Sycamore Row jb-2

by John Grisham

Then Judge Atlee said, “Now, let’s review the witnesses. I see that Mr. Lanier has added quite a few.”

  Jake had been waiting impatiently for over an hour. He tried to keep his cool, but it was difficult. He said, “Your Honor, I’m going to object to a lot of these witnesses being allowed to testify at trial. If you’ll look on page six, beginning there and running for a while, you see the names of forty-five potential witnesses. Looking at their addresses, I’m assuming these people worked in Mr. Hubbard’s various factories and plants. I don’t know because I’ve never seen these names before. I’ve checked the latest updated responses to interrogatories, and of the forty-five, only fifteen or sixteen have ever been mentioned by the contestants before today. Under the rules, I was entitled to have these names months ago. It’s called a witness dump, Your Honor. Dump a pile of witnesses on the table two weeks before the trial, and there’s no way I can possibly talk to them all and find out what their testimony might be. Forget depositions-it would take another six months. This is a clear violation of the rules, and it’s underhanded.”

  Judge Atlee scowled at the other table and said, “Mr. Lanier?”

  Lanier stood and said, “May I stretch my legs, Your Honor? I have a bad knee.”

  “Whatever.”

  Lanier began pacing in front of his table, limping slightly. Probably a courtroom trick of some variety, Jake thought.

  “Your Honor, this is not underhanded and I resent the accusation. Discovery is always a work in progress. New names are always popping up. Reluctant witnesses sometimes come forward at the last minute. One witness remembers another one, or another one, or he remembers something else that happened. We’ve had investigators digging and digging for five months now, nonstop, and, frankly, we’ve outworked the other side. We’ve found more witnesses, and we’re still looking for more. Mr. Brigance has two weeks to call or go see any witness on my list. Two weeks. No, it’s not a lot of time, but is there ever enough time? We know there is not. This is the way high-powered litigation goes, Your Honor. Both sides scramble until the very last moment.” Pacing, limping, arguing quite effectively, Lanier inspired grudging admiration, though at the same time Jake wanted to throw a hatchet at him. Lanier did not play by the rules but he was quite adept at legitimizing his cheating.

  For Wade Lanier, it was a crucial moment. Buried in the list of forty-five was the name Julina Kidd, the only black woman Randall Clapp had found so far who was willing to testify and admit she’d slept with Seth. For $5,000 plus expenses, she had agreed to travel to Clanton and testify. She had also agreed to ignore phone calls or any contact from any other lawyer, namely one Jake Brigance, who might show up desperately sniffing around for clues.

  Not buried in the list was Fritz Pickering; his name had not been mentioned, nor would it be until a critical moment in the trial.

  Judge Atlee asked Jake, “How many depositions have you taken?”

  Jake replied, “Together, we’ve taken thirty depositions.”

  “Sounds like a lot to me. And they’re not cheap. Mr. Lanier, surely you don’t plan to call forty-five witnesses.”

  “Of course not, Your Honor, but the rules require us to list all potential witnesses. I may not know until we’re in the middle of the trial who I need next on the stand. This is the flexibility the rules contemplate.”

  “I understand that. Mr. Brigance, how many witnesses do you plan to call?”

  “Approximately fifteen, Your Honor.”

  “Well, I can tell you fellas right now I’m not going to subject the jury, or myself, to the testimony of sixty witnesses. At the same time, I’m not inclined to restrict who you may or may not call at trial. Just make sure all witnesses are disclosed to the other side. Mr. Brigance, you have all the names and you have two weeks to dig.”

  Jake shook his head in frustration. The old Chancellor couldn’t help but revert to his old ways. Jake asked, “Then would it be possible to require the attorneys to submit a brief overview of what each witness might say on the stand? This seems only fair, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Lanier?”

  “I’m not sure how fair it is, Your Honor. Just because we’ve hustled our butts off and found a bunch of witnesses Mr. Brigance has never heard of doesn’t mean we should be required to tell him what they might say. Let him do the work.” The tone was condescending, almost insulting, and for a split second Jake felt like a slacker.

  “I agree,” Judge Atlee said. Lanier shot Jake a look of contemptuous victory as he walked by him and sat down again.

  The PTC dragged on as they discussed the expert witnesses and what they might say. Jake was irritated at Judge Atlee and did not try to hide his feelings. The highlight of the meeting was the distribution of the jury list, and the judge saved it for last. It was almost noon when a clerk distributed it. “There are ninety-seven names,” Atlee said, “and they’ve been screened for everything but age. As you know, some folks over the age of sixty-five do not want to be exempted from service, so I’ll let you gentlemen handle that during selection.”

  The lawyers scanned the names, looking for friendly ones, sympathetic ones, smart folks who would instantly side with them and bring back the right verdict. Atlee went on, “Now, and listen to me, I will not tolerate contact with these people. As I understand the nature of big lawsuits these days, it’s not unusual for the attorneys to investigate the jury pool as thoroughly as possible. Go right ahead. But do not contact them, or follow them, or frighten them, or in any way harass them. I will deal harshly with anyone who does. Keep these lists close. I do not want the entire county knowing who’s in the pool.”

  Wade Lanier asked, “In what order will they be seated for selection, Your Honor?”

  “Entirely at random.”

  The lawyers were silent as they rapidly read through the names. Jake had a distinct advantage because it was home turf. Every time he looked at a jury list, though, he was astonished at how few names he recognized. A former client here, a church member there. A high school buddy from Karaway. His mother’s first cousin. A quick review yielded maybe twenty hits out of ninety-seven. Harry Rex would know even more. Ozzie would know all the black ones and many of the whites. Lucien would boast about how many he knew, but in reality he’d been sitting on the front porch for too long.

  Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott, from Jackson, recognized no one, but they would have plenty of help. They were chumming up with the Sullivan firm, at nine lawyers still the biggest in the county, and there would be a lot of advice.

  At 12:30, Judge Atlee was tired and dismissed everyone. Jake hurried out of the courtroom, wondering if the old man was physically up to a grueling trial. He was also worried about which rules would control the trial. It was obvious the official rules, the new ones on the books, would not be strictly adhered to.

  Regardless of the rules, Jake, and every other lawyer in the state, knew the Supreme Court of Mississippi was famous for deferring to the wisdom of local Chancellors. They were there, in the heat of the battle. They saw the faces, heard the testimony, felt the tension. Who are we, the Supreme Court had asked itself over the decades, to sit here far removed and dispassionately substitute our judgment for Chancellor So-and-So?

  As always, the trial would be governed by Reuben’s Rules.

  Whatever they happened to be at any particular moment.

  Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott walked straight to the offices of the Sullivan firm and made their way to a conference room on the second floor. A platter of sandwiches was waiting, as was a feisty little man with a crisp Upper Midwest accent. He was Myron Pankey, a former lawyer who’d found a niche in the relatively new field of jury consultation, an area of expertise now nudging itself into many major trials. For a handsome fee, Pankey and his staff would work all sorts of miracles and deliver the perfect jury, or at least the best available. A phone survey had already been done. Two hundred registered voters in counties adjoining Ford County had been interviewed. Fifty percent said a person should be able t
o leave his or her estate to anyone, even at the expense of his or her own family. But 90 percent would be suspicious of a handwritten will that left everything to the last caregiver. The data had piled up and was still being analyzed at Pankey’s home office in Cleveland. Race was not a factor in any part of the survey.

  Based on the preliminary numbers, Wade Lanier was optimistic. He ate a sandwich while standing and talking and sipping a Diet Coke through a straw. Copies of the jury lists were made and scattered across the conference table. Each of the nine members of the Sullivan firm was given a copy and asked to review the names as soon as possible, though all were swamped as usual and just couldn’t see how they could add five more minutes of work to their overloaded schedules.

  A greatly enlarged road map of Ford County was mounted along one wall. A former Clanton cop named Sonny Nance was already sticking numbered pins onto streets and roads where the jurors lived. Nance was from Clanton, married to a woman from Karaway, and said he knew everyone. He’d been hired by Myron Pankey to showcase this knowledge. At 1:30, four more new employees arrived and received their instructions. Lanier was blunt but precise. He wanted color photos of each home, each neighborhood, each vehicle if possible. If there were stickers on the bumpers, take photos. But do not, under any circumstances, take the risk of getting caught. Pose as survey takers, bill collectors, insurance runners delivering checks, door-to-door proselytizers, whatever might be believable, but talk to the neighbors and learn what you can without being suspicious. Do not, under any circumstances, have direct contact with any potential juror. Find out where these people work, worship, and send their kids to school. We have the basics-name, age, sex, race, address, voting precinct-and nothing else. So there are a lot of blanks to be filled in.

  Lanier said, “You cannot get caught. If your activity arouses suspicion, then immediately disappear. If you are confronted, give them a bogus name and report back here. Even if you think you might be spotted, leave, disappear, and eventually call in. Questions?”

  None of the four were from Ford County, so the chances of being recognized were zero. Two were former cops, two were part-time investigators; they knew how to work the streets. “How much time do we have?” one asked.

  “The trial starts two weeks from today. Check in every other day and give us the info you’ve collected. Friday of next week is the deadline.”

  “Let’s go,” one said.

  “And don’t get caught.”

  Jake’s expert trial consultant was also his secretary/paralegal. Since Judge Atlee was now administering the estate as if all funds came directly from his own tight pocket, a real consultant was out of the question. Portia would be in charge of gathering the data, or rather, keeping up with all of it. At 4:30 Monday afternoon, she, Jake, Lucien, and Harry Rex gathered in a workroom on the second floor, next to her old office. Present also was Nick Norton, a lawyer from across the square who had represented Marvis Lang two years earlier.

  They went through all ninety-seven names.

  36

  From their looks and accents it was obvious to Lonny they were a bunch of Russians, and after watching them drink straight vodka for an hour, he was certain. Crude, crass, loud, and looking for trouble. They would pick a night when only one bouncer was on duty. The owner of the bar had threatened to post a sign barring all Russians, but of course he could not. Lonny figured they were crewing a cargo ship, probably one hauling grain from Canada.

  He called the other bouncer at home but got no answer. The owner wasn’t there and, at the moment, Lonny was in charge. More vodka was ordered. Lonny thought about cutting it with water, but these guys would know it immediately. When one slapped a waitress on her shapely rear end, events spiraled out of control, and quickly. The lone bouncer, a man who had never shied away from violence, barked at the offending Russian, who barked back in another language while rising angrily. He threw a wild punch, which missed, and then took one that didn’t. From across the room, a gang of patriotic bikers hurled beer bottles at the Russians, all of whom were springing into action. Lonny said, “Oh shit!” and thought about leaving through the kitchen, but he’d seen it all before, many times. His bar had a tough reputation, which was one reason it paid so well, and in cash.

  When another waitress was knocked down, he ducked around the bar to help her. The melee raged on just a few feet away, and as he reached to grab her a blunt object of some variety struck him in the back of his head. He fell comatose, blood pouring from his wound and draining into his long gray ponytail. At sixty-six, Lonny was simply too old to even watch such a brawl.

  For two days he lay unconscious in a Juneau hospital. The owner of the bar reluctantly came forward and admitted he had no paperwork on the man. Just a name-Lonny Clark. A detective was hanging around, and when it became apparent he might never wake up, a plan was hatched. The owner told them which flophouse Lonny called home, and the cops broke in. Along with almost nothing in the way of assets, they found thirty kilos of cocaine wrapped neatly in foil and seemingly untouched. Under the mattress, they also found a small plastic binder with a zipper. Inside was about $2,000 in cash; an Alaska driver’s license that turned out to be fake, name of Harry Mendoza; a passport, also fake, for Albert Johnson; another fake passport for Charles Noland; a stolen Wisconsin driver’s license for Wilson Steglitz, expired; and a yellowed naval discharge summary for one Ancil F. Hubbard, dated May 1955. The binder consisted of Lonny’s worldly assets, discounting of course the cocaine, which had a street value of roughly $1.5 million.

  It took the police several days to verify records and such, and by then Lonny was awake and feeling better. The police decided not to approach him about the coke until he was ready to be discharged. They kept an officer in street clothes outside his room. Since the only legitimate names in his arsenal appeared to be Ancil F. Hubbard and Wilson Steglitz, they entered them into the national crime computer system to see what, if anything, might turn up. The detective began chatting with Lonny, stopping by and bringing him milk shakes, but there was no mention of the drugs. After a few visits, the detective said they could find no records of a man named Lonny Clark. Birth place and date, Social Security number, state of residence? Anything, Lonny?

  Lonny, who’d spent a lifetime running and ducking, grew suspicious and less talkative. The detective asked, “You ever know a man by the name of Harry Mendoza?”

  “Maybe,” Lonny replied.

  Oh really? From where and when? How? Under what circumstances? Nothing.

  What about Albert Johnson, or Charles Noland? Lonny said maybe he’d met those men long ago but wasn’t sure. His memory was foggy, coming and going. He had, after all, a cracked skull and a bruised brain, and, well, he couldn’t remember much before the fight. Why all the questions?

  By then Lonny knew they had been in his room, but he wasn’t sure if they had found the cocaine. There was an excellent chance the man who owned it went to the flophouse not long after the fight and removed it himself. Lonny was not a dealer; he was just doing a friend a favor, one for which he was to be paid nicely. So, the question was whether the cops had found the cocaine. If so, Lonny was in some serious trouble. The less he said the better. As he had learned decades earlier, when the cops start asking serious questions, deny, deny, deny.

  Jake was at his desk when Portia rang through and said, “It’s Albert Murray.” Jake grabbed the phone and said hello.

  Murray ran a firm out of D.C. and specialized in locating missing persons, both nationally and internationally. So far, the estate of Seth Hubbard had paid the firm $42,000 to find a long-lost brother and had almost nothing to show for it. Its results had been thoroughly unimpressive, though its billing procedures rivaled those of any big-city law firm.

  Murray, always skeptical, began with “We have a soft hit on Ancil Hubbard, but don’t get excited.” He relayed the facts as he knew them-an assumed name of Lonny, a bar brawl in Juneau, a cracked skull, lots of cocaine, and fake papers.

  “He�
��s sixty-six years old and dealing drugs?” Jake asked.

  “There’s no mandatory retirement age for drug dealers.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anyway,” Murray continued, “this guy is pretty crafty and won’t admit to anything.”

  “How bad is he hurt?”

  “He’s been in the hospital for a week. He’ll go from there to the jail, so his doctors are in no hurry. A cracked skull is a cracked skull.”

  “If you say so.”

  “The locals there are curious about the discharge paperwork from the Navy. It appears to be authentic and it doesn’t really fit. A fake driver’s license and a fake passport might take you places, but a discharge that’s thirty years old? Why would a con man like this need it? Of course it could be stolen.”

  “So we’re back to the same old question,” Jake said. “How do we verify him if we find him?”

  “You got it.”

  There were no helpful photos of Ancil Hubbard. In a box in Seth’s closet they had found several dozen family photos, mainly of Ramona, Herschel, and Seth’s first wife. There were none from Seth’s childhood; not a single photo of his parents or younger brother. Some school records tracked Ancil through the ninth grade, and his grainy, smiling face appeared in a group photo taken at the Palmyra junior high school in 1934. That photo had been enlarged, along with several of Seth as an adult. Since Ancil had not been seen in Ford County in fifty years, there was not a single person who could offer an opinion as to whether he favored his older brother as a child, or looked completely different.

  “Do you have someone in Juneau?” Jake asked.

  “No, not yet. I’ve talked to the police twice. I can have a man there within twenty-four hours.”

  “What’s he gonna do when he gets there? If Lonny Clark is not talking to the locals, why would he talk to a complete stranger?”

  “I doubt if he would.”

  “Let me think about it.”