by John Grisham
Lucien talked almost nonstop in an effort to gain Lonny’s trust, to convince him there was no harm in telling secrets from the past. If Lucien could open up so completely, then Lonny could too. On two occasions during the morning, Lucien had gently poked into the business of Lonny knowing anything about Ancil, but neither punch had landed. Lonny seemed to have no interest in that subject. They talked and played throughout the morning. By noon, Lonny was fatigued and needed rest. The nurse enjoyed telling Lucien to leave.
He did so but was back two hours later to check on his new friend. Lonny now wanted to play blackjack, at a dime a hand. After half an hour or so, Lucien said, “I called Jake Brigance, the lawyer I work for in Mississippi, and I asked him to check out this Sylvester Rinds guy you mentioned. He found something.”
Lonny put his cards down and gave Lucien a curious look. Deliberately, he said, “What?”
“Well, according to the land records in Ford County, Sylvester Rinds owned eighty acres of land in the northeast part of the county, land he had inherited from his father, a man named Solomon Rinds, who was born about the time the Civil War started. Though the records are not clear, there’s a good chance the Rinds family came to own the land just after the war, during Reconstruction, when freed slaves were able to obtain land with the help of carpetbaggers and federal governors and other scum that flooded our land back then. It looks as though this eighty acres was in dispute for some time. The Hubbard family owned another eighty acres that adjoined the Rinds property, and evidently they contested this property. The lawsuit I mentioned this morning, the one filed in 1928 by Cleon Hubbard, was a dispute over the Rinds property. My grandfather, who was the finest lawyer in the county and well connected, lost the case for Cleon. I gotta figure that if my grandfather lost the case then the Rinds family must have had a pretty strong claim to the land. So Sylvester managed to hang on to his property for a few more years, but then he died in 1930. After he died, Cleon Hubbard obtained the land from Sylvester’s widow.”
Lonny had picked up his cards and he studied them without seeing them. He was listening and recalling images from another lifetime.
“Pretty interesting, huh?” Lucien said.
“It was a long time ago,” Lonny said, grimacing as pain rippled through his skull.
Lucien plowed ahead. With nothing to lose, he was not about to relax. “The strangest part of this entire story is that there is no record of Sylvester’s death. There’s not a single Rinds now living in Ford County, and it appears as though they all left about the time Cleon Hubbard got his hands on the property. They all vanished; most fled to the North, to Chicago, where they found jobs, but this was not uncommon in the Depression. A lot of starving blacks fled the Deep South. According to Mr. Brigance, they found a distant relative over in Alabama, a man named Boaz Rinds, who claims that some white men took Sylvester and killed him.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” Lonny asked.
Lucien stood and walked to the window where he gazed at a parking lot below. He debated telling the truth now, telling Lonny about the will and Lettie Lang and her ancestry: that she was almost certainly a Rinds instead of a Tayber; that her people were from Ford County and had once lived on the land owned by Sylvester; that it was highly probable Sylvester was in fact her grandfather.
But he sat back down and said, “Nothing really. Just some old history involving my kinfolks, Seth Hubbard’s, and maybe Sylvester Rinds’s.”
There was a moment of silence in which neither man touched his cards. Neither made eye contact. As Lonny seemed to drift away, Lucien jolted him with “You knew Ancil, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Lonny said.
“Tell me about him. I need to find him, and quick.”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“Is he alive?”
“He is, yes.”
“Where is he right now?”
“Don’t know.”
“When did you last see him?”
A nurse entered chattering away about checking his vitals. He said he was tired, and so she helped him into his bed, arranged his IV, glared at Lucien, then checked Lonny’s blood pressure and pulse. “He needs to rest,” she said.
Lonny closed his eyes and said, “Don’t go. Just turn down the lights.”
Lucien pulled a chair close to his bed and sat down. After the nurse left, he said, “Tell me about Ancil.”
With his eyes still closed and his voice almost a whisper, Lonny began, “Well, Ancil has always been a man on the run. He left home when he was young and never went back. He hated home, hated his father especially. He fought in the war, got wounded, almost died. A head injury, and most folks think Ancil’s always been a bit off upstairs. He loved the sea, said he’d been born so far away from it that it captivated him. He spent years on cargo ships and saw the world, all of it. You can’t find a spot on the map that Ancil hasn’t seen. Not a mountain, a port, a city, a famous site. Not a bar, a dance club, a whorehouse, you name it, and Ancil’s been there. He hung out with rough characters and from time to time fell into bad ways: petty crime, then some not so petty. He had some near misses, once spent a week in a hospital in Sri Lanka with a knife wound. The knife wound was nothing compared with the infection he got in the hospital. He had lots of women, some of whom had lots of children, but Ancil was never one to stay in one place. Last he knew, some of those women were still looking for him, with their children. Others might be looking for him too. Ancil has lived a crazy life and he’s always looked over his shoulder.”
When he said the word “life,” it came out wrong; or, perhaps it came out naturally. The long i was much flatter than before, much like the flattened i’s so common in north Mississippi. Lucien had deliberately fallen back into a twangier version of speech, in hopes that it might lure old Lonny here into the same habit. Lonny was from Mississippi, and they both knew it.
He closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. Lucien stared at him for a few minutes, waiting. His breathing became heavier as he drifted away. His right hand fell to his side. The monitors showed a normal blood pressure and heartbeat. To stay awake, Lucien paced around the darkened room, waiting for a nurse to appear and shoo him away. He eased next to the bed, squeezed Lonny’s right wrist firmly, and said, “Ancil! Ancil! Seth left behind a last will and testament that gives you a million bucks.”
The eyes came open and Lucien repeated himself.
The debate had raged for an hour, unabated, and tempers were on edge. In fact, the issue had been hotly discussed for a month with no shortage of opinions. It was almost 10:00 p.m. The conference table was littered with notes, files, books, and the remains of a bad take-out pizza they had devoured for dinner.
Should the jury be told the value of Seth’s estate? The only issue at trial was whether the handwritten will was valid. Nothing more, nothing less. Legally, technically, it didn’t matter how big or how small the estate was. On one side of the table, the side being occupied by Harry Rex, the strong feeling was that the jury should not be told because if the jurors knew that $24 million was in play and about to be given to Lettie Lang, they would balk. They would naturally take a dim view of such a transfer of wealth outside the family. Such a sum was so unheard-of, so shocking, that it was inconceivable that a lowly black housekeeper should walk away with it. Lucien, while absent, agreed with Harry Rex.
Jake, though, felt otherwise. His first point was that the jurors probably had a hunch that a lot of money was on the table, though virtually all had denied such knowledge during the selection process. Look at the size of the fight. Look at the number of lawyers on deck. Everything about the case and the trial was evidence of big money. His second point was that full disclosure was the best policy. If the jurors felt as though Jake was trying to hide something, he would start the trial with an immediate loss of credibility. Every person in the courtroom wants to know what the brawl is about. Tell them. Lay it out. Withhold nothing. If they concealed the size of the estate,
then the size of the estate would become a festering and unspoken issue.
Portia went back and forth. Before the jury was seated, she was leaning in favor of a full disclosure. But after looking at the ten white faces, and only two black ones, she was struggling to believe they had any chance at all. After all the witnesses had testified, after all the lawyers had been silenced, after all the wise words had been uttered by Judge Atlee, could those ten white people reach deep and find the courage to uphold Seth’s last will? At the moment, fatigued and weary, she was doubtful.
The phone rang and she answered it. “It’s Lucien,” she said, handing it to Jake, who said, “Hello.”
From Alaska came the report: “Got him, Jake. Our pal here is Ancil Hubbard, one and the same.”
Jake exhaled and said, “Well, I guess that’s good news, Lucien.” He pulled the receiver away and said, “It’s Ancil.”
“What are you guys doing?” Lucien asked.
“Just prepping for tomorrow. Me, Portia, Harry Rex. You’re missing the party.”
“Do we have a jury?”
“Yes. Ten whites, two blacks, no real surprises. Tell me about Ancil.”
“Pretty sick puppy. His head wound is infected and the doctors are concerned. Tons of meds, antibiotics and painkillers. We played cards all day and talked about everything. He sort of comes and goes. I finally mentioned the will and told him his big brother left him a million bucks. Got his attention and he admitted who he is. Half an hour later he’d forgotten about it.”
“Should I tell Judge Atlee?” Harry Rex shook his head, no.
“I don’t think so,” Lucien said. “The trial has started and it won’t be stopped for this. Ancil has nothing to add. He damned sure can’t get there, what with a cracked skull and the cocaine thing waiting just outside his door. Poor guy’ll probably serve some time eventually. The cops seem determined.”
“Did you guys climb the family trees?”
“Yes, quite a bit, but long before he came clean. I laid out the history of the Hubbard and Rinds families, with emphasis on the mystery of Sylvester. But he had little interest. I’ll try again tomorrow. I’m thinking about leaving tomorrow afternoon. I really want to see some of the trial. I’m sure you’ll have it all screwed up by the time I get there.”
“No doubt, Lucien,” Jake said, and hung up a moment later. He relayed the conversation to Portia and Harry Rex, who, though intrigued by it, had other matters at hand. The fact that Ancil Hubbard was alive and living in Alaska would mean nothing in the courtroom.
The phone rang again and Jake grabbed it. Willie Traynor said, “Say, Jake, just for your information, there’s a guy on the jury who shouldn’t be there.”
“It’s probably too late, but I’m listening.”
“He’s on the back row, name’s Doley, Frank Doley.” Jake had seen Willie taking notes throughout the day. “Okay, so what’s Frank up to?” Jake asked.
“He has a distant cousin who lives in Memphis. Six or seven years ago, this cousin’s fifteen-year-old daughter was snatched by some black punks outside a mall in East Memphis. They kept her in a van for several hours. Terrible things happened. The girl survived but was too messed up to identify anyone. No one was ever arrested. Two years later the girl committed suicide. A real tragedy.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“I didn’t catch the name until an hour ago. I was in Memphis at the time, and I remembered some Doleys from Ford County. You’d better get him bumped, Jake.”
“It’s not that easy. In fact, it’s impossible at this point. He was quizzed by the lawyers and the judge and gave all the right answers.” Frank Doley was forty-three years old and owned a roofing company out near the lake. He claimed to know nothing about the Seth Hubbard matter and seemed perfectly open-minded.
Thanks for nothing, Willie.
Willie said, “Sorry, Jake, but it didn’t register in court. I would have said something.”
“It’s okay. I’ll deal with it somehow.”
“Other than Doley, what do you think of your jury?”
Jake was talking to a journalist, so he played it safe. “A good panel,” he said. “Gotta run.”
Harry Rex’s response was, “I was worried about that guy. Something wasn’t right.”
To which Jake shot back, “Well, I don’t recall you saying anything at the time. It’s always easy to call plays on Monday morning.”
“Testy, testy.”
Portia said, “He seemed eager to serve. I gave him an eight.”
Jake said, “Well, we’re stuck with him. He gave all the right answers.”
“Maybe you didn’t ask the right questions,” Harry Rex said as he took another swig of Bud Light.
“Thank you so much, Harry Rex. For your own future reference, during the jury selection process lawyers are not normally allowed to ask questions like, ‘Say, Mr. Doley, is it true your distant cousin was gang-raped by a bunch of black thugs in Memphis?’ and the reason for this prohibition is that the lawyers generally don’t know about such horrible crimes.”
“I’m going home.” Another swig.
“Let’s all go home,” Portia said. “We’re not accomplishing much.”
It was almost 10:30 when they turned out the lights. Jake walked around the square to clear his head. At the Sullivan firm, lights were still on. Wade Lanier and his team were still in there, still working.
41
In his defense of Carl Lee Hailey, Jake’s opening statement to the jury lasted only fourteen minutes. Rufus Buckley had kicked things off with a one-and-a-half-hour marathon that had put the jury to sleep, and Jake’s concise follow-up had been well received and much appreciated. The jury had listened to him and absorbed every word. “Jurors are captives,” Lucien always said. “So keep it short.”
In the matter of the last will and testament of Henry Seth Hubbard, Jake was aiming for ten minutes. He stepped to the podium, smiled to the fresh and eager faces, and began with “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, your job is not to give away Seth Hubbard’s money. There’s a lot of it, and all of it was earned by Seth Hubbard himself. Not by you, not by me, not by any of the lawyers in this courtroom. He took chances, borrowed heavily at times, ignored the advice of his trusted lieutenants, mortgaged his own house and land, made deals that looked bad on paper, borrowed even more, took risks that seemed outrageous, and in the end, when Seth Hubbard was told he was dying of lung cancer, he sold out. He cashed in his chips, paid off the banks, and counted his money. He won. He was right and everybody else was wrong. You can’t help but admire Seth Hubbard. I never met the man, but I wish I had.
“How much money? You will hear testimony from Mr. Quince Lundy, the gentleman sitting right here, and the court-appointed administrator of Seth Hubbard’s estate, that the estate has a value of approximately $24 million.”
Jake was pacing slowly, and when he gave the amount he stopped and looked at some of the faces. Almost every juror smiled. Go, Seth. Attaboy. A couple were obviously shocked. Tracy McMillen, Juror Number Two, looked at Jake with wide eyes. But the moment passed quickly. No one in Ford County could grasp a number like that.
“Now, if you think a man who put together a $24 million fortune in about ten years knows what he’s doing with his money, then you’re right. Because Seth knew exactly what he was doing. The day before he hung himself he went to his office, locked his door, sat down at his desk, and wrote a new will. A handwritten will, one perfectly legal, nice and legible, easy to understand, not the least bit complicated or confusing. He knew he was going to commit suicide the following day, Sunday, October 2, and he was putting everything in order. He planned it all. He wrote a note to a man named Calvin Boggs, an employee, in which he explained he was taking his own life. You will see the original. He wrote detailed funeral and burial instructions. You will see the originals. And on that same Saturday, presumably at his office while he was writing his will, he wrote a letter to me and gave me specific instruct
ions. Again, you will see the original. He planned it all. After he finished writing, he drove to Clanton, to the main post office, and mailed the letter to me, along with the will. He wanted me to receive the letter on Monday because his funeral was on Tuesday, at 4:00 pm., at the Irish Road Christian Church. Details, folks. Seth took care of the details. He knew exactly what he was doing. He planned it all.
“Now, as I said, it’s not your job to give away Seth’s money, or to decide who should get what or how much. However, it is your job to determine if Seth knew what he was doing. The legal term is ‘testamentary capacity.’ To make a valid will, one that is handwritten on the back of a grocery bag or one typed by five secretaries in a big law office and signed before a notary public, one has to have testamentary capacity. It’s a legal term that’s easy to understand. It means you have to know what you’re doing, and, ladies and gentlemen, Seth Hubbard knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t delusional. He wasn’t under the influence of painkillers or other meds. He was as mentally sound and sane as the twelve of you are right now.
“It might be argued that a man planning his own suicide cannot be of sound mind. You gotta be crazy to kill yourself, right? Not always. Not necessarily. As jurors you are expected to rely on your own experiences in life. Perhaps you’ve known someone, a close friend or even a family member, who came to the end of the road and chose his or her own final exit. Were they out of their minds? Perhaps, but probably not. Seth certainly was not. He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d battled lung cancer for a year, with several rounds of chemotherapy and radiation, all unsuccessful, and the tumors had finally metastasized to his ribs and spine. He was in terrible pain. At his last visit to his doctor he was given less than a month to live. When you read what he wrote the day before he died, you’ll be convinced that Seth Hubbard was in complete control of his life.”