by John Grisham
“I am. I just ran out of cards. I’m staying at the Glacier Inn on Third Street.”
Late in the afternoon, Herschel Hubbard unlocked the door to his father’s house and stepped inside. It had been empty now, for how long? He paused and did the math. His father had killed himself on October 2, a Sunday. Today was April 2, a Sunday. To his knowledge, the house had not been cleaned since the day Lettie was fired, the day after the funeral. A thick layer of dust covered the television console and bookcases. The smell was of stale tobacco and stagnant air. He flipped a switch and the lights came on. He’d been told that Quince Lundy, the administrator, was in charge of paying the utility bills. The kitchen counters were spotless; the refrigerator empty. A faucet dripped slowly into a brown stain in the porcelain sink. He made his way to the rear of the house, and in the room he’d once called his own he slapped the bedspread to stir the dust, then he stretched out on the bed and gazed at the ceiling.
In six months, he’d gone through the fortune several times, spending as he pleased but also doubling and tripling it with shrewd investments. At times he felt like a millionaire; at others he was consumed with the awful emptiness of seeing the riches slip away and being left with nothing. Why did the old man do it? Herschel was willing to accept and shoulder more than his share of responsibility for their fractious relationship, but he could not begin to comprehend getting cut out completely. He could have loved Seth more, but then Seth gave little love in return. He could have spent more time here, in the house, but then Seth didn’t want him around. Where had they gone wrong? How young was Herschel when he realized his father was cold and distant? A child can’t chase a father who has no time for him.
But Herschel had never fought his father, had never embarrassed him with open rebellion or worse-addictions, arrests, a life of crime. He parted with Seth when he was eighteen and left home to become a man. If he neglected Seth as an adult, it was because Seth had neglected him as a little boy. A child is not born with the tendency to neglect; it has to be acquired. Herschel learned from a master.
Would the money have changed things? If Herschel had known the extent of his father’s wealth, what would he have done differently? One hell of a lot, he was finally admitting to himself. Initially, he had taken the high road and said, at least to his mother, that he wouldn’t have changed a thing. No sir. If Seth wanted no part of his only son, then the son would certainly allow him to have it that way. Now, though, as time passed and his own unhappy world was growing darker, Herschel knew he would have been here, in the house, taking care of his dear old dad. He would have shown an enthusiastic burst of interest in lumber and furniture. He would have begged Seth to teach him the business and possibly groom him as a successor. He would have swallowed hard and returned to Ford County, renting a place somewhere nearby. And, he definitely would have kept an eye on Lettie Lang.
Getting shut out of such a large inheritance was so humiliating. His friends had whispered behind his back. His enemies had reveled in his misfortune. His ex-wife loathed him almost as much as she despised Seth, and she had gleefully spread the awful but true gossip around Memphis. Even though her children also got the ax, she couldn’t stop herself from piling on poor Herschel. For six months he had found it difficult to run his business and concentrate on his affairs. The bills and debts were adding up; his mother was becoming less sympathetic and helpful. On two occasions she had asked him to leave her home and find another place to live. He wanted to, but he couldn’t afford it.
His fate now lay in the hands of a crafty lawyer named Wade Lanier, a cranky old judge named Reuben Atlee, and a haphazard gang of accidental jurors in rural Mississippi. At times he was confident. Justice would prevail; right over wrong and all that. It was simply wrong for a housekeeper, whatever her skin color, to appear in the final years of a long life and manipulate things in such a fiendish manner. Fairness was on their side. At other times, though, he could still feel the unspeakable pain of having it slip away. If it could happen once, it could certainly happen again.
The walls inched closer and the musty air grew thicker. It had been a joyless home with two parents who despised each other. He cursed them for a while, both of them equally, then concentrated more on Seth. Why have children if you don’t want them? But he had wrestled with these questions for years and there were no answers. Let it go.
Enough. He locked the house, left it, and drove to Clanton, where he was expected around 6:00 p.m. Ian and Ramona were already there, in the large conference room on the second floor of the Sullivan firm. Their ace jury consultant, Myron Pankey, was going on about their meticulous research when Herschel arrived. Cursory greetings and introductions were made. Pankey had two staffers with him, two attractive young ladies preoccupied with note-taking.
Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott sat at the center on one side of the table, flanked by paralegals. Pankey was saying, “Our phone survey also revealed that when given the additional facts that the will was written by a wealthy man, age seventy, and the caregiver was an attractive woman much younger, over half of those surveyed asked if sex was involved. We never mentioned sex, but it’s often the automatic response. What was really going on? Race was never mentioned, but of the black respondents almost 80 percent were suspicious of sexual activity. Of the white, 55 percent.”
“So the issue is very much in the air, though unspoken,” Lanier said.
Didn’t we know this six months ago? Herschel asked himself as he doodled on a legal pad. So far, they had paid Pankey two-thirds of his $75,000 fee. The money was now being fronted by Wade Lanier’s law firm, which was paying all the litigation expenses. Ian had chipped in $20,000; Herschel nothing. If there was a recovery, there would also be a war dividing it.
Pankey passed out thick booklets for their reading pleasure, though the lawyers had already spent hours with the material. Beginning with Ambrose and ending with Young, there was a one- or two-page summary of each juror. Many included photos of homes and automobiles, and a few had actual photos of the jurors. These were taken from church and club directories, high school yearbooks, and a few candid shots handed over on the sly by friends.
Pankey was saying, “Our perfect juror is a Caucasian over the age of fifty. The younger people went to integrated schools and tend to be more tolerant on race, and obviously we are not looking for tolerance. Sadly for us, the more racist the better. White women are slightly preferable over white men, and this is because they tend to show more jealousy toward another woman who has managed to manipulate the will. A man might excuse another man for fooling around with his housekeeper, but a woman is not so understanding.”
Seventy-five thousand for this? Herschel doodled to himself. Isn’t this fairly obvious? He shot a bored look at his sister, who was looking old and tired. Things were not going well with Ian, and the Hubbard siblings had spoken on the phone more in the past three months than in the past ten years. Ian’s deals were not paying off, and the strained marriage was continuing to crack. Ian spent most of his time on the Gulf Coast where he and some partners were renovating a mall. This was fine with her; she didn’t want him at home. She talked openly of divorce, to Herschel anyway. But if they lost this case, she might be stuck. We’re not going to lose, Herschel kept reassuring her.
They slogged through the research until 7:30, when Wade Lanier said he’d had enough. They drove to a fish shack overlooking Lake Chatulla, and enjoyed a long meal, just the lawyers and their clients. After a few drinks their nerves were settled, and they managed to relax. Like most trial lawyers, Wade Lanier was a gifted storyteller and he regaled them with hilarious tales from his courtroom brawls. More than once, he said, “We’re gonna win, folks. Just trust me.”
Lucien was in his hotel room, a Jack on the rocks on his nightstand, his nose stuck deep into another impenetrable Faulkner novel, when the phone rang. A weak voice on the other end said, “Is this Mr. Wilbanks?”
“It is,” Lucien said, gently closing the book and swinging his feet t
o the floor.
“This is Lonny Clark, Mr. Wilbanks.”
“Please call me Lucien, and I’ll call you Lonny, okay?”
“Okay.”
“How are you feeling tonight, Lonny?”
“Better, much better. You came to my room last night, didn’t you, Lucien? I know you did. I thought I was dreaming last night when a stranger appeared in my room and said something to me, but then when I met you today I recognized you and I recalled your voice.”
“I’m afraid you were indeed dreaming, Lonny.”
“No, I wasn’t. Because you came the night before too. Friday night and Saturday night, it was you. I know it was.”
“No one can get in your room, Lonny. There’s a cop at the door, around the clock I’m told.”
Lonny paused as if he didn’t know this; or if he did, then how could a stranger sneak into his room? Finally he said, “The stranger said something about Sylvester Rinds. Do you know Sylvester Rinds, Lucien?”
“Where is he from?” Lucien asked, casually taking a sip.
“I’m asking you, Lucien. Do you know Sylvester Rinds?”
“I’ve lived in Ford County all my life, Lonny. I know everyone, black and white. But something tells me Sylvester Rinds died before I was born. Did you know him?”
“I don’t know. It’s all so muddled now. And so long ago …” His voice faded as if he’d dropped the phone.
Keep him talking, Lucien said to himself. “I’m much more interested in Ancil Hubbard,” he said. “Any luck with that name, Lonny?”
Weakly, he said, “I might be onto something. Can you stop by tomorrow?”
“Of course. What time?”
“Come early. I’m not as tired in the mornings.”
“What time will the doctors be finished with their rounds?”
“I don’t know. Nine or so.”
“I’ll be there at nine thirty, Lonny.”
39
Nevin Dark parked his truck facing the courthouse and checked his watch. He was early, but that was the plan. He had never before been summoned for jury duty, and he could grudgingly admit to being somewhat excited. He farmed two hundred acres west of Karaway and rarely made it to Clanton; indeed, he could not remember his last trip to the county seat. For the occasion he wore his newest pair of starched khakis and a leather flight jacket handed down by his father, who’d flown in World War II. His wife had firmly pressed his cotton shirt with buttons on the collar. Nevin was rarely this dressed up. He paused and gazed around the courthouse, looking for others who might be holding a summons.
Of the case, he knew little. His wife’s brother, a blowhard, had said he thought the trial was over a will that was handwritten, but beyond that the details were scarce. Neither Nevin nor his wife subscribed to the local newspapers. They had not been to church in ten years, so that rich source of gossip had passed them by. The summons said nothing about the type of jury service facing him. Nevin had never heard of Seth Hubbard, nor Lettie Lang. He would recognize the name of Jake Brigance, but only because Jake was from Karaway and the Hailey trial had been so notorious.
In short, Nevin was a model juror: reasonably smart, fair-minded, and uninformed. The summons was folded in his coat pocket. He walked around the square to kill a few minutes, then wandered over to the courthouse where things were getting busy. He climbed the stairs and joined the crowd milling around the large oak doors of the main courtroom. Two deputies in uniform were holding clipboards. Nevin was eventually processed through, and as he entered the courtroom a clerk smiled and pointed to a seat on the left side. He sat down next to an attractive lady in a short skirt, and within two minutes she informed Nevin that she taught school with Carla Brigance and would probably not make the cut. When he confessed he knew nothing about the case, she found it hard to believe. All the jurors were whispering away as they watched the lawyers move about with their important airs. The bench was empty. Half a dozen clerks moved papers here and there, doing little really but trying to justify their presence in the biggest will contest in the history of Ford County. Some of the lawyers had no connections at all, no reason to be there, but a courtroom filled with prospective jurors always attracted a few of the courthouse regulars.
For example, a lawyer named Chuck Rhea had no clients, no office, and no money. He occasionally checked land titles; thus, he was always in the courthouse, killing enormous amounts of time, sipping free coffee from whatever office had the freshest pot, flirting with the clerks who knew him well, gossiping with every lawyer who came within earshot, and in general just being there. Chuck rarely missed a trial. Since he had none of his own, he watched all the others. On this day he was wearing his darkest suit and his wing tips fairly gleamed with fresh polish. He spoke to Jake and Harry Rex-men who knew him all too well-and also to the out-of-town lawyers, who by then knew that Chuck was just another fixture. Every courthouse had them.
A gentleman to Nevin’s left struck up a conversation. He said he owned a fence company in Clanton and had once put up some chain link for Harry Rex Vonner’s hunting dogs. He pointed and said, “That fat one over there in the bad suit. That’s Harry Rex Vonner. Meanest divorce lawyer in the county.”
“Is he working with Jake Brigance?” Nevin asked, completely clueless.
“Looks like it.”
“Who are those other lawyers?”
“Who knows? There are so many lawyers around here these days. The square is full of them.”
A bailiff came to life and yelled, “All rise for the court. The Chancery Court of the Twenty-Fifth Judicial District of Mississippi, the Honorable Reuben V. Atlee presiding.” Judge Atlee appeared from the rear and assumed the bench while the crowd jumped to its feet.
“Please be seated,” he said. The crowd made a noisy retreat back onto the benches. He said hello and good morning and thanked the prospective jurors for being there, as if they had a choice. He explained that the first order of business was the selection of the jury, twelve jurors plus two alternates, and he figured that might take most of the day. At times things would move slowly, as they often do in court, and he asked for their patience. A clerk had written each of their names on a small piece of paper and put them in a plastic bin. He would pull them out at random, and that’s how the jurors would initially be seated. Once the first fifty were in place, the rest would be excused for the day, and maybe called back tomorrow if needed.
The courtroom had two sections, right and left of a center aisle, and each section had ten long benches that held about ten people each. Since the courtroom was at full capacity, Judge Atlee asked the rest of the spectators to please rise and clear out the first four rows to his left. This took a few minutes as people shuffled and stumbled and shoved about, uncertain where to go. Most stood along the walls. He reached into the plastic bin, extracted a name, and called out, “Mr. Nevin Dark.”
Nevin’s heart skipped a beat, but he stood and said, “Yes sir.”
“Good morning, Mr. Dark. Would you please sit over here on the first row, far to the left, and we’ll refer to you as Juror Number One for the time being.”
“Certainly.”
As Nevin walked down the aisle, he noticed the lawyers staring at him as if he’d just shot someone. He took his seat on the empty front row; the lawyers continued to stare. All of them.
Nevin Dark. White male, age fifty-three, farmer, one wife, two adult children, no church affiliation, no civic clubs, no college degree, no criminal record. Jake rated him as a seven. He and Portia looked at their notes. Harry Rex, who was standing in a corner by the jury box, studied his notes. Their model juror was a black male or female of any age, but there weren’t many in the crowd. At the contestants’ table, Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott compared their research. Their model juror was a white female, age forty-five or older, someone raised in the deeply segregated old South and not the least bit tolerant of blacks. They liked Nevin Dark, though they knew nothing more about him than Jake did.
Number Two w
as Tracy McMillen, a secretary, white female, age thirty-one. Judge Atlee took his time unfolding the scraps of paper, studying the names, trying to pronounce them perfectly, allowing each to assume a new position. When the first row was filled, they moved to the second with Juror Number Eleven, one Sherry Benton, the first black to be called forth.
It took an hour to seat the first fifty. When they were in place, Judge Atlee excused the others and said they should remain on standby until further notice. Some of them left, but most stayed where they were and became part of the audience.
“Let’s recess for fifteen minutes,” the judge said, tapping his gavel as he lifted his cumbersome frame and waddled off the bench, black robe flowing behind. The lawyers gathered into frantic groups, all chattering at once. Jake, Portia, and Harry Rex went straight to the jury deliberation room, which was empty at the moment. As soon as Jake shut the door, Harry Rex said, “We’re screwed, you know that? A bad draw. Terrible, terrible.”
“Hang on,” Jake said, tossing his legal pad onto the table and cracking his knuckles.
Portia said, “We have eleven blacks out of fifty. Unfortunately, four of them are on the back row. Once again, we’re stuck on the back row.”
“Are you trying to be funny?” Harry Rex barked at her.
“Well, yes, I thought it was rather clever.”
Jake said, “Knock it off, okay? I doubt if we make it past number forty.”
“So do I,” replied Harry Rex. “And just for the record, I sued numbers seven, eighteen, thirty-one, thirty-six, and forty-seven, for divorce. They don’t know I’m working for you, Mr. Brigance, and once again I’m not sure why I am working for you because I’m damned sure not getting paid. It’s Monday morning, my office is filled with divorcing spouses, some of them carrying guns, and here I am hanging around the courtroom like Chuck Rhea and not getting paid.”
“Would you please shut up?” Jake growled.