by John Grisham
A mile passed before Jake responded. “What makes you think Wade Lanier would talk settlement now? He just won the case. That jury wouldn’t give Lettie Lang fifty bucks for a sack of groceries. You saw their faces.”
“You know the bad part, Jake?”
“It’s all bad. It’s worse than bad.”
“The bad part is that it makes you question everything about Lettie. I’ve never thought for a minute that she manipulated Seth Hubbard into redoing his will. She’s not that slick and he wasn’t that stupid. But now, all of a sudden, when you realize she’s done it before, you say, ‘Okay, could this be a pattern.’ ‘Could this old gal know more about will and estate law than we give her credit for?’ I don’t know, it just rattles you.”
“And why would she cover it up? Hell, I’ll bet she’s never told Portia, never told anyone about getting caught at the Pickerings’. I guess I should’ve been smart enough to ask her six months ago-say, Lettie, have you talked anyone else into changing their wills and adding a nice provision for you?”
“Why didn’t you think of that?”
“Stupid I guess. I feel pretty stupid right now.”
Another mile passed, then another. Jake said, “You’re right. It makes you question everything. And if we feel this way, think about the jurors.”
“The jurors are gone, Jake, and you’ll never get ’em back. You’ve called your best witnesses, put on a near-perfect case, saved your star to go last, and she did a fine job, and then, in a matter of minutes, the case was totally destroyed by a surprise witness. You can forget this jury.”
Another mile passed. Jake said, “A surprise witness. Surely that’s grounds for a reversal.”
“Don’t bet on it. You can’t let it get that far, Jake. You gotta settle this case before it goes to the jury.”
“I’ll have to resign as the attorney.”
“Then so be it. You’ve made some money, now get out of the way. Think about Lettie for a moment.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I understand, but what if she walks out of that courtroom without a penny?”
“Maybe that’s what she deserves.”
They slid to a stop in the gravel parking lot of Bates Grocery. The red Saab was the only foreign car there; every other vehicle was a pickup truck, and not a one less than ten years old. They waited in line as Mrs. Bates patiently filled their plates with her vegetables and Mr. Bates collected $3.50 from each customer, sweet iced tea and corn bread included. The crowd was almost shoulder to shoulder and there were no empty chairs. “Over there,” Mr. Bates said, nodding, and Jake and Harry Rex sat at a small counter not too far from the massive gas stove that was covered with pots. They could talk, but carefully.
Not that it mattered. Not a single person having lunch knew a trial was under way in town, and they certainly didn’t know how badly the trial had turned against Jake. Perched on a stool and hunched over his plate, he sat forlornly and looked through the crowd.
“Hey, you gotta eat,” Harry Rex said.
“No appetite,” Jake said.
“Can I have your plate?”
“Maybe. I envy these people. They don’t have to go back into that courtroom.”
“Neither do I. You’re on your own, buddy. You’ve screwed up the case so bad it can never be rescued. I’m outta there.”
Jake pinched off a bite of corn bread and stuck it in his mouth. “Didn’t you go to school with Lester Chilcott?”
“I did. Biggest prick in law school. Nice enough guy when we started, but then he got a job with a big Jackson firm and, bam, just like that, he became a flaming asshole. I guess it happens. He’s not the first. Why?”
“Grab him this afternoon and whisper to him. See if they’ll talk settlement.”
“Okay. What kind of settlement?”
“I don’t know, but if they’ll come to the table, we’ll cut a deal. If I resign, I think Judge Atlee will take charge of the negotiations and make sure everyone gets something.”
“Now you’re talking. It’s worth a shot.”
Jake managed a bit of fried okra. Harry Rex was half-finished and eyeing Jake’s plate. He said, “Look, Jake, you played football, right?”
“I tried.”
“No, I remember when you were the quarterback for scrawny little Karaway, never had a winning season, as I recall. What was the worst ass-whipping you ever took on the field?”
“Ripley beat us fifty to nothing my junior year.”
“How bad was it at halftime?”
“Thirty-six to nothing.”
“And did you quit?”
“No, I was the quarterback.”
“Okay, you knew at halftime that you were not going to win, but you led the team back onto the field for the second half, and you kept playing. You didn’t quit then and you can’t quit now. A win looks pretty doubtful at this point, but you gotta drag your ass back onto the field. Right now you look thoroughly defeated, and the jury is watching every move you make. Eat your vegetables like a good boy, and let’s go.”
The jurors scattered for lunch and reconvened in the jury room at 1:15. In little pockets of whispered conversations, they talked about the case. They were surprised and confused. Surprised that the trial had turned so abruptly against Lettie Lang. Before Fritz Pickering showed up, the evidence was mounting and it was becoming clear that Seth Hubbard was a man who did whatever he wanted, and knew exactly what he was doing. That changed suddenly, and Lettie was now viewed with great suspicion. Even the two black jurors, Michele Still and Barb Gaston, appeared to be jumping ship. The confusion was about what was next. Who would Jake put on the stand to undo the damage? Could it be undone? And if they, the jurors, rejected the handwritten will, what would happen to all that money? There were many unanswered questions.
There was so much chatter about the case that the foreman, Nevin Dark, felt compelled to remind them that His Honor frowned on what they were doing. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said politely, not wanting to offend. He was not, after all, their boss.
At 1:30, the bailiff entered the room, counted heads, and said, “Let’s go.” They followed him into the courtroom. When they were seated, all twelve looked at Lettie Lang, who was not looking up from her note-taking. Nor did her lawyer glance over at the jury box for one of his cute little smiles. Instead, he sat low in his chair, chewing on a pencil, trying to appear relaxed.
Judge Atlee said, “Mr. Lanier, you may call your next witness.”
“Yes sir. The contestants call Mr. Herschel Hubbard.” He took the stand, smiled goofily at the jury, swore to tell the truth, then began answering a lot of mundane questions. Wade Lanier had groomed him well. Back and forth they went, covering all aspects of Herschel’s uneventful life. As always, the spin was in and Herschel recalled with great fondness his childhood, his parents, his sister, and the grand times they’d all had together. Yes, the divorce was quite painful, but the family struggled through it and persevered. He and his old man were very close: talked all the time, saw each other whenever they could, but, hey, both were living busy lives. Both were big fans of the Atlanta Braves. They followed the team religiously and talked about the games all the time.
Lettie stared at him, dumbfounded. She had never heard Seth Hubbard say one word about the Atlanta Braves, and she had never known him to watch a baseball game on television.
They tried to make it to Atlanta at least once each season to catch some games. Say what? This was news to Jake and everyone else who’d read Herschel’s depositions. He had never mentioned such a road trip with his father. But there was little Jake could do. It would take two days of hard digging to prove the trips to Atlanta never took place. If Herschel wanted to invent tales about him and his old man, Jake couldn’t stop him at this point. And Jake had to be careful. If he had any credibility left with the jury, he could seriously damage it by attacking Herschel. The man had lost his father, then he’d been cut out of his will in a very cruel and humiliat
ing manner. It would be easy and only natural for the jurors to feel sympathy.
And how do you argue with a son who wasn’t close to his father, but now swears that he was? You don’t, and Jake knew it was an argument he could not win. He took notes, listened to the fiction, and tried to keep a poker face as if everything was going great. He could not bring himself to look at the jurors. There was a wall between him and them, something he’d never before experienced.
When they finally got around to Seth’s cancer, Herschel became somber and even choked back tears. It was just awful, he said, watching this active and vigorous man dry up and shrivel with the disease. He had tried to quit smoking so many times; father and son had engaged in long, heartfelt conversations about the smoking. Herschel quit when he was thirty, and he begged his father to quit also. In his final months, Herschel visited him as often as possible. And, yes, they talked about his estate. Seth was clear about his intentions. He might not have been too generous with Herschel and Ramona when they were younger, but he wanted them to have it all when he died. He assured them that he had prepared a proper will, one that would insulate them from financial worries and also secure the future for their children, Seth’s beloved grandchildren.
Seth was not himself toward the end. They talked all the time by phone, and at first Herschel noticed his father’s memory was fading. He couldn’t remember the score of last night’s baseball game. He repeated himself constantly. He would ramble on about the World Series, though the Braves were not in the Series last year. But to Seth they were. The old guy was slipping away. It was so heartbreaking.
Not surprisingly, Herschel was wary of Lettie Lang. She did a fine job cleaning the house, and cooking and caring for his father, but the longer she worked there, and the sicker Seth became, the more she seemed to protect him. She acted as though she didn’t want Herschel and Ramona in the house. Several times Herschel called his father, but she said he wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t come to the phone. She tried to keep him away from his family.
Lettie glared at the witness, slowly shaking her head.
It was quite a performance, and by the time it was over Jake was almost too stunned to think or move. Through skillful and no doubt exhaustive preparation, Wade Lanier had pieced together a fictional narrative that any father and son would envy.
Jake walked to the podium and asked, “Mr. Hubbard, on these trips to watch the Braves play, what hotel did you and your father usually stay in?”
Herschel squinted and his mouth opened but nothing came out. Hotels have records that can be checked. Finally, he recovered and said, “Uh, well, we stayed in different hotels.”
“Did you go to Atlanta last year?”
“No, Dad was too sick.”
“The year before?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Okay, so you went in eighty-seven. Which hotel?”
“I can’t remember.”
“All right. Who did the Braves play?”
Games and schedules are records that can be checked. “Well, gee, I’m not sure, you know. Maybe it was the Cubs.”
Jake said, “We can check on that. What was the date?”
“Oh, I’m terrible with dates.”
“Okay, in eighty-six. Did ya’ll make it to Atlanta for a game or two?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Which hotel?”
“Maybe the Hilton. Not sure.”
“Who’d the Braves play?”
“Well, let’s see. I can’t be sure, but I know we saw them play the Phillies one year.”
“In eighty-six, who played third base for the Phillies?”
Herschel swallowed hard and looked straight ahead, as if staring at headlights. His elbows were twitching and he kept glancing at the jurors. His lying had caught up with him. Lanier’s fictional masterpiece had holes in it.
Finally, “Don’t know.”
“You don’t recall Mike Schmidt, the greatest third baseman in the game. He’s still there and on his way to the Hall of Fame.”
“Sorry, no.”
“Who played center field for the Braves?”
Another painful pause. It was obvious Herschel didn’t have a clue.
“Ever hear of Dale Murphy?”
“Sure, that’s him. Dale Murphy.”
For the moment, Herschel gave every indication of being a liar, or at least a great embellisher. Jake could poke and prod around the rest of his testimony, but there was no guarantee he could score again. Instinctively, he decided to sit down.
Ramona was next, and she was crying not long after she was sworn in. She still couldn’t believe her beloved “daddy” had been so lost and distraught that he took his own life. With time, though, Lanier settled her down and they plowed through their scripted testimony. She had always been Daddy’s girl and she just couldn’t get enough of the old guy. He adored her and her children and came to visit them often down in Jackson.
Once again, Jake grudgingly admired Wade Lanier. He had prepared Ramona well for her deposition back in December and taught her the art of sandbagging. He knew that at trial there was no way Jake could rebut her testimony, so offer a few crumbs during the deposition, just enough to vaguely answer the questions, then load up the fiction for the jury.
Her testimony was a dramatic blend of emotion, bad acting, lying, and exaggerating. Jake began stealing glances at the jury to see if anyone was suspicious. As she bawled again, Tracy McMillen, number two, met Jake’s look and frowned as if to say, “Can you believe this?”
At least that was Jake’s reading. He could be wrong. His instincts had been rattled and he didn’t fully trust them. Tracy was his favorite juror. Their eyes had been meeting for two days now, and things had been elevated almost to the point of flirting. It wasn’t the first time Jake had used his good looks to win over a juror, nor would it be the last. Another glance over and he caught Frank Doley shooting one of his patented “I can’t wait to burn you” looks.
Wade Lanier wasn’t perfect. He kept her on direct far too long and began to lose people. Her voice was grating and her crying was a tired old act. Those watching suffered along with her, and when Lanier finally said, “I tender the witness,” Judge Atlee quickly tapped the gavel and said, “Let’s recess for fifteen minutes.”
The jurors left and the courtroom cleared out. Jake stayed at his table, as did Lettie. It was time to acknowledge each other. Portia moved her chair closer so the three of them could speak softly in a small huddle. Lettie began with “Jake, I’m so sorry. What have I done?” Her eyes were instantly wet.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Lettie? If I had known about the Pickerings, I could have been prepared.”
“It didn’t happen that way at all, Jake. I swear I never discussed no will with Miss Irene. Never. Not before she wrote it, not after. I didn’t even know about it until I came to work that mornin’ and all hell broke loose. I swear, Jake. You gotta let me explain this to the jury. I can do it. I can make them believe me.”
“It’s not that simple. We’ll talk about it later.”
“We need to talk, Jake. Herschel and Ramona are lyin’ through their teeth. Can’t you make ’em stop?”
“I don’t think the jury is buying much of this.”
Portia said, “They don’t like Ramona.”
“I can understand that. I need to run to the restroom. Any word from Lucien?”
“No, I checked the phone messages during lunch. Some lawyers, some reporters, and one death threat.”
“A what?”
“Some dude said they gonna burn your house again if you win all that money for them niggers.”
“How nice. I sort of like it. It brings back fond memories of the Hailey trial.”
“I saved it. You want me to tell Ozzie?”
“Sure.”
Harry Rex caught Jake outside the restroom and said, “Spoke with Chilcott. No deal. No interest in talking settlement. In fact, he almost laughed in my face, said they have another sur
prise or two.”
“What?” Jake asked in a panic.
“Well, of course he wouldn’t tell me. That would ruin the ambush, right?”
“I can’t take another ambush, Harry Rex.”
“Just keep your cool. You’re doing fine. I don’t think Herschel and Ramona impressed too many jurors.”
“Should I go after her?”
“No. Take it easy. If you pin her down, she’ll just start crying again. The jury’s sick of her.”
Five minutes later, Jake walked to the podium and said, “Now, Mrs. Dafoe, your father died on October 2 of last year, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Before he died, when was the last time you saw him?”
“I didn’t keep notes, Mr. Brigance. He was my daddy.”
“Isn’t it true that you last saw him in late July, over two months before he died?”
“No, that’s not true at all. I saw him all the time.”
“The last time, Mrs. Dafoe. When was the last time?”
“Again, I didn’t keep up with the dates. Probably a couple of weeks before he died.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Well, no, I’m not positive. Do you make a note every time you visit your parents?”
“I’m not the witness, Mrs. Dafoe. I’m the lawyer who’s asking the questions. Are you sure you saw your father a couple of weeks before he died?”
“Well, uh, I can’t be positive.”
“Thank you. Now, what about the children, Will and Leigh Ann? When was the last time they saw their grandfather before he died?”
“Oh, heavens, Mr. Brigance. I have no idea.”
“But you testified they saw him all the time, right?”
“Of course, yes. They loved their granddaddy.”
“Did he love them?”
“He adored them.”
Jake smiled and walked to the small table where the exhibits were kept. He picked up two sheets of paper and looked at Ramona. “This is the will your father wrote the day before he died. It’s in evidence and the jury has already seen it. In paragraph six, your father writes, and I quote: ‘I have two children-Herschel Hubbard and Ramona Hubbard Dafoe-and they have children, though I don’t know how many because I haven’t seen them in some time.’ End quote.”