said. “I don’t represent him, nor do I represent his wife.”
“What the hell you doin’ in the case then?” Nugent fired back.
Dell poured coffee into Jake’s cup and bumped him with her rear end, part of the routine. “Mornin’ sweetie,” she whispered. Jake smiled at her, then looked back at Nugent. Things went mute as all other conversations stopped. Jake said, “Under the law, I actually represent Mr. Seth Hubbard, who’s no longer with us, of course, but just before he died he selected me as the attorney for his estate. My job is to follow his wishes, present his last will, and protect his estate. My contract of representation is with the administrator of the estate, and no one else. Not Lettie Lang, and certainly not her husband. Frankly, I can’t stand the guy. Don’t forget he hired those Memphis clowns who tried to steal the case.”